And while I’m gone I am completely phoning it in by reliving some of my favorite old posts.  In other words…reruns.  But good reruns.  So for today a little something from 5 years ago:

You know what I did last night when I couldn’t sleep?  I came up with 28 ideas for sequels to The Little Engine that Could and this morning I’m looking at them thinking, “How high was I?” and the answer is “Pretty high” because I don’t even remember writing some of these.  I should probably delete them all but I’m going to leave them as an example of why I shouldn’t really be allowed to speak to anyone, ever.

Alternate versions of The Little Engine that Could:

The little engine that should have.

The little engine that couldn’t care less.

The little engine that did and then found out it was overrated and then got disillusioned with life and stopped showering.

The little engine that did it with a prostitute and got syphilis.

The little engine that tried to do it but couldn’t and then later he found out that when he was born they weren’t sure if he was a train or a tractor so the doctor just made him into a train because that was easier but turns out?  Totally a tractor.

The little engine that needs to stop being such a douche canoe.

The little engine that tried but failed because sometimes life isn’t fair.

The little engine that died from overexertion and later his parents were all “WHY? Why didn’t he just wait for a bigger train?”  And no one had an answer.

The little engine that resented being called that because he thought it was racially insensitive and he started a big protest group then someone explained to that it was “engine” and not “Injun” and then he was all “Oh. I’ve wasted my life“.

The little engine that refused to unload his cargo because he was a hoarder.

The little engine that we all made fun of in school and later he got cancer and now we all feel bad.

The little engine that could do better.

The little engine that isn’t even applying herself.

The little engine that is just asking for a smack in the mouth if engines had mouths.

The little engine that refused to let men into his caboose because his father made him homophobic.

The little engine that could if he wanted to but he “just doesn’t feel like it right now”.

The little engine that accepted Jesus Christ as his personal savior but then found out that engines don’t have souls and he hoped there was at least an engine purgatory, but no.  There wasn’t.

The little engine that would have if he knew it was even an option.

The little engine that didn’t care for Asians.

The little engine that pretended he did it so much that he actually started to believe he actually had done it even though he never had.

The little engine that bullied you in third grade.

The little engine that’s way too concerned about Obama’s birth certificate.

The little engine that doesn’t have time to talk to you right now.

The little engine that can’t take a hint.

The little engine named Luka that lived on the second floor.

The little engine that was offended that he kept being referred to as “that” and would prefer “The little engine *who*would appreciate it if you’d use less hurtful words”

The little engine that could, but didn’t.  So maybe he couldn’t.  I mean, we don’t really know if he could unless he tried and succeeded.  Never mind.  The little engine who might’ve if he wasn’t such a damn baby.

The little mermaid who wanted to be an engine because she got sick of being a human but didn’t want to crawl home to her father after her divorce because he’d be all “I told you so“.

The little engine and the half-blood prince.

The little engine that ate my sandwich.  You. mother. fucker.

Victor: But where would her plane be?

me:  Duh.  Her invisible plane was invisible.

Victor: Invisible.  Not non-existent.

me:  Yes, well then whenever people tripped over nothing they could blame it on debris from my plane crash.  And there’s my little slice of immortality.

Victor: I don’t even know where to begin.

me:  Begin by finding a Wonder Woman outfit in a size 14.

Victor:  I’m not going to do that.

me:  I can fit into a 12 if necessary.  I’ll be dead so you can shave off part of my butt if you need to.

Victor:  It’s not a size issue.  I’m just not going to do that.

me:  Fine.  Then I’m not going to bury you.  I’ll just leave you out in the lawn in a Batman costume.  You’ll just look like Batman had a heart attack while picking weeds out of the flowerbed.  Way to ruin Batman, asshole.

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

me:  The death of Batman will do that to you.

me:  Your guess is as good as mine.

Victor:  Because she hates you?

me:  Why are your guesses always so insulting?

Victor:  You said my guess was as good as yours.

me:  Well, I was wrong.

Victor: Maybe she was on her way over when she ran over a bunch of violent dwarves and had to find some hungry bears to help her dispose of the bodies.

me:  Okay…that guess was a little better than mine.

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

And now, time for the weekly 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.):

• It’s a shirt AND an apology.

What you missed on the internets:

Thank you because for the third week in a row Let’s Pretend This Never Happened is on the NYT list.  Thank you because today is the premiere of my book in the UK.  Thank you for making the tour so successful that they’ve added another leg (or two) of the tour.  I still don’t know how this happened, but I do know who to thank.

Thank you.

Click on the links for all the gory details:

May 16th ~ 7pm : Atlanta, Georgia

May 17th ~ 7pm : Concord, North Carolina

May 19th ~ 4:40pm : Gaithersburg Book Festival

May 20th ~ 2pm : Annapolis, Maryland

Will you come?  Pretty please?

PS.  This is where I’d put something funny and clever but I’m not funny because I have tonsillitis, sinusitis, bronchitis and Ancient-King-Midas.

PPS.  That’s sick humor.  It doesn’t translate well.  I apologize.

Well, my marriage is still intact because this morning I woke up to find a very special surprise package from my friend, Lindsay.

IT’S RON WEASEL-Y, YOU GUYS:

Honestly, it’s like they were made for each other.

Next step…Draco Mousefoy.

PPS.  As requested, more book tour dates coming soon!  Boston, Atlanta, Charlotte, Gaithersburg, Annapolis and more!  Details to come…

This is my life.

Ps.  Hang on…

Nope.

Still a bad idea.

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

And now, time for the weekly 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.):

• Fresh from the Lady-Garden
• Bloggess Tour Shirt
• TEAM VICTOR (as requested) (by Victor)
• MAKE ME SOME BASKETTI
• The perfect Mothers Day card

What you missed on the internets:

The UK edition is a tad more whimsical on the outside. Same guts though.

In other tour news, looks like I’ll be adding a few more cities to the tour so I’ll keep you posted on that.

I’m doing in-store Skype events if you happen to be in Cincinatti’s JOSEPH-BETH BOOKSELLERS May 9th or Lansing, Michigan’s SCHULER BOOKS & MUSIC on May 10th.  (They’ll have signed bookplates on-hand.)  Also, I’m signing books in person in Florida this Friday, and in Gaithersburg, MD on the 19th.  I’ll add some more dates soon, and then I’ll turn into a hermit for the rest of my life, so if you want a signed copy of my book you better strike now before I go into seclusion forever.

A huge thanks to each and everyone one of you for supporting me on this terrible and wonderful roller coaster.  I know there have been book shortages around, but the good news is that the books out right now are all first editions so if you can find one you’ve got a collectors item.  One that will probably really be worth something several decades after we’re all dead.

PS.  If you want to buy the UK version it comes out on May 10th and you can get it at Amazon UK, Waterstones, and Independent UK bookstores.

UPDATED:  Winners ~ Daryk Masterson and Rob R.  Thanks so much, everyone!

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

My editor couldn’t decide between a bottle of wine or a hat made from actual roadkill as a book pub date gift.  I think she made the right choice:

His feet make excellent ear muffs.

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

I think I’m at a fancy hotel because I can’t tell what’s in the bottles.  At no point on this bottle does it say that it’s lotion.  I’m pretty sure “emotion body milk” is semen.  I have an entire bottle of free semen and I have no idea what to do with it.

I still took it home.

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

Same hotel.  I want a cheeseburger so I call for room service.  They reply, “Did you mean Womb Service?”  No.  No, I certainly did not and I can’t imagine enough people are making this mistake to make it worthy of that follow up question.

Also, yes, of course I have pictures:

For when you need a cheeseburger. In your birth canal.

 ************

One of these is toothpaste.  The other is clearasil.

They do not taste the same.  Ask me how I know.

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

I went to a tv interview but they neglected to tell me that it was live TV in Hollywood before a studio audience and so I was sort of petrified.  But then I took all my anti-anxiety drugs and I felt better (and woozie) until I stepped into the makeup room and there was a brunette in curlers with black glasses and I was all “Bitch stole my look” and then she said “Excuse me?” and I tried to explain myself but I was too mumbly to makes sense and then she took her hair out of the curlers AND IT WAS LISA LOEB.

Lisa Loeb isn't in this picture because I ran away from her as soon as I possibly could because I'd been mortified enough. She was very nice though.

I signed several boobs and one moob and some dead frogs.  I’ll sign anything.

No, really. Anything.

People brought me awesome, bizarre things.  Including a Tupperware bowl with an edible version of the dead mouse on the cover of my book:

No shit, y'all.

It tasted adorable.  And suspicious.  I was very hungry.

 ************

I spoke in a quavering voice between a variety of dumpsters.

Dumpsters not shown.

And people laughed.

That empty seat was reserved for Nathan Fillion. Just in case.

And it was good.

More to come (including new tour dates!)…

On a related note, you can make a free DEPRESSION LIES bracelet by clicking here (video instructions included).  Make one for yourself or a friend.

We’re all in this together, y’all.

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.

I don’t have a real post for today because I’m still recovering from last night’s tour, which included firetrucks, ambulances, blood, booze, alarms and a stuffed frogs.

Best tour ever.

PS.  By popular request…Everyone Says Fuck Off in iTunes.

A homemade nipple.

AND IT’S AWESOME.

That is, until I got glitter on it and then it was stuck to the latex and I was trying to pull the glitter off of my nipple but it wouldn’t come off so I asked Victor to lick it because I have a thing about not licking latex nipples that strangers gave me, but then he wouldn’t do it so I can’t get the glitter off and now I know why people refer to glitter as “the herpes of the craft world,” and I also know how it feels to have herpes on your nipples, which I’m not even sure is medically possible.

But what I do know is that it’s now become my new lucky charm.

My third nipple…

I also got a pretty kick-ass picture of my wild boar (James Garfield) painted with human lips and a dead mouse replica made of peanut putter and fruit roll-ups.

It’s been a weird week.

Speaking of “weird week”, you might have noticed me a few days freaking out about somehow ending up on the New York Times Best-Seller list.  I still can’t believe that happened.  The list publishes a week from Sunday and here’s where I fell:

#1 in Combined Print and Ebook Nonfiction

#2 in Print Hardcover Nonfiction

#2 in Print Hardcover and Paperback Combined

#2 in Ebook Nonfiction

It seems like a dream to me and I can’t wrap my mind around it, but I have something to say about it.

Thank you.

This book was 10 years in the making and I put my blood, sweat, tears and other body fluids into it, but none of that would have mattered without your support.  And not just the support of each of you encouraging me and telling me not to quit when I was in a deep depression or hiding under the desk having anxiety attacks.  The simple fact is that as a first-time, no-name author I had almost no chance of ever getting on that list, but somehow my book made it on its first week out…because of you.  Because you bought the book.  Because you told other people about it.  Because you sent it to you mom or child or friends so that they’d understand that you aren’t the only weirdo in the world.  And because of that, people will read this book.  People who might have felt just as strange and weird as all of us will be able to find that they aren’t alone…that there is a tribe of people out there just as fucked up as they are.  People who always felt like misfits will see that sometimes it’s the misfits that rule the world, and that a large enough group of us can change the rules.  I don’t have the words to thank you for joining me on this long journey, nor do I have the words to make you understand what a difference you’ve made to me and to everyone else out there like us, but I have to try.

Thank you.

Score one for the misfits.

Score one for us.

So yesterday I got a box of body parts in the mail and when I pieced them all together they were a bunch of angry cross-dressers.

I couldn’t make this shit up.

Lego sent me this to celebrate their new line or anniversary or something and I honestly have no idea what the hell to say here except that this pretty much sums up my entire life.  Other bloggers get invited to go on CNN or get free furniture.  I get an angry transvestite army.

Even my kid was like “Fucking-A, this shit is disturbing” except that she’s three so it was more like she picked up the girl/boy and said in a really deep, masculine voice “My name is Lori?” and then looked to me for guidance and I was all “I got nothin’, kid” and Victor couldn’t stop laughing.

And let me just go on record here as saying that I am a HUGE supporter of the transgendered community and I think Eddie Izzard in drag is 10 times hotter than Brad Pitt covered in nougat, but this is just bizarre.  There was not one face in the box that wasn’t the threatening moustachioed dude.

PS.  Someone just sent me the lego version of Eddie Izzard’s “cake or death”.  I’m still confused but at least it makes this post slightly more cohesive*.

*No, it really doesn’t really at all.

Update:  So it turns out that this angry moustachioed head is most often used in sets where he plays a patient about to undergo some sort of procedure.  Of course it is.

Also, I got a very nice response from Lego which said “ Each kit was supposed to contain an assortment of random parts; however, it looks like yours somehow consisted only of angry mustache faces.  Please know that this was not at all done intentionally or to freak anyone out in any way.”  I also heard from several other people who got packages from Lego and none of them contained the angry moustachioed man head.  So basically I control the entire market.  It’s a lot like cornering the market on gold, which is enviable and glamorous.  Only switch “gold” with “angry moustachioed heads”, and “enviable and glamorous” with “perplexing and mildly uncomfortable.”

Comment of the day:  It’s like a bunch of tiny Tony Orlandos. ~Missie

I don’t even have the words, y’all.

Conversation between me and twitter, who is kind of an asshole:

And that’s the reason why I don’t like twitter.  Because it’s judgemental and it never goes away.  It’s like your junior high boyfriend when you’re all “You hang up the phone first” and he’s all “No, you hang up” and you’re like “No, you hang up” and he probably thinks he’s being all romantic by not hanging up but you really want him to hang up because you have to pee and you don’t want him to hear you peeing.  And that’s basically what twitter is all about.  This is like a tutorial for people who are new to twitter.  You should send new twitterers here so they won’t be all freaked out when twitter starts molesting them because if you’re not expecting it it can be very confusing.  Like getting your first period.  Basically this is the “Are You There God?  It’s me, Margaret” of the twitter world.

PS.  If people try to tell you that twitter doesn’t occasionally talk to you they are lying to you.  Or perhaps they just aren’t observant enough.  Or drunk enough.  I don’t know.  I’m not here to judge those people.  I’m here to help you. You’re welcome.

Comment of the day: Thanks for the mention, poodle-muffin. What are you doing? ~ Twitter