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You got a little schmootz right there, and other things I’ll probably hear today

Two years ago, I wrote one of my most embarrassing, albeit favorite blog posts since I started blogging back in 2010.

The Poonch-Key Diaries.



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…

Ash Wednesday.

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.

"Ashies are the new selfies." -@hey_itsjenna

“Ashies are the new selfies.”



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.

L.A.'s Funny ChartThe 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.

I love people with gestures and tumblrs. Gif from

Case in point? This happened yesterday.

Jokes 1 zzz zzzz zzzzz


60 some odd year old man. Me. Hilarity ensues.

My shirt is actually made of polyester and cotton. I just checked.


Religion, Catholicism, or other button pushing topics.

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.

Well, Beethoven might be pissed. (Picture from

At the moment, the Grand Rapids People of Epic Porportions of Awesome Choir is preparing to sing Missa Solemnis. 

Courtesy of Wikipedia

Courtesy of Wikipedia

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.

Catholic MassIf you aren’t Catholic, then maybe you don’t understand. If you are, then kudos to you. And also. Let us kneel.

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.

Tom Lehr

(Lyrics courtesy of the great Tom Lehrer — the Vatican Rag!)

Following today’s service, there will also be a confessional. Please line up accordingly.

Bless me, father.


*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.

Challenge Extended: Challenge Accepted

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.

Me: Liar.

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:

Pickles, by the way, is one of my favorite comic strips. Because they are SO my parents.

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 lost count. Assume there's one for everybody.

I lost count. Assume there’s one for everybody.

Update, yo.

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.

Day 2: A man works his magic. Like actual magic. Not sure if other “magic” was being attempted.

Day 3: Alto meets hockey. Hilarity ensues.

Day 4: #LettersFromLA still exists, but costs more. Ya’ll international folk owe me 15 cents.

When in doubt, write more. Or bitch more, in which case, someone will tell you to write.

You guys all owe Scott (found @ThisDaddys_blog and a big fat gigantic thank you for finally getting me to publish something, since I’m sure you’re terribly sick of reading the same 80 some odd posts I’ve deemed acceptable for Chicks in the Mitt.

Or you might owe him a big fat gigantic F U, depending how you’re feeling when you get to the end of this post.

I posted on twitter today in a fit of desperation —


-which is really rather inconvenient for me because lately it’s felt like everything I’ve written has sucked, sucked, and sucked more.

Blog about kidney stones? Not as funny as the FRIENDS episode.

Blog about the twitter? It’s already been done by me a few times, and to be completely honest, I am mad at the twitter for allowing me to be funny in 140 characters, and unable to be funny in 500 some-odd words.


Blog about the hockey even? Well, I’m pretty sure a lot of hockey blogs have covered the popular topic of the Red Wings Power Play. In that, right now, we really don’t have one*.

So then, what does one write about with the blog and the block and the lack of funny?

If only I had a small child who said such hilarious things that I could basically topple Bill Cosby’s Kids Say the Darnedest Things


So, we’re at the Griffins game and there’s a very vocal guy sitting a few seats over from us that is just screaming bloody murder at the ice. I bet he and I could be friends.

Boo is watching the game but is totally distracted by this guy yelling. “Mommy, he’s loud.

“I know,” I tell him. “It’s okay. You know you can be loud at the hockey game.”

Boo proceeds to let out a shriek that ‘s rather reminiscint of a hungry pterodacytl.

“Not that loud,” I remind him. “We don’t need to break the sound barrier.

At that moment, the Griffins do something good and the very vocal guy lets out a cheer. “Griiiiiiiiiii-fffffffffons!”

“MOMMY.” Boo is very upset by this. “MOMMY, HE BROKE THE SOUND BARRIER.”

I shake my head, but Boo cannot be disuaded


“No, buddy, he said ‘Griffins,’ he’s on our team-



At this point Boo leans around me to the guy. “YOU CHEER FOR THE GRIFFINS. WE ARE CHEERING FOR THE GRIFFINS!

I don’t know where he gets this super fandom from.

Oh, and also:

Boo: Mommy, what are you doing?

Me: Mommy forgot how to be funny, BooBoo

Boo: Don’t worry. When you grow up, you can be funny like me.

Well, thanks, Bud.

*The Red Wings scored a PPG as I was writing this blog. RELIEVED FACE HERE.
And seriously. No idea where my kid gets the hockey love from.

Violence isn’t really supposed to be funny.

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?

Me: You should really read funny people more.


Screenshot from

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.

ERMAHGERD, awards and things.

 I posted already this week, about thighs and stuff, having nothing to do with chicken, and everything to do with biking. And baseball, and excuses, and this dance where Boo thrusts and yells things. And I was going to call it good for posting on the week, even though I probably owe you guys two weeks of posts. They’re coming.


Then I got on twitter this morning, and was all sorts of tired and just going to complain all day like I normally do on Mondays. Even though it’s Friday. I can still complain on Fridays, right??

But today was different. @doitalone, the lovely Stephanie from over at, had done one of those award things. And given it to me.

I don’t know how much you’ve paid attention to the blog, but I don’t win things often. There was that weird period of time where people kept letting me win stuff and then the universe imploded because it didn’t know what to do with itself. Because normally, I don’t win. I’m just there. When I was in 8th grade, and they did the class awards, I won Quietest Girl. Which was basically codename for we’ve run out of the good awards and this is what’s left.

I got “participation” awards more than “excelling” awards. People don’t really applaud you for just showing up. They just hand you a run of the mill Microsoft Published Certificate where they may have even spelled your name wrong after teaching you for the past nine years.


But anyway. Stephanie passed this award on, and since I think it’s the first one we’ve gotten, I’m going to even [mostly] follow the rules of it. And you guys get another post, yay!

The rules for The Liebster Award are as follows:

  • Each person must post 11 things about themselves.
  • Answer the questions the person giving the award has sent you.
  • Create 11 questions for the people you will be giving the award to.
  • Choose 11 people to award and send them the link to your post. Go to their page and tell them.
  • No tag backs.

I’m going to count the little section where school didn’t love me enough to give me awards and/or I didn’t try hard enough to get awards as the 11 facts about me. If you need more facts, check out the about me page. It’s been there awhile. There’s probably 10 other facts there.

As for the questions Stephanie posed for us (thanks for only doing 4 :))

1.  What is your favorite song?  And what memory do you think about every time you hear it?

My favorite song is by The Beatles. Blackbird. It’s been my favorite song by them ever since I got the White Album on LP when I was younger. The memory that I end up associating with it is more a person than a specific memory — one of my close friends from my freshman year of college was also a big fan of the Beatles and when he found out that Blackbird was my favorite song, he learned it for me. I can still picture him coming up to me in the dorm hall to play it for me.  Every time I hear that song, I think of him. Even a few years after this, when he and I ended up hanging out again, I think of him and this song. I even wrote a post about it.

2.  Tell me the story of your first love, and how it ended.

My first love — what I thought was love — was when I was in 7th grade. I mailed the guy I like a letter (writing letters even back then) telling him I like him, and he asked me to skate at the next skating party. We skated to Aerosmith’s Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing. I was smitten. I fell head over heels into puppy love. We dated for a few months, which seemed like a lifetime in middle school days. Then he broke up with me because he told me his mom heard me swearing on the playground and didn’t like that. And I cried. A lot. And listened to Vertical Horizon on repeat for the next month or so. I guess I’ll never know why we really broke up — but I get to tell people that my first kiss was in the entrance way of a church. Which is so awkward that it’s awesome.

3.  Everyone has lost a friend in their life, which friend have you lost that you most regret?  How did you lose them?  Why do you regret it?

There was a period of time where I worked at Macy’s — terrible job, great people to work with. And I became really close with my friend MacyShe and I played soccer together, worked together, went out together, went to our first Red Wings game together. We were incredibly close. She got an opportunity for herself out of state — and ended up leaving for a few months. While she was gone, obviously she and I both changed, grew,  made new friends, etc. But when she came back, and things were different, we ended up having a falling out —

After awhile, we ended up reconnecting and making up, but I regret that I didn’t step up and figure things out when she first returned. I lost that period of time having her as a friend, and I wish that I could take that back.

4.  If you could go back in time and change one moment in your life in the last six months – what would it be and why?  What do you want the outcome to be?

…I had a drunk night last month. It didn’t end well. I’m not sure why. I’d take that back. Whatever I did, I’d take it back. Thanks, dollar beers.

Now…questions for who I’m tagging:

1. What made you start to blog? What’s your favorite topic to write about?

2. What is your dream occupation if you could anything regardless of money or time?

3. Innie or Outie?

4. What is your go-to song right now that you probably have on repeat on your iPod?

TaGGiNG: Erin, The Confederacy of Spinsters (any or all), Matthew, and Lina.

IN CONCLUSION. Everyone go thank Stephanie for giving you more reading material here.

This is a little bit like Sex Ed. If I went to Public School.

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?”

Locked and Loaded.

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.”

Complete with Condiments.

“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?”

Sweater courtesy of “Winter Fun Barbie”

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:<

Enjoy that. Then follow us and our twatter community on Twitter.