skip to main |
skip to sidebar
Hey, yall. What's up? I'm confused today because one of my nice commenters (Lelo in Nopo) asked me to do a "meme." I had no idea what she was talking about, and then when she told me what she was talking about, I wondered why they found it necessary to call it a "meme." It's just answering a question and posing it to five other people. Where I come from (Ethiopia) that's called a "chain letter." That's why I'm going to do it. Because everyone knows if you don't forward a chain letter, someone close to you dies in a very horrible manner. So… thanks, Lelo!
Okay. The question is "Why Do I Blog?" Hmmm… it's kind of a long story. Okay, so the bible, right? It tells this story about me in the book of John, about an old buddy of mine named Lazarus. As the story goes, he had two sisters named Mary and Martha, and they all lived in the town of Bethany, a two-day walk from where I was staying at the time. Allegedly, one day Mary comes running up and says Lazarus is deathly ill, and could I come heal him. I say yes, but for reasons only known to John (who wrote the story) I sit on my patoot (Pardon my French) for two days until I leave. By the time I get there, Lazarus is not only dead, he's been buried in his tomb for four days. Everybody freaks out, but I say, "I'll handle it." I get the locals to roll away the rock in front of the tomb, and tell Lazarus to come out. He does, everyone celebrates, and because I'm so awesome, I get two spikes hammered through my wrists. THE END.
I hate this story. It's stupid on a number of levels, but if you really care, here's what really happened. Lazarus was an old fishing buddy of mine, and what we call an "obliteration drunk." I mean, he could really get blotto. One day he had one snoot-full too many, and passes out in the middle of the marketplace (kind of like an old-timey 7-11). His sister Mary asks me to help her pick him up since I owned a donkey and cart at the time. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of getting my hair cut, and said I'd drop by in 20 minutes. By the time I got there, Pilate's soldiers had gotten there first and threw him in the drunk tank. It costs 30 pieces of silver to bail him out (which I was forced to borrow from my friend Judas), and when Lazarus stepped into the street, he's still completely stinko, and starts screaming, "Lishen, everbody! Jeshus here shaved me, I wash a dead man, shee? But Jeshus raished me from the dead!" Then he vomited on my sandals.
A few desperate people believed Lazarus, one thing led to another, and the next thing I know, I'm hanging from a cross with two spikes through my wrists. So… thanks, Lazarus. And thanks, John. THE END.
And that… is why I blog. Because that's the last time I let John write anything about me.
THE END.
Hey, everybody! "How YOU doin'?" I saw Joey on Friends say that once. My friend Trudy (she's a bank teller) who works at the bank says, "that is the dumbest pickup line EVER." But since she really likes Friends, I think the real reason she doesn't like that line is because my other friend Damien says it a lot. Have I told you about Damien? He plays on my softball team. Did I tell you I play on a softball team? Well, I do. I play for First Federal Savings and Loan—that's Trudy's bank. We've never won a game, but we have fun. Anyway I play second base… well, I used to play second base, until Damien told the coach I'd make a great shortstop. However, when I didn't make a great shortstop, the coach demoted me to catcher, and Damien took second base.
Trudy tried to make me think that Damien planned the whole thing out in advance because he really wanted to play second base. But I call that "phony-baloney." (Pardon my French.) Damien knows I had two spikes hammered through my wrists, and therefore would never do anything that conniving.
One day I asked Trudy, "Why do you dislike Damien so much?" And she was all like, "Three reasons: 1) Every morning at the bank (he works in the collections department) he greets me with, "How YOU doin'?" 2) He always narcs on co-workers so he can move up the corporate ladder, and 3) he stole your bike."
And I was all, "Damien didn't steal my bike… he borrowed my bike."
"For seventeen months?"
"I didn't know there was a statute of limitations on borrowing bikes," I said.
Anyway, I did get kinda mad at Damien one time when he asked Trudy out on a date. Not that I care if she dates anybody. Because I don't. However, it was the way he asked her. After one of our softball games, Trudy was congratulating me for a particularly skillful play I made at the plate, and Damien walked up, and was all, "Actually, Jesus missed that tag, but I'm happy the umpire saw it differently. Hey Trudy. You got a sweet booty."
And Trudy was all, "Gross!"
And Damien was all, "Maybe, but you're going out on a pizza date with me." And Trudy was like all, "No way." And he was all, "Way!" Then he added, "It might not be now, but you WILL go on that pizza date with me, Trudy. Because Damien ALWAYS gets what he wants. Mind if I borrow your bicycle, Jesus?" And I was like, "Sure."
Trudy got real mad at me about that, but what was I supposed to do? He said he needed it to visit his uncle who had infantigo.
I'm not a gay person or anything, but if I were Trudy I may have said "yes" to the pizza date. The way he looks at you sometimes, his eyes make you want to say "yes."
Oops, gotta run. Damien just called and said he needs me to do him a favor and deliver a bag to the rough side of town. Apparently it's full of Snickers! Boy, whoever's getting that bag is lucky. I love Snickers!
Hello! I would ask how you're feeling, but I know you're feeling confused, so let's not waste each other's time. Last week I wrote about staying over at my Grandma's house, and everybody flipped out! I got a couple comments about it, and all my friends—even the gay ones—were curious as to how I could have a grandma. Well, first of all, everybody has a grandma, so why should I be any different? I'm not mad at you or anything, but it really hurts my feelings when people treat me like I'm one of the X-Men or something. Actually, that's not true. I would be psyched if people treated me like Wolverine and I had those blades that popped out of my knuckles. Scha-SCHWING!
Anyway, let's clear up all this confusion: I only have one Grandma left, and that's Grammy Christ. She's my dad's mom, and those two don't get along very well. She lives in assisted housing just outside of town, and since dad never comes by to visit her (or me, for that matter), I pop in now and then. Usually… I regret it. She's kind of a nag, and a real square when it comes to those of us in the "now" generation. Plus she can't hear and has shingles. And she's a racist.
For example, I was forced to stay over at her place the other night because she was afraid there was a black person in her closet. So I said, "Umm… Grammy, that's racist." And she said, "I'm not scared because he's black, I'm scared because he's going to kill me."
But even after I offered proof positive that there weren't any black people in her closet, she made me stay the night anyway. For dinner we had chipped beef on toast (which was from one of those frozen Boil 'n' Bags), even though I offered to go to Arbys. (Yes, I'm still mad at Quiznos.) Then she forced us to watch syndicated repeats of Everybody Loves Raymond, which is annoying, because I DON'T LOVE RAYMOND AT ALL. In fact, I think it's kind of ostentatious to name your show Everybody Loves Raymond when there's at least one person (me) who thinks he's kind of dumb. (No offense, maybe he's nice.)
Then when Grammy's not slipping into a nap, she's nagging me about my hair, my love life, and my taste in music. (Sometimes just to annoy her, I'll say, "I like Jay-Z, Grammy… the BLACK Jay-Z!") On the other hand, I know she just wants someone to talk to (especially 'cause dad can be such a jerk sometimes), so I always make sure we look through the old photo albums together, which always makes her happy. And even though she calls me by my brother's name half the time, she can still remember the name and birthdate of every person in our family! And she always gets happy/sad talking about grandpa, who I never met, but she was really in love with.
Maybe I'll get a girlfriend soon, and we'll get married, and have kids, so they can visit me when I move into assisted living. That would be nice.
Does everybody automatically get racist on their 83rd birthday?
How's it going everybody? I hope you're… outtasight! See, nobody says "outtasight" anymore, and I wish they did. It requires enthusiasm, and nobody I know is very enthusiastic. Except for Karen (that's my lamb), who is super enthusiastic. She likes to gambol—and before you say anything, that's "gambol" not "gamble." "Gambol" is something lambs do. They run, jump and play— which is gamboling. And yet everytime I point out that Karen is gamboling, people look at me like I'm Tony Soprano or something. I'm tired of people being so judgmental all the time.
For example, I bought Karen a "Dora the Explorer" sweatshirt from Target. I buy all of Karen's clothes from the Target toddler section, because… well, duh! They don't make clothes for lambs. Sometimes I buy my T-shirts from the boys department at Target because they have nice bright colors. But I have get the "morbidly obese" size.
Anyway, I took Karen to the park, and dressed her in her Dora the Explorer sweatshirt. And she's running around and playing, and I'm watching, when this kind of hippie guy walks up and says, "Nice Dora the Explorer shirt." And I said, "Thanks!" And he said, "I was being sarcastic." So I said, "Why were you being sarcastic?" And he said, "Because I don't like it." And I said, "Well, why don't you like it?" And he said, "Because you're turning your lamb into a billboard for corporate America."
And I said, "Okay… well, first of all, I wasn't under the impression that corporate America needed advertising. It seems to be doing fine without it. Second of all, Karen needs a sweatshirt or she'll get cold. Thirdly, you kind of strike me as a dumb, judgmental hippie—so can you please walk away?"
What a weird thing to say, huh? I would've stayed mad about it, but Karen was really gamboling hard, and it's difficult to hate the world in the face of such unbridled enthusiasm. And that gave me an idea. After the park, we went back to Target and I found an XXXL Dora the Explorer shirt in the boys department. I bought it and when we got home, I took a big magic marker and wrote "TEAM ENTHUSIASM" on the back of our shirts. Then we went roller skating! Boy, that was fun.
Hey, how are you? Sorry I didn't post anything yesterday. I slept over at my grandma's house.
Anyway, I received some distressing news today: The guys over at Quiznos don't like me. As you know, I eat at Quiznos ("Mmmm… Toasty!") somewhere around 27 times per week. However, today when I went there for lunch, there was a problem. Every day I like to order the Honey Bourbon Chicken sandwich because it's slimming. And these people know that. And yet? They kept asking me dumb questions and mumbling. They would be all like, "Mumeemawmamaymimah?" And I was all like, "What?" And then they'd yell at me, "I SAID, 'DO YOU WANT MAYONNAISE WITH THAT?!"
Of course, I don't want mayonnaise with that, you dumb-butts! (Pardon my French.) The Honey Bourbon Chicken doesn't come with mayonnaise! I didn't say that, but I thought it.
Then they were all like, "Muhmoomimamoasyuhmonmoasy?" And I'm like, "What?" Then they yelled at me again! "I SAID, 'DO YOU WANT THAT TOASTED OR NOT TOASTED?"
It's freaking Quiznos! (Pardon my French.) Of course I want it toasted! Again, didn't say it. Thought it. So I said, "Toasted, but would you mind speaking up a bit?" And they were all like, "Oh. Sorry. Would you like a half? Or a-whole?"
For some reason they were snickering about that.
"I would like a-whole," I said. And then they busted out laughing.
I really don't get those guys at Quiznos. I don't know why they don't like me. They must be athiests.
Hey, I hope you're good, I'm ANNOYED. So get this: I like Chick-O-Sticks, so everyday I ride my bike down to the 7-11 to get one. Today when I was looking through the candy section for a Chick-O-Stick that wasn't broken, a big hail storm starts up outside. Suits me, gives me an excuse to read Details magazine for free. So I'm standing by the door, eating Chick-o-Stick and reading, when this guy I don't know walks up and says to me, "You're Jesus, right?" (I get recognized a lot for some reason.) And I'm like, "Yeah." And he's like, "That's great. How about stopping the hail so I can get to my car? Thanks."
Ummm… hello? I CAN'T CONTROL THE WEATHER. And even more importantly, I'm not this jerk's valet! (Pardon my French.) See, all those stupid stories in the Bible give people the impression that I'm some kind of long-haired David Blaine, walking around doing "street magic." (Actually, that one trick he does where the victim picks a card, and somehow it winds up in the middle of a chocolate cake really freaks me out!) I don't raise people from the dead, I don't turn loaves into fishes—I just ride my bike and eat Chick-O-Sticks! IS THAT OKAY WITH YOU??
Anyway, I was just about to tell the guy in the 7-11 off when the hail storm suddenly stopped all by itself. So the guy turns to me and says, "Now that's impressive. Thanks, Jesus! God bless!" Then he dashes off.
Well… what are you going to do? I just waved as he got into his car. It's hard when people expect a lot out of you—but it's even worse when you disappoint them. That's why I'm learning magic tricks! So the next time a lady says to me, "Can you cure my son's cancer?" I can say, "No, but I can guess the card that's hiding in his underpants!"
Hi. Whooaaaaaa… I feel funny. Oh. How are you? I feel funny. Like, I don't know… like the world is a bit spinny and colorful. Weird.
Anyway, today I decided to make crowns for all my friends. I went to the store and bought a bunch of yellow construction paper, but they were out of my normal glue, so I bought this really bizarre German kind like my dad had in his old wood shop. It's in a yellow can, and it has this syringey-squirty top, and it smells SUPER funny!
So I was like, "Hey Karen!" (That's my lamb.) "Hey Karen, come smell this funny smelling glue!" The great thing about Karen is that she'll smell ANYTHING. You could totally pick something out from between your toes, and she'd smell it. I kind of admire that in a lamb.
Anyway, Karen smelled the pot of glue, and she started acting really weird, like hopping around on her back legs, and running into the screen door. PRETTY FUNNY. But I was like, "Oh, come on, Karen. It can't smell that bad," and took a big whiff of it myself.
That's when I started feeling funny. Colors went all ka-blooey and I felt like I needed to sit down or something. Then a big orange walked into the room, and I said, "Hello," and the orange said, "What's up?" and I said, "Well, you're a big orange and you just walked into my room. That's kind of what's up." Then—and this is pretty hard to explain— the orange kind of started peeling itself from the inside, while singing Bryan Adams songs. Starting with "Summer of '69." At first I was frightened, but then I was psyched. I love "Summer of '69." So I started singing along, "AND WHEN I HELD HER HAAAAAND/ I KNEW IT WOULD LAST FOR-E-VER/ THOSE WERE THE BEST DAYS OF MY LIIIIIFE!/ WHOA! YEAAAAAHHH!/ BACK IN THE SUMMER OF '69!"
Then I fell and hit my head.
I feel a lot better now, and the singing orange is gone. However, I caught Karen in bed with an oven mitt. I should be really concerned, I guess, but since she seems so embarrassed, I'm just going to drop it.
Anyway! Back to making crowns! Now… where did I put that glue?
