18 November 2011

Robbing Banks and Fire Fight Proof Tables

JT said I could borrow his tables. Eight foot banquet tables that I thought were plastic. 

They were not. 

They were mostly steel and partially osmium I think. They were also covered in plywood and then in particle board and then encased in cement, probably. 

Since I thought they were plastic? I took one guy to help me move them. One old guy to be more clear. One old guy that we have since discovered is using a mere 30% of his lung capacity. No shit. 

So... I arrive to pick up Old Guy at ten, a full hour late and we speed to the storage unit, thinking this would take us just a few moments and then I could be on time to help my mom set up for my daughter's birthday party. 

Since I have obviously pissed Karma off in some major way, the storage company has decided that this is the perfect time to seal the blacktop on their parking lot, making it impossible to drive to the unit. Instead, the owner tells me that I can park by the road, walk to the unit, carry the tables and forty chairs across the yard and LIFT THEM ALL OVER THE FENCE. 

Still thinking that they were plastic, I agreed. 

This is where Krissy's absurdity becomes Krissy's stupidity. 

We open the unit, lift a single table out and carry it as far as across the little street to the grass before setting it down and declaring our ineptness in the table carrying department. 

A lightbulb positively explodes in the air over my head and I decide to go and recruit more man-help. D and T agree to help, seem eager even to assist. They are maybe winking at each other and calling me a wuss telepathically. I do not mind becuase they are unaware of the osmium filling inside of the steel/cement/plywood/particle board/ heavier than shit/and in no way should be mistaken as an actual table/ tables. They can laugh now. 

While I was recruiting man-help, Old Guy has been unloading chairs from the storage unit and piling them by the single table we managed to remove from the unit. By the time we get back, he is sitting on a four-wheeler thingy with the owner of the place, catching his breath with a cigarette. 
No shit.

T and D spend a ridiculously small amount of time securing the tables in the truck and piling folding chairs on top of them.

This seems sensible until we realize that the tailgate will not close. A bungee cord is magically produced, probably from the truck but maybe from one of our asses. It doesn't actually do anything to secure the load, but it makes us feel more secure. 

T has to drive because he is 8 feet tall (approximately). D rides shotgun and Old Guy folds himself up in the middle seat, looking mostly like a midget between T and D... who are mostly giants... compared to me anyway. 

In my hurry to secure man-help, I forgot that the truck only seats three people. So, I tuck myself under the dash and cuddle up with D's knee and tennis shoes. We are probably bonding right about now. 

We are taking backroads, in an effort to not hit anyone with a random steel chair on the highway. It's sensible, but I am so late. My  mom is going to kill me. Apparently, one never really outgrows fear of the mother.

I mention this aloud, and declare that I am all kinds of wound up now.

D ponders. He decides that I should tell my mom that I was going so damn fast that I couldn't catch up to me and that's why I am late.

T proclaims with all of the gusto one would expect in such a situation, "GREAT SCOTT!!!"

Old Guy looks scared and T giggles.

"Holy Shit! Something about a flux copasitor." Which I assume to be a reference to Back to the Future... but again it's hard to tell with that guy. 

It is about this time that two of the chairs fly out of the back of the truck. We debate not stopping, but then, since we didn't hit anyone with the chairs, we stop to get them. 

D thinks that right now would be a perfect time to rob a bank. Since I must look confused D explains that we are now bullet proof, at least from the back because we have a shit ton of steel back there. 

I tell them I would love to rob a bank with them, unfortunately, my mother is absolutely going to murder me if I am any later than I already am. 

T makes the observation that in the event of a fire fight at the benefit that we are borrowing the tables for, he will simply flip the table and hide behind it. 

I wonder if I would be able to flip the table. Probably not. Now, my mom is going to kill me and I am probably also going to die in the event of a fire fight under one of these tables. 

Karma hates me.

07 November 2011

Confederate Pirates and Hot Dogs

M was very sad. She was crying and trying not to. She was in severe emotional distress over that freaking Hallmark commercial. I think we maybe should sue those people.

She did not want me to hug her, because hugging makes people cry harder. I understood, but hugged her anyway. Because as much as I like to ignore my feelings I have been reading a lot of psychology these days, and it is probably unhealthy to bottle all of these things up inside. So, being absolutely ridiculously hammered (allegedly) is the perfect excuse to just go ahead and let it all out!

M disagrees. She thinks she should go out in her car and have a private moment. I think that is a horrible idea. We are all sitting in my room, trying our best not to disturb the sleeping children and babysitter.

M wonders if I have any beer in the fidge. I offer her T's left over beer, because I am all kinds of generous like that. T nods. He is not drunk. Someday? I will be the sober person in these stories.

M goes to the kitchen and returns hugging every single bottle of everything alcoholic that was in the fridge. Two bottles of Coors, an open bottle of wine stuff that was left over from the painting adventure, and a half a bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum.

I do not drink rum. M does not drink rum. T does not drink rum. Only pirates drink rum. So, we decide that we are going to have to be pirates and we pass the bottle around. T says "arhgg" after every sentence, which I attempt only once because it is much much cooler when T says it. There is some talk of burying treasure in the backyard that never comes to fruition because Sailor Jerry's rum is fucking 90-some proof and one can not dig holes and draw treasure maps when the room is spinning.

Also? Tragically? None of us have any treasure to bury except a now empty bottle of Sailor Jerry's rum.

I am having a difficult time understanding the conversation, quite suddenly really. I am babbling about how I am someday going to be able to say "holy shit" with the same conviction T can, M is babbling something about being a mermaid and having pearls or some shit when she decides all of a sudden that she will probably die if she does not have a hot dog. Right now.

I am still babbling about maybe being a stripper like T when I grow up, because that is obviously on the list of shit to do before one can say "holy shit" like T does.

M is not really pissed when she comes to the bedroom door and demands to know where the hot dogs are. She sounds pissed and looks pissed, but she is really just sad and trying not to cry. The effect of holding emotion in too long is that it frequently makes you look like an insane angry woman that will absolutely burn   houses down if  someone does not produce the hot dogs RIGHT-THE-FUCK-NOW.

Luckily, M finds the hot dogs and cooks them. There is then a full twenty minute conversation about how I do not want hot dogs and yes, T really only wants ketchup on his hot dog. M does not know now if they can be pirates together because she doesn't know what sort of person doesn't like mustard on their hot dogs. M wonders if she even really knows T at all.

T can only answer "arggh."

M brings the hot dog in and also the newspaper and there is a lull in conversation while they eat hot dogs and I watch the room spin in circles until M starts jumping on the bed and yelling.

"Holy shit! Robert E. Lee died yesterday." I am all kinds of confused by this. I had thought Robert E. Lee died a long time ago.

I tell M that everything I thought I knew is obviously a  lie.

T wonders if it is the real Robert E. Lee. M says that it must be, because otherwise, who the hell would name their kid Robert E. if their last name was already Lee.

I tell no one in particular that the room seems to be spinning much faster now.

T decides that if we are going to go to the funeral we are going to have to wear our Confederate uniforms. These have obviously been stored in the something room on our pirate ship for the last century or so.

I wonder out loud if maybe that would make us some kind of cross dressers.

T and M wonder if I am okay. I ask if I can wear the eye patch, since T has already claimed the peg leg. I am all lost in my own world. I ask T who is going to cut off his real leg to put on the peg leg. If no one has volunteered? I will do it. With a hammer, because I like hammers.

The conversation seems to have moved on though, and T wants to know what the hell he ever did to me to make me want to cut his leg off. I may have said something about hating him because he was beautiful before giggling hysterically and incoherently babbling about saying "holy shit" in a sleepless stripper accent.

29 October 2011

Leg Wrestling, Bar Dancing and Shoulder Rides

I feel the need to stress that my friends and I are not entirely deranged alcoholics. While I do tend to go out of my way on this blog to make us sound entirely mentally unstable... the truth of the matter is that we all tend to process our emotions in ridiculous ways... which most often leads to absurdity and hilarity...and also binge drinking. So...we are actually deranged binge drinkers... 'cause, you know, alcoholics go to meetings and stuff. 

There has been a shit storm of epic proportions around here lately. Life? Is all kinds of fucked up right now. Since I am all about healthy expression of emotions, I have been bottling all of these things up inside of me until they have reached critical mass and I am forced to deal with them... generally through tequila. 

M? Was in a state of emotional crisis. She almost mostly cried and then didn't. I think it was that commercial that got to her.. you know the starving foreign kids? Or possibly the one with the saddest animal faces you have ever seen, set to Sarah McLaughlin music. In any case, M was working on not processing any of her feelings as well. Only with Jager because M hates tequila.

This is where the story generally goes a bit..er..wrong. If you are my grandma or my mom? Stop reading this right now. 

We begin the evening with pool games, At some point we generally forget that we are playing pool at all and move on to playing the jukebox as a sport. This is usually where D steals the remote for the jukebox.

I don't know why or how this tradition began...but a remote-less D? 

Is all kinds of crabby. 

So he holds the remote...to everything. And he also hold the phone. 

D is a control freak.

During this particular evening, where I am bordering on a nervous breakdown and M is determined to make me giggle, a sad song comes on.

So we slow dance.

M then feels that the next logical course of action for the evening is to ask me to marry her. Touched, I tell her that of course I will marry her. She attempts to dip me. 

She is maybe just trying to get a whiff of my armpit before committing though. 

There is a small dispute about which one of us is going to wear the dress, which is, of course going to be white. This is settled by leg wrestling on the pool table.


Because there are things on the floor of that bar that can not be killed with any known anti-biotic/bacterial/fungal yet known to man. There are things growing on that floor that probably can not be killed through nuclear fall-out. 
So, of course we leg wrestle on the pool table. 
It is entirely possible that the hot ash I maybe dropped in my eye caused my leg-wrestling defeat.
Or? M cheats.

And then I lose. Because mostly?
 M cheats. 

I don't know how one could possibly cheat at leg wrestling, but that is probably why I lost.

I demand a rematch, because I look ridiculous in tuxedos. First, I have to give M another roofie though, because she is obviously developing a tolerance for the damn things.

I am distracted, however, by the next song on the jukebox which almost demands that I dance on the bar with M and A...until I spy Superman come in the building. 

I jump off the bar, sort of like a ninja, if ninjas were mostly intoxicated women with severe emotional issues, and run up to give him a hug and then demand that he allow me to give him a piggyback ride to...somewhere.

Superman declines politely and it is decided that he should instead give me a shoulder ride. 
If there are no trees available to climb? Shoulder rides for absolutely no reason are also great for distracting oneself from emotions.

To the bar. 

That is probably ten feet away from us. 

No one else in the bar wants to play chicken with me, so I get down and of course, drink more tequila. Unless my grandma and mom are still reading, in which case I got down and drank more sparkling grape juice, and went home to bed before 9pm. 


Then, I make it a point to tell every single person that I see how much I love them, whether I actually know them or not. I also hug them. I am all kinds of loving. Mostly to random strangers. And also to H. repeatedly. 

This is about the time in these evening that my car keys disappear. There is a mysterious link between me loving strangers and my keys removing themselves from my ignition and wandering away into one of my friends pockets. 

Since I am all happy and loving? I do not mind.

M remembers that we are supposed to have a rematch... but the way she is looking at me? I think her intention is to kiss me.

It may not have been, but when I inform her that I will not make out with her in public? It becomes her intention. I yell that I need a grown up and something about bad touch and something about saving myself for marriage while M tries to tackle me and we end up on the pool table again, somehow. 

Someone takes a picture. Both of us look absolutely hammered, although I think that was simply the timing of the flash and the shutter and probably had something to do with the planetary alignment, because being responsible adults we wouldn't have been over-indulging ourselves.

And then? H feeds us and gets us home. 

Which is sort of anti-climatic for this story I guess... but the scrambled eggs out of the microwave? 

Were all kinds of awesome.

19 October 2011

Climbing Trees and Painting Penises

I could feel the crazy in my eyes. H could see it. A could see it. I was working, being all kinds of ridiculous, desperate to not let the events of the last few days catch up to my thoughts. 

H puts his arm around my shoulder, leads me to the doorway. "Deep breath, Krissy. Deep breath. Look at that tree. Isn't that an awesome tree? That would be a great tree to climb, wouldn't it?" It would be. H knows I like to climb trees, especially when life is overwhelming. I refuse to analyze why that is. I feel a moment of peace standing there, staring at the tree. Tears come to my eyes and I go back to my work, forcing all the crazy thoughts out of my head.

Later? After work, A says that I seem to be a bit manic. I am. I am running as fast and far as my mind will let me. I decide to paint. Paint everything I can.

I walk in the door with four gallons of clearance sale paint and a few rollers. M looks scared. M looks like she maybe wants to take me to the hospital and admit me with Husband.

"Hi? How was work?" She asks me, hesitantly.

"Fine. I'm painting. You want to paint?" M stares at me, she is all kinds of worried.

"Um. Well, do you want to talk or something?" She asks.

"Nope." Because there are tears coming again. "No talking. I am painting."

"Okay, well, uh. I am gonna run to McDonald's. I'll be right back, are you gonna be okay?"

"Fine. I'm fine. Just painting." I am smiling, but from the expression on M's face, I suspect it has a sort of terrifying effect. She leaves. I start to paint. No tape. No prep work. I cut in around the room.

When M returns I am all into painting. I have cut in around the room, painted as much of myself as I have the room, and the baby has paint on his butt cheeks. No shit. M brought T with her. T looks scared too. They offer me beer, because that is how we process emotion around here.

I think that I have never seen T and M look so worried. I am attempting to make small talk, aware that my voice is an octave or two too high, so I stop. I focus on painting.

"Krissy? Have you eaten today?" M asks me.

"Yep. Ate tacos. At work." They don't believe me. M texts H to confirm, then texts A also, just in case H is lying for me. 

Satisfied that I have in fact eaten that day, we are all drinking beer and talking about M's drama. Because I like other people's drama more than my own. M suggests that we should make boob prints with the paint. T says he will leave the room. We do not make boob prints, although I think it would have been awesome. I go to pee. When I return, T has painted a stick figure on my wall. A stick figure with gigantic boobs. M has painted a penis. I love these guys. 

They are narrating their actions, anticipating the blog entry. .."And then T, the sleepless stripper..." Says T, and I collapse into giggles that almost become tears. I jump up and roll the wall, considered leaving the stick figure and penis, but then decided the kids may be damaged by them. I was sorry to roll over them. 

At some point, my legs threatened to give out. I had been running on adrenaline for too long I guess, and my body was tired, even if my mind was not. T and M were scared again. They got all kinds of serious.

"For fuck's sake, guys... this is like an episode of Friends." I tell them.

T tells me to sit. "You know, even if you think your mind can take a lot more stress, at some point, your body can not. You have to stop, rest." 

Tears in my eyes again. God damn it!

"Really, Krissy. If you don't stop, you are going to hurt yourself. Listen to your body, before you end up in the damn hospital." 

"Pshaw. Like I am going to take advise from T the sleepless stripper!" But I know that he is right. I have never felt so awful in my life. My legs refuse to do what I want them to, my hands are shaking, my head is pounding and I think maybe the bugs I am seeing are not entirely real....There is a feeling that I will simply explode if there is anymore stress piled on top of me.

I agree to sleep. They do not believe me. They stay until I am sleeping, they drink beer in the living room and I am comforted by their presence. T is gone when I wake up in the morning, M is sleeping on the couch. 

I realize, quite suddenly, that I have the best friends in the entire world. Truly. 

I love you guys.

04 October 2011

Butterflies, Canadians and Puppas

This is not my absurdity. Not really, although I may have contributed in some way to the course of events... I did not actually roofie M, no matter what she says.

It is against the law to serve liquor to an intoxicated person. So probably M was just very tired when she decided to curl herself up inside of her sweatshirt and take a nap in my van until closing time. I am reasonably sure that I told her to turn the heat on if she got cold. She did not. She made herself a cocoon of sweatshirt.

After closing the bar and doing most of what I was supposed to do at the end of the night, T and I walked toward the van. He commented that M had build herself a cocoon and said goodnight to us. And then he abruptly abandoned me with M. Asshole.

"Ha!" M slurs at me. "A cocoon." She laughs. "Cocoons are fucking creepy." 

I snicker.

"No, really. Everyone is all 'ohh, look at the pretty butterfly. Everyone loves butterflies. I do not love butterflies. I think they are creepy. I think the fact that they go in a worm and come out a butterfly is disturbing." I am giggling now. M is not. M is serious.

"In fact, right after I lay a cuppa out of my ass, or where ever it comes from, I am going to tell everyone about this butterfly thing."

I snort. I can't help it. I have no idea what  a cuppa is or how it found itself in M's ass.

"A cuppa? In your ass?"

"Right, Krissy. As soon as I get Cuba out of my ass..." M giggles. "Cuba."

My stomach is aching from laughing at, with her. "Cuba."

M stares at me like I have lost my damn mind. "Uh. Krissy. They are called PUPAS, not cuppas and certainly not Cubas." Which only makes me laugh harder because her tone implies that I am a drooling idiot.

"In any case, I do not know about these butterflies. I mean, really, it's fucking creepy. It would be like if we went into a cocoon and then came out a dog."

I am struggling to imagine the comparison here. "A dog? Cuba?" I ask her, because I really love screwing with drunk people. 

"Right! And what about those Canadians? Huh? What's up with them?" 

And right there... she lost me.

"Canadians M?" 

"Yeah, sitting up there, in caves I think, going out of their way to make my life more difficult."

"I see." I say, because I have nothing to pull out of my ass on this one.

"They keep telling me to 'shh'. But I am not ready to 'shh'." I had no idea M was delusional.

"You know, H hates Canadians also. He got kicked out of Canada for like ten years or something."

"Whoa!" M is all mad at Canada now. " Kicked out of Canada! Who the hell cares, I mean really. It would suck to be kicked out of, like, Italy. Or even Ireland. But Canada? Who the hell even wants to go there. It's cold and snowy and shitty, and you can't come in. Well hell. Big deal. Who the hell wants to go to Canada anyway."

I am almost afraid to tell her that my grandma was Canadian. Instead, I ask her if they have butterflies in Canada. It seems to be a safer course of conversation. 

"Agh. Butterflies. Have I mentioned that I really hate butterflies? Ohh. Do you still have pizza? Can I have some pizza? I will be all quiet and shit."

21 September 2011

There Will Be No Spelunking Here

My friend H? He knows me better than I know me sometimes. So, when I told him the other day that I was going to go back down to Southern Indiana to see those damn caves, his first question was:

"Why Krissy? What's up your ass?"

This loosely translates to What's the matter Krissy? Why are we running away?

It is a logical question if you know me, but this time, I just wanted to ride the bike. No running. No hiding.

"Nothing H. Why? Am I sitting funny?" I ask him as K and D walk in the door.

"Why would you be sitting funny Krissy?" D asks me.

"I don't know. H thinks there is something in my butt."

K giggles. "We are going... spelunking."

"What! No. No, K. We are absolutely not going spelunking. I don't want to go in the caves, just see the caves. I am not big on underground."

D laughs as well. "No. Not the caves Krissy. We are going to go spelunking and see what it is in your ass."

This does not sound appealing to me, but it paints a hell of a mental image in my head. 

I say nothing. They say lots.

"We will have to get gear." D says as H walks away.

"Yeah, we should probably leave bread crumbs in case we get lost." K says so matter of factly that I get caught up in the conversation despite myself. 

"Ahem. There are no breadcrumbs silly. They would get eaten by animals or covered in guapo or something. Probably just have to run a cord to the entrance." Because, for an instant I have forgotten that we are talking about my ass. 

D and K snicker and M joins in. " Holy shit, you have bats in your ass?" M asked right as H walked around the corner. H looks puzzled and turns around without speaking a word.

"See what you started H?" I yell after him, "Now they think they are going to go spelunking in my ass. Which is preposterous really. I mean, I don't even have an ass. They are not going to fit. Plus, they want to take a canary in with them, something about deadly gases. I do not want a canary in my asscave."

"We have to take a canary with us. Otherwise? We might die." D does not want to die in my ass.

"Oh right, I remember now. Like that one time... when they had to send a rescue mission in to K's asscave... thought that was a collapse though."

D is smart. D can switch directions without stumbling at all. "Nope." He says, all kinds of serious. "They didn't have a canary, remember?"

I laugh. K crinkles his forehead up.

"Hey, Krissy. What the hell? How did we go from your ass to my ass."

I shrug and smile and extract myself from the conversation while D goes on and on about the Chinese miners that are maybe dead in K's asscave. 

16 September 2011

Lighting Fires and Running Amok

 My friends came to see me at the bar the other night. They were probably already a bit intoxicated. Okay, two of them were hammered. One of them was semi-sober.

"Hey, Man." Said a random stranger, "Is that hotel across the street as nasty as I think it is?"

D considered for a moment, then worked up an astonished expression. "Holy shit Man! Did you just proposition me?"

Random Stranger stammers and slurs a little. He has quite obviously been to another bar as well. 

"Uh. No. I. Just. I was wondering if it is nasty."

And D is off and running.

He bats his eyes a tiny bit, not overtly, but I notice so I am guessing RS notices as well.

"Well. How nasty do you want it to be?" His voice is all husky and shit. 

Holy shit.
If I'd have been drinking I would have shot it out of my nose.

RS finishes his beer and consults his smartphone for more detailed reviews of the roach motel. I go about my work, pretending I do not know D, M or T.

T is out of it. Probably not drunk, but definitely not too sober. He has also been awake for way too long. T is a stripper. Strippers do not sleep. They practice sleep deprivation as a hobby, I think.

M is very quiet. She feels the need to behave herself in public today. I'm not sure why.
She may have even blushed when the subject of her sniffing armpits was discussed.

"Well hell, I do not just like to smell anyone's armpits. I just like the way that deodorant smells on some people."

"T. What ever you do, walk with your arms at your sides at all times." D tells T.

M is offended. Or pretends to be."Ahem. I would not smell T's armpits uninvited. I would smell your's though. Because you obviously have slutty armpits."


The armpits were asking for it. They said no... but really they wanted to be sniffed. I wonder if M could be prosecuted for assault or something. 

At the slutty armpit remark, T speaks for the first time that evening. "Holy. Shit." It does not seem profound, but it encompassed every emotion that he has ever had. I think. It is hard to tell sometimes with that guy.

Either he said "Holy shit" with conviction, or he smelled something really bad, or his beer was warm. Something like that.

Anyhow, after a few moments of unnatural silence, D pops in with" Sooo, now what?"

"Now? Now we are going to light shit on fire D." I tell him. When I say this to people, most of them understand right away that I am not talking about real fires. I am mostly talking about metaphorical fires.

"K. Where are the fire extinguishers then?" D asks while M tries to nonchalantly sniff T's deodorant. She waves her hand, attempting to waft in the smell of T's armpits.

"D. I though you understood that to mean metaphorical fires."

D sighs. I think he is maybe having a bad day. " Normally, yes. Today, I am thinking real fires. So, lets collect the fire extinguishers."

I say nothing, because sometimes I am not sure whether D is joking or not, and I don't really want to be an accessory to arson.

 Finally, M asks why the fire extinguishers need to be collected. She has probably missed part of the conversation while enraptured with the scent of Gillette solid. 

"Because, duh. If we are going to light some fires in here, I'll be damned if anyone is going to come along and just put them out and ruin all of our hard work."

T sort of laughs. Again, it's hard to tell; he could have been growling. M could have been tickling his armpits with her nose. 

"We are running... Amok. Amok. Amok. Amok." T says, grinning. 

I love these guys.

They make me feel so normal.

12 September 2011

Flying Monkeys, Homosexual Scarf Wearing Dogs, and Firearms

There is a apparently, a cartoon in which a dog comes home wearing a pink handkerchief around it's neck. I believe it is Southpark. M and T have seen this. I have not. So when T asks, "Where do you keep getting that damn scarf?" to no one in particular, I look perplexed. I wonder if he is talking to me.

They finally tire of my totally lost expression and explain the scarf to me. In the show, the dog comes home wearing a pink scarf - because the dog is gay M explained - and the owner continually takes the scarf off the dog and throws it on the ground, only to ask the dog the same question minutes later in the show. 

Hmm. "Well, obviously, T, that is ridiculous. The dog? Does not have thumbs. How would the dog tie the scarf on itself. Thumbs are essential in knot tying."

T blinks. 
M blinks. 
K snickers.

"Krissy? It's a freaking cartoon. It doesn't have to be realistic. That's like asking how the hell a monkey could fly a space rocket from the ocean to the moon..."

"T? Monkeys can fly spaceships. Know why? Because monkeys have thumbs. Obviously. And they are smart. In fact, they are pretty damn creepy. Not the real ones so much as the stuffed ones. Especially the ones with cymbals and also the see-no-hear-no-speak-no-evil ones." 

"Monkeys are not all that creepy." K throws in from the peanut gallery.

"Monkeys are creepy. Especially the flying ones in the Wizard of Oz movie." 

M agrees. "Know what really bothers me about those monkeys? They wear clothes. And also the stupid hats. I mean, if I were a flying monkey, my hat would be all blown around on my head. Those hats though, just stay right on top of the monkey heads. It's... odd. I would not dress my flying monkeys up in stupid hats and creepy uniforms."

T wonders out loud why the monkeys are creepier to us than the green woman on the broom.  I explain that we can quite obviously relate to the green bitchy lady. 

He then wonders out loud how one would go about teaching a monkey to fly.

"Probably, you would just have to do it like when you teach a kid to swim. Just throw it off a seven story building."

 T has fucking issues.

We are silent for a moment.

"And then you just hope there is a pond or something under the building to catch the kid." Says K.

"No," says T. "We throw the monkeys off of the building, to see if they can fly. If they can't? Then I would have to go back down at get another monkey, and another one..."

"Well, I would personally just take all of the monkeys up at one time, so as not to make so many trips up the seven story building." M says.

We are all kinds of serious. "I agree, but then, you know, we think ahead like that T. It is probably just part of being girls. We are all logical and shit."

T ignores our superb planning skills. "Then I think I would have to keep going to the flying monkey store and buying more monkeys. There is possibly a limit to how many flying monkeys one can purchase."

I roll my eyes at T. "You can not buy a flying monkey T. Obviously, they do not exist, so there would have to  be some genetic engineering going on. You would have to build a laboratory and then start engineering genes. Which is scary. They would be hybrids. Hybrids? Can not breed."

T thinks I am taking the fun out of things. 

At this point, for some reason, K is sitting on the couch, one arm held high over his head. I realize suddenly that no one seems to have shared with K the fact that M is crazy about armpits. So, I scream of course. I am saving his life, and also probably his innocence. 

"For the love of God K, put your arm down... M has this thing for armpits. She could maybe possibly molest you if you allow her to catch the scent of your armpits."

K promises to lock his door when he goes to bed. He says he will sleep with an eye open. He does not seem to be overly concerned that he may be molested in his sleep now that M has noticed the appeal of his deodorant.

T? Glances at us, visibly disturbed by this turn in the conversation.

"Bro? Sleep with a fucking handgun tonight." 

This coming from the crazed flying monkey murderer.

06 September 2011

Anal Raping Mud Bugs

T and I were in a very involved conversation. For once, there were no jokes, no funny things. For something like four hours.

Outside, at the campfire, M and D were having their own very involved surreal conversation about mud daubers. 

As T and I walked from the back door toward the fire, we heard only, "I don't know what a 'mud dauber' is, but I am pretty sure it was an anal raping mud bug."

T stopped for a second.

I stopped for a second.

Then of course, there was really no option but to continue on toward the fire. D was explaining to the four or five people gathered at the fire that the bug had broken down his door and came straight for him, in what was obviously an attempt of man-rape. I have not been drinking, so I can not really fathom where this conversation could have possibly originated. 

"Anal raping mud bug D? Truly?"

D is not joking. He does not smile. He tells me that the bug's penis was quite obviously pointing at him. He tells me that the three of them, D, B and some midget looking dude were in the camper, getting something or another ready for some reason, and the mud dauber had flown in through the open door. 

They saw it, the three of them. Apparently, even though midget dude claims to have seen one before and knows what it is, he is scrunched up in a corner... quivering and rocking back and forth. He may have also been sobbing.

B? He is apparently the smartest of the three. He darts around the flying penis bug and runs. Just hightails it out of the vicinity, leaving D to fight the bug alone. 

"Hey! I thought we were supposed to be bros Man!" D screams through the open door while flailing at the bug wildly. I have heard a rumor that he screamed like a girl, and tried to run away. 

At this point in the story, my skeptisism must be easily read in my expression, because D tries to justify his terror.

"Krissy. It had a gun. It tried to rape me. I feel violated."

Midget Guy throws his two cents in, "Haven't you ever heard of a mud dauber?" Oddly, he says nothing about the mud daubers propensity for anal rape.

D goes on to claim that the mud bug was wearing armor, quite possibly a bat suit. He assures me that they are  indestructible and therefore must be intent on anal rape. A logical conclusion, I think.


Someone should do something about this I think. There should probably be a study conducted.  So in the interest of protecting my friends, I have armed myself with information obtained from google.com.

Mud daubers are freaking scary looking. Their ass ends hand down while they are flying, which I am assuming is what the guys took to be the penis.

There is no information or statistics available regarding sexual deviance in this species of wasp.

01 September 2011

Meeting New People

I have quite a few little phrases that I pass out to random people on a regular basis. Sometimes, though, after a certain amount of alcohol has entered my system? I proceed to run all of my phrases together in a not so logical monologue. To strangers. Because they are way more fun to mess with than people that already know me. Also, I tend to talk way too fast and forget to breathe during this speech. 

"Hi! How are ya? I'm Krissy, by the way."

At which point said stranger generally asks me how I am doing.

"I am all kinds of awesome. And also modest. Ha! I love me. I love me. I'm the best I ever had! I learned that from my Daddy, you know. Which sounds pretty fucked up doesn't it? It wasn't though. It was mostly indirect. Because my brother actually learned it from my Daddy and then told  me about it. 

 I am not a bad girl you know? I still have the box that the cherry came in. I learned that one from my brother, who may have learned it from my daddy, but I am not for sure. Jeez that sounds fucked up too, huh? Maybe I should tell people that I learned these things from people that are not related to me. The cherry thing? I didn't even get that joke until just a few years ago. 


My cousin used to call me a two cent slut, which I also didn't get for the longest time. 

Know what that is? It's brain sucker. Know what it's doing? Ha! It's starving to death. That's from my daddy again. I didn't really get it until I was sixteen or so. Sorry. I should maybe not go around just squeezing people's heads. Especially people I don't even know. That's sort of rude, huh? I will do it from over here. See? Now, I am just squishing your head. Squishy head. Ha! Squishy is a funny word. Always makes me giggle. And also? The word waterhead makes me giggle. Its wrong and I am certainly going to go to hell for it. But really, it does. 

I know I shouldn't laugh, because water on the brain is very serious, nothing funny at all about it. But the term waterhead? Gets me every time. Also window-licker. Makes me laugh I mean. I certainly didn't mean that you are a window-licker. That would be even more rude than touching your head. 

I tried to binge drink one time. Which is, apparently, not something that one can just leap right into. You have to work your way up to binge drinking probably. And also? You should not eat while you are attempting binge drinking because it just makes you want to go to bed. Which makes you a quitter, and no one likes a quitter. 

Did I mention that I am probably going to be a cowboy when I grow up?Or possibly a ninja. I am still mostly undecided. Kind of a toss up. If I had a horse already? I would just run with the whole cowboy thing. But I don't. I would have to buy a horse. I should probably just be a ninja. Less start up cost that way, right? Plus, I would have to feed the horse, and to be honest, sometimes I forget to feed myself. And also I killed a cactus one time. Anyone that kills a cactus should probably not be allowed to have a live horse. Which is not to say that I would like a dead horse. Who would want a dead horse? Of course then I wouldn't have to worry about feeding it... something to think about I guess.

My friend H? He pokes me in the arm all the time, not like hard or anything. It' mostly a joke. But I think it would be a funnier joke if we go some other bar where we don't know anyone.. and poke random strangers. In the arm I mean, poke them in the arm like H does. Want to? 

Like right now, let's go to a bar and poke people. Not a strip club though, you are not supposed to touch the strippers I think. I do not have very much knowledge of strip clubs, but I am pretty sure you get thrown out for poking strippers. And possibly you even go to jail. That would be a stupid thing to go to jail for wouldn't it? I'd have to lie. I'd be all embarrassed to be in jail for poking people in the arm. Like, 'hey what are you in for Krissy?' Then I'd have to say manslaughter or something equally intimidating.

So...anyway? How is your day going?"

31 August 2011

Spandex, Cooties, Vagina Monologues and Superheroes

This is quite obviously my super hero alter ego, Violent
Mom. Nothing to do with vaginas mind you. Nothing at
all. I should be wearing a cape, but I am, tragically,
artistically challenged in the cape drawing department.
"No Gabba Gabba, C. Yo Gabba Gabba makes Mommy feel violent, okay?" I tell my middle kid, who giggles.

"I just love you violent Mommy." She tells me. I doubt she is grasping the true meaning of violent, but it makes me giggle.

It also makes me ponder becoming a superhero. 

If I was going to be a superhero, my superhero name would be Violent Mom. 

Totally out of the blue, I relay this fact to Husband.

"I am going to be a superhero, you know. My super hero name is going to be Violent Mom. I am going to have to buy Spandex. And a cape. And some hot pink iron on letters."

A? Goes with the flow. Because probably his meds are kicking in right about now, and he is able to follow the course of the conversation with more ease that normal. "Right. Spandex?"

"Because, obviously, one has to wear spandex if one is to be a superhero. I could probably wear sweatpants, but then all of the other heroes are going to laugh at me. Then I will have to put vee and em on the front of my shirt."

"Vee? Em?"

"Right. For Violent Mom. I wonder if the Vagina Monologues already own that logo. Well, probably they won't sue a superhero, right?"

"What are the Vagina Monologues?" A asks, slurring slightly as the sleeping pill kicks in.

"A play, I think. Something about monologues. And vaginas." I am all sophisticated sounding. I actually have no idea what the Vagina Monologues are, but I saw them mentioned on facebook.

"Are they puppets?" A asks with complete sincerity.

"I should think not, A. I mean, giant talking vagina puppets would be, just, disturbing. And they are certainly not real talking vaginas. Vaginas? Do not talk. Unless they do, in which case, you are probably on acid."

The mental image in my head? Is beyond disturbing, people. 

A is high, I think. From the meds, which actually can't get you high, but anyhow...

"Hey. Are they going to be short spandex or pants spandex?" He asks. He is all serious. His mental image? Probably not as disturbing.

"Obviously they will have to be pants. Because I have these ridiculous chicken legs, and I hardly think a superhero with chicken legs will intimidate bad guys." I really truly do not think that I could intimidate anyone in spandex.

A rolls over to lay half on top of me. "Hey, guess what?"


"I am touching you. That means you probably have cooties now. What are cooties anyway?" Oh yeah, the meds are working full blast now.

"I am not sure. They are way contagious though. I think they are probably amoeba-ish. Super contagious. Super. So, they probably wear spandex too." I only say this, because the word "super" anything is somehow inextricably linked to spandex in my brain.

"So do germs wear spandex then too?" A asks in all kinds of a serious voice. 

"That is utterly ridiculous A. They do not make spandex that small. I mean really." I sit up, pushing my half sleeping husband off of my back roughly. "A? How the Hell does this happen? Why are we talking about cooties and vaginas and spandex? I mean, I can see a connection between these things.. sort of. But where the hell did this conversation go so wrong? Also, if I am going to be a superhero, I will probably have to go get some shiny hooker boots. Which sort of sucks, because after walking around in hooker boots, I feel so incredibly sorry for hookers. Those things, make my legs and ass and back hurt." 

A eyes are getting droppy. "

"Truly? Do you think that hooker boots are a requirement for being a hooker? Also? Hooker boots will definitely help cover up my chicken legs. I do not want to be associated with a chicken. Certainly not. Especially in Porter country Indiana, they do not joke about chickens out here. One guy? Fucked a chicken. Killed it. Got ten years in prison." 

This is quite possibly the seventh billionth million time I have told my husband the story of the man that  tried to have sexual relations with a chicken in a motel room in my home town.

Sick bastard. 

"That's kinda messed up, ain't it. Not that he shouldn't have done ten years... but you can molest a kid out here and get a year of unsupervised probation. Fuck a chicken though, that really doesn't even have a brain mostly? They might actually give you the chair. For a chicken. What the hell does that say about our society?" I only ask this because, as you all know, I am deeply socially concerned. 


And shit.

A? Has no words of wisdom. He has no idea, at least I am assuming... unless his snores are a code that I am supposed to decipher. 

30 August 2011

The Psychology of Donkey Sex

The conversation probably started out innocently enough. In fact it probably started with the fact that I want to be a cowboy when I grow up.

"A cowboy? Don't you mean a cowgirl, Krissy?" T. asks .

"Absolutely not, T. Cowgirls have to do laundry and cook and stuff. I suck at all that. So, I am gonna be a cowboy when I grow up. Except, horses seem to hate me. So, I'll have to get a donkey. Can you still be a cowboy if you ride a donkey? Probably I will have to move to Mexico and be a cowboy. Mexican cowboys ride donkeys, right?" 

T. ponders. M ponders. I am not pondering. Not really.

"They have donkey shows in Mexico." M states, because, quite obviously, the next logical course of discussion in a conversation of this depth is Mexican Bestiality. I mean, really, where else could this have possibly led?

T smirks. 
"Ohmigod!" M says, loudly. "T! You have so been to a donkey show, haven't you?" This is a logical  assumption, because T was in the Army and is therefore our expert guest in all things sexually depraved. 

T maybe actually blushes. Or the alcohol has gotten to his face. 

"Well, it's sorta like a train wreck, you know. You don't want to look, but you kinda have to. You are compelled to look, just to see if it's real. Like 'Holy shit! Is that chick really banging a donkey!?'."

M ponders. I ponder. T is not pondering. T is reminiscing.

"Only that one time though. I mean, if you go more than once to a donkey show? You have problems."

M decides that she would like to see a donkey show. Just once. But then, she would also like to talk to the donkey show lady, and possibly the donkey, if the donkey is of the speaking type. Obviously.

"Really though, T? Krissy? Do you think that the donkey that is doing the human is socially outcast from the other donkeys? That the other donkeys are all like ' Ugh. Don't even talk to Billy, he did a human' you know?"

I find myself wondering if donkey are social creatures. 
It is at this point in the evening that I decide that we are almost certainly going to Hell. That just by listening to these words, I have  almost certainly damned my eternal soul. To Hell. 

 I am fairly confident at this point that whatever forces rule the universe? If there is actually no Hell? They will probably make a Hell. Just for us three, analyzers of donkey sex. I decide that there is probably a room especially for us in the depths of Hell, with a sign probably that says, "Reserved for participants of serious donkey show conversations."

M is not done of course, she is all kinds of analytical. "I mean really, how does one even become involved in a donkey show?"

I realize that I have always wondered the same thing. I didn't know I was wondering it. It was mostly a hidden wondering that she has brought out of me. I have actually never really thought about a donkey show, but now I am. Now I want to question the donkey show lady as well. Also? If there is a Hell? M is probably the devil because I am now also all serious about the psychology of Mexican donkey sex.

 Sonofabitch, she has reeled me into the conversation. I was a detached observer, but now? I am a willing participant. Straight to Hell probably. All three of us.

"Right, M. I mean really, how does the conversation even come about? Like in a  bar? Like 'Hey, Lady. Can I buy you a beer? You know I have this awesome barn at my house. And  really, really sexy donkey. What d'ya say we go back to my place and engage in some donkey sex?'" I am giggling. Holy shit. I am gonna have to go to confession. I am not Catholic, but I probably should be going to confession anyway.

"You are both fucked up. You know that, right?" Says T. He is probably thinking about how he is now also going to go to Hell.

M snickers. "Ahem. Says the only one of us that has actually witnessed a donkey show. We merely want to know how she would find herself in the position that someone would feel comfortable asking her to do a donkey on stage. Don't you wonder why she would do such a thing, T?"

T drinks his beer. Looks at M and I like we are carnival sideshow freaks.

"No, I don't wonder. Know why? Because I am a man. As a man, I don't really think about how the situation has come about. I'm just like ' Holy shit! She is really fucking a donkey!', and then I don't think about it anymore. You guys though? Are seriously screwed up."