Honor Thy Father
But Try Not To End Up Picking Apples
With Tobey Maguire Probing Your Hoo-Hoo

It's not you, it's me. Me and my fuzzy monkey mask of doom!


So. I've learned the hard way that you can only be "sick" for so many holidays/family events before your entire family insists on coming to your house to take your temperature rectally with a turkey baster, so I drove home for Father's Day to spend some quality time with the man who has seen me at my worst (poofy teased hair, wearing a NKOTB T-shirt, jelly shoes, and projectile vomiting chicken soup) and still loves me. I was on time, and I didn't even try to pass off a box of Uncle Ben's Rice Pudding as a gift with deep emotional meaning (What do you MEAN you don't remember that time I made you this pudding and we bonded like we have never bonded before?? I'm truly hurt here!)when it was really just something I grabbed on my way out the door, like I did for his birthday. Oh yeah, baby. I'm two votes shy of becoming Daughter of the Year, I can feel it in my bones.

To really get in the Father's Day Spirit we like to eat potato salad that's been sitting in the sun for hours, maybe even days, while my dad fondly remembers that time my brother poisoned me with his junior chemistry set, and then to close the deal we watch The Cider House Rules. Yep, nothing says "Happy Father's Day" better than a movie about a father who has sex with his daughter, knocks her up, and then is sorta kinda killed by her. Ahh, sweet sweet fatherly love.


Anyway. Should I be concerned that my homepage has set itself to The National Adoption Information Clearinghouse? I wonder if Ed McMahon comes to your house to say "You might have won a new family!!!". I wonder if Ed McMahon has been in my house changing my homepage. I wonder if Ed McMahon will adopt me. I bet he has a house in Guam I could live in and a kitten named "Puff" to keep me company after he dies. Tomorrow. That's right. Because I've secretly turned my blog into a silent method of euthanasia. Sorry. I also replaced your coffee with a steaming cup of Kelly Ripa. Don't choke on that!


Speaking of Kelly Ripa (And I challenge everyone to begin a sentence with that today!), I'm thinking about moving to Sri Lanka. Sri Lanka or YOUR house. Which ever is closer and has better air conditioning and a monkey pen. I will work for food, but I'm afraid the trimming of your pubic hair would only speed up my backsliding into the flames of hell, so I must draw the line there. Mmm Hmm. If you're asking yourself right now what trimming people's pubic hair in Sri Lanka has to do with Kelly Ripa, Search deep within the soul and ye shall find the answer ye seek. And then if ye could let me know what ye soul tells you, yeah, that would be great.

If Teddy Ruxpin Is The Anti-Christ,
What Does That Make Ted Danson?


Hi, I watch Joan of Arcadia, therefore I'm a practicing Christian.
Well. In My World, anyway. In My World Jesus makes the popcorn and we watch Joan of Arcadia together. Naked.
Umm. Point? No. Thanks for playing, please try again.
Oh, while I'm on the subject of religion (another line I use to pick up boys outside CVS), there's this Catholic church down the road from my house that has what I can only describe as a billboard sign on the front lawn, each week displaying a Fresh and Cheery Catholic Message. Well. First of all, it's important to note that I was once in a car accident involving this sign and the tragically bad movie Final Destination. Now. This week the sign says
"The Worst Liars ... Your Own Fears."
Jesus Christ on rollerskates, can someone explain that to me? What do "the worst liars" have to do with my fear of being murdered by Farrah Fawcett while she rocks out to Duran Duran? Or my fear of my toaster coming to life and toasting me to death in my sleep?
Anyone? Amber Tamblyn? Ted Danson's wife?