Painting By Number Is Harder Than It Looks,
Or
The REAL Reason Bob Saget Has A New Game Show

So. I need a DISTRACTION. Yeah. It’s that serious. Preferably one with out repercussions like loss of hearing/sight/limbs, one that doesn’t end with me vomiting Twizzlers into a bucket/open umbrella/shoe of a stranger/my mailman/Bob Saget, maybe even one that doesn’t involve Bob Saget in any way, shape, or sexual beast-like form, thanks (Right. It’s not every day that Bob Saget and “sexual beast” are used in the same sentence, but hey, I said beast like and that makes it all ok, doesn't it? Doesn't it?). But a distraction that involves time travel is totally ok. In case you know a guy who knows a guy who can hook me up. And I don’t mean “time travel” as code for “crack.” Really. Well, I haven’t completely ruled out a drug addiction, because what is more distracting than trying to sell your body or sandals or baby so you can get your next hit, and I’d probably end up with my own TV show on Bravo anyway, which would be even more distracting, what with TV schedules being the way they are and all, and maybe I’d get to meet Martin Sheen because I have a feeling he OWNS Bravo, but I also haven’t completely ruled it in yet, which is probably due to the aforementioned sandal selling thing. I mean come on! Sandals do not grow on trees.
And just who decided the slogan for Twizzlers would be “Fun you can eat!” anyway? If you are reading this THEY’RE NOT THAT FUN. And I HATE YOU. Rest assured though, I hate a lot of things.

Two Things I Hate More Than All Russian Figure Skaters Everywhere

1. Cheerios. Especially soggy pre-chewed Cheerios. Which is also reason number one on the lengthy list of Why I Should Never Be Allowed to Spawn Demon Children (Coming Soon to a theatre near you and most likely starring Julianne Moore and Haley Joel Osment, unless he is still in PRISON). Just. Disgusting.
2. Plain paper towels. Paper towels should provide some sort of intellectual stimulation. Yes. By intellectual stimulation I mean pictures of puppies and frogs and Charlie Brown cartoons. Everyone knows people who own plain paper towels are a.)Devil Worshippers, b.)Blind, or c.) Blind Devil Worshippers and Kelly Ripa should go to their houses and stab them all in the heart with her Tide to Go pen while she laughs maniacally about how she is TAKING OVER THE WORLD AND NO ONE IS NOTICING.

What? I don’t know. I don’t even know if I went to bed last night. Where the hell do I go to hire someone to stop me from killing again Making Bad Choices like watching the Two-A-Days marathon on MTV, thinking I really should take up Painting By Number or, I don't know, OPENING MY MOUTH TO SPEAK ever again? And more importantly, do you think David Caruso would take the job?

She Makes Me Cry, And Not In That OHMYGODSHE'SAMERMAID!SHELIVESUNDERTHESEA!IHOPESHEGETSTHEHANDSOMEPRINCE! Kinda Way.

Seriously. I hate The Little Mermaid.

If I Could FORRRRRGETTTTTTTT
I Wouldn't Be Having This Conversation With Myself,
And I Wouldn't Live In Fear Of A Potato Revolution.

Ok, so, seriously? If I was Julianne Moore and everyone, and when I say everyone I mean Gary Sinise, started telling me that I was crazy and my 9 year old child never existed, that he was a figment of my imagination? I would just go with it. It wouldn't take some freakish poor excuse for an alien guy shouting "You need to FORRRRRRGETTTTTTTTT" and tons of broken glass and people being sucked up into the sky right before my very eyes to make me say "Yeah, you know what, you're right, it really is unlikely that I would allow the burning hot seed of Anthony Edwards to be planted in my baby hole, even if I did have that dream that time about me being a prostitute and him paying me $2 for some lovin'. I think I'll not run around screaming SAMSAMSAMSAMSAM in the loudest, shrillest voice possible just in case SAMSAMSAMSAMSAM is not just an imaginary child, but an imaginary HEARING IMPAIRED child or, say, I don't know, a DOG and go to Vermont and make my own maple syrup instead." And that is all that I can say on that. Really.

Anyway. Back to my OhI'mjustpeelingpotatoeslalalaheywaitisthat?ohmygodthepotatoes!they'reALIVEandscreamingandPISSED dream now. Over and out.
WWDDLD?

Juicy Juice: Drink Of The Sleep Deprived
Or
Did She Just Say Anus?

Maybe I take my dead Presidents’ birthdays seriously, ok?
I cut down a cherry tree Monday. I didn’t even have to use an axe, I just flashed my pearly, bloody, Crest-y whites at the tree and it cut itself down, baby. What? I don’t know.
The latest Deathstrips symptoms include, but are not limited to, itchy toes, an incomprehensible admiration for Aaron Neville’s mole, loss of sense of smell and taste, and random profuse bleeding. Of the mouth. And ANUS. No, I kid. But really I’m not in the position to rule anything out yet, especially since I have not slept in days and today I broke down in tears when I couldn’t find a parking spot outside Starbucks, which had I actually found would have been pointless anyway since I am unable to drink coffee or any fluid other than my own (or David Schwimmer’s) saliva since my stomach swallowed itself after Day 3 of Crest’s 7 Day Plan to Rid Me of My Pesky Internal Organs. Help me.
No, don’t bother. I’m sure this is one of those Character Building Experiences I will look back on later fondly and did I mention the cherry tree cutting?

Anyway. While we’re on the subject of bodily fluids, you should know my family is breeding like rabid bunnies who heard Glenn Close was coming to town, and I feel the need to warn you because this can only mean they will run out of space in HELL soon and some of you might end up doomed to roam the floors of Target with Oprah Winfrey, Daisy Fuentes, and the cast of Saved By The Bell for all eternity. Yes. It is that bad.
Brothers #1 and #3 have both knocked up their wives, and brother #2 probably would have knocked up all of the ladies in his How Not To Drive Drunk class by now if not for the tragic accident involving brother #1 hitting him in the “berries” with his little league bat so many years ago, rendering him sterile (Seriously. You can’t make this stuff up). Hello? We are not a family that should be spreading our crazy seed.
Last weekend was my nephew’s 4th Birthday party and none of his little preschool friends showed up. After countless “Where my friends are?” and my brother and sister-in-law’s pathetic attempts to hide the truth by saying they were all sick (Ha! Like that time your prom date was “sick” and didn’t show up to pick you up and later when you convinced your mom to be your date you saw him slow dancing with that slut Mindy to “Open Arms” by Journey), I knew I had to tell my nephew the truth, that his little friends’ parents feared our family would teach their innocent children about Juicy Juice enemas and have them snorting lines of coke off the Buzz Lightyear paper tablecloth before playing a rousing game of Pin the Tail on Jonbenet Ramsey. Which is exactly what we did at my 4th birthday party! Or no, we didn't. But still. The truth is out there. And it hurts.

Yeah, not sleeping is bad, bad, bad.

In Which Leeza Gibbons Eats Cheetos
And I Draw On My Breasts For Attention,
(But Not Necessarily In That Order)

Ok, now that the Valentine's Day Massacre is over (thanks for all the cards/flowers/homemade porn/declarations of love written in feces, effers!) and my fat lip (oh yeah, baby. If you had zero common sense and drank a weeeee bit too much before getting on ice skates and demanding that your Special Olympics On Ice partner play Tonya Harding to your Nancy Kerrigan, then you too could have a fat lip and be the envy of your sandbox. "I'll just be practicing my triple salchow over here and you come from over there and bash my knee with a pipe and I'll cry 'Why? Why?? Why me??' while you run off. What do you mean you don't have a pipe? Fine, use that small child over there then" sounded like a good idea at the time, really it did) is healing nicely and I got soul but I'm not a soldier, we need to have a serious talk.
First of all, whatever you might have heard about me telling my mailman it was ok to look at my cleavage and him asking if I had drawn that freckle on there myself with a Sharpie is completely untrue. I didn't tell him to look at my cleavage, I asked him if he wanted to, and he said thank you. In LATIN. And then handed me the results from my last gynecological exam. In LATIN. What? Ok, no. I don't like where the voices are going with this one bit, let's move on to secondly. Yes.
Secondly, why, why, why did no one inform me sooner that John "I'm An Alien" Tesh has a radio show during which he dispenses advice and plays sweet dedications of love to his former Entertainment Tonight co hosts, Mary Hart and Leeza Gibbons? John Tesh's radio show is like Diet Vanilla Cherry Dr. Pepper for the soul. Only no, no it's not. I listened to it for 5 minutes before my eyes, ears, and bone marrow started bleeding (the bone marrow might have been from the Crest Whitestrips though), but damn John Tesh is wise, people. Why-zzzz. He rattled off some list of Signs A Relationship Isn't Going To Work Out that you are supposed to check off on a first date to see if it's worth paying for the extra Happy Meal, and although I tried to erase my memory by drinking Mr. Clean after I was first exposed, I think it went something like this:

1. Your date shows up dressed in a trash bag, safety goggles, and carrying a chainsaw.
2. Your date asks you to meet him at the airport and could you please hold this bag full of heroin while he goes to the bathroom real quick, thanks.
3. Your date is Claire Danes.
4. Your date thinks he is Claire Danes.
5. Your date talks non-stop about his ex-girlfriend. Leeza Gibbons. "Oh you like scary movies? My ex-girlfriend Leeza Gibbons did, too! One time my ex-girlfriend Leeza Gibbons and I totally watched the 'Scream' trilogy in the nude while munching on Cheetos. That bitch." And then breaks down into tears and says he hopes you don't mind, but he has to get home by 7:30 to watch Entertainment Tonight. With his mom. Mary Hart.

Yeah, not really.
Wax on, Wax off, it's Thursday and fear does not exist in this dojo.

For A Quarter A Day You, Too,
Can Help Buy Me A New Pancreas And True Love

Someone really needs to tell Crest to add to their list of things you can do while wearing their White Deathstrips. "Shower/get ready in the morning?" Pshhaw. Watch The Bad News Bears Go to Japan at 3 a.m. because you have almost completely phased out the need for sleep thanks to the searing pain in your teeth and the sliver of pancreas you have that hasn't already disintegrated from the bleach? Check. (A love story, a little boy killing Godzilla with his baseball bat, and "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" sung in Japanese all in one glorious movie, people! I can die now. No, really. I can. Everything else in life is bound to be a monumental disappointment in comparison).
And speaking of Valentine's Day, in honor of all the people everywhere getting Kissing Bears/Blushing Bears/Huggin' Bears/gonorrhea today, I give you an entry from the diary of a true romantic. Anna Nicole Smith. Yeah, no. A fourteen year old me.



I guess this answers the whole "Were you born this way or was it the alien abduction and subsequent anal probing that made you this way" question.
I love my fourteen year old reasoning though. I was convinced having a quarter would have changed my life because he would have "had" to pay me back and then he would have "had" to talk to me again. And declare his undying love. And ask me to go steady. And had hot unprotected sex with me in his Mazda Miata. Sigh. I'm going to try this tactic out on my mechanic and/or mailman tomorrow. Yeah. If you see a crazy woman running down the street chasing a man in uniform/overalls yelling “I know you NEED a quarter and I have one, I have a quarter for you! TAKE MY QUARTER” it’s just me. Do not be afraid.
And let this be a lesson to you. Always keep an extra quarter on you, and if you're going to use two exclamation marks be sure to turn the two dots into a smiley face. OR you could not and instead you could really enjoy lying awake at night staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on your ceiling wondering what might have been if you had just had a goddamn quarter/if your parents had not made you eat kielbasa and sealed your fate in hell. The choice is yours, Daniel-san.
Go forth and be brave, pound puppies.

They Also Told Me To Drink The Special Kool-Aid,
A.K.A.
How To Win God's Smile Of Approval

So. I have decided to obey my voices. Sort of like Obeying My Thirst, only with less thirst and more voices screaming "Buy Crest Whitestrips, buy Crest Whitestrips! So what if they cause you to digest your own stomach lining, at least you will have the whitest teeth this side of Tullamore and then your mechanic/mailman/friendly neighborhood grocer who bears no resemblance to Anthony Edwards whatsoever will want to give you the John Cougar Mellencamp hurt-so-good bad touch and it won't matter that you put regular dish soap in the dishwasher instead of dishwasher detergent and flooded your kitchen with bubbles or that your toaster burst into flames when you were trying to make english muffin pizzas in it because the whiteness of your teeth will blind everyone to everything but your good qualities, which let's be frank, consist of your ASS, your keen fashion sense when it comes to socks, oh and your ASS."
What? Yeah. You know how it is.
Hopefully I don't end up looking like this, and hopefully the intestinal organ failure warning on the box is just a precaution and hopefully I don't end up vomiting my own (or David Schwimmer's) blood, because that would probably stain my teeth and gee, I'd really hate to have to do it twice. Hey, maybe Crest will ask me to do a testimonial for them!

We have secretly replaced Belle's spleen with a spleen made entirely out of Swedish Fish, let's see if anyone notices!
"Wow, your teeth are like, totally white! I think something gummi just oozed out of your belly button... So it really only took 7 days to get your teeth that white?"

Excuse me, I have to go write out my last will and testament.