Archive | July, 2010

5 Things To Do Now That the World Cup Is Over

11 Jul

Hello, my listy internet pals. As you may have heard, there was a big soccer game today. Spain was playing, which I found out only after they won and every corner of my internet presence was besieged by congratulations in terrible sixth grade Spanish. (“Puedo ir al bano … GOAAAL! GOAAAL!” Etc.)

As you can tell, I care less about the World Cup than I do about … almost anything. Which is saying a lot, because I really only care about three things: 1) my people (Sgt. Lucky, family, friends), 2) books, and 3) sleeping.

It has come to my attention, however, that some of you like teh futbol, a lot. And so I present to you a short listicle of things you might do, now that the endless season of ball kicking has come to an end.

1) Stop boring me. Seriously. Anyone who’s asked me to come out for a beer in the last few weeks knows that I hate televised sport so much, I will actually ask you if there are TVs at the bar and then decline to participate if soccer is being shown. This is as much for your sake as for mine. You think you know what “party pooper” means, but you really don’t. Because I haven’t inflicted myself on you at a sports bar.

2) Get some exercise yourself. I am by no means an athlete, but I can’t help but remark on the irony of you spending so much of your time watching magical ab beasts run to and fro kicking at things. Because you’re watching these gods of useless exertion while you yourself are sitting on a bar stool growing blubber pants.

The vuvuzela planter? Could not be more terrifying than this.

3) Give the old liver a rest. Again, I’m totally throwing stones from my glass house here. But, OK, wait, maybe not. Because if I look at your beer consumption and think, “Whoa, buddy, maybe give it a rest,” well, you probably should.

4) Vuvuzela? Looks like a long skinny planter to me. Now’s your chance to introduce a few plants into your apartment, just like you’ve always been meaning to do.

5) Catch up your regularly scheduled crappy TV. Yeah, it’ll rot your brain, too. But at least most sitcom dads are in worse shape than you are.

GOAAAL!

Jeans planter picture via 7gadgets.com.

The Lucky Channel

7 Jul

Sgt Lucky: (Looking at my foot.) Oh my God. Are you all right?

Me: Yeah. It’s just my gross plantar’s wart. Remember? I made you buy the medicine for me and pretend to have the wart yourself. Just like when I wanted to read Twilight and I didn’t want to buy it so I made you buy it for me.

Sgt Lucky:
Jesus. What’s wrong with it? It looks gross.

Me:
It’s dying. I treated it, and now it’s gonna fall off.

Sgt Lucky: That’s … that’s disgusting.

Me:
Ha, ha! You wanna throw up now. I win.

Sgt Lucky:
I mean, I can deal with a lot of shit. But I don’t like holes, for no reason. No. That’s not OK.

Me: I-

Sgt Lucky: No! Don’t do it. You’re going to do it again. Just like when we were at the bookstore, and you wouldn’t stop telling me about … what were you telling me about?

Me: I have no idea, honestly. I don’t even think that was me.

Sgt Lucky: It was you. What did you say?

Me: I think it was some other fast little article.

Sgt Lucky:
It was too horrible. I don’t even remember. (Pause.) My taint itches.

(Later.)

Sgt Lucky: Am I distracting you? Am I bothering you while you type and blog?

Me:
No.

Sgt Lucky: Is my love disturbing you? Is it keeping you from getting your work done? I have a beam of love for you. It’s shooting out of my head. Did I get love in your eye? (Uproarious laughter.)

I’d confiscate the whiskey. But this way, I watch less TV.

5 Ways to Stay Cool

7 Jul

Greetings, list-addicted internet perusers. If you live in America and have skin, you might have noticed that it’s effing hot out today.

I, of course, am lazing around in my underpants in front of the AC. But if you’re not lucky enough to live in a nude household and/or have an air conditioner, you’re probably wondering how you can achieve a similar level of sangfroid. Well, fear not. I live to serve you, my twelve loyal readers:

1) Steal an ice cream truck. This has been a childhood dream of mine for the entire 34 years that I’ve been a child (so far.) The truck itself is air conditioned, and once you steal it, you can have all the treats you want, for free! Let me know what that red, white, blue rocket thing is called, and how it tastes. I’ve always wanted to know, but who’s going to give up a lemon italian ice for an unknown? Not Mrs. Hubley’s baby girl.

2) Put ice in your pants and run around the neighborhood screaming, “I have ice in my pants!” This will attract attention for awhile, provided the ice cream truck doesn’t come by. Or that 90-year-old knife sharpening cart we have in Brooklyn. It won’t keep you cool, but that’s some old skool shit. You can’t expect to compete with that.

3) Sprinkler time! This is even better if you don’t actually have any outdoor space of your own. Steal a neighbor’s spout and then claim a spot on the sidewalk. (Note: Given how expensive water is, this will get you arrested even faster than the ice cream truck.)

4) Spray your jeans with hairspray and light them on fire. This actually might be better in towns other than New York. I assume someone might actually take a minute to put you out where you live.

5) Got a roof? Got some tequila? Get yourself a kiddie pool and make yourself into the world’s biggest human cocktail. By the time the ice melts, you’ll be too drunk to care.

And that’s all! Never let it be said that I’m afraid to be servicey.

But My Non-Imaginary Friends Are Such Smartasses…

1 Jul

So, my thyroid ultrasound came back and everything looks good: No nodules, no giant tumor with tentacles, not even a goiter. This last is almost too bad, as I had a name for my goiter, and had been running around talking about it like it was a person.

“Does that salt have iodine in it? Because Gerty really prefers that.”

“Does this necklace make Gerty look fat? She’s very sensitive.”

Etc.

Only, there is no Gerty. To be honest, I was so happy that my neck was OK, I didn’t even remember about poor old Gert until Sgt Lucky pointed out that she didn’t exist.

“That’s right!” I said. “There is no Gerty.”

“She was imaginary after all,” said Sgt Lucky. “You have an imaginary friend, and I’m not at all surprised. ‘My name is Jen. I don’t know enough people in real life, so I’m inventing new people who live in my neck.’”

Follow

Get every new post delivered to your Inbox.

Join 26 other followers