You know what’s what.
You know what time it is.
You know the deal.
I will put 100 bullets in your motherf*ckin’ ass.
You ain’t no man.
You ain’t even an animal.
Animal’s got more intelligence than you.
Don’t act like you don’t know what’s what.
100 motherf*ckin’ bullets in your motherf*ckin’ ass.
As if it sensed my desire to return to simpler farming ways, my cell phone is trying to cut itself out of my life by contracting a fatal disease. I think it has avian bone syndrome, because if I touch it the wrong way, it dies. When I close the phone, it dies. If I make more than one call without immediately recharging it, it dies.
I went into the Sprint store this weekend to get a new battery, and they looked at me like I had ripped a rotary phone out of the wall, dangling cords and all, slammed it down on the counter and asked them to show me how to text message from it.
“Uhh, yeah. We don’t carry batteries for that model anymore.”
Of course they don’t, because I bought the phone there A WHOPPING 18 MONTHS AGO so clearly the technology is now long since obsolete. Why on earth would I think they might actually stock batteries for the Samsung Paleozoic 2200?
“Yeah… and the batteries cost about $60, so you might just want to think about getting a new phone.”
AHA! The truth comes out. Self-destructing phones that keep you forever bound to the carrier because there’s still six months left on your contract so you have no choice but to stick with them and sign another 2-yr agreement. EVIL GENIUSES DAMN YOU TO HELL!
Well, sometimes I’m just fine biting off my nose to spite my face, so I may just say screw you to Sprint and get all mavericky. That’s where I need some advice, though.
a) Get a new regular phone with a different carrier
b) Get a Blackberry
c) Get an iPhone
d) Get the Google phone
e) Get a 1981 Magnum PI mobile phone (with bag) at the Goodwill and find some tech geeks to rig it to work
f) Get that prepaid phone I saw hanging by the batteries in the Jewel-Osco
g) Keep my phone on life support long enough for my contract to expire, and then ask you guys again what I should do
h) Reject all forms of electronic communication in favor of letter writing
What say you?
I don’t know how to say this other than to just come right out with it: I’ve been cheating on you. I’ve started a secret blog. In fact, it’s so secret that when I just tried to pull it up, Blogger said it didn’t exist, but that was just because I forgot the URL. It’s that secret.
My new secret blog is actually a joint venture with my friends Natasha and Dee-Dee, except that Dee-Dee still hasn’t accepted my invite to co-author it and probably forgot that we started it, so it’s really just a secret blog between Nat and me. It’s that secret.
I don’t want anyone to feel hurt, but it’s just that there are some things going on in my head right now that I can’t talk about on this site. Secret things. Things that involve my hopes and dreams.
Okay, fine – I can’t keep this from you any longer: I want to buy a farm. My friends and I have dreams of one day trading in the hustle-bustle of city life for a calmer, quieter existence, living off the land. I want to live like the pioneers did, milking cows and piling hay into big stacks and rendering lard. But I want plumbing and WiFi. So it’s kind of a survivalist website, where Natasha and I mostly just post links to sites to learn how to can peaches. Next month we’re taking a cheese-making class. After that I want to take bee-keeping or animal husbandry. It’s a start.
Anyway. I just wanted you to know, because maintaining this secret blog has really been eating at me. Not eating at me like something really bad like the deformed bear from that movie, Prophecy, but definitely eating at me like something annoying that you can’t quite locate, like a deer tick.
Oh, I feel so much better now that I don’t have to keep living this lie. My name is Jenny and I want to grow stuff and then kill stuff and eat that stuff. And maybe sell some of that other stuff at a farmer’s market. And I won’t be ashamed any longer.
Last week, I heard the news story about some guy who jumped into the ocean and punched a shark in the face to save his dog from being eaten alive.
True confession: I’m terrified of sharks. I’ve never seen one, well, not outside of an aquarium at least, but anytime I hear about shark attacks, it just freaks me out. You can’t beat a shark, you just can’t. You can’t outswim them – what, are you stupid? Sharks are killing machines. They have rows and rows of teeth that never stop growing. Did you hear me? NEVER STOP GROWING!
And did you ever see when they jump up out of the water and their eyes roll back and their lips pull back? Killing machines. Big time.
So no way am I punching a shark to save my cats. I totally love my cats and have raised them since they were just wee seven-week old kittens, but seriously. No way. What the hell were my cats doing in the ocean in the first place, that’s what I’d like to know.
But here are some things I would punch to save my cats:
- Medium-sized carp
- Chicken (but not a goose)
- Old lady with a walker
- Paperboy under the age of 12
- Garter snake
Here’s what happened to me last night:
I had a dance recital of some sort, got out on stage and realized I was wearing two different shoes. They were both huge wedges, but one was open-toed and the other was not. I ran upstairs into what turned out to be my childhood bedroom and found the matching shoes. It seemed like no one noticed.
I got laid off from my job and then at lunch, ran into an old friend who said she could get me an interview with Waterman pens, which I’m completely obsessed with, and I remember thinking, “Wait a minute – you’re a poet. How do you know corporate marketing people?” But I wasn’t about to look a gift interview in the mouth, so I happily agreed. The only catch was that I had to interview at that exact minute. I was wearing crappy jeans and big construction boots so I ran to the shoe store next door to my office only to find that it had gone out of business. My friend offered me a pair of flip flops, but I refused. I decided to try to wing the interview despite the terrible first impression I would make in my outfit.
On my way out of the empty shoe store, I ran into a nice looking older, bearded man in a tweed suit. We were in the stairwell and he grabbed my hand and placed a handful of old European coins in it, then smiled and walked away. I started giving them out to people as good luck charms, when everyone suddenly began chasing after me for my centimes. As I was running away, I dropped my favorite 50 lire coin on the stairs.
I made dinner for the Pope and had to sneak him into the ladies room to clean off his (robe? smock? dress?) when he spilled food all over it. I made him change into civilian clothes so we could escape unnoticed. He really liked my cooking, or at least he said so.
So what have I learned about myself? I have some sort of foot fetish and this Nyquil Sinus Nighttime Formula has one hell of a kick. Whoa. Seriously though – what’s up with me and the shoes? I’m not even going to look up what that means.
And my apologies, because I know that telling people what you dreamed about is slightly less interesting than having to look through photo albums from co-workers’ vacations, but I think I’m still kind of buzzed.
I think I might have dengue fever, so the best I can do is to post an educational video for the young ladies out there. I particularly like the way the narrator pronounces, “men-stray-shun” and “matooring” (as in, your body is matooring).
Watch. Listen. Learn. Enjoy.
I wish Disney would do more collaborative films with Kotex.