Category Archives: Random crap

Some people say that drinking from a slipper is a great honor. They probably weren’t drinking Mountain Dew out of an Ugg though.

Whenever I don’t have enough cup holders in my car I just take off a shoe and stick a drink in the ankle hole because a shoe makes a surprisingly stable extra cup holder.  Except, that is, for when the cup apparently has a slow leak in it and then you end up walking into the house with several drinks and a dripping shoe full of Mountain Dew, and your husband is all, “What happened to your shoe?” and you’re like, “YOUR DRINK LEAKED IN IT” and then he gets all crappy because “WHY ARE YOU BLAMING ME?  WHY WAS IT MY DRINK?” and you explain that you certainly wouldn’t put your own drink inside a shoe so obviously it’s his and then he gets pissed because he suddenly realizes that all of his take-out drinks have been carried about in shoes.  But technically his drinks are insulated by my shoes and so they stay cold longer.  If anything, he should be thanking me.

And apologizing for leaking in my shoes.

And getting me some more cup holders.

The man needs to prioritize, for God’s sake.

Cats never get insomnia, the furry bastards.

An open letter to cats:

A series of pictures of Hunter S. Thomcat:


Meanwhile, I tossed and turned for three hours last night before finally falling into a light sleep that lasted for the almost ten seconds it took you to “inadvertently”  walk on my face enough to wake me back up completely.

This is exactly why people hate you guys.  Because you rub it in.  Well, it’s probably not the only reason, but it certainly can’t help.  Please at least pretend to be bleary and miserable every once in awhile.  Or share your hidden stash of sleeping pills.  Whichever.  We’re flexible.

Hugs,

Everyone in the whole world

I’d kill everyone just out of spite, but I’m possibly too old and might break a hip.

Conversation with the guy at the video game store:

Clerk: Can I help you find something?

me:  I’m looking for a new game.  Something where you explore and solve puzzles but you don’t have to shoot anyone.  Something like Myst, maybe?

Clerk:  I’m not familiar with it.

me: Really?  Myst?  It was a super-big-deal video game.  It came out in the mid-90′s, I guess?

Clerk:  Oh.  Yeah, I wasn’t born then.

me:  Ah.  And now I understand why they say video games make people violent.

**********

And in other news, it’s Sunday, which means its time for the weekly wrap-up:

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

What you missed on the internets:

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

This week’s wrap-up is brought to you  by the fabulous woman who invented JustGoGirl,  a low profile pad for women with athletic leaks that occur when you run or jump.  Millions have this issue but it hasn’t received a lot of attention because women aren’t comfortable talking about it. It’s light, comfortable and invisible in tight workout clothes.  It’s also good to wear when you’re laughing so hard that you pee.  Just saying.

I’LL HELP YOU.

Hunter S. Thomcat has the unique ability to see things on tv screens.  This means that when I watch Doctor Who, he watches it with me (which is nice), but it also means that he’s constantly leaping onto the screen whenever David Tennant makes a particularly quick move.  Not that I blame him.

The problem, however, comes about when I’m typing, scrolling down on my computer, or watching something on youtube.  Then he attacks the monitor (accompanied by mewling and banging that’s so loud that Victor assumes an angry neighbor is at the door again).  This will go on for hours if I let it.

For the sake of example, this is what happens when I pull up a screensaver that looks like a pug is licking your computer screen clean.

imageedit_3_9295151453

(If I’ve done this right it should be a short gif.  If not, please just pretend it is.)

Honestly, I don’t know whether Hunter is trying to play with him, rescue him, or murder him.  Regardless, it’s adorable.  And almost impossible to work around.

And this is why I need an office with actual doors.

Not a real post, but still quite important.

As you might know, I have a talent for crashing websites (particularly mine) and it always ends with me eventually screaming “IT’S NOTHING HARD LIQUOR AND A HAMMER WON’T FIX” and Victor hiding the mallets while he curses and struggles to fix whatever I’ve done.  I’ve been told that WordPress server/sites/whatever are almost unbreakable and so we’re going to put that to the test.  It may take a few days for your personal ISP to switch over to the new site (which is the same address as the old site but is located in a different place and I have a headache just explaining that) so if you don’t see a new post by next week that means you might need to tell your internet provider to refresh their DNS settings.  I’ll have a new post up on Thursday and you should be able to see it if everything switches over quickly like it should for most of you.  Until then, please go and read yesterday’s post about the best taxidermy finds of my entire life.

Also, hat-tip to the multiple brilliant readers who realized exactly what that strange, unidentified taxidermied creature was that I brought home:

PS.  Scrot is short for Scrotum.  He also goes by Phteven.  I may have spelled that wrong.

PPS.  Giant thanks to Pete, Nate and Nick at WordPress.com VIP, who’ve worked very hard with an extremely grumpy Victor to make this switch.  They assure us that if we still manage to break the site it’ll be free ponies for everyone.

PPPS.  You won’t be able to leave a comment until your DNS picks up the new location.  The blog will be in maintenance mode for a little while during the switch.  It’ll say “Comments are closed” on this post until your ISP updates to the new location.  Once you can leave comments again on this post then that means you’ve made it back home.

Be careful out there, you guys.

We’ll see you on the other side.

Horrible, wonderful taxidermy. Someone up there likes me. And hates Victor.

I don’t even know where to start with this, so I’m skipping right to: “OMG, YOU GUYS, I HAVE FOUND HEAVEN AND IT’S ONLY SLIGHTLY MORE CORPSEY THAN YOU WOULD EXPECT.”

Long story short, this weekend we went to a tiny town near us to go to resale stores because we’re strange people who like weird, used things.  As you might know, I have a particular penchant for badly done, super-old taxidermy that makes me laugh and makes people who have to visit my house very uncomfortable.  By late afternoon we came across a large odd store filled with so much weird, half-price shit that it was like coming home.  In fact, I fell so in love with one section of the store that the guy in charge told me I could come and bring my laptop, get into bed and write there after they were closed if I needed quiet time.  It was so awesome I suspect it’s some sort of set-up to arrest me for arson I haven’t yet achieved.

Taxidermy, old books, an unmade bed. These are a few of my favorite things.

Regardless, I have to share a pictorial essay about the amazingness you can only come across in Texas.

Just a fraction of the frightening, vintage taxidermy we saw when we first walked in. Victor and I were both like, "WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?" but I suspect we were saying it for different reasons.

Every corner had something amazing to behold:

Do you know what a lion looks like when it's horking up a hairball? Well, you do now. I don't know what that thing is on it's back. I thought it was a dog but it might have been a small bear or a preemie sasquatch.

Most people just throw away their fish heads, but apparently early crafters realized that if you nail them to a plank they look just like Christmas carolers hitting a high note. I suspect this is going to be the newest DIY thing on Pinterest.

This was actually from the shop next door but it still seems to fit here:

Of course, I couldn’t buy them all, so I settled on my three favorite friends.

I don't know what this is, but I love it. The pine-cone fell off when I got home...

…so I replaced it with a tiny mug, except now that I look at it, it sort of looks like he's relieving himself in it because he really, really needs to pee, or was interrupted when giving a sperm sample. Regardless, I think we can all relate.

Ferris Mewler was impressed.  Or hungry.

I also got a…weasel?  I don’t have a name yet, but she’s very well dressed because I have insomnia:

She wears a fez now. Fezzes are cool.

She also has excellent taste in books. It's pretty obvious she's classy as shit.

And my personal favorite…possibly the derpiest taxidermy animal in the history of ever.  I cannot walk past her and not laugh my ass off and that makes her the best investment ever.  That’s why I own taxidermied animals instead of a 401k.

There is not an angle that she looks bad in.  She is the gift that keeps on giving.  She needs a name.  Feel free to give suggestions.

UPDATED: The lion and the unicorn were fighting for the crown. And for my heart.

SEE UPDATE BELOW:

This week my friend (Seana) saw something on the side of the road and slowed down to take a picture out of her car window because it was fucked-up and she was pretty sure I needed it.  And she was right.  We all need this:

And at first I was just happy knowing that a random unicorn is cheerily hanging out with a smiling lion on the side of the road, but then I started thinking about how nice it would be to own that taxidermied unicorn and then Victor said that I couldn’t have it because I already had a taxidermied pegasus and then I just shook my head at him because the man obviously doesn’t understand anything about “matched sets”.  For example, I could use them as book-ends and put stuff between them.  Stuff like the other antique taxidermied animals I don’t currently have room for.

So I called the shop that was keeping my unicorn and said, “Hey.  Weird question, but I heard you have a dead unicorn in the street and I’m interested in bringing it into my life,” but turns out I dialed the wrong number and the woman on the other line was very confused, but she was also elderly and seemed a little lonely so I ended up talking to her for ten minutes about dead unicorns (Hi, Edna!) and it was quite nice.  She was very supportive of the idea.  Or afraid to hang up.  Difficult to tell.

Regardless, I called the right number the second time and the guy on the line was like “Oh, yeah.  You mean Pat.”  The dead unicorn’s name was Pat.  Pat the Unicorn.  It was like that bunny in the toddler book, but less alive.  Or more alive, since the unicorn was once real. Sort of.

Turns out that Pat was once a beloved, old family pet who eventually died of an irritable bowel problem in Alabama in the 60′s.  The grieving family was sad and so the father (a taxidermist) decided to surprise them with a unicorn made out of their dead, diarrhea pony.  It might have been the worst present ever.  Or best.  Hard to tell with taxidermist’s children.  We’re a weird bunch.

The bad thing though, is that Pat was an heirloom and an Alabaman (Alabamanian?) treasure and so he is fucking expensive.  I still briefly considered it (because it would be fun to write “diarrhea unicorn corpse” as a business expense on my taxes) but Victor yelled “SPENDING REAL MONEY ON A DIARRHEA PONY IS CRAZY EVEN FOR YOU” and he had a point.  So I called my sister to see if she wanted to go halfsies on it, because then it would be more justifiable.  She said she’d pass, but pointed out that it was close to the same amount of money to get a fancy gym membership for a year, and that I could just put some wheels on Pat and then put a harness around my shoulders and drag Pat up steep neighborhood hills, like some sort of magical, princess resistance-training.  And I’m pretty sure that’s a great idea because PAT IS ALREADY ON CASTERS, so I can take him for walks, or drag him behind the riding lawn mower when I go to pick up Hailey from sleepovers.

I was totally in.  “UNICORNS ARE THE NEW KETTLE-CORN” I yelled at Victor.  He looked at me strangely and I explained that they were weights, and he said “Wait.  Do you mean “kettle bells”?  God.  You can’t even debate this properly.”  Then he told me that I could buy Pat just as soon as I could justify spending money on a dead diarrhea pony that I probably would never exercise with at all.  And he was right.  I can’t justify that kind of money.  So I decided that I should sell shares of the unicorn to try to raise the money.  It’ll be a communal unicorn.  A communalcorn.  I’ve tried kickstarter several times and they never approve my stuff, so instead I’m going to sell shares of Pat on my shop.  All I need to do is sell a shitload of Double Unicorn Success Club certificates before Pat is sold off to someone else.  Impossible?  Probably.  But I sort of specialize in impossible.  And also in “incredibly stupid and somewhat dangerous.”  We play to our talents.

You need this. And it's on a postcard so it's made for sharing.

So what do you get out of this?  Not much.  Plus, you’re buying shares of a communalcorn that I haven’t even bought yet, which I think might be considered “illegal speculation” on my part.  So you get to say that you’re part of a unicorn crime ring, for one. And if this actually manages to happen, you will also get to see pictures of me and Pat on various adventures, and I’ve even gotten a small town to agree to let me show our communalcorn in their yearly parade and you can come and be on the float, which will probably just be me dragging Pat around behind the lawnmower while I scream “UNICORN SUCCESS CLUB FOR THE WIN!” and throw candy corn and glitter at baffled strangers.

Now, it’s more than possible that Pat will be sold before we can ever raise this money, and so if that happens all profits from the certificates will be donated to Project Night Night, because that’s what Pat would want.  That unicorn corpse is doing God’s work and he’s not even ours yet.

PS.  Do you have any thoughts on what you’d like to see Pat doing?  Leave them in the comments, people.  We may not have a unicorn, but we do have hope, imagination, and a series of questionable decisions that have brought us here.  And I, for one, think that’s a very good thing.

UPDATED:  In the two hours that this post has been live we’ve raised almost $500 toward buying Pat the Unicorn, which is both awesome and frightening at the same time.  Sadly, I called to check on Pat and was told that he was just sold.  It was a very dark moment in the Lawson household and I think I’ve learned that the time to buy a dead, diarrhea communalcorn is when you see a dead, diarrhea communalcorn.  These are the tough life lessons you learn on the streets.  I’d like to think that Victor went out and bought him as a surprise, but when I asked him, Victor looked at me like I was insane.  The upside is that the $500 will now go to helping homeless kids, and that’s kind of awesome, although selfishly not as awesome as getting a unicorn that you can use to stage a liquor store robbery.  The good news though is that this has inspired me, and so I will now be taking my taxidermied pegasus (Flyza Minnelli), finding the perfect unicorn horn for her (please send links if you see any) and attaching wheels to her feet because THIS COMMUNALCORN THING IS GOING TO HAPPEN, YOU GUYS.  It’s just too bad-ass not to.  All further Pat fundraising will go toward buying a horn, foot-wheels, a bad-ass leash and enough giant helium balloons to float Flyza Minnelli around the neighborhood like the magical, flying communalcorn we all need in 2014.

PS.:

You did this, Unicorn Success Club. Take a goddam bow, you magnificent bastards.

UPDATED AGAIN: An artist’s conception:

“Soon” never comes.

There are seven days in a week and “soon” isn’t one of them.  Which is good, because you know when my next book is due?  Soon.  But technically “soon” never comes.  I mean, it’s coming, don’t get me wrong.  But it’s not quite here and at the rate I’m going, “It’ll be done soon” for the rest of my life.

I should probably stop blogging about the word “soon” and instead use this time to focus on my book.

And I will.

Soon.

PS.  Please make me feel better about myself by telling me about something you should have done already but haven’t yet.  Then we can feel terrible together.  And that’s what friends are for.

PPS.  You should go buy my last book for your mom’s birthday.  Or your cat’s anniversary.  Whatever.  It would just be helpful if I could tell my editor that I’m going to be late on my deadline because I’m just way too busy selling my old book.  Feel free to lie.  This is a safe place, y’all.  Unless you’re my editor.  Then it’s a place to make you sigh deeply and put your head on your desk.

I apologize in advance.

me:  Victor, come in here.  I think maybe Hunter S. Thomcat has a cold.

Victor:  Why?

me:  Because he’s feeling a little horse.

Victor:  That?  Is a terrible joke.

me:  You’re just upset you didn’t make it first.

Victor:  Fair enough.

PS.  Even Hunter seems chagrined at being involved in this bad of a pun.  I’m so, so sorry.  I couldn’t help myself.

RIP, normal conversations.

me:  It’s weird that everyone tweets “RIP” when celebrities die.

Victor:  Hmm.

me:  Because “RIP” means “Rest in Peace”, and that’s basically implying that they want the celebrities soul to not be tossing, or turning, or jogging, or whatever.    I mean, on the surface it seems like it’s a sweet thing to say, but it’s basically just them saying, “Don’t haunt us, famous person.”

Victor:  I didn’t ask for a follow-up.

me:  It’s just seems a bit self-serving, when you think about it.

Victor:  I don’t.  I don’t even really want to talk about it.

me:  It’s just a bit selfish, is all I’m saying.  If people really wanted to be nice they’d tell others to rest in peace while they were still alive.  Who doesn’t want to get some rest in uninterrupted peace?  That sounds awesome.  Best nap ever.  Naps are wasted on the dead.  They can’t even wake up and feel refreshed afterward.

Victor: Still not talking about this.

me:  Unless it was the zombie apocolypse.  Then I guess technically they’d wake up, but zombies never look refreshed.  Just the opposite really.

Victor:  You know, normal couples talk about the weather.  Or politics, maybe.

me:  OH MY GOD.  Maybe that’s what they mean by “Rest in Peace”.  Maybe it just means “Stay dead, asshole.  Don’t wake up and chew on my brains, because I need them.”

Victor:  Or religion.  We could talk about religion.

me:  But that’s kind of even more self-serving.  Plus, zombies don’t read twitter, and even if they did it’s not like they’d read “RIP” and be like “Oh, I should go back to bed.  A nap sounds really good right now.

Victor:  Zombies never nap.

me:  That’s the sad tragedy about zombies.  And THAT’S probably why they’re so grumpy.  Their heads hurt and they want new brains because their brains won’t let them sleep.  Maybe all they really want is some Ambien and Sleepytime Tea.

Victor:  Or we could just sit in silence.  I’d be okay with that.

me:  We should keep some Ambien in our emergency preparedness kit just in case.

Victor:  Last time you had Ambien I found you in the closet convinced you could see through walls.

me:  Yeah, it’s not for me, dude.  It’s for the zombies.  Keep up with the conversation, Victor.

Victor:  I’m trying so hard not to.

me:  And that’s why I’m so focused on our safety.  Because I have to think about these things for both of us.

Victor.  Do you think we’ll ever just have normal conversations?

me:  God, I hope not.