I am a fucking raccoon, okay?*
*Not a costume.

My friend is dressing up as a vampire. I hate to tell her but if I saw an obese vampire flying? coming at me, I wouldn't run like hell, just stand there laughing and probably die to death.

So sue me.

Also, she insisted on having prescription Halloween contacts (prescription freak contacts, that you wear for one day and one day only), so if she ever comes crying to me about being broke again, remind me to slap her.

Someone neglected to tell me that you cannot get a pumpkin, at least, not at a major supermarket, the week of/before Halloween.

I finally found two slightly defective ones at Trader Joe's because I'll be buggered by a rabid goat before I disappoint the kids.

The "kids" being two grown-assed men, one pushing 50.

I think Cranky has kidney stones. Oooooh, scary. That's about as spooky as we get around here. Wooooooo, fire pee. We're old, our backs hurt.

Uh.

You cannot drive in L.A. - especially Hollywood - on Halloween. At all. Just...don't. It is the worst night of the year for traffic from people running around like chickens in the final stages of syphilis to find a costume that is not really considered clothing. Then, the city closes down two or three major arteries for street fairs. So even the streets that are open get clogged from the overflow, plus people slowing down to rubberneck at all the semi-nude types walking down the street in nothing but a g-string, black angel wings, and the clap. Everybody feels compelled to do this in order to get half-naked in public & contract yet another venereal disease. It is basically just a huge Petri dish for crotchial beasties. Scabies and herpes and crabs, oh, my!

I would just stay home but I urgently need to carve my fugly pumpkin and make S'mores and the oven's out. Hopefully in a relatively herp-free zone. And don't tell me to buy those S'mores candy bars, either. Those are sick.
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Note to wedding and gift-registry havers: do not go to the Bloodbath & Beyond closest to West Hollywood, or gay men will try to steal your customer service rep. even though you were there first, even while she is behind the counter, trying to make your little poofy wedding gifty bow foo foo shit.

Look, you old queens (with your trophy cabana bottom boys), I don't care how adorably flamey you are, or that you "parked in the red" - and whose fault is that? - you can still not* gank my girl, Pfuk, or whatever her name is, with the penciled-in eyebrows with the too-high arches.

She is MY checker-outer person.

MINE.

Also, Jeffy is only using you for your money, so you pay his rent and buy him over-the-toilet shelf unit thingies and butter pecan lollipops at the checkout, if he is a good little butt...I mean, boy.

*unless you pay my rent, too
**and get me a wowwipop.
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i am a unicorn
in triplicate
maybe it's a disease
cat herpes of the forehead?

could be the one who sleeps on my face
needs a bath
he smells like the san pedro fish mkt.

perhaps we will go to the carwash
with the roof down
and get all squeeky clean
and sandblast these zits off my forehead
but too hideous to leave the house
need an upside-down one of these

quick, call jessica simpson
need proactiv solution
NOW
i drank it all, *hic*
sulfur-y delicious
but i still have 1/2 teenage mutant ninja pizzaface
this stuff's no goood,
need something harder -
rat-in-hay, or whateveryoucallit

help, flesh eating bacteria
not just one Zit of Warning,
more like 101
talk about bad PMS
its eating me
aliiiiveeee...ALIVE!

i am not
an animal

-e.e. crummy
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a) water beds?
b) erasable pens?
c) smokeless cigarettes (for the love of your mother, this would keep me from having to maim and kill people all the time. Justifiable homicide really saps my energy.)
d) my youth?

Please leave answers in comments...yeah, so I'm too lazy to look 'em up on WikiWiki BangBang or whatever. Oh yeah, and if you are too young to remember these, then by all means go and fuck yourself immediately.

Thank you.
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For Christmas last year, I got my mom a cell phone on a Family Plan, even though it's just the two of us. I was tired of worrying about her driving around in an old Ford Explorer, which should really be called Exploder; people outside of L.A. don't really seem to worry about having things like AAA, which is essential in CA as if you break down, people will definitely shoot you, or if you're lucky, just swerve around your corpse. I once saw a road worker very nonchalantly placing an orange cone next to a runover guy's head. Seriously.

Besides, she really needs to be able to call Grandma in the grocery store when she gets lost on her motorized scooter, because H-E-B is fucking huuuge and Grandma is like Speed Racer on that thing.

Hence, the cell phone.

I introduced them politely, if a bit condescendingly. "Mom, this is a phone."

I adore my mom. She is not a stupid woman by any means; she's a lot better than me at a lot of things, like math, and balancing checkbooks, and wearing clean underwear, and just about everything else, but...I guess I was hoping she'd understand that the cell phone is just a scaled down, portable version of a regular phone.

Unfortunately, she still doesn't seem to have quite grasped that concept. So I entered every relevant number I could find in my aunt's phone into Mom's phone, and then put those on speed dial, thinking that would fix her wagon. But not quite...

Not long after Christmas I asked, since long-distance on the cell phone is essentially free, if she's used it to call and catch up with any of her out-of-state friends.

"Well...no."

"Why not?"

"Because...how do you call numbers that aren't in the phone...?"

"It's a phone, Mom. You can call whatever numbers you want...you just have to dial like you would on a regular phone, and then hit Sen...uh, hit the green button. See, green means 'go'."

"Oh."

Then, recently, she thought she'd lost it. I told her not to worry, that I wasn't upset, but had she retraced her steps? Had she tried calling the phone to see if she could hear it ring somewhere?

"Well...no."

"Why not?"

"Because...I don't know what the number is."

"You don't know the number? For your own phone?!"

So I gave it to her. Then I said, "haven't you ever tried checking your messages from a landline?"

"No. Why would I do that?"

"To save your minutes...or, to see if anyone called and said, hey, lady. You left your phone."

"Oh...no."

"Why don't you do that, now that you have the number. Just call yourself, and when the voice mail message starts, hit the star key and enter your password."

"Oh...what's my password?"

"YOU DON'T KNOW YOUR OWN PASSWORD?!"

"No...well, I've got it written down in the little booklet, let me find it..."

Just then, the cat came flying out of the recycling bin, tumping it over, and guess what fell out...?

That was almost as much fun as the time my grandma thought my cell phone ring was kittens I was smuggling into the hospital in my purse.
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The Devil has morphed from a mini-corndog into a party mix of these three:

Cedarlane "Veggie" Ham & Cheese Vegetable Wraps - It's 'veggie'. It's "ham". It's greasy. "Delicious."*

Grandpa Po's Nutra Nuts (Slightly Salted) - Normally, I wouldn't eat anything containing both the words "grandpa" and "nuts," but, holy mother. These things are so addictive that you hardly notice they contain the makings of bean curd. I also like that they have a slightly unnecessary resealable thingy, as I tend to scarf the whole bag of Grandpa's...er...nuts.**

Calbee Snapea Crisps - I've been addicted to these for a while, (I prefer the Caesar flavor, but the Original doesn't get Caesar schmutz on your hands). Although...I'm beginning to suspect they are pulverized peas poured into some sort of pea-magma and then into pea-shaped molds, which makes 'em sorta reconstituted-lookin', like the Han Solo of peas.***

*found at Ralph's, which always reminds me of throwup. You know, RALPH-!'s.
**found at Whole Paycheck, Mayfair Mkt./Gelson's
***found at Trader Joe's, which I'm beginning to think is a cult; a salty snax, Devil CULT. Which explains why, after reading one of their "Fearless" flyers, I proceeded to buy everything in it.

The Devil is now mini-peanut butter cups, unless you have better ideas.
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Isn't that just the dumbest song ever? I'm not rocking YET, but I'm about to rock. Yes. I am getting ready to rock, I am fixing to, er, I am preparing, for, to rock. Eventually, I will rock, but, very gradually. Presently, I will rock these items.

Fuck it.

Here are some things which I think are good.

1) My invention for Nacho Soup. "Gourmet" recipe is as follows (inspired by Chef Boz of Spaghetti a la Boz):
-get a can of cheese or chicken tortilla soup.
-put some cheese in the cheese soup.
-dump a can of beans in that. Drain first unless you like salty bean spooge in your soup.
-chuck some cheese on that.
-dump some taco chips, Tostitos, etc. on top of that.
-dump even more cheese on top of the whole mess. And did I mention that you should heat it unless you enjoy cold, congealed cheese uck.
-or, just get some nachos.

2) This book, which involves my cats and their herpes.

3) This book, which was stolen from under my desk by the so-called security guards.

4) That book was loaned to us by this person, who is the funniest girl comic alive.

5) This movie, which I am about to rock tonight, at the premiere. I have had a crush on Bobcat since I was a child and he rocked that Godzilla suit in One Crazy Summer. I have a hard-on for men in Godzilla suits. Also giant groundhogs. Or maybe just a semi-.

Anyway, the movie is good, and stars the horny nun from Desperate Housewives. You should see it because, Godzilla suit. Nachos. And hey, horny nun.
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Dag.

And to think of all the wrinkle cream I've wasted on my anus.

I guess some obscure German butt-cream company doesn't want our business...except on our business ends. (But(t) there is NOTHING in Preparation H's FAQ about this.) FINE. I guess I'll shoplift take my anti-poof cream business ELSEWHERE.

By the way, those aren't zits on my forehead...those are hemorrhoids. From having my head too far up management's ASS.
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I am terribly confused by the following commercials. Please help.

Pizza Slutt - I am not even so much as confused, but annoyed by the Three for $5 Guy. He gets 3 Pizza (The) Hut ("because you ARE a hut") pizzas for $5/ea. and commences to yell, "Oh, YEAH!" like that Kool-Aid jug that used to bust through brick walls (how did he do that without shattering his jug glass? And what was his name, anyway? Kool & The Gang? No, taken. Sugar Tits McPitcher? Juggly?), then proceeds to dance and whirl around like it is the happiest day of his life, giggling like a girly pizza dervish. WHY is he so excited? Because he is cheap? It's not that good. Is he having a crisis of gender? This is creepy. Director: this guy can thank you for totally emasculating him. I also hate the wife in this commercial, who vigorously chomps her pizza and nods as if to say, good job, honey, for ripping off that pizza boy. (Are we supposed to rip off the pizza boy? That's good family values for you.) Creepy.

Pledge? Swiffer? I don't even know the name of this product because I am so distracted by the song; also because I do not dust. Said song features a vocal that growls and belts out, "It's Better with the Spray!" Huh? What's better with the spray?! Broccoli?! I think it's some sort of furniture polish, and by the way, DO NOT EAT. And furthermore, I hope this song was created especially for this sh*t commercial, and there isn't really some song wandering around out there called "It's Better With the Spray!", or similar. Not only would this violate one of his cardinal rules (Bastardization of a Popular Song), but, WTF? What spray...cat spray? Because I assure you, NOTHING is better with that. Except maybe for some of you kink types, but for me, no thanks; not in the face.

Gap's Skinny Black Pant - another offense (The Posthumous Endorsement.) Is that or is it not Audrey Hepburn's disembodied head superimposed (and badly, at that) on another dancer's body, because that is some disturbed shit. It is hard to tell because actresses' heads never fit their goddamn bodies. How can they do that, anyway? She hasn't been dead long enough to be public domain, has she? And even though she is dead, she still overly dramatic, and still dances like a total spazz. Sorry. I should really not speak ill of humanitarian people who still get on my nerves even though they are dead.

Garnier Fructis - I hate these commercials in general, but am especially perplexed by their latest, which features a shit-eating grinning model washing her hair while wearing a purple bikini...in the shower. Why?! Couldn't they have just shot her from the neck up? Is there a European version of her topless? Because then, maybe I wouldn't hate Garnier Fructis so much. Woo-hoo.

I know, I shoulda stayed in skool. Or maybe quit sooner, huh? Then I might could understand these things.
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Going forward, please attempt not to have brain surgery, become rapidly engaged, married, join a cult, shack up, Hulk out into a female bodybuilder, join the Army, whimsically change gender, get knocked up without my consent and/or a papal directive, make any sudden movements, or die unexpectedly, as this alarms me.

In fact, if you could clear all major life decisions, in writing, by submitting a form at least 364 days in advance of said process pending my express written permission, I would be highly appreciative, as it has been a very "exciting" 2006. In remembrance of that, I have named one of my gray hairs after each of your little IEDs. I do not like surprises. You are quite the ticking time bombs, aren't you...?

If any of you pops out of a cake wearing anything, or nothing, or even think about any unauthorized cake-, hymen-, placenta-, or question-popping, I will personally hog tie you and make you cry for your mommy until you regress to 3 year-old mentality and shit your pants while simultaneously licking my boot and begging to go back to eating Otter Pops and studying triangles and growing different types of seeds out of Styrofoam cups and making turkeys out of your hands and eating dirt and catching head lice in the corner like good little boys and girls.

Meanwhile, I will be in the other corner, with my second-grade mentality, as I think I must have wet my pants and gone home early the day all the other kids were learning to tell time.

Thank you.

Love,
Your Bewildered Friend/Relative.
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