Two years ago, I wrote one of my most embarrassing, albeit favorite blog posts since I started blogging back in 2010.
I’ve tried to write various other posts regarding the paczkis and the fattiness of Mardi Gras, but nothing comes close to the Poonch-Key post.
So instead, to follow up Fat Tuesday…
It’s perfect, it’s chronological, and I get to tell you about this guy seeing me with my ashes and being all…
If you feelin’ like a Pope, Catholics, do not brush your forehead off.
Bitches be sinners, Catholics, do not brush your forehead off.
I hope this guy didn’t give up being awesome for lent.
I don’t know if any of you know this. But I’m probably actually not that funny. I mean, I might be, but that’s in great part to a hefty dose of genetics and self deprecation.
The rest of it is basically thanks to you, the readers, the people in my life, the couple arguing over a coffee table in a way-too-similar-to-dirty-sex-manner.
I love all you people.
I love even more that when I tell stories, for some reason, my arms flail about in these crazy gestures that apparently make everything funnier. Or funny to begin with. Or even worthy of a small chuckle, that means you are laughing
with me. at me. probably with me.
Case in point? This happened yesterday.
60 some odd year old man. Me. Hilarity ensues.
My shirt is actually made of polyester and cotton. I just checked.
- “I Haven’t Been Fully Honest with You” Twitter Prank Leads to Breakups, Hilarity (news.softpedia.com)
- Constant hilarity (stupidcupid101.wordpress.com)
If you didn’t run after reading the title, k, thanks, i love you.
After I titled this post, I stared at it for a solid two minutes, because everyone is going to run away to avoid conflict, or else come in to argue.
And this post isn’t even really that controversial. Like, at all.
At the moment, the Grand Rapids People of Epic Porportions of Awesome Choir is preparing to sing Missa Solemnis.
You know what’s fun about singing pieces like this? Standing for elongated periods of time. Missa Solemnis comes in at approximately 80 minutes. That’s a lot of sitting and standing, and sitting and standing, and folder holding, and proper posture, and oh yeah, you’re singing too. BTW.
Pause for a choir joke.
How many second sopranos does it take to change a lightbulb?
Zero, they can’t reach that high!
Pause for laughter.
So, we’re in choir on Monday night, and our director neglected to tell us that she’d actually just gotten her license to teach an aerobics class and that we would be sitting and standing and sitting and standing and sitting and standing in rapid succession.
Cue the following tweets* of hilarity. Names and faces have been blocked to protect the innocent.
We now ask you to open your hymn books because 17 of you are going to sing, 12 of you are going to open and close your mouths as a form of participation, and the rest of you are going to fiddle in the pews until the song is over.
(Lyrics courtesy of the great Tom Lehrer — the Vatican Rag!)
Following today’s service, there will also be a confessional. Please line up accordingly.
*Please don’t tell my director about the tweeting. Believe me, I know my music. I study my score while I’m at work**.
**Please don’t tell my boss about the music learning while at work. I always get my work done, and occasionally I sleep less to finish***.
***Please don’t tell my mother I’m not sleeping. She worries.
- Crying with laughter. (didiforget.wordpress.com)
- Why be a liberal Catholic when you could be an Anglican? | Theo Hobson (guardian.co.uk)
- The Choir (sandystrachan.wordpress.com)
The other day, I was ranting and roaring about how much trouble I’ve been having being funny.
Inner Monologue: It’s because you aren’t funny.
Me: I’m so funny. I’m just having trouble writing it down.
Inner Monologue: That’s not true. I remember everything. It’s not funny.
Actual Other Human Being: …Are you talking to yourself?
This of course brought on the conversation where I explained why I was talking to myself and of course, the important fact that I’m not bat shit crazy, I’m just a blogger with some major issues. Those being writer’s block. Nothing more.
So, the actual human being checked out this blog, told me I was kind of funny when I’m not trying, and told me that obviously, if I just wrote everything down, something funny would happen, and then it would be captured in writing and the world would right itself.
Like I didn’t think of that.
Then, he proceeded to bet me the price of my dignity, and an additional $20 that I couldn’t continuously post for a whole week — which means something readable and more than fifty words and not totally judged and not posted would have to go up everyday. For a week.
No judgement for a week.
So, you people can be the judges. Once a day for seven days. Starting today, since by the time we made this bet, yesterday’s post had already gone up and APPARENTLY, in this establishment, small people are not allowed to ride dogs like horses. Or count previously posted blogs.
So, I’m brainstorming. Here’s what I’ve got so far:
- I’ve decided to do one of those daily diatribes like my friend Triple Name does over on his new blog — for example — yesterday, he did “Why I’m weird Wednesday.” That means there is a solid chance you’ll be seeing a “Sh!t My Mother Says Saturday/Sunday/Day of the week because I got lazy on Saturday/Sunday.”
- I’ve also decided to dump the contents of my purse out and show ya’ll what I carry around/why I have back problems, courtesy of the gorgeous Camie over at Wild-Spirit.net. This might scare you. You wouldn’t believe the random stuff I have hidden away in my beast of a bag.
- FITTED SHEETS. ‘Nuff said.
That gets me, counting today, through four days of the week. I need some ideas kids. I’ll split the $20 with you. Between all my readers, that’s like fifty cents for everybody. And as Smash Mouth once said, we could all use a little change.
I’m saying “yo” an excessive amount today. It feels appropriate — like when I tell you all about how the bet is going, yo.
Day 1: You’re looking at it.
Me: I’ve decided to try and be a comedian. I’m pretty funny a lot of time. People always laugh.
Gustav: They’re laughing at you. Not with you.
Me: that line is overused. You stole that humor. Therefore, you are not funny, and I don’t believe you.
Gustav: You’re delusional.
Me: If by delusional, you mean hilarious.
Gustav: No, because “funny” isn’t “i took seven hours to write a blog about a deer getting mauled by a vampire.” It’s “Dane Cook trained a monkey to help him rob a bank.” People who write just aren’t funny as people who do stand up.
Me: FALSE. But seriously, all I need to do is to want a trained monkey and I’ll be funny to you?
Gustav: No, that’s not all. But what funny thing are you going to do with a trained monkey?
Me: Punch you in the face, for one thing.
Gustav: Right. And where are you going to find a violent, angry monkey?
Gustav: I don’t want that thing near me.
Me: He’ll be sitting next to you at my first stand up gig.
Gustav: You still won’t be funny.
Me: But a cynical man getting attacked by my small angry monkey, that’s funny. And since it’ll be at my gig, I’m going to take credit. I told you I was funny.
You are about to learn something. Sort of. You are about to learn something to the extent of my knowledge on the subject. But. Since I went to a Catholic grade school. And high school. And college, for that matter. Sex Ed didn’t really teach as much as I now realize it should have.
We learned instead, that when you grow up, you can either be a priest, a nun, or get married. IF you so desire to get married, then, obviously after marriage, you may have sexual intercourse. Which is an experience between you and your partner in marriage and God.
You know what they didn’t teach us during this class? Condoms. STDS. Unplanned Pregnancy(which really would have helped me out, in my child bearing period of life.). Sexual Reproductive Organs.
FunSized and I were chilling out one night, and we came to this conversation. It began with FunSized’s old roommate:
“We were doing sit ups one night,” FunSized tells me. “And EVERYTIME she went up, she would queef.”
“I haaate the queef,” I tell her. “Most awkward bodily sound ever.”
“RIGHT?” FunSized agrees. “She kept saying she was just farting-”
“Since that’s so much better,” I interject.
“Yes,” FunSized continues. “But I’m pretty sure it’s because she had a loose vagina.”
“Is that the sound a loose vagina makes?” I ask. “Because everybody queefs.”
Therefore, we decided: The sound of a loose vagina.
From the loose vagina, we moved on to the next sexual organ that Catholic schools had taught us next to nothing about: the uncircumcised penis. Which I apparently know so little about, that spell check got me. I was unaware of how to spell uncircumcised.
I attempt to analogy my thoughts on the uncircumcised penis.
“I feel like it probably looks like a shot gun. You know, that weird little thing on it that you slide up and down to load?”
FunSized cracks up. “Haven’t you heard that it just looks like a hot dog?”
I agree. “I have, but I have a hard time picturing that.”
“Anyway,” FunSized continues. “I always figured it was just like an extra layer. Like a sweater or something.”
“So,” I ask. “If I just put like an old Barbie sweater on a regular penis, it’ll look like an uncircumcised one?”
By this time, FunSized and I are practically peeing our pants from laughter. Have we learned anything, really? No. Wait. I’m wrong. We did learn something.
“I feel like a loose vagina and a uncircumcised penis would be friends and have conversations.” I tell her.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“Yeah! The vagina would be like, ‘Have sex with me! It’ll be like a hotdog in a hallway!’ and the penis would be all, ‘IT’S OKAY, I have a bun!‘”
I’m sorry. I lied. We really didn’t learn anything after all.
*Update: I forgot to mention that the creation of this post, or moreso, the writer’s block prior to the creation of this post lead to the #angwypenii hashtag on the Twatter network.
An #angrypenii: 8=====D:<
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