Shit My Webmaster Says

I have absolutely no idea what this picture of him is about.

    OK, so he's not really my "webmaster," but I consider him to be a master of the web along with all other monkey nonsense, therefore I have coined him, "Webmaster." Anyway, everything that comes out of this guy's mouth is hysterically vulgar, and he cracks me up on a daily basis. I have compiled for you a wonderfully inappropriate list of shit my webmaster has said over the past couple of months as he has helped me with the awesomeness that is the design of my blog. They are in no particular order and mostly unrelated to each other. This one is rated R. And possibly offensive. Don't say I didn't warn you. 




    If it's not fixed by 1:30, I implore you to bomb my facebook wall with accusations of sexting.  You are welcome to insinuate a micropenis and questionable hygeine practices. 


    I had "goddamn" in that paragraph three times.  I took them all out to remove what may have become a mistaken illusion of hostility. I believe in hockey that is called a "shat trick".


    Awesomesauce.  I'm also incredibly indecisive.  Right now I'm so torn between having a bowl of cereal or getting Taco Bell that I'm just not moving.  Cheese fries also sound absofuckinglutely delicious right now.  As well as Brad Pitt.  It's easier to just curl up into a ball and fall asleep. 


    While you're insane to the point of sifting through excrement to find an object of great sentimental value, I will plan out the slow, methodical destruction of a Wawa employee that puts the vinegar IN THE MIDDLE OF THE FUCKING SANDWICH INSTEAD OF ON THE FUCKING BREAD.  

    There's a loose panel in the back of my closet.  If you were to open it, you would see the name tags I have taken as trophies.

    But alas, the money is probably best saved up for a car that doesn't smell like three weeks of taco shits lit on fire and smothered with pencil erasers, and toward a real doctor since the CVS minute clinic whore couldn't figure out why my throat was sore, and now it's gone from "sore" to "oh fuck that was blood".  And I could probably use a haircut, I'm thinking about ordering a flowbee.  They still make that shit.  http://www.flowbee.com/  IT SUCKS AND IT CUTS.  It's an eating disorder away from being a high school cheerleader.


    I have more issues than National Geographic.  I just keep most of them under my mattress.  Especially the ones with the floppy funbags.


    Whenever it's sketched and you scan it, would you be at all able to save it as a .tiff?  It's a higher resolution and gives me a lot more to work with.  If you can't, that's cool, I'll just name one of my kids after you and starve it or give it bad haircuts. 


    Template: These bitches keep wanting to give the header image a colored background.  Gonna keep dicking with it until I drive my fist through the laptop screen.  I'm not sure why I'd be driving my fist, since it would take me longer to get my fist to the car than it would to propel my fist with the power of my own musculoskeletal system and blind fury.  I also can't believe that I have to add "dicking" and "musculoskeletal" to Firefox's spell check dictionary.  I had a better vocabulary than this piece of shit when I was eight.  After this I'm going to look for a "suggest feedback" link and see how many times I can fill it with "READ A FUCKING BOOK".  I may have digressed slightly here.

    Dots: Imageshack sucks a fuzzy one.  I saved it as an uncompressed, high-resolution image, and it looked at it, scratched its head, then gave it to a team of capuchin monkeys with crayons up their assholes to interpret as they see fit.  HOW DO YOU NOT HAVE CAPUCHIN IN YOUR GODDAMN DICTIONARY, FIREFOX?  SUCK EVERY DICK THAT EVER WAS.  That being said, I can at least put the thicker polka dots as the background until the clothesline is done.

    While I'm filling this with random bitching, it may take longer for internets as it turns out the former residents of my current domicile decided that their comcast bill was more of a suggested donation rather than an invoice for services rendered.  Now that it's one of those rare occasions that somebody gives a fuck about who I am, my social security card has gone all Bermuda fucking Triangle, but I somehow still have door passes to a titty bar that I got as a tip five years ago still in my fucking wallet.


    It's not going to be "exactly" like it, partially because she's using a different platform (wordpress), and partially because I'm a fucking artíst.  Note that accent, fucker.


    Washing machine - Replaced the sides completely with straight lines.  The Maytag man can suck it.


    By the way, you are awesome for being this specific and giving step-by-step... uh... steps.  It eliminates guesswork, fuck-ups, and stupid questions.  Pat yourself on the back, or the front if nobody's looking.


    Now the fucking gadget borders aren't showing up.  I'm seriously about to start throwing my feces like a fucking monkey.  


    I'll be at Barnes & Noble, so if you want to/can, swing on by.  But be ready to distract yourself with gossip magazines (Tiger Beat has an excellent write-up on Justin Bieber's kissing technique), or comic books (I recommend 'New Avengers'), as I can get incredibly asocial when I'm not even staring at a computer screen.


    Unfortunately, since our last batch of email back and forth, this is the first time I've had to sit down and work on it.  Long boring story of 60 hour work weeks, homelessness, and new landlord that is either missing or suffering from an overabundance of chromosomes.  Digression aside, my ass is firmly parked in this Barnes & Noble until closing and until then my time is dedicated to working on your graphics.  Word is motherfuckin' bond.


    I'm barely even buzzed on frappuccino, FYI.  I want alcohol fumbling around my insides like an awkward, inexperienced lover.


    Also, I figured out why there was an open table next to a power outlet.  The guy at the table right next to it smells like shit.  Not feces shit, but cigarette shit.  He also has what looks like brass chandelier ornaments hanging from his ears that look more gauged out than Octomom's twat. OOOH, HE JUST DID AIR DRUMS!  EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS GUY CAN GO FUCK ITSELF.




    I wish I had his ability to find the words to express the similar thoughts I often have in my head. He can also turn almost any conversation into a completely vulgar and inappropriate one. I think he enjoys the challenge of it. I must say, I am quite jealous of his talent. There are so many more examples of his words of wisdom, and we talk several times a week, so I'm guessing this is only Webmasterisms: Part 1. Stay tuned. 

Over The River and Through the Woods

Mother's Day is approaching, which means I have to start mentally preparing myself for a trip to my in-laws'. Now, don't get me wrong. I LOVE my in-laws. My mother-in-law has great stories to tell and is a kick-ass baker, and my father-in-law is a former Navy pilot who is often hilarious. My children adore them, and they adore my children. They only live about an hour and a half away, so most people would say that's awesome, right? Yeah, well, they would be wrong. You see, my kids and I get car sick. Like projectile-vomit-all-over-the-super-sexy-minivan-and-your-loved-ones car sick. I drug them with Benadryl for the ride in the hopes that they will fall asleep and not get sick. It works most of the time, but when it doesn't, it REALLY doesn't. I can't tell you how many times we've had to pull over and strip our kids down naked in the middle of a Wendy's parking lot to hose them down and change their clothes. I keep Lysol, paper towels, plastic bags, Febreze, changes of clothes, and buckets...yes, BUCKETS...in the minivan at all times. I have to drive because otherwise I would also projectile vomit, and my husband sits in the back of the van with the aforementioned buckets at the ready. If it didn't suck so much, it would be pretty Gaga damn funny. 


Once we make it there unscathed, it's usually pretty relaxing. The kids are old enough now that we don't have to follow them around and gasp quietly as we slowly remove the Hummel or other such breakable object from their little baby grips. My mother-in-law always prepares a nice lunch for us with a delicious homemade treat or two for dessert. The kids play with 40-year old toys that they love just as much as their brand new ones, and it's generally a nice time. 


Until you glance over to your right and discover THIS watching you. 

These things are all over the house. Like all over. I think I counted 30 or 35 of them, but this is by far the creepiest. My mother-in-law knows how I feel about these dolls, and I think she thinks it's hilarious. I suppose my irrational fear of them is pretty funny, but I'm not laughing when they're chasing me through a dimly lit parking garage with a nail gun in my nightmares.  


I've tried to get used to their presence, even embrace it. But it's really, really hard. Seriously. Could you embrace these? 

Be careful. They know when you're lying. 

I can practically hear my mother-in-law laughing at me right now. She loves each and every one of these dolls which is the only reason they're not sleeping with the fishes right now. But we all know they'd somehow end up at the foot of my bed anyway, battered and filthy, missing an eyeball, and smirking at me while I sleep. 

"Sleep tight, Lucy. Sleep tight."

Humpday Caption Contest Winner! (4/25)

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Humpday Caption Contest Winner! (4/18)

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It's All About the Benjamins

I'm totally kidding. I just couldn't think of anything else that had to do with the number 100. Well, this is my...drumroll, please...100th post! Yup. I've successfully written 99 meaningless posts about pointless crap, and I've done so with below average writing skills and gratuitous vulgarity. Oh, and I've published them online for the world to read. 

World-99     Lucy-0

Wait. Is that right? Should you guys have 100 because of this post? And do I get the idiot points, or do you get them whenever I am the idiot? Whatever. You're clearly winning. I see it like this: If the Internet were a playground, I would totally be picked last for kickball. (Which NEVER happened on an actual playground, by the way. I rocked at kickball.)  


Anyway, I still thought that maybe I should do something special for my 100th post. I thought about listing my 100 most meaningful memories or my 100 favorite books, blabbity, blah, blah, blah. Then I laughed at how lame that would be. I stopped laughing when I realized I've not read anywhere near 100 books. Then I laughed again as I put on a Law & Order rerun. (Don't act so surprised. We've been over this.) So, then, I thought about listing the top 100 red wine brands, my 100 favorite curses and insults, or the top 100 Yo Mama jokes, but the more I thought about it, the stupider it got. (Hey, I heard that.) 


The truth is that I'm the only one who would even notice that this is number 100, so who gives a shit? No one, that's who. So, here we are. This is my 100th post in all its glory. Thanks for sticking around long enough to read it. 


Cheers! 

I Am in Awe of My Friends

I'm sure by now you know how awesome my friends/therapists are and how much they mean to me. But, there is something you may not know. They're all brilliant. Two of them literally save lives several times a week, one of them can build, manage, and produce a theater show like nobody's business, and another one just won a Pulitzer Prize. A freakin' PULITZER PRIZE. I swear, I'm not lying: 

For a distinguished example of meritorious public service by a newspaper or news site through the use of its journalistic resources which, as well as reporting, may include editorials, cartoons, photographs, graphics, videos, databases, multimedia or interactive presentations or other visual material, presented in print or online or both, a gold medal. (No more than 20 items)

Awarded to The Philadelphia Inquirer for its exploration of pervasive violence in the city’s schools, using powerful print narratives and videos to illuminate crimes committed by children against children and to stir reforms to improve safety for teachers and students.

I cannot possibly convey to you how proud we are of Kristen Graham and what she's accomplished. It's not even just that she won such a prestigious and significant award. Obviously that's nothing short of incredible. It's that she and her team at the Philadelphia Inquirer, through this investigative, hard-hitting reporting, brought to light some very serious and troubling issues in Philadelphia schools. Important and necessary changes are now being made, and THAT is also incredible. 


 Clickety-click for Kristen's awesomeness: 


Announcement Reaction
Kristen's Interview on PBS
Follow Kristen on Twitter

Congratulations to my brilliant and beautiful friend. I am so, so lucky to know you, Kristen. You deserve this. 

A Shitty Situation: Update

If you haven't already, you're going to have to clickety-click this link and read my last post to have a clue what this update is about: A Shitty Situation


Done? OK, so, I got back from the chiropractor today and my husband told me that my son pooped while I wasn't home. (If I didn't need to go so badly, I would give up the chiropractor because CLEARLY very important things happen at home while I am gone getting my back cracked.) This was our conversation: 


Him: "He pooped while you were gone."


Me: "What?! In the toilet? Did you flush it?!"


Him: "No, he went in the potty. 


Me: "Did you look through it?! Did you find it?!"


Him: "No, it wasn't there. I looked."


Me: (wide-eyed silence)


Why was I silent? Because his version of looking for things varies greatly from mine. Last week he couldn't find the remote in this situation:

I am now 100% convinced that the tooth is gone. Forever. I HAVE BEEN SIFTING THROUGH SHIT FOR THREE DAYS. And this is what happens. 

A small piece of my heart died today. 

Sigh. 

A Shitty Situation

While I was enjoying a relaxing visit to the chiropractor on Friday, I got this picture and caption from my husband: 

Swallowed it!

Now, a normal person's thought sequence would most likely go something like this: 


Oh, crap! He swallowed his first lost tooth?! OK, well, we can just write a little note to the Tooth Fairy explaining what happened, and just let it go at that. He'll get his dollar, so he won't be upset.


Except that you and I both know that I am not normal. Hence, MY thought sequence: 


Oh, crap! He swallowed his first lost tooth?! OK, well, we can just write a little note to the Tooth Fairy explaining what happened. He'll get his dollar, so he won't be upset. But I have to have that tooth. Will he poop it out? Can I fish it out of his poop? How long will it take for him to poop it out? Do I have extra gloves? Yes, I just bought some. Oh, and bleach? Yes, of course I have bleach. But wait, what if he poops and flushes it?! OK, so I'll make him go in the potty instead of the toilet for a few days so that he doesn't flush it by accident. Oh, no. What if he poops it out at school on Monday? Obviously his teachers aren't going to look through his poop for it. OK, so I'll just tell him not to poop at school. He's not there very long anyway. He can hold it. I have to have that tooth. It's my baby boy's first lost tooth! Shit, what if it dissolves in his little belly acid and we never find it?! I can't think about that. I will find it. I have to. It's his first lost tooth! Wait. What if he doesn't poop it out, but it doesn't dissolve? Will it be stuck in there forever? Can that like poke a hole through his stomach or something? I can probably look this up online. I knew this would happen. Damn it, I knew it! Why wouldn't he let me pull it out?! From now on, I am pulling out his teeth when they're loose enough. I won't let this happen again. I have to have that damn tooth.


And, so, Friday night, we wrote a note to the Tooth Fairy explaining what happened. (He told me exactly what he wanted to write. He was convinced it was in the trash, but TRUST ME, I looked.) 

We folded the note and put it in the adorable little Tooth Fairy pillow I bought about six minutes after I found out I was pregnant, and he went to bed with it. It was a little uncomfortable for him under his pillow, so he just tucked it next to his head. 

I played the role of Tooth Fairy and replaced his note with another, as well as a one dollar bill. (You folks who give any more than that are seriously insane. And this is coming from ME.)

He woke up on Saturday morning and didn't realize with his groggy little eyes that there was money in the pillow. He thought he had gotten the shaft because he didn't have a tooth to give the Tooth Fairy. We opened it again together, and I acted all excited for him when we discovered the dollar. 

He pooped about an hour later, and I can't even tell you how ecstatic I was. I was like, "Yay! This is it! OK, where are my gloves? Let's do this." But, alas, after ten minutes of sifting through ACTUAL SHIT, there was no tooth to be found. Did you read that? I SEARCHED BY HAND THROUGH ACTUAL SHIT TO FIND A TOOTH. I then practically bathed in Lysol and proceeded to Google information about how long it would take for him to pass it. Survey says 36-48 hours. I have now examined not one, not two, but THREE loads of little boy shit to find a Gaga damn tooth. And I got nada.  

I'm going to give it a couple more poops before I give up. I even have a systematic way of doing it now. Maybe I'll make a YouTube video for all the other lunatic mothers out there whose children swallow their teeth. "Now, ladies, be sure to create a nice, thin, soupy mixture of shit and warm water, so as to not miss any lumps. Don't be afraid to really get in there. Here, watch me." 

I will be sure to keep you updated on my search efforts. If I find the tooth, I promise I will bleach the shit out of it before I show you. Literally. 

If You Sprinkle When You Tinkle

    I was in Target a couple weeks ago and I needed to use the potty. Yes, I just said that. Anyway, I walked in just as another  "woman" was entering a stall. "Why is that word in quotation marks?" you ask. Just give me a minute. I'll get there. So, I walked in, chose my stall, and went about my business. I happened to glance down and to my left, where the "woman" was, and I noticed that her feet were facing the toilet. Hmm. OK, that's a little weird, but maybe her rainbow was beaming that week, and she had a Tampax situation happening over there. Except that then I heard the distinct sound of someone peeing coming from "her" stall. At this point I thought I was seeing and/or hearing things because as far as I knew, it's extremely difficult, if not down right impossible, for a woman to face the toilet and pee. The only exception I could think of was if she were wearing a skirt with very stretchy underwear, or if she were going commando with said skirt. But, I saw her pants, so there went that. Then I thought that maybe "she" was actually a he. I analyzed the sound of the urine stream, and quickly decided that it was not nearly loud or forceful enough to belong to a man. It was definitely the delicate tinkling of a woman's pee. I had no doubt. Even so, when I finished my business, I stepped out of the stall, washed my hands, and fiddled with my phone in an attempt to appear busy while I waited for "her" to come out so as to confirm that "she" was, indeed, a she. I don't know what the hell was going on in there, but it took forever for "her" to come out, and she was facing the toilet the entire time. "She" finally exited, and as far as I could tell, "she" was definitely a she. 


    A few days went by, and I could not stop thinking about what had happened. I was considering experimenting with her system of peeing backwards, but I was afraid that I would just make a big ol' mess. So, I chickened out and never tried it. Every time I was in a public restroom after that, I thought of her as I squatted, avoiding touching the seat, and considered turning around. I wimped out every time. Until last weekend. It was Easter, actually. I'm not sure why that's funny to me, but it is. Anyway, I was a bit tipsy and full of wine-induced confidence, so when I went to the bathroom, I decided to figure out once and for all if it were possible, as a woman, to pee backwards and not flood the place with urine. I am happy to report that it is, in fact, while extremely awkward and uncomfortable, completely possible. (There was a bit of sprinkling, which can happen no matter which way you face, but I was a sweetie and I wiped the seatie.) It was like my own little Easter miracle. Rejoice! 

It was fun and all, but I'm still going to do it like this. 

Humpday Caption Contest Winner! (4/11)

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Humpday Caption Contest Winner! (4/4)

Congratulations to our winner, Sarah P.! Be sure to stop by next week to pick the next Humpday Caption Contest Winner, Sarah! 

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