What will they think of next!??



[Ganked from BC, even if I’m kinda at a loss as to what to even say about any of this. I just ... huh.]

Our ol’ friend Kaffy has a question, because she’s a heathen Protestant and does not understand the mysteries of the Catholic church:

I should also mention that Kaffy wants to know how to get her pervy special ed student to stop feeling her up with his face.

Have at it, folks.

-- Girlie, laughing at my latest examples of social retardation

Seems like whatever got into Mr. Allen’s wheaties over the weekend has either infected mine, or mine have infected his, or SOMEthing, because I gots me some Neenernet drama, and on freakin’ MYSPACE, no less.

Oh YEAH.

Even better is it’s not even MY drama; it’s Mer’s. See, she works with these crazy people who’ve never left Brooklyn—not even for, like, a Six Flags vacation in Sandusky, for God’s sake—so because she’s well traveled and not indigenous to the island, she’s suspect. To WHAT is anyone’s guess with these nutjobs, but she is. Anyway, so these people WERE constantly watching her Myspace page, but since she put it on private, they’re now watching MY page. Why? Because in order to practice my Serbian, she leaves me retarded little messages that have nothing to do with anything. But these people think we’re talking about them.



And once again, these are all people over 30.

One of them is freaked out by my existence, even though I live some 700+ miles away from Brooklyn. Nope, never met the woman in my life, but she seems to think I’m capable of all sorts of hooliganism. Apparently, I have nothing better to do.

Lookit

Please tell me he’s in it for the hoohah, because I ain’t hearing nothing else about it.

Our good buddy mac posted a little something about some broad who got busted for smuggling heroin by—get this—soaking her unnywears in it. Managed to get, like, three pounds into 15 pair of assorted panties and long johns and shit, right? So here’s my question: How the hell do you get the heroin back OUT of the unnywears*? Seriously.

Parts 4 & 5: “14 hours of unadulterated Zook. Ain’t that going to be fun!??”

If there was ever a time when I should’ve been blogging things as they happened, it was when she was here because I’m so over it, I’m like, I don’t even want to talk about it anymore. And I probably shouldn’t, except I have to get to the part where Mer, on her last night spent with the town clown, got robbed of all but $40 plus all her sleeping medication she takes for Epstein-Barr.

Yes, yes she did.

After various and sundry stops (and after he yelled “Hurry up!” like a fucking fool outside my crib because it was a frillion degrees and I wouldn’t let him inside), they ended up at the bar we were at the first night she got here. During that time:

1) Zook tells her he’s running short, would she mind picking up the tab?
2) One of the guys who hung out with us the first night (who I knew from my days hanging out there but only remember as Scott B.) saw inside Mer’s purse (when she was getting money out to start paying for her and her “date’s” drinks) and asked her about her medication. She tells him their sleeping pills and that she’d give him a couple before they left;
3) Scott B. decides he’s not going to wait and ganks the entire bottle along with all the money;
4) Zook has Mer pay for his dinner at McDonald’s as well as a round of drinks and a six-pack to go before ending up back at the shithole;
5) And then, when they get back to the shithole, he tells her he’s “tired,” so what she came out there for, she wasn’t getting.

She didn’t discover she’d gotten robbed until she got back to my crib—all hysterical because she was so mortified by the whole evening—so we jump into the car at 2 a.m. to go to the Gary Police Department to file a police report. Somewhere around 5 a.m., she and I had a horrendous fight where I almost left her on 7th and Grant Street (that’s square in da HOOD, for those unfamiliar with the G.I.), and by 6:30 a.m. we were back at the crib crying how much we loved each other and so on and so forth.

The last day of the trip saw me working, Mer getting her meds and trying to figure out she was going to get back home with no money, and then this saucy little bit o’ business. She left Thursday morning at 7:30.

After all this, how many times did she get laid? That’s right: Once. And it wasn’t nearly as good as she remembered it.

Part 3: “I need HELP ...”

Here’s the thing I can’t figure out about EE so far: How do I save what I write without posting it immediately? I thought “quick save” did that and “submit” posted, but I’m wrong. That’s why you’re seeing posts come up in spurts these days. Also, I don’t know how to categorize anything anymore. Anyone want to help a sister out?

So now that we’ve gone over the first two days of Mer’s visit, we have now reached the point where it descends into complete absurdity. The event was Zook’s landlord’s birthday party, an all-weekend affair 50-some miles away. It does not end well, but since this is a really long, really convoluted part of the story, I’m just going to post the pictures—Lookit —and give you the highlights, namely:

1) He refused to introduce me by name to anyone, opting instead to act like he forgot it;
2) I came thisclose to throwing a bag of ice at his head;
3) he started pissing where he stood and later passed out in someone’s car (this was after I left, sadly); and
4) I inadvertently hissed at him when he dropped her off Sunday morning. (I was actually targeting my bile at her for thinking she could bring him into my crib, but he was holding the phone. It made him change his mind about brushing his teeth in my house, that’s for sure.)

Part 2: “I feel like I’m in a meth documentary.”

Remember how I was all worried about family members finding out about my little space on the innerbunny? Don’t gotta anymore, because they found me. Not sure how I feel about it; on one hand, I’m relieved, but on the other, I’m freaked out because I’m concerned that I’m going to start censoring myself, and that’s not the point of this exercise. Really, I’m hoping they’ll be like they know it’s here, but as long as I’m not talking about them (which the rule is, if someone tells me not to talk about him or her, they don’t get talked about), they’re not going to feel the need to be here. Or maybe they’ll grow to understand and maybe even enjoy my little rants against the universe. B-Dubs (aka my small brother) said he’s cool with it, and I can’t even tell you how moved I was by that. But either way, it is what it is.

And now, back to our regularly scheduled programming:

but this? Is retarded.

Lookit

Yeah, because it worked so well when when his other girlfriend did it: Lookit

Am I the only person who finds it sad and wrong that this jackass thinks nag racing with Mandy Moore is a magic trick?

Did y'all see this about how Marilyn Monroe REALLY died, allegedly?

Lookit

Pardon the pun, but holy shit.

Just got a call from Tara: Her father-in-law died today. From what they can tell, Mr. Kingston went out to the garage about 4:30 this afternoon to get something, and it happened then -- either he fell or had a heart attack or aneurysm or whatever kills people all sudden-like. When Sean found him, he was blue.

I was over at Tara's and Sean's last night; his older sister had a Tastefully Simple party, and we were hanging out and wrapping it up when Mr. and Mrs. Kingston stopped over on their way to church. We walked upstairs and complimented Tara on her redecorating acumen with the bathroom and laughed at how Sean is quite the redecorator himself with his direction in the Master bedroom. Then we came downstairs and, as Mr. K was pulling out his wallet to pay the sister for the stuff Mrs. K bought, I went up to him like, "Hey! since you're giving it away over here ..." And he laughed and gave me five, and then did it again to make 10. Then they went to church.

Needless to say, Sean is a basketcase right now, and Tara's not doing too much better.

I need a new bathroom.

No no, the condition is fine; I've just had the same shower curtain and accessories ever since I moved in, and even though they're cool, I want something different. I added a bunch to my wish list, so if you see anything you like, buy it for me. Heh.

So back to the whole introspection business, Poppy and I waxed philosophical by the pool yesterday, wondering how it was that her former beau (whose Sims name, incidentally, is Seth Cotis, who we've come to learn is a YOOGE icon out there on the Interbunny) got to where he did. We always knew he was a brittle diabetic, and we also knew that he didn't take care of himself like he should've, especially when it came to the drink. Always the life of the party, that one, but often at the expense of himself, clearly. Anyway, we got to talking about what would've happened if they'd have stayed together or even if he'd have ended up with someone else without his partying proclivities -- would he have slowed down? Would he have accepted his illness and taken better care of himself? You know, like the Gwenyth Paltrow movie with the glass doors: How would one different move, one different phrase, one different thought change the landscape? Is the universe predetermined or free will? Personally, I'm of the opinion that we all have the free will to do whatever and then the universe takes care of the rest exactly how it's supposed to be. Don't know if there's a fancy name for the philosophy, but there you go.

Anyone else have a thought about this?