Category Archives: Letters from Nancy

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)

[protected-iframe id=”29f172430cbcc06f23de58d3dda9d69d-58006636-1561224″ info=”//storify.com/TheBloggess/i-thought-it-was-just-me/embed?header=false” width=”100%” height=”750″][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.

It’s like a visit from the ghost of Christmas past but with more cursing.

I was cleaning out my 8,000+ unread emails this morning and I stumbled upon an unread email from our late, great friend ~ Nancy W. Kappes, paralegal.  For those of you new to the blog you should know that Nancy was the greatest letter-writer in the history of ever, and everyone in my small world mourned for her last year when she died unexpectedly.  If she was here I suspect she’d point out that it was less unexpected that she died, and more unexpected that it didn’t involve heavy gunfire, a swat team and a briefcase of stolen heroin and Judy Garland Trail Mix.

If you aren’t a fan of Nancy then this will just confuse you and you should just come back later, but if you are, it’s a bit like a voice from the grave.  An awesome, confusing, vulgar, dearly-missed voice from the grave…

Yo, J-to-tha-N-to-the-Blogness,

Fuck me running (which is what I totally tried to do, but goddamn those punk-ass young cops are fast) so I had me a little Holiday at the Hamilton Handcuff County Hilton. BUT, on the plus side, you wouldn’t fucking believe how many people want to have sex with me.

So. Several things to catch up on. You need some human skin?  Fuckin-A, dude! My thank-you-god-former MIL had jowls the size of fucking Delaware and I always said she should be like The World’s First Skin Farm, where they harvested that shit, waited for the growing-back phase (couldn’t be that long), and BOOM! Harvest again!  Makin money just for havin a face! A face that is so goddamned scary, I used to put a photo of her on my patio door to scare burglars. It also worked on raccoons. Although we could still totally hear them in the woods behind our apartment. I mean, Christ! These motherfuckers were bigger than my car and you could hear them loud as shit in the night. One time, my Claire was sleeping with me [bed by the huge window overlooking said woods] and she was…ah, maybe 10 years old. We totally wake up to hear, [deep growl] “UH UH UH UH UH UH” interspersed with [high-pitched] “EE EE EE EE EE.”  After about 5 minutes of this bullshit, Claire screamed out the window, “Leave her alone already!”

In 7th grade history, I organized a cough-off where everyone would hack their fucking lungs out at exactly 1:15pm. Naturally, when it was over, the teacher just said, “Whitford—Principal’s office” which was a phrase I heard at least once a day. I mean, shit! What kid hasn’t spray-painted the school walls? On the inside.

Oh, and Jenns, if you need any dominatrix gear for your Speaking Engagement and Other Activities, lemme know. I got a truckload of that shit.  I also need to know if you have an allergy to latex before I send all that shit. Most of it is illegal in the US but fuck it.

Carry on, Motherfucker!

Nancy W. Kappes, Paralegal

R.I.P Nancy W. Kappes

I don’t know where to begin.

If you’ve been reading my blog for long then you know Nancy W. Kappes, paralegal. She first started emailing me years ago and her correspondence was the most bizarre, amazing, roller-coaster of profanity and vodka-drenched awesomeness I could ever imagine.  She was like Hunter S. Thompson but with a vagina, and I sometimes suspected that I was actually emailing myself from the future.  Other people suspected that I had made her up entirely because surely the few emails I shared here seemed too unbelievable to be real.  But they were.  And one day she came to Chicago to meet me and so many of the men and women who’d become fans of her writing on my blog.  And I was amazed.  We all were.  She was kind, caring, hysterical, and completely out of her mind but in the most fabulous, endearing and sort of frightening kind of way.  Over the years we sent each other hundreds of emails which I kept in a special “Nancy W. Kappes” folder and when I felt down I’d only have to look at the headings to smile.

Yesterday I found out that Nancy had died unexpectedly on Friday night.

I was shocked.  And then I was mad.  I sent her an angry email demanding that she tell me this was some sort of awful joke.  But it wasn’t.  I called her phone and it went to voicemail.  I saw notes of condolences on her daughters’ facebook pages.  Then I cried when I realized that I’d never again get an email from her with subject lines like “Holy mother fucking balls” or “fisting with a kitten mitten” or her old standby “Oh fer chrissake, DON’T TAKE NO SHIT FROM NOBODY; TELL ‘EM ALL TO FUCK OFF”.  Her last email came a week ago and was filled with typically golden tips on how to entertain your kids on vacation using only duct-tape and teddy grahams and admonishments to stop working so much and take a damn vacation.  She closed with these lines: “Go with God, my child.  And if He won’t drive, fucking make Victor. Love on all y’alls little heads ~ Nancy W. Kappes, paralegal“.

She was part demi-God, part hell-cat, part warning-sign, part adopted-mother and completely unique.  I will never meet another person like her.  I don’t know how she died but I do know how she lived.  She lived with a ferocity that frightened grown men.  She lived dangerously but fully and without regret.  She was unapologetically flawed, perpetually cheerful and found humor in even the darkest moments, and she gave me hope that I’ll be able to face the pain of rheumatoid arthritis in the same way she did…with a wry joke and a rebellious laugh instead of a whimper.  She was my friend and the world is a bit darker today without her in it.

If I was writing this about anyone else I’d stop right there, but I’m not writing about just anyone.  I’m writing about Nancy, who gloried in irreverence and pushing boundaries and I think that if she were to read this post she’d probably think it was very pretty but would be pissed that I ended it on such a horrifically respectable note, so instead I’m going to let Nancy end this in her own words.  A year ago she emailed me the obituary she wrote for herself and I laughed at it and sent her back my own, then tucked it into my Nancy file but I’m bringing it out today because, as always, no one could else could write this quite like Nancy…and no one should.

Dateline: Indianapolis, IN

Please remember in your prayers our sister, Nancy W. Kappes, Paralegal, who was called Home to Jesus’ bosom recently when her fucking head blew up.  In life, she was a foul-mouthed, sarcastic, occasionally  funny mother, who loved her children unconditionally. She will be remembered for nothing.

Ms. Kappes died of natural causes while being beheaded by her cherished Firm who, apparently, had had just enough of her antics, thankyouverymuch.

She is survived by her sometimes [on their part] beloved grrlz, a grandson, and some ass-hat letters on her favorite website.  Everyone else in Ms. Kappes’ life has disowned her or disavowed knowing or being related to her. In fact, they are having a party in Chicago, to celebrate her demise. Donations in her name will be accepted by Pfizer, Merck, Eli Lilly and Watson.

Her daughters have planned a memorial service for the week in which her home will be open to [you know who you are] to participate in the last rites of a case of Gray Goose, 15 bottles of tequila, 2 cases of cheap bourbon, and unlimited access to the last 5 remaining barrels of the Judy Garland Trail Mix.

Ms. Kappes will be cremated and her ashes put in a Dixie cup. It is her final wish that she attend every party given and promises this time she will cause no trouble. Her parting words were, “Bite me.” “Pardon my dust.”

Nancy W. Kappes, Paralegal

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

Goodbye, Nancy. Not everyone will understand this memorial but I hope it would have made you proud. I miss you already, old friend.

Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) is ALIVE.

You remember Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal), right?  If you don’t you need to go here and catch up. Back?  Awesome. Well, she was MIA for a long time due to I’ll-let-her-tell-it but she’s alive, and it feels selfish to keep that kind of news to myself.  The latest from Nancy (who I’m fairly certain wrote this in the hospital on morphine while recovering from surgery.  True story. That’s fucking dedication, y’all):

MEA MAXIMA CULPA. Yes, Jennikins, I fucked up once again. As a sage once said, “I want to go to the very bottom and come back and write about it.” Yes, I went that far and by all that is holy and Christ in a rowboat, sweetie, can I be forgiven? Jesus on a stick, I feel like fuck!

Could you somehow let it be known I am back and the reason is I have been waiting on my tickets to the “Maury Povich” show where I will represent Joseph [the Holy Spirit is using a pro bono attorney – dumb ass] in the case of Paternity of one Christ, Jesus. We are going to get this question the fact OVER cause goddamn! this Baby Daddy question needs an answer once and for fucking all. It will be the Ultimate Consummate Baby Daddy Show Ever. Jeez. And if you think getting a fucking dove to stick out his tongue for a swab is easy, lemme enlighten you.

Okay, well I am back on the methadone which is lovely with brandy, along with the regulars so if you have nothing else to do [like waxing your driveway] give me a shout. I’ll be here all week and try the shrimp scampi. Plus it’s only 12:30 here. Gawd in the good old days we’d be high as a kite and trying to properly dress for the night’s debauchery.

HA! Just read about the Cleavage Day, but, Jesus Christ, move to town and take the paper.

My Trail Mix runneth over.

Nancy W. Kappes  (Now known as…fuck, I don’t know…”Larry”?)

Happy NWK Week, motherfuckers.  And in entirely unrelated news…the weekly wrap-up of shit I was doing when I wasn’t here causing boobquakes, pointing out zombie furniture design flaws and being taken far too seriously.

    This week on my sex column (which is satirical and vaguely safe for work if your boss isn’t a douche-canoe):

    This week on the internets:

    • I was on front page of AVN for 10 minutes, which is apparently a big deal (link is so, so, so NSFW) and also got a small shout out on Woman’s Day Magazine and The Daily Beast.  I honestly don’t even know which one of these is more baffling.

    This week on Good Mom/Bad Mom on the Houston Chronicle:

    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…nobody.  Or possibly someone.  I can’t find my notes.  My God, I suck at this. Okay, wait.  This post sponsored by my friend Katherine Center who isn’t actually a sponsor in the slightest but who sits up with me late at night while I read her my convoluted diary and that’s kind of awesome.  Also, she just published “Get Lucky” which is my favorite of all her books.  You should totally buy it.  It smells like clean laundry.

    Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) is real and I have witnesses

    So this weekend at the Blogher conference I co-hosted the People’s Party and it was very nice because everyone there had to apologize for accusing me of making up Nancy W. Kappes (paralegal) because SHE FUCKING CAME.  This is where you should go read all the “Nancy W. Kappes is not my personal Tyler Durden” posts if you are already lost because this is about to get confusing even for me and if you don’t know the background you’re fucked and should probably just skip this and instead just read about the time I scared Blair from “Facts of Life.

    So Nancy shows up at Blogher carrying a big bottle of water which was actually straight vodka and carrying pictures of her kids, grandkids, and a trucker hat she’d had made for me.

    Me, Nancy, hats.

    Me, Nancy, hats.

    Also, she brought her “Judy Garland Trailmix” and dumped it out on the bed so I could have first pick, which was very generous and ladylike, and I didn’t actually have any of them because I’d been drinking but she made me a doggie bag and called me a bitch, but in a really nice way.

    Nancy's Judy-Garland-Trailmix

    This is totally for real, y'all

    Then she started yelling about what tiny crap-hole hotel room me and my roomie were staying in and insisted we go to her giant suite across town but I reminded her that I was supposed to be hosting a party in a few minutes but then everything got kind of fuzzy and I can only assume she slipped me a roofie or I got a contact high from standing too close.  At one point she got lost and I was hiding in the bathroom having a serious conversation with a bunch of chicks and I can’t remember what it was about but I think it was about how someone’s pet llama had cancer or something  and then Nancy walks in and I can’t see her but I can tell it’s her because she’s all “OUT OF MAH WAY, BITCHES!” and then she sees me on the bathroom counter and waves offhandedly at me and then she kicked open the door to a stall and is all “Move, bitches!  I gotta take a piss”.  Then everyone in the bathroom got all quiet and kind of looked at each other all shocked like “What the fuck just happened?” and I’m all “By the way?  That? Is Nancy W. Kappes, y’all” and they’re all “NANCY W. KAPPES PARALEGAL?!” and I’m all “Totally” in kind of a smug, I-fucking-told-you-she-was-real sort of way and everyone got all wide-eyed like they’d just seen the ghost of Ringo Starr and then Nancy walks out of the stall and pulls out her trail-mix bottle and is all “Alright, line up, bitches! Who needs dope?” and some chick is like “Uh…you’re selling us pot?” and Nancy looks at her with aghast pity and is all “No, honey.  POT IS FOR FUCKING AMATEURS” and that’s when I wanted to put her in my pocket and take her with me everywhere.   Then I got pulled away to meet the sponsors and I told Nancy to stay there because our sponsors were pretty kid-friendly and I felt a little concerned about the people I left behind in the bathroom but then 10 minutes later they had formed like a giant Nancy-entourage and were following her everywhere and it was obvious that they were genuinely won over by her awesomeness because not enough time had passed for whatever pills she gave them to have kicked in yet.   Then I look over and see Nina from The Goodnight Show on PBS and she’s dressed in her signature pajamas and it was cool but very weird.  It was like if you threw a dinner party and suddenly you looked over and Captain Kangaroo was there.  Back when he was alive, I mean.  Not the decaying corpse of Captain Kangaroo.  That would be even more fucked up.  Then I look behind me and Nancy is assaulting our Crocs sponsor but he actually seems quite delighted about it and that’s when I was very glad that I hadn’t taken any of the pills she gave me yet because the whole thing was so surreal I would have suspected it was some sort of weird drug hallucination.

    About 2am Nancy left for her hotel and I was kind of concerned that she wouldn’t make it back safely but she pulled out a card that already had her name, and the address of her hotel printed on it and pinned it to her shirt.  On the bottom of it was a phone number explicitly “for bail”.  True story.

    nancy1

    Then she winked at me and placed her finger on the side of her nose and it was kind of like when Santa Clause goes up the chimney in that poem except I think maybe she was gesturing that she was going to snort something in the bathroom first.  Then she left and my roommate was all “Dude.  What…the fuck…just happened?” and I’m all “I have no idea.  But I think maybe it was awesome”.  And she’s all “Yeah.  I think it actually was awesome”.  And then we passed out.  The end.

    PS.  Also, I asked PBS’s Nina to sign my boobs and she refused and then scampered off like a frightened bunny.  I totally forgot that even happened until now because of all the other shit that was going on.  That’s kind of the sign of a good party.  Or a terrible one.  Probably both.

    PPS.  For real, y’all.  I’m not making this up:

    Phone number pixelated to protect both Nancy and those who would contact her.

    Phone number pixelated to protect both Nancy and those who would contact her.

    Comment of the day: Here’s my Nancy story: met her in the bathroom, exchanged some exchanges, we chatted with the housekeeper who was getting off soon. Nancy rooted for a few bills and graciously tipped the housekeeper, who then left. Seconds later, someone broke a glass in the bathroom. I had to fetch the housekeeper, who seemed more than happy to come back. I think Nancy is psychic and knew that was going to happen and pre-tipped. To ensure promptness. Nancy is the new Chuck Norris. ~ Deb on the Rocks

    Craft time with Nancy W. Kappes

    I usually don’t do Nancy W. Kappes posts so close together but the Blogher Conference is coming up and that means the People’s Party is only a few weeks away and (partially to prove that she is not my own personal Tyler Durden) Nancy W. Kappes (Paralegal) is driving to the People’s Party and I take no responsibility for whatever she tries to sell you or put in your drink.  “Get a lid” would be my advice to you.  I actually have several bizarre posts for you but right now I’m driving back to Houston from West Texas and I can’t download my pictures because I can’t find my camera cord because that would be dangerous.  So without further ado, letters from Nancy:

    Okay, motherfuckers: listen up. It’s Time for Arts and Farts and Crafts with Nancy W, Kappes, Paralegal.

    Today we are going to make our Roller Wigs® for the Soiree in the City of the Big Shoulders, Hog-Butcher to the Nation, Where You Freeze Your Fucking Ass Off All Year Round—Chi-ca-gooo!

    WHAT YOU WILL NEED:

                    Rollers (Size-Bloggess)

                    Plastic cap

                    Nitrous Oxide

                    Needle (ha! gotcha!—not that kind)

                    Strong thread

                    Morphine Suppositories

                    Sharpie

                    Large Bottle of Grey Goose

     

    DIRECTIONS:

        Go to the Dollar Store and get the rollers. Go over to the hair colour section and pretend to look at the “Frost and Tip” kits. Snatch the cap with the little holes out of it and put it in your purse. Drive home and assemble ingredients.

      First off, get a large tumbler out of the cupboard and put 4 ice cubes in it. Get out the vodka, and put the glass with ice in the sink. ?  BECAUSE YOU DON’T NEED IT, YOU ASS-HAT!  Now take about 10-12 large gulps from the bottle. Wasn’t that fun? Now, insert your morphine suppository or ten [GET BACK HERE AND WASH YOUR HANDS, MISSY!] Then take a bit hit of the nitrous oxide. Set aside twenty minutes or so for incapacitation due to hysteria because ha! you just totally put your finger in your butt! [and yes, I AM in 2ndgrade.]

    Now mark the level on the vodka with a sharpie. Don’t they smell good? Take another hit of nitrous oxide and immediately bring the level on the vodka bottle down two inches. Whoa! Now we’re ready. Take the cap with the little holes out of your purse, and open the bag of Bloggess-size rollers. Take another hit off the nitrous because your hands will need to be very steady. Now, try to thread the needle. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! How many tries did it take?? So, what you’re gonna do is, thread the string thru the appropriate holes in the cap (oh fer chrissakes, use your fucking head. Just do it the way Jenny has it.) Then, push the thread thru the rollers (I am using those funky Velcro rollers, just cause I like to stick them on myself.) Okay. Take another 2 inches off the level in the vodka bottle and a hit of nitrous and continue to “sew” the rollers on the cap a la Bloggess. Now laugh your ass off and think of just how much fucking fun we/me/you (only the Bloggess knows…) are totally going to have in the middle of July. 

    Good job boys and girls! Tomorrow we will learn how to make a syringe out of a needle, eyedropper and rubber band! See you next time!

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

    Then like 10 minutes later I got this email from Nancy: 

    FUCKITY FUCK FUCK! I totally forgot to include the drawing that goes along with the instructions for the Bloggess Roller Wig®! Hold off till tomorrow if you can because it’s 4:15AND I HAVE BEEN WORKING SINCE THREE O’CLOCK! WHEW! I am beat!

    I swear (no shit) I will send it tomorrow!

    And, please dear God, let up on the pain and the vomiting already! Jesus Christ. Well, yeah, you too.

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

    Then the next day I got this email which still does not have any picture attached but is still awesome even though I don’t really understand it and I think she might be yelling at me and also I voted for Obama and now I’m worried about him taking my drugs away because I need them y’all:

    Jenny, Jenny, Bo-Benny, Banana fanna fo funny..JENNY

    Fuck. I forgot  how that dumb-ass song goes. So how is the pain today? Mine is INTOLERABLE!!!!! 

    ALERT! ALERT! ALERT! AAAAUUUGGGGHHH! THEY WILL HAVE TO PRY MY VICODIN AND PERCOCET OUT OF MY COLD, DEAD HANDS! NO! ACTUALLY, THEY’LL HAVE TO SAW OFF MY HANDS! WHOA! WAIT! MWHAA! WHEN I SEE THEM COMING, I AM GOING TO GOBBLE THEM ALL UP.

       I mean, Christ in a rowboat here while fuck me running! If THIS is the kind of bloody, buggery bollocks this Ass-Hat President is gonna start…well…they just better make laudanum for an over the counter medication. And bring back the Opium Dens. I LIKED this guy! Why him wanna make us all pain-y and shit??

    Damn. Now THAT is some sad motherfucking news. I’m more upset than Farrah Fawcett’s publicist. DO NOT be fuckin with the pharmaceuticals, bitches. I’m totally buying a safe. I refuse to be subjected to the humiliation of giving blow-jobs for opiates. Nuh-uh.

    Okay. Anyway, I hope I didn’t offend any mommies out there with my rant. Sometimes I am unable to fold my napkin and things get a little fucked-up.  I knew at least not to raise a child like a veal calf. Only once did I smack my kid (just one, and just the once.) She had moved out for college, got an apartment with a friend, blah blah, yeah, friend flaked out, so she came home to live with me again. One Saturday as she was still sleeping (at 1pm) I woke her up to tell her I was going into work. She mumbled something, something, bitch and  POW! I cracked her upside her head like a mofo. We looked at each other like “Damn! I can’t believe that just happened!” Then, I said, “You know what? That felt really, really fucking good, so I suggest you get your act together and straighten the hell out!” Problem solved.

    Okay, I’m almost finished. I do know that I raised my daughters well (even with no dad, support, anything) because I see what kind of mother my eldest daughter is. She makes the Virgin Mary look like Leona Helmsley.

    I’m done.

    Nancy W. Kappes

    Paralegal

     

     

    Comment of the day:  I’m out of vodka. Please ask Ms. Nancypants if tequila will work?    Fuck. This is why I hate crafts. ~ amo