Category Archives: no one thinks this is funny but me

I can’t tell if this happened because I have a medical issue or because I’m just really lazy.

Yesterday I went to pick up my meds and while I was there I handed the pharmacist my prescription for my ADD medication and she was like “Sorry, I can’t fill this one.  We can only fill prescriptions within 21 days of them being written” and I guess I can understand that but I’ve been walking around with this prescription for a month because I’m not really focused enough to remember to refill my meds if I’m out of my ADD meds and the pharmacist was like, “Yes, but you’ll still have to get a new one” and that sucks because first of all, the fact that I’m making my meds last long enough that my next prescription expired proves that I’m not abusing them or selling them on the street, so if anything I should be rewarded by getting more drugs.  Plus, now I have to make an appointment to see my shrink to get another prescription and I’ll have to tell her I kept getting too distracted to fill the prescription that I insisted that I needed because my ADD was making me too distracted.

But technically she already knows I’m irresponsible and have ADD so really it’ll probably just make her happier that she’s doing an excellent job diagnosing me.

Although she’s not really doing that great if she actually expected that I was going to fill my prescription myself within a normal time limit.  I suspect it’s a test and I failed it.  Or she did.  Maybe we did as a team.  I’m not good at evaluating right now because I’m low on ADD meds.

Someone please make an appointment for me with my shrink.  And remind me to get her to call in my meds this time.  And then take me to the pharmacist to get my meds before they call me with that ” YOUR PRESCRIPTION HAS BEEN READY FOR WEEKS AND IF YOU DON’T PICK IT UP SOON WE’LL RESTOCK IT.  YOU ARE WASTING OUR TIME” message.  And then bring me a cheesecake.  And take me to the post office.  And make me drink more water.

Jesus.  I need a babysitter.  For me.

I blame the meds.  Or lack thereof.

PS.  I don’t have a graphic to go with this post so instead I’ll show you the business cards I made for myself.

furiouslyhappycards2Please note that I forgot to put my name on them or a website or even what FURIOUSLY HAPPY is.  I think it’s pretty obvious I made them without the benefit of drugs.  Or possibly it seems more obvious that I am on drugs if I made business cards with Rory’s taxidermied raccoon face on them.  Depends on the kind of drugs, I guess.  But!  You can do this with them:

furiouslyhappycards3

They would come in much more handy if I ever left the house long enough to give out business cards, but at least I have some now, so…you know…baby steps.

 

I love your funny face. #WERUINEVERYTHING

So!  Last week my friend Maile and I went to the Mom 2.0 Summit and it was quite lovely but we decided that instead of posting the typical conference selfies we should change things up a bit and post the most unflattering pictures we could possibly take.  We did the first one on the plane and it was so ridiculous that even instagram wouldn’t post it.  It might have been a glitch but we assumed it was instagram saying, “No.  You don’t mean to post this. Have you been drinking again?  We’re cutting you off until you come to your senses.”  But we had no senses to come to and we couldn’t stop laughing at the picture and so we shared  it on twitter.

Then when we landed we found out that the picture was shared so much that it was the very thing that got the conference hashtag trending.  So…yeah.

funny faces2

This is the point when I had to apologize to the conference organizers but they didn’t care because I’ve known them for 10 years so they knew what to expect of me.  Which is “very little“.  This is one advantage of having a terrible reputation.

What was nice though was that although it was a little terrifying publishing such a horrific picture it was actually also surprisingly freeing.  No matter what photo we found ourselves tagged in that week we were guaranteed that it couldn’t be any worse than what we’d shared ourselves.  Even if someone intentionally posted something terrible we could say, “No. Sorry.  We did it worse already.”  Plus, we automatically looked much better in person because we’d set up people to assume we look like giant thumbs or penises.

I was presenting an Iris Award at the conference and mostly I just hid backstage and made Andrew McCarthy uncomfortable by sitting cross-legged on the floor and staring at him, but on the way in we had to take red carpet pictures and we’d decided that there were already too many pretty people there so instead we’d just do inappropriate poses until they asked us to leave.

And that’s how you do a red carpet.  Deep, royal curtsies.  #WE RUIN EVERYTHING:

curtsey

From Maile : “You so win curtsy-ing. I look like a bear trying to find a hole to poop in.”

Other flattering red carpet poses: the 1930’s Muscle Men:

muscle men

 …And the eternally classic we-just-found-a-dead-body red carpet pose.  Always elegant.

dead body

It only took a few minutes before they gave up and shooed us off but we still had more to give.  This is my favorite and I literally laugh out loud every single time I look at it.

I like this one because it looks like Maile is my shy little sister who seldom leaves her closet and also that we share an arm.

I like this one because it looks like Maile is my shy little sister who almost never leaves the basement we live in, and also that we share an arm.

I did manage to take one good picture as I ran out to the nerd bus (which we self-named because we were the first people to hurry back to the hotel while everyone else started dancing) and that was a picture of my using Andrew McCarthy as a coaster.  Not even intentional, y’all.  I can’t take a good picture even when I’m trying.  Please contact me, Mr. McCarthy, with your dry cleaning bill.

me: I LOVED YOU IN MANNEQUIN.  Him:  Marry me.  (Only one of these things was said out loud.)

me: I LOVED YOU IN MANNEQUIN. Him: MARRY ME. (Only one of these things was actually said out loud.)

Point is, posting a terrible photo of yourself making ridiculous faces is fantastic.  And hilarious.  And incredibly freeing.  I encourage you to do it yourself.  Share it in the comments.  Send it to your friends.  Post it on instagram.  Relive those moments when your mother would say “YOUR FACE WILL FREEZE LIKE THAT” while you and your sister laugh hysterically as you lick the car windows and make pig noses at the people driving in the next lane.  Honestly, I cannot recommend it enough.

UPDATED:  Everyone and their cat is doing that website where you upload your photo and the computer tells you how old you look so I decided to try it:

how old

 

Oh, you flatterer.

She’s much better at drawing cats now. About the same with Hitlers though.

I wrote this over a year ago but I never published it because it got lost in my draft folder, but I’ve been recovering from food poisoning and I’m at that woozy stage where I think everything is funny or horrible and I’m pretty sure this is both.  

Conversation with Victor (and Hailey):

Me: Did you see what your daughter made?

Victor: No, but I already resent what you’re implying.

Me: I haven’t said anything bad yet.

Victor: Well, you called her “your daughter”.  I see where this is headed and I don’t like it.  You only call her my daughter when she breaks something.

Me: Not true.  She’s my daughter when she sets something on fire, or when she runs into a wall that’s always been there.  She’s your daughter when she does things I’d never do. So guess what your daughter did?

Victor: She left the toilet seat up?

Me: Nope.  Genocide.

Victor: Um…what?

Me: Or “promoted” genocide, I guess?  I don’t want to jump to conclusions.  I’m just saying that it’s a slippery slope and I’m concerned.

Victor: No. Start over.  Make sense this time.

Me: Fine. Your daughter made this at school:

hitler and friend

Victor: A lunch-sack puppet?

Me: OF HITLER.

Victor: What…?  It’s not…  Well.  It does look a little like Hitler.

me: No, it looks a lot like Hitler.

Victor: Hitler doesn’t strike me as a waver.

Me: Maybe he’s Heiling.

Victor: What?

Me: Or whatever the active verb for “heil” is.  I DON’T KNOW THE VERB TENSES FOR THE THIRD REICH, VICTOR.

Victor:  Right. So did you ask her if it was Hitler?

Me: She said it was a man they read about in school but she couldn’t remember his name.

Victor: Why is there a cat glued on him?

Me: She said that he was lonely and that’s why he was so grumpy, so she made him a cat.

Victor: Well, that does sound like it could be Hitler.

Me: Which is why I’m concerned.

Victor: Did Hitler even own cats?

Me: Already ahead of you. According to the Internet he did have a cat, but then he ate it..

Victor: Hitler ate his cat?

Me: Well, apparently. I googled “Did Hitler have a cat?” and the internet said this:

I wouldnt put it past him

Victor: You wrote that answer yourself, didn’t you?

Me: No, and now I don’t like what you’re implying. Anyway, Hitler was a mass-murdering asshole so I don’t think it’s entirely outside the realm of possibility that the man ate a few cats in his time.

Victor: Hailey, can you come to the kitchen?

Hailey: Yep?

Victor: Is this Hitler?

Hailey: What?

Me: Answer your father, sweetie. Is this puppet of Hitler, and did you make him this cat to eat?

Victor: ENOUGH WITH THE CAT EATING, JENNY.

Hailey: That’s Mr. Putter. He likes trains and cakes.

Me: Cakes made of cats?

Victor: Drop it.

Hailey: I don’t know who Hitler is. That’s Mr. Putter from the Mr. Putter books. He doesn’t eat cats.

Me: Good. And you know it’s never okay to eat cats, right?

Hailey: Uh…yeah?

Me: And genocide. That’s frowned upon too.

Hailey: Huh?

Victor: Okay, I think that’s enough for today.

Me: Well, I think this is a teachable moment.

Victor: Well, I think she can wait until she’s nine to learn not to commit genocide.

Me: Fine. But just remember this if it comes back to bite us later.

Victor: Because she might dabble in genocide before she turns nine?

Hailey: What’s a genderside?

Me: Nothing important, apparently. I’ll just add it to the list of things to tell you when you’re older. “Menstruation and Genocide.” That’s gonna be one hell of a talk.

Hailey: You guys are weird.

And that’s how we decided (as a parenting unit) that we would wait until Hailey was nine before we taught her about genocide and why it’s not okay to eat cats.

Because, apparently, that’s just good parenting.

PS.  I just looked up this Mr. Putter character and apparently there’s a whole series of books about him.  And – I shit you not – this is one:

Full circle, y’all.

Also, that fucker ate all the hot pockets.

An imagined open letter from the justifiably disgruntled wife of poet William Carlos Williams, the man who wrote this famed poem:

This is Just to Say 

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

 

Dear literary critics:

You guys are assholes.

Did you even read the poem you claim is so brilliant?  First off, my husband ate all my fruit, and then instead of apologizing in person he left a post-it note admitting that he did it, but that he had a good reason which was basically “I wanted to“.  And not only does he eat all my plums, also he ends the post-it telling me how goddam delicious they are.  I know how delicious plums are.  That’s why I was saving them for breakfast. 

You people read this poem and love it, but really it’s just a not-very-apologetic-apology from a man confessing to mild burglary.  And who do you think had to go out and buy more plums for breakfast because someone promised his parents I’d make plum pancakes for everyone?  Not Mr. I’m-far-too-poetic-to-go-to-Walmart, I’ll tell you that.  Frankly, I don’t even think plum pancakes are a real thing.  They tasted terrible and I’m guessing he just made them up because he’s “poetic and whimsical” and so I ended up having to apologize for the shitty pancakes that I didn’t even want to make.

And then the whole world is like, “DID YOU SEE THIS APOLOGY LETTER?  IT IS THE GREATEST MODERN POEM EVER!”  Just – what?  No.  IT DOESN’T EVEN RHYME.

Frankly, I expected that people reading the apology would be more sympathetic, like, “That guy stole your fruit and then told you how awesome it was?  What a dick“.  But instead everyone is all “GENIUS!  ENCORE!” and now my husband is utterly out of control.  This morning he climbed up into the tree in the front yard wearing only a bathrobe (my bathrobe – because he’s not content to just steal my breakfast, apparently) and he refused to come down because he claims I “purposely” destroyed his latest poem.  It was not a poem.  It was our grocery list.

I told him that no one wants a poem about kitty litter and two-ply toilet paper but he said I don’t understand poetry and that he couldn’t hear me anyway because he was too busy writing a poem about how “trees are very scratchy” and at this point I don’t even know anymore.  Apparently everything is a poem now.

Here’s a poem I just made for you :  There once was a girl from Nantucket.  I wonder if she has some plums I can borrow.  The end.

Oh, Christ.  I just found a leaf on the table with a note scrawled on it reading: “This is just to say that I broke the cat when I fell out of the tree.  Forgive me.  I fell so fast and Mittens was so old.”  

Jesus, people.  Just stop encouraging him.  

Hugs, Mrs. William Carlos Willams

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

And now, the weekly wrap-up of awesomeness:

sid

Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

  • Mugs are 40% off if you enter SAVING4TAXES code at check-out.  I recommend this mug or this one.
  • People always ask how to see the newest stuff.   Click here.

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by the lovely and funny Dave Tank, whose new memoir The Year of the Roses is available right now.  I just bought a copy myself. It’s the true story of Dave spending his thirties traveling the world, always one step away from grasping success and happiness. When his mother dies unexpectedly, he has to leave his life in Paris to return home to face an unsure reality without his best friend.  Dave walks away from his career to take a year to put his life back in order. In that year, he finds the most unlikely of teachers – his mother. Through the journals of her life she had left behind, Dave learns how to see life through her eyes and find true happiness. This was the year two lives became one. The Year of the Roses. Go buy it – one for you, and one for your Mom for Mother’s Day. Details here.

Bravery by any other name.

Last week I posted a video of me face-planting into the water.  I thought I’d dip my toe in but then I realized how cold it was so I tried to back out but the water was not cooperating because it was all “I’m a not solid, idiot.  You can’t push off of me” and I was like “JESUS LIED TO ME”.   (Turns out I just wasn’t reading that part of the Bible well enough and I guess only Moses and Jesus could keep from falling into pools.)

Hailey recorded my ridiculous plunge and insisted I share the video online, and since she’s always letting me post pictures of her it seemed only fair.

I tried to embed it here but it doesn’t work so you have watch it here.  Or here’s a series of stills if you can’t watch videos of children laughing at their parents:

faceplant

But what was weird was that someone called me “brave” for posting a video of me in a bathing suit.  First I thought they were just trying to insult me but then I realized that they weren’t.  I asked twitter, “Did we change the word ‘brave’ when I wasn’t looking?  ‘Brave’ is for saving orphans from a burning building made of bees.  Wearing a bathing suit to swim is ‘normal’.

Most of twitter agreed.  My friend Popehat added, “Honestly I think it was questionable judgement to house the orphans in the bee building in the first place.”

Other’s disagreed.  Like Justin Gibbs who countered, “Please use more realistic metaphors.  Everyone knows buildings made with bees are fire resistant.”

And then I went on to talk about diseased popsicles (later renamed Poxiclespatent pending) but later I was dragged back into the conversation by a few women who pointed out that to some, posting a video of themselves in a bathing suit would be much less frightening than running into a burning bee building.  This sounds a bit insane.

But they were absolutely right.

We all have weird fears.  Some of them are universal.  Some of them are odd.  All of them are valid as emotions even if they are irrational.  I don’t have a problem with a video of me in a bathing suit because I’m old enough to not care anymore…but I have an anxiety disorder sometimes makes me terrified to leave the house.  It’s completely irrational, but it’s me.  But sometimes the thing that gets me out of the house is seeing how easily everyone else does it.  They leave their room.  They talk to people.  They come home.  No one laughs at them.  They don’t think what they do is brave, but to me it’s inspiring.

So maybe that’s the way it is for some women in bathing suits.  I could tut-tut at them but being afraid of having your flaws exposed isn’t nearly as crazy as being afraid you might have to make small talk with the mailman, so I think we’re probably even.  We’re all a little crazy.  We’re all irrationally afraid of something.  We all project our own fears onto others sometimes.

So I’ll keep wearing my bathing suit if you keep leaving the house.  And maybe with time you’ll realize that posting an awkward faceplant into the water while your child video-tapes it and laughs hysterically at you is way more embarrassing than being an imperfect woman wearing appropriate swimming attire.  And maybe in time I’ll realize that strangers aren’t going to eat me, and that leaving the house is fun and good for me even when every molecule in my body screams otherwise.

Let’s go outside.  And talk to the mailman.  In our bathing suits.  And set bees on fire so we can rescue orphans from them.  Pick one.

We can work up to the scary ones together.

Ho ho ho. Green ballsack.

jollygreenballsackI was just wondering if the Jolly Green Giant was made of vegetables, because if so it seems sort of cruel to make him a spokesperson for eating vegetables.  I looked it up and it urns out that the original Jolly Green Giant was neither “jolly” nor “green” and was actually some sort of angry caveman in a bearskin loincloth which just gave me more questions.

But I did find out that there’s an enormous, 55-foot statue of him where it seems like it would be almost impossible to not stare up at his ball sack.  Then I was like, why am I thinking about the Jolly Green Giant’s ball sack?  HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?  This is exactly why the internet is so dangerous.

But clearly I did not learn my lesson because then I looked at wikipedia to see if it could answer the question about whether JGG -and his Jolly Green Genitals- are made of vegetables and Wikipedia explained that the Green Giant came around in the 20’s in response to a new variety of pea that were “oblong, wrinkled and huge.  Despite their size, they were tender, and had a special flavor and sweetness that couldn’t be matched.”

Also, the company originally used the brand name “Le Sueur”, which is french for “The Sweat.”  Sweaty, green, oblong, huge, and wrinkled….but tender and with a special flavor.

I’m sorry.  I can’t stop laughing and I’m not going to explain why if you’re not as messed up as I am.

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

And now, the weekly wrap-up of awesomeness:

sid2

Shit I made in my shop (Named “EIGHT POUNDS OF UNCUT COCAINE” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):

Shit-you-may-or-may-not-want-to-see:

Shit you should buy or steal because it’s awesome:  

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you by the wonderful Chris Illuminati (yes, that is his real name) who just wrote a very funny but educational bad-ass book called The New Dad Dictionary— Everything He Really Needs to Know.  I assumed it would be stuff I already knew since I’m a parent but then I got to the page about Baby Concierges and I was all, ‘WHAT THE SHIT?  BABIES GET CONCIERGES NOW?”  I didn’t even know that was a thing.  If you’re a new dad, or about to become a new dad you should totally get this book.  Check it out here.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU! HERE IS YOUR PRESENT. THE CAT IS ON THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON AND WON’T MOVE. I’M NOT YELLING AT YOU.

IT IS MY MOTHERFUCKING BIRTHDAY AND I HAVE A SNIFFLY-ASS NOSE.

It should be against the law to not be able to breathe properly on your birthday, but such is the curse of the Capricorn…always having to share a birthday month with Jesus, and usually taking too many antibiotics to have another margarita.

birthday juanita

But, it is my birthday and if I could ask you for a present I’d ask you to go buy my second book, but I’m putting the finishing touches on it this week so you are off the hook.  Unless you haven’t read my first book, in which case get thee to a bookery.

Still, it feels like birthdays should have presents and so in celebration I’d like each of you to do something wonderful for yourself.  Maybe buy yourself those shoes you can’t stop thinking about, or watch bad tv that you love, or pet all the cats at the animal shelter, or tell the person you have a secret crush on that I’m forcing you to make out with them, or just lock yourself in a room and read until you make yourself dizzy.   It’s up to you.  Or if none of that does it for you, I’ve made you something.

It’s a horoscope.  It is non-refundable so I hope you like it.  Also, there are probably a lot of typos.  I blame the margaritas antibiotics.

WHO ARE YOU?

Capricorn:  The tears of a Capricorn can heal a broken typewriter if applied directly.  You can provoke those tears by reminding the Capricorn that they have a terrible mascot/patronus.  Seriously…goat head + fish tail = WORST MERMAID EVER.

Libra:  Never ask a Libra to mail you a five dollars.  They suck at this.  PROVE ME WRONG, LIBRAS.

Leo:  No one is good at eating corn on the cob, but Leos are the best at not being good at it.

Sagittarius:  Never tell a Sagittarius to calm their tits.  They will become violent and stabby.  “No, why don’t you calm your tits, sir?  MY TITS ARE WILD AS THE WIND.” ~ Said every Sagittarius ever.

Cancer:  Cancers always tap on the glass, even when the sign specifically says not to tap on the glass.  If you tell them not to tap on the glass they will tap even harder while staring right at you.  Don’t fuck with Cancers.

Pisces:  Pisceses are confusing.  Mostly because spellcheck doesn’t even recognize that Pisceses exist.  Instead it’s telling me that the plural of “Pisces” is still “Pisces”, which seems wrong.  But I guess the plural of “fish” is still “fish,” so that sort of makes sense?  But if the plural possessive of fish is “fish’s” then would the plural possessive of Pisces be Pisces’s?  Pesci?  Oh my God, my head hurts.  Thanks a lot, Pisceses.

Aries:  The Aries wants to correct your poor grammar on the internet but they won’t out of fear of writing something grammatically incorrect in their correction.  Except sometimes they will.  They’re terribly unpredictable, those wily Aries.

Gemini:  Almost every adult Gemini is missing his or her original teeth.  That’s right.  Your secret is out, Geminis.

Khaleesi:  Not a real sign.  True heir to the Iron Throne.

Scorpio:  Scorpios act all tough, but really they are a full sack of feelings.  Who hurt you, Scorpio?  TELL ME WHO HURT YOU.

Virgo:  Virgo is simply not having it.  None of it.  None of your motherfucking bullshit.   Awww, you done fucked up now.  You better run.  Virgo’s got a knife.

Taurus:  The great tragedy of the Taurus is that they can’t eat cheese.  No, that’s not right.  It’s that they are always making witty references but no one in real life understands the references.  No.  Hang on.  Is it something about gluten?  Shit.  The great tragedy of the Taurus is that no one remembers what their great tragedy is.

Aquarius: The only thing Loch Ness Monsters find more delicious than an Aquarius is two Aquariuses.  Don’t go into the water, Aquariuses.  That’s how they get you.

PS.  Happy birthday to you.  I know it’s not your birthday but I’m getting a head start on next year.  Unless it is your birthday, in which case I totally knew that.  That’s why I made you this horoscope.  Happy birthday, us.  We’re awesome.

Nancy Pelosi is extremely disappointed in me for destroying the Democratic Party. In my defense, I can’t even load the dishwasher properly so maybe it was a mistake to give me that much responsibility.

Yesterday my friend Laura and I decided we needed a break so we went camping (fine, glamping) and it was very relaxing until we checked our phones in front of the camp fire and realized that we’d gotten tons of frantic, distraught emails from the DCCC (Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee) who was using some fairly odd tactics to get us to donate cash to fund ads battling the ads that the Republicans were seeking donations for.  I’m not into politics so I’m sure I explained that wrong, but what I do know is that all night we were flooded with so many doom-filled emails that if the DCCC was a person I would have called the police to have them do a well-check.  I realize this is partially our fault, as Laura and I have each donated before, and that we could have unsubscribed if we wanted to, but at a certain point it became so insane that it crossed over into baffling entertainment.

Just a few of most terrifying:

From: Nancy Pelosi <dccc@dccc.org>
Date: September 30, 2014
Subject: we. will. fail.

We will fail to hit our goal tonight

Laura, we’ve tried everything.

— President Obama has emailed you.
— Hillary Clinton has emailed you.
— I’ve emailed you more than I can count.

But with this new Republican outside spending, we’ll still need 28,OOO more online donations to be able to compete.

It’s hard to see that happening with just 4 hours until the deadline.

We have a meeting set to figure out how we’ll slash our campaign plan. But for right now, we have to ask one more time:

Can you please donate to President Obama’s call-to-action, and help us limit the damage?

MIDNIGHT DEADLINE: All Gifts Triple-Matched!

Thanks, Nancy

Nancy’s disappointment in us was palpable and we suspected we would soon be grounded.  Then more letters flooded in from equally frantic DCCC members asking for donations and saying things like:

“We’ll be blunt:  We need help.  And we don’t know where else to turn”

“It’s just awful.”

“We’ve got nothing left, Laura.”

“YOU ARE ON NOTICE.”

“If we fall behind now, we will be past the point of no return. We will lose.”

 

The subject lines alone made me need xanax: “no time. just read.”  “PUMMELED.” “BEGGING.”  “we. will. fail.” “Please help!”  “TRAGIC Conclusion.”  You could almost hear them pulling their hair out and tearing at their clothes.  Honestly though, the “BEGGING” one did push me into action.  Here it is:

From: James Carville <dccc@dccc.org>
Date: September 30, 2014
Subject: BEGGING

I’m not going to sit by and let the Republicans buy this election.

Will you chip in $5 or whatever you can right now to turn this election around?

(If it helps, I’ll beg too.)

We’re still coming up short.

When we say we’re begging, we’re REALLY begging.

Control of Congress is at stake. President Obama’s agenda is on the line. And we’re in serious danger of falling short here.

If we can’t pull it together TODAY, we’re going to get demolished.

We’re begging, Laura. We need 13 donors from your zip code to answer President Obama’s call-to-action. Can you step up today?

MIDNIGHT DEADLINE: All Gifts Triple-Matched!

Sure, it was a little unsettling that our own party was sending us emails that made us feel like we’d all spontaneously explode that night, but in their defense, that terrifying email shamelessly entitled “BEGGING” was the one that spurred me into action.  Sure, I could donate the $5 they were asking for, but I’d already done that before and it obviously wasn’t enough to stem the hysteria so Laura and I decided to use some good ol’ DCCC tactics to raise morale and money:  Apocalyptic-sounding emails.

We replied directly to James Carville’s email:

Date: September 30, 2014
To: “dccc@dccc.org”
Subject: Re: BEGGING 

Dear James Carville:

I am begging you right back.

Please, please, please, for the love of God, send me a photo of yourself holding a Popsicle or other frozen confectionary by midnight tonight and I will not only donate five dollars, I will match that five dollars.

If the frozen dessert is an ice cream sandwich I will triple match it.

And I’ll use that photo to raise money for our party. Your gift can make or break us.

DON’T LET US DOWN, JAMES CARVILLE.

Unsurprisingly, the DCCC recognized the power of vaguely threatening emails and responded immediately.  They must have been confused though, because their email read like a form letter and began like this:

From: <dccc@dccc.org>
Date: September 30, 2014

Thanks for emailing us at the Democratic Congressional Campaign Committee (DCCC)!

If you have a question or request, we want to get you what you need as quickly as possible:

1. Want to donate online to our campaign to elect Democrats?  CLICK HERE TO ACCESS OUR SECURE DONATION FORM…

We stopped reading at that point because they seem to have misread our initial email.  Suddenly I understood how frustrated they probably were.  It is awful when people ignore your histrionic emails.  But we took a deep breath and (following standard DCCC procedures) we decided to send another email explaining the severity of the issue and the level of shame they need to feel:

Date: September 30, 2014
To: DCCC
Subject: Re: Thanks for emailing the DCCC Membership Team!

Dear DCCC:

Thanks for emailing us at Laura’s laptop!

You said: “If you have a question or request, we want to get you what you need as quickly as possible” but the quickest way would have been to respond to my original response asking James Carville to send a photo of himself holding a popsicle (or similar) by midnight. Please see original email for details as it could be worth up to $15 to our party.

PULL IT TOGETHER, DCCC.

“1. Want to donate online to our campaign to elect Democrats?” Yes. Desperately. But I can’t help you until you help yourself. As Nancy Pelosi said to me moments ago, “I’ve emailed you more than I can count.”  (Twice, actually. So I guess I can count how many times. Sorry.  I’m bad at hyperbole.)  At first I thought Nancy was shaming me a bit much considering that we don’t know each other, but I understand her frustration now.

If we don’t get the photo of James Carville holding some sort of frozen dessert the Republicans will have already won. As you said to me a few hours ago, if we don’t have your cooperation “We. Will. Fail.”

YOU ARE NOW OFFICIALLY ON NOTICE. Your chance to get my donation TRIPLE-MATCHED will end at midnight tonight. Control of Congress is at stake. Please, don’t delay.

Also, that last paragraph was taken almost directly from the email you sent me moments ago but I don’t know how to do it in the flashing yellow warning letters like you did. Please know, however, that I am just as serious, regardless of font.

Shockingly, no popsicle pictures came.  Apparently the DCCC were just as immune to our threats as we were to theirs.

We checked on twitter to see if we were alone in getting these terrifying emails every few minutes.  We were not:  (You should see a box of tweets here that you can scroll down through when your mouse is inside it.  If not, just go to the link)

[View the story “I thought it was just me.” on Storify]

We waited for the whole hour(s?) for a follow-up after the midnight deadline passed, but all was quiet.  We had expected another email.  Possibly something with the subject: “WE. ARE. DOOMED. And it’s mostly your fault” with a picture of orphans and kittens and orphaned kittens being speared by gleeful Republicans making giant shish-ka-bobs.  Instead?  Silence.  They were serious.  It really had been our last chance to donate and be triple-matched.  We felt a bit bad and said a prayer for the people at the DCCC, who we hoped were being given sedatives by helpful nurses.

The next day this came from Nancy:

Date: Wed, Oct 1, 2014
Subject: we. fell. short. 
I was being dead serious when I said we’d miss our goal last night.

We fell short.

Despite emails from President Obama, Hillary Clinton, and myself…we just couldn’t get it done.

It was one of the most aggressive fundraising goals we’ve ever had. We even surpassed our initial goal of 1OO,OOO online donations in 5 days. But we were forced to raise our goal when we learned that Republican outside groups put in 12 million dollars at the very last-minute.

I’m not giving up. And you shouldn’t either, Laura.

We have one last chance to right this ship. To do it, we need 11 donors from your zip code to make a triple-matched donation by midnight.

TRIPLE-MATCH EXTENSION: (for donations made TODAY ONLY)

Chip in $5 immediately >>

Chip in $35 immediately >>

Chip in $50 immediately >>

Chip in $100 immediately >>

Chip in $250 immediately >>

Or click here to donate another amount.

Thanks,

Nancy

PS. For those of you who might be new here: This isn’t a political post.  It’s more about marketing.  Also, it’s a waste of your time to debate politics in the comments section because this community is fairly divided politically but united in the fact that you have the freedom to believe whatever you want no matter how wrong you are.  I’m a Democrat but I’m married to a Republican and we can both agree that there’s a lot of crazy bullshit on both sides.  If you can’t recognize that you probably need to seek help right now.  But first give me $5 immediately if you believe in America, or else all the American eagles will become so despondent that they’ll lay out in the middle of the road and just let you run over them.

PPS.  I wrote this yesterday but forgot to publish it.  This is exactly why I should never be trusted with deadlines, Democrats.

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.