Thursday, March 08, 2007
i have no work ethic
Man, this day is draaaaaagging. Hey! Let’s blog.
So ladies, I’ve got a new line on a great new weight management system. I say “weight management” because “diet” is off-putting to potential consumers these days. It’s so important to me that I not put off the fatties so they’ll buy my pitch and make me rich. As I was saying…
If you want to lose those stubborn 26 inches, here’s what you do:
1. Move to Boston and live here from January to March.
2. Don’t go grocery shopping more than one time per month, and don’t buy much when you do.
3. Never get up in time to pack an adequate lunch before you go to work.
Of course you’ll be hungry around lunch time. You may even be starving. Indeed, you might even be nigh unto death, experiencing heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, difficulty swallowing, cold sweats, hot sweats, fingernail sensitivity*, as your body clings to life sans nourishment. But you will not be tempted. You’re not going out there. Why? Because if you do you know that, within seconds of being out the door, your face will be completely ripped off by a wind so Arctic, so vengeful, so vicious, you will not have lips to eat with. Your ears will instantly become little round ice wafers attached to your head. The top layer of skin on your thighs will burn and split like cracks on an iced-over pond and your hands will just break off at the wrists like blocks of snow falling from a roof. Yea, tis true. You’d rather pass out from hunger or ration that last stale Triscuit that fell out of the box last year and for some reason is still living in your bottom desk drawer than walk into Satan’s Winter Wasterland. Just three months, and you’re gonna be soooo thin! Woo hoo!
It’s so fun to exaggerate the weather out here. I mean, it is cold, yeah, but…anyway, it’s fun.
*I freaking love What About Bob.
So ladies, I’ve got a new line on a great new weight management system. I say “weight management” because “diet” is off-putting to potential consumers these days. It’s so important to me that I not put off the fatties so they’ll buy my pitch and make me rich. As I was saying…
If you want to lose those stubborn 26 inches, here’s what you do:
1. Move to Boston and live here from January to March.
2. Don’t go grocery shopping more than one time per month, and don’t buy much when you do.
3. Never get up in time to pack an adequate lunch before you go to work.
Of course you’ll be hungry around lunch time. You may even be starving. Indeed, you might even be nigh unto death, experiencing heart palpitations, difficulty breathing, difficulty swallowing, cold sweats, hot sweats, fingernail sensitivity*, as your body clings to life sans nourishment. But you will not be tempted. You’re not going out there. Why? Because if you do you know that, within seconds of being out the door, your face will be completely ripped off by a wind so Arctic, so vengeful, so vicious, you will not have lips to eat with. Your ears will instantly become little round ice wafers attached to your head. The top layer of skin on your thighs will burn and split like cracks on an iced-over pond and your hands will just break off at the wrists like blocks of snow falling from a roof. Yea, tis true. You’d rather pass out from hunger or ration that last stale Triscuit that fell out of the box last year and for some reason is still living in your bottom desk drawer than walk into Satan’s Winter Wasterland. Just three months, and you’re gonna be soooo thin! Woo hoo!
It’s so fun to exaggerate the weather out here. I mean, it is cold, yeah, but…anyway, it’s fun.
*I freaking love What About Bob.
Labels: winter
Monday, February 26, 2007
amazing brrr
So a group of us went to the movies to see Amazing Grace last Friday. It was great, were it not for the extremely Arctic wind blowing at us at 25 mph at 11:45 p.m. We were parked in an outdoor parking lot. Minds were not working to their utmost when they designed how one pays for their parking at this parking lot. In New England, there ought to be a law decreed which mandates that no human being should wait OUT OF DOORS just pay to get their vehicle out of your garage.
To ward off the looming hypothermia and frigidity-induced psychosis, Julie and Rachel spontaneously broke into some moves inspired by the tune of Rocky. Please see below.
I think I liked the movie. I can't remember much of it, I'm afraid, because my short term memory is still thawing out.
To ward off the looming hypothermia and frigidity-induced psychosis, Julie and Rachel spontaneously broke into some moves inspired by the tune of Rocky. Please see below.
I think I liked the movie. I can't remember much of it, I'm afraid, because my short term memory is still thawing out.
Labels: winter
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
#1 Reason Why Mary Does Not Like to Shop at Christmas:
Because it reminds me of how much I suck at patience.
But let me clarify and qualify that statement, if I may. When it comes to kids, taking care of sick people, old people behind the wheel, or holding out for the best price on something I really want, I am extraordinarily patient. I gots me lots of patience for that kinda stuff, because that stuff matters. Shoot, I’m even patient waiting in line for my turn to pay for stuff - even if it’s a long line. I recognize that everyone must be served one at a time, and everyone is going as fast as they can. But once I’m at the register, and I’m ready to pay, and store clerk shoots me a dirty look as if it’s my fault I picked a pair of pajama bottoms that DON’T have a tag on them, then I become irked. (Sir, if you’d like me to bring in my own tags before I patronize this retail establishment, perhaps you might post that on the door.) Moreover, if store clerk dials for a price check and Ms. Heinz 57 Hyphen It’ll Take Me An Hour to Get There answers the call, I start to shift my feet and look a little worn. Furthermore, when Heinz finally appears and proceeds to tell me that I’ve selected a pair of pajama bottoms that are part of a two-piece pajama SET, even if I found them on a mile-long rack of bottoms only, no tops in sight, and the bottoms I selected were available in several sizes hanging on said rack, and if 57 goes on to say I can’t have just the bottoms because they’re part of a two-piece pajama SET, AND that I’ll lose my place in line if I go back to make another selection, well snickety-boo - - that’s when I start to say not-so-nice things like this: “No. Sorry. Here is what’s going to happen. You’re going to hold my place while I go back to Lingerie and quickly make another selection. I am not going to the back of the line.” Then I leave before anyone can respond. That’s when you know I’m out of patience.
But you should see me if someone throws up on my shoes. Perfect saint.
But let me clarify and qualify that statement, if I may. When it comes to kids, taking care of sick people, old people behind the wheel, or holding out for the best price on something I really want, I am extraordinarily patient. I gots me lots of patience for that kinda stuff, because that stuff matters. Shoot, I’m even patient waiting in line for my turn to pay for stuff - even if it’s a long line. I recognize that everyone must be served one at a time, and everyone is going as fast as they can. But once I’m at the register, and I’m ready to pay, and store clerk shoots me a dirty look as if it’s my fault I picked a pair of pajama bottoms that DON’T have a tag on them, then I become irked. (Sir, if you’d like me to bring in my own tags before I patronize this retail establishment, perhaps you might post that on the door.) Moreover, if store clerk dials for a price check and Ms. Heinz 57 Hyphen It’ll Take Me An Hour to Get There answers the call, I start to shift my feet and look a little worn. Furthermore, when Heinz finally appears and proceeds to tell me that I’ve selected a pair of pajama bottoms that are part of a two-piece pajama SET, even if I found them on a mile-long rack of bottoms only, no tops in sight, and the bottoms I selected were available in several sizes hanging on said rack, and if 57 goes on to say I can’t have just the bottoms because they’re part of a two-piece pajama SET, AND that I’ll lose my place in line if I go back to make another selection, well snickety-boo - - that’s when I start to say not-so-nice things like this: “No. Sorry. Here is what’s going to happen. You’re going to hold my place while I go back to Lingerie and quickly make another selection. I am not going to the back of the line.” Then I leave before anyone can respond. That’s when you know I’m out of patience.
But you should see me if someone throws up on my shoes. Perfect saint.
Labels: winter
Friday, December 08, 2006
WILL NO ONE HELP THIS CHILD?!
Wednesday, December 06, 2006
motion on the table
It is proposed that New England forego the months of January and February of 2007 in their entirety. All in favor?
Hmmm. Not the unanimous response I was hoping for. Very well, I shall attempt to convert the yet unconverted. Following are my arguments for said proposal aforementioned heretofore and so forth:
Everything is dead. Cold and dead. Everyone has taken down the pretty colored lights and festive holiday decorations which served only as a distraction from the impending annihilation of life. It’s true. While we were singing Deck the Halls and gazing up at shiny, bright things, nature’s soul abandoned us. Like when Mom and Dad used to put Pinocchio in the VCR, and sneak out of the house, leaving us with the babysitter we hated because all she did was listen to her Air Supply album or talk on the phone, never playing with us or doing her freaking job. Heartless beast. Heartless, like the Arctic wind that beats against the barren trees. Heartless, like the incessant ice and snow that buries my little Suzy alive, whose only desire is to roam the highways warm and free. Heartless. Without a heart. This constitutes as dead. And speaking of dead, this leads to argument Numero Deu:
People in New England become half-frozen zombies. Everybody stops talking. It’s too cold to talk. Or be civil. Or raise your head to make eye contact. On the train, in the stores, at work, people just stare into space wishing they had joy. But there is no joy in New England. Nay. In January and February, the New England way of life becomes much like that scene from March of the Penguins. You know the one, where the penguins all huddle up together, without a peep amongst them, packing themselves in as tightly as they can, burying their heads, waiting for the storm to go away. It takes 143 days or something. And all they do in that time is stand there and try not to die. Can I get an Amen? Who in Boston knows the plight?
I’m sorry, did I hear one feeble voice from the back asking:
“But what about Valentine’s Day?!”
Someone fetch me a gun.
As for the President’s days and Martin Luther King Day, there are plenty of other days in the year when we can completely forget, or otherwise disregard the memory of these great men.
What’s that? Does someone have a birthday during January of February? Well friend, I’ve got the greatest solution ever for you: move your birthday to June. Haven’t you always wanted to know what it’s like to eat cake in shorts and a t-shirt? As a kid, didn’t you always want to have a swim party? This is your year. It’ll be so much fun, you’ll never go back. Promise.
If someone wants to retort with some verses from Ecclesiastes, about there being a season for everything, blah blah, just remember this: the New Testament is like totally better than the Old. So nyah.
If some scientist out there wants to rebut with some lecture about the necessity of winter for the possibility of spring, I would say this: we’re an advanced society. I’m sure you scientists can come up with a better way. If you can invent seedless watermelon, you can make winter go away and do it without ruining spring. So get on it.
These arguments, and others I am sure to come up with after I post this, all prove that there is nothing of even the remotest value in a New England January and February. They are entirely without merit, and moreover I believe they are damaging to the spirit. THEREFORE, I hereby place the aforementioned proposal back on the table for a vote. All in favor of doing away with Icky January and Poopy Pants February, please give me a resounding AYE!!!
Hmmm. Not the unanimous response I was hoping for. Very well, I shall attempt to convert the yet unconverted. Following are my arguments for said proposal aforementioned heretofore and so forth:
Everything is dead. Cold and dead. Everyone has taken down the pretty colored lights and festive holiday decorations which served only as a distraction from the impending annihilation of life. It’s true. While we were singing Deck the Halls and gazing up at shiny, bright things, nature’s soul abandoned us. Like when Mom and Dad used to put Pinocchio in the VCR, and sneak out of the house, leaving us with the babysitter we hated because all she did was listen to her Air Supply album or talk on the phone, never playing with us or doing her freaking job. Heartless beast. Heartless, like the Arctic wind that beats against the barren trees. Heartless, like the incessant ice and snow that buries my little Suzy alive, whose only desire is to roam the highways warm and free. Heartless. Without a heart. This constitutes as dead. And speaking of dead, this leads to argument Numero Deu:
People in New England become half-frozen zombies. Everybody stops talking. It’s too cold to talk. Or be civil. Or raise your head to make eye contact. On the train, in the stores, at work, people just stare into space wishing they had joy. But there is no joy in New England. Nay. In January and February, the New England way of life becomes much like that scene from March of the Penguins. You know the one, where the penguins all huddle up together, without a peep amongst them, packing themselves in as tightly as they can, burying their heads, waiting for the storm to go away. It takes 143 days or something. And all they do in that time is stand there and try not to die. Can I get an Amen? Who in Boston knows the plight?
I’m sorry, did I hear one feeble voice from the back asking:
“But what about Valentine’s Day?!”
Someone fetch me a gun.
As for the President’s days and Martin Luther King Day, there are plenty of other days in the year when we can completely forget, or otherwise disregard the memory of these great men.
What’s that? Does someone have a birthday during January of February? Well friend, I’ve got the greatest solution ever for you: move your birthday to June. Haven’t you always wanted to know what it’s like to eat cake in shorts and a t-shirt? As a kid, didn’t you always want to have a swim party? This is your year. It’ll be so much fun, you’ll never go back. Promise.
If someone wants to retort with some verses from Ecclesiastes, about there being a season for everything, blah blah, just remember this: the New Testament is like totally better than the Old. So nyah.
If some scientist out there wants to rebut with some lecture about the necessity of winter for the possibility of spring, I would say this: we’re an advanced society. I’m sure you scientists can come up with a better way. If you can invent seedless watermelon, you can make winter go away and do it without ruining spring. So get on it.
These arguments, and others I am sure to come up with after I post this, all prove that there is nothing of even the remotest value in a New England January and February. They are entirely without merit, and moreover I believe they are damaging to the spirit. THEREFORE, I hereby place the aforementioned proposal back on the table for a vote. All in favor of doing away with Icky January and Poopy Pants February, please give me a resounding AYE!!!
Labels: winter
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