I am going to go watch my friend Z become a doctor. Then I am going to watch (and help) Dr. Z get ridiculously tanked.
If anyone has some Aspirin, could you bring it by here (and there) tomorrow please? Thanks.
Monthly Archive for July, 2005
I am going to go watch my friend Z become a doctor. Then I am going to watch (and help) Dr. Z get ridiculously tanked.
If anyone has some Aspirin, could you bring it by here (and there) tomorrow please? Thanks.
RE: INAPPROPRIATE USE OF THE TERMS “HEAT WAVE” AND “HUMIDITY.”
Citizens,
It has come to our attention that many of you have been blatantly flouting the proper use of the terms “heat wave” and “humidity” to describe our current weather. This obtuse and disruptive behavior simply must be stopped.
You can no longer continue to play fast and loose with your meteorological verbiage. Two days with temperatures in the mid-nineties F (36 C for those who prefer to go metric) do in no way constitute a heat wave.
Take off your ridiculous giant straw-brimmed hat, toss a cardigan or something over that tube top, and get a fucking grip on yourself. You are an adult. What are you going to do next, pry open a fire hydrant? Have a lemonade and stop freaking out.
And to those who prefer to complain about the so-called “humidity,” you need to cease and desist. If you have not lived through an entire summer of 100+ degree weather (40 C to my metric homies), weather so hot and so humid you can see water hanging in the air, obscuring your vision like the birth of Impressionism all over again, you’ve got nothing to say to me. Nothing. Get back to your popsicle and leave me alone.
After all, it’s of little importance: before you know it, we will be back to the 10 months of depressing grey and chill and rain, but I suppose you’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? WOULDN’T YOU?
We at the desk of weather regulation feel, though, we should warn you: Should you continue in your current practice, you may, like the boy who cried wolf, one day find yourself in the Deep South in August without any words to suit. I wouldn’t recommend that–on such a day, words could be your only salvation. Stop wasting them on a perfectly gorgeous Summer day, you ungrateful asshats.
Whaddup, Big Al?
How’s it hanging? Look, buddy, I just wanted to check in with you. I know we see each other every morning, but there’s something we need to discuss.
It’s about your web. I know you wanted to build it across my front door at first, but I thought we had resolved that issue. Remember when I came outside that first morning and tore it down with the broom? Remember me telling you to move it on across the porch, to the vacant apartment? His door is just like mine, I said. It’ll be cool.
Don’t give me that look, Al. It’s not going to work on me. I know you remember that conversation, so quit playing dumb. I am one cold-hearted bitch when I need to be. Stop pouting. I mean it.
I know you know what I’m talking about. Every morning I tear down your web; every night you rebuild it in the exact same spot. You simply must stop being so stubborn; you must learn to listen to reason. I don’t like to walk face-first into a web every morning, and I will do whatever it takes to ensure that doesn’t happen.
No, Al, stop talking about my Buddhist phase. That was a decade ago. I eat big fat steaks all the time, Al, and don’t think I won’t stoop to spider-killing too. Think about it. Have you ever heard anything from your colleagues who were sent to infiltrate my house? Did their reports ever get back to the central web? I didn’t think so.
That’s because I squished them, Al. Yes I did. I squished their fuzzy little bodies and their nasty, unnecessarily many legs. The only things I didn’t squish were the heads, and that’s because I saved them so I could put them on tooth-pick sized spikes all around the house. Yes I did. Oh, yes I did.
Let that be a lesson to you.
So, what was that you were saying about moving the web next door? That sounds like a great idea, little buddy.
Bon Voyage,
V
Dear Lesbians,
Since the “Pride Season” is well upon us, I have been seeing a lot of y’all out and about, fresh from the golf courses, softball fields, and tennis courts, sporting your canvas visors and straw cowboy hats. Or is it cowgirl hats? Or cowgrrl hats? Fine, let’s keep the filthy hands of the patriarchy off our hats.
You go, girls! Be proud! You’re all so darn sporty, and you really know how to throw a party! If I may, though, let me suggest one thing to add to your versatile, all-weather wardrobes and comfortable shoes: a brassiere. Really, it does wonders. It lifts! It separates! It looks cute! Try it, you’ll like it. They even make a sport variety, in heather grey (although it’s not so much for the separating, more for the immobilizing, if that’s your bag).
Otherwise, in twenty years, your tits will be hanging down past your giant belt buckle. Mark my words.
Much love, sisters,
V
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