You know you have true friends when you randomly get this:
It’s even funnier when you find out later that said friend debated between sending a picture of the snack he was horking down or the gem above. I’m glad he chose correctly. The textual conversation below ocurred.
Me: That’s mean. And unexpected. And uncalled for. But it made me smile.
B: Mean, hardly. Unexpected, I will give you. Uncalled for, quite the opposite. And that was the point.
Me: Whatever douche. Not to change the subject but I’d like you to know that my Tiny Tower is coming along tremendously. And I need some vodka.
B: I would love some vodka. And I’ve done all I can to try and find a tiny demolition services app, but to no avail.
Me: I’d kill you before you could even attempt such carnage.
B: You are such a liar. You could never do such a chore.
Me: It’s not that I wouldn’t aspire to it, it’s that my overwhelming laziness would consume me. That and being distracted by playing Tiny Tower.
Lapse in textual conversation ensues…then resumes.
B: Stop reading this and get back to work!
Me: This text interrupted me while I was playing Tiny Tower, fuck you very much.
B: SUCCESS! Fuck you, AND your Tiny Tower.
And then I was feeling creative – so I made these:
And then after I saw them I felt like Andy Warhol. But then I realized I’m not hanging out with Edie Sedgewick all day and doing interesting things. And then the reality of the situation hit me and made me feel bad about myself because I just used that website picnik to make those pictures look cool and Warhol was a genius and I most certainly am not.
So now I’m depressed.
And I’m going to go play Tiny Tower.
PS – if you have an iPhone – get Tiny Tower. For the love of all things holy – GET TINY TOWER.
PPS – if you enjoy the textual conversations between B and myself (which I totally understand if you don’t because it’s just a bunch of nonsense and insults) you can check out the other ones here and here.
It’s that time of the year again. Time for togetherness and merriment. For drunkenness and debauchery. For beer-bonging boxed wine. For destroying the natural landscape. For getting beat-up, black-out drunk. It’s PINEWOODS time. 2K11. Third annual.
Here are some photos from yesteryear Pinewoods events:
…I’ve decided to do a weekly feature that will spotlight the textual conversations between B and I. Maybe if more people texted me and the conversations that ensued were ridiculous, I could feature more people. But since I don’t have a lot of friends, this will have to do.
Enjoy. Or destroy?
B: What time does Lincoln bowl?
Me: Maybe 7.
B: How do you not know?
Me: Because I don’t care.
B: You are a terrible person.
Me: I’m aware of that.
B: You know, I don’t like treating you this way, but sometimes you just get me so angry.
Me: I’ve found that I stir that emotion in many people around me.
B: Well, as long as you’ve come to terms with it, I guess I have to accept you the way you are.
Me: You do. And love me for it.
B: Love is a such a strong word.
Me: Fine. I’m going to sleep.
B: I hope you don’t wake up.
Me: Me too.
B: But then you wouldn’t be able to see me anymore.
Me: I’d haunt you.
B: At least we could still rage then.
Me: You could only be so lucky.
And then a few days later he sent me a picture of a naked man bent over on a beach with his ball sack hanging out.
In other news, I was informed by Foy at breakfast yesterday morning that I helped to destroy a fledging relationship B had embarked on. I guess it wasn’t necessarily a relationship, but moreso a “thing” via text. This girl claimed that B was nice and very sweet through texting (I don’t buy it) but was unpleasantly surprised when she friended him on facebook.
Apparently she’s not a fan of the gratuitous use of the C-word that rhymes with bunt (which is, coincidentally, my nickname with a “y” and I use quite often) or the swearing or B’s announcements that he has to #2. I will take responsiblity for my nickname, as she was offended, outright, by a picture B posted of me with the caption “Another picture of the bunt (remove the “b” and insert the “c” and say it outloud wherever you are, please).”
She’s obviously a fool.
Who wants to be around someone so easily offended?
No one. That’s the answer.
It would be nice if she read this and got offended by it. But not a lot of people read this, so that’s wishful thinking. But if you do read this and you do know her, maybe you could turn her onto this blog. And make sure to direct her to this textual conversation.
Nothing surprises me when it comes to the dogs.
I’m not sure what the pillows have done to offend Mac to the point that he must destroy them at all costs – but it happens all the time. Lincoln and I used to have eight pillows. Not so much anymore.
On random nights over the past few weeks we’ve come home to house that looks like a winter fucking wonderland: pillow inards everywhere. He’s taken out half of our fleet. The picture below is what I woke up to one morning after he murdered a pillow while I slumbered.
We’re down to two and one of those giant fish pillow things that’s a cod, or a salmon, or a rainbow trout, or a large-mouth bass. It looks similar to this:
Lincoln named the fish Billiam. And while I initially scoffed at the name, I’ve grown quite attached to the thing. Moral of the story: Mac hates pillows and I was strangely all right with this until one morning, as I spooned Billiam, I discovered bite marks in him. This is where I draw the line. Billiam will not be a casualty of this petty, useless war Mac has waged. I’m not ready to battle Mac yet, as he’s just too strategic. There are those sayings about not winning battles, but winning the war.
I’m winning the war.
In other news, while I was googling images of giant fish pillows, I came across these and I’ve decided that I must have them.
Mark my words, I will have them.
If you want to buy a giant fish that’s shaped like a shark, a dolphin or a Billiam, I found a link for that.
Or if you want a pillow that looks like fish eggs, I found a link for that too. This link is slightly confusing and I can’t figure how to buy these whimsical, plush pillows. So if you find out how, let me know.
Catch you on the flip, ghost ride the whip.
In conjunction with my previous post about thyroid disease, I give you this magical trip to the lady parts doctor. You can all rest easy tonight knowing that I do not, in fact, have thyroid disease or anemia.
It’s true what they say about misery loving company, because I did not hesitate to share what happened to me at the doctor with a male colleague of mine. The conversation is below and it occurred after a couple shots of vodka (and by couple, I mean 6-10).
Me: Just thought I’d keep you in the loop. Just had some fingers in my butthole at the gyno. I need a drink
B: How many fingers? More than one? Less than ten? And more importantly, how many knuckles?”
Me: 2. Just the fingers. No knuckles. Ugh. My poor butthole.
B: Didn’t even go deeper than the first knuckle? Shut the fuck up you wimp.
Me: Sorry, 2 full fingers. I’m still disoriented.
B: 2 full? Now we’re finally getting to something worth talking about. Did you at least get his number first? Were they pencil like fingers? Or were they big, fat bratwurst fingers? This is vital information!
Me: She was like 50. Average sized fingers. Who likes anal? Seriously? I took a couple of shots when I got home. I deserve it.
B: I agree. Anyone who gets their poop chute diddled by two average sized fingers, down to the hand, deserves a couple shots.
Me: And of course nothing is wrong.
B: So you played altar boy for nothing?
B: Wow. I’m sorry. Seriously, that’s the worst.
B said he would only read my blog if I blogged about this. So I did. And now he has to read this. Which makes me laugh, because earlier he told me that he was bored. And I told him he should read my blog to help with the boredom. To which he told me “I’m already bored! Why would I want to be more bored?” Which is a valid point. So I said, “It would give you something to mock.” And he, very kindly, said that “as long as we are friends, I will ALWAYS have something to mock.” Which is also true. Because my life is a joke. A big, fat joke. But jokes are great, so my life isn’t really that bad.
I think my favorite part of the textual conversation between him and I is the hint of compassion and concern for my plight at the very end. But then I read our conversation again and I couldn’t stop laughing about how he claims that it’s “the worst.” Wouldn’t someone have to experienced the worst first hand in order to make a statement like that? Has he experience the worst? Has he had fingers up his #2 hole and never told me? I’d like to think he would have told me. So I’m inclined to say that he hasn’t had the pleasure yet and just wanted to let me know that he was there for me in my time of need. Which he was. Kind of.
You know there are people in the world that really, really get you when they stumble upon things like this at a rummage sale.
AND BUY IT FOR YOU.
To think just a few short hours ago I was researching thyroid disease and soon I shall be in possession of a corncob armadillo.
Things are really looking up.
It’s quite possible that I have the world’s worst insurance. And if you say, “well, having insurance is better than no insurance,” I’ll choke you. But that’s neither here, nor there. Due to some recent medical issues, I was forced to go back to the doctor. Womanly shit. Since I can’t afford for them to run the whole gamut of tests, I had them test me for things that they were pretty sure I could have. Those being; anemia and thyroid disease. Negative on the anemia. Just waiting to hear on the thyroid. I don’t know shit about thyroid disease so I’ve spent a majority of my morning on WebMD scaring the crap out of myself.
Here’s a few symtoms. And I’m just meshing all the different types of thyroid disease symptoms together:
Naturally, I told my best cronie in the whole world and we WebMd’d together. Our conversation is below:
N: You have an excuse for everything now. “Can you answer that call?” “Nope, sorry, my thyroid is acting up. You should get me a pizza.”
Me: I’m using that from now on.
N: And you can use, “I’m sorry, I don’t understand your question, I have thyroid’s disease.”
Me: This thyroid thing is the gift that keeps on giving.
N: But seriously, I hope you don’t have it. What did Lincoln have to say about all of it?
Me: He’s just glad I’m not dying.
N: I’m glad he’s glad that you’re not dying.
Me: Me too.
N: Otherwise it would have been an awkward weekend for us all.