Yesterday the doctor put me on some morphine-based medicine for a sinus-infection and it did nothing except give me the most entirely fucked-up fever dreams. The last one though was quite funny so I thought I’d write about it today because I dreamed that someone was trying to sell me those tiny easter-egg-ish containers “for storing your extra puddings” and I was all “Who the hell has extra pudding?” But then when I started to write about it I realized that the pudding easter eggs storage-containers don’t actually exist in real life and suddenly the whole thing seemed rather pointless, but my mind keeps going “Oh! Don’t forget to write about the puddings” and I have to keep reminding myself that it’s redundant (at best) to write a post making fun of the idiocy of someone who only exists in your dreams, and also that I need to stop taking morphine so close to bedtime.
What you missed on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:
- 8 million people yelled at me last week when I admitted that I had blown off an interview with Sportacus so I went back and actually did one. You people owe me.
- I’ve left my boot-print in the minds of our youth.
What you missed on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a complete douche-canoe):
What you missed in my shop (tentatively named “Eight pounds of uncut cocaine” so that your credit card bill will be more interesting.):
What you missed on the internets:
- I somehow made it into the finals in the 2011 Bloggies for Most Humorous, Best Writing and Blog of the Year. It’s okay if you don’t vote for me though because I plan on claiming that I won anyway. No one ever double-checks that shit. Just like last year when I won for Best European Blog. It was a real surprise, let me tell you.
- I was in this month’s issue of The Printed Blog, which is not really safe for work because of the incredible number of nipples in it (six).
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 sponsored by The Committee to Stop People From Becoming Tremendous Douchebags Who Are Hell-Bent On Making You Feel Like Utter Shit For Seemingly No Reason What-So-Ever. I don’t know if it actually exists or not, but it totally should.