on the blog

a brief exchange that i heard in a grocery store that makes me want to kill everyone or at least everyone under 25 because i’ve apparently become my grandfather

I was in line at the grocery store the other day and there was a couple behind me– some cutesy teens, you know the type, always handsy and affectionate in public, it’s like GET A FUCKING ROOM OR AT LEAST UPGRADE IT TO FULL-ON FUCKING IN THE GROCERY STORE SO I CAN SWITCH FROM JEALOUSY TO AROUSAL but anyway my point is they were having a conversation and I was eavesdropping.

The girl was teasing the guy about his hatred of pita bread and hummus.  She’s all, “Why do you hate this chickpea goodness so, my dear?”  And he was like, shrug, “I’m a flavorist.”

“Excuse me, what?  A flavorist?”, she asks, seeking explanation for this obviously made up thing.

Him:  “Like, you know, I prefer food with flavors.”

HE WAS SERIOUS YOU GUYS.  HE SERIOUSLY MADE A THING OUT OF PREFERRING FOOD WITH FLAVORS.

Jesus Riverdancing Christ, what next?  People who “prefer air that has oxygen in it”?

may the force be with me

As I was falling asleep last night I started having those half-asleep thoughts.  You know the ones I mean?  It seems like the best thoughts happen then, when you don’t want to get up to write them down, and then by morning they are gone.  But I remember mine from last night.  I  wondered, between long blinks and yawns, what I’d do with The Force, if it were strong with me.

I’d use it to Jedi Mind Trick any large crowd into impromptu re-creations of Michael Jackson’s Thriller music video.

I would also use the force to convince people to make me sandwiches, like, all the time.  “You will hold the mayo.”

That’s it.  That’s all I’ve got so far.  What, were you expecting something deeper, more philanthropic?  This is not the post you are looking for.

 

 

i hope i had a kinky time with myself last night

I invented* a drink last night.  It’s called RUMQUIL.  It has to be like that, in all caps, because lowercase letters do not accurately represent the intensity of RUMQUIL.  Oh don’t be alarmed, RUMQUIL isn’t yelling at you.  It’s just staring at you with large creepy eyes.  If RUMQUIL had a mouth, it would lick your cheek, then return to staring at you.

Here’s the recipe for RUMQUIL:

Combine one shot of spiced rum with one shot of Nyquil.  Drink very quickly.  Chase with one shot of spiced rum.  Chase with another shot of spiced rum.

In case you were concerned, I am not an alcoholic who was scouring medicine cabinets for anything containing alcohol.  I know it may sound like that, because who drinks spiced rum unless it’s the last resort?, but in fact, I really don’t drink very often.

Tangent alert!  Here’s why I don’t drink very often–  I like to avoid awkward situations and hangovers.  I got drunk one time in 2010 and it was New Year’s Eve.  I spent the evening with a handful of friends, one of whom was Vacation Fling.  That’s not his real name, by the way.  So anyway, I don’t remember much after the fifth pineapple/vodka but anonymous tipsters calling in on a hotline tell me that there was some uh, flinging, between Vacation Fling and I.  Which, that’s not so bad, as I do enjoy getting flung, but what’s awkward is when you regain consciousness at 5:30am and look around and wonder why the fuck there are Nerds candies everywhere, and I mean everywhere, and then you have to commence the Walk of Shame, which is also not so bad until I got to my place, which while I was on vacation was my parent’s place, and I shame-walked in at 6am and my dad greeted me at the front door with his big smirky eyes smirking at my sex-hair and the bite mark on my shoulder (OH MY GOD MY DAD SAW THAT) and it became a Walk of Double Shame, and the awkwardness felt as big and endless as this run-on sentence.  And that, my friends, is why I don’t drink very often.

Anyway, I concocted this drink for medicinal purposes.  I got strep throat while in Arizona and the napalm-based antibiotics prescribed to me are not curing anything except that pesky illness where I KEEP FOOD IN MY STOMACH, and I am sick of sounding like Patty Bouvier and forfeiting sleep so that I can stay awake trying to suppress every single cough because if I let one cough out, it’s like a dam has been broken and an endless waterfall of  coughs leaves me terrified of pissing off Bunk Rib and goddamnit, I only want two things: to sleep and to stop writing run-on sentences.

And so I turned to nature’s disinfectant:  alcohol.  Fuck you, strep throat!  We are over.  Rum to kill the strep, Nyquil to keep the symptoms at bay for a few hours.  And it worked!  This morning I woke up sans coughing fits and raspy smoker voice!  O Glorious RUMQUIL, I sing thee praises!

Except in my RUMQUIL-induced blackout, I handcuffed myself to my bed.  So this morning, my kids came in when they woke up and found me, Dear Ol’ Mom, in a puddle of her own drool, handcuffed to her bed.  I mean, I was alone, and clothed, but still, how do you explain that to a six-year-old and a three-year-old?  You can’t recover from that.  Things have been awkward all day.

RUMQUIL:  Kills two things…  Strep throat, and dignity.

*humor me.

tortured by my own inabilities

I cannot whistle.

I mean, I can whistle with my lips.  Oh yes, I can whistle the shit out of some Dixie.  But I can’t do the stadium whistle.  That’s the technical name for it, in case you weren’t aware.  You know– where you stick your index finger and your pinky on either side of your mouth and blow really hard and somehow it creates a very loud, very shrill whistle?  I cannot do that.

When I have nothing to do I like to try and figure this whistling thing out.  I will sit there for hours inserting fingers and blowing and inserting fingers and blowing and inserting fingers and blowing until I am just covered in my own drool and there is a five-foot damp spot on the carpet in front of me.  Because you just never know when you could be in a situation that urgently calls for a stadium whistle.

This keeps me up at night.

Like what if I’m lost in the fucking woods with a broken leg and I can hear the search-and-rescue team traipsing around shouting, “BRIANNA JOHNSON!  IF YOU CAN HEAR US, PLEASE RESPOND WITH A STADIUM WHISTLE!  THE ONLY VALID RESPONSE IS A STADIUM WHISTLE AND IF YOU HAVE ANY OTHER WAY TO RESPOND YOU SHOULD ABANDON THAT AND RESPOND ONLY WITH A STADIUM WHISTLE!”

See?  In a situation like that, I am totally fucked.  Bear food.

Even worse than dying inside of a bear’s stomach is this:

I am at a stadium with someone really cool.  Let’s just say, hmmm, I don’t know, Zac Efron.  I totally don’t have fantasies about him, by the way.  I just picked his name out of nowhere.  Really.  Anyway, so Zac Efron and I are at a stadium.  Maybe we are seeing a concert, maybe a hockey game, I don’t know– Use your imagination; I am not here to do all your heavy lifting for you.  So we’re at this hockey concert and something spectacular happens and the only appropriate response is to bust out a stadium whistle.  Zac Efron, being Zac Efron, makes it look so easy.  Insert fingers, blow, make the whistle happen.  And he does it with a wink.  NOW ALL EYES ARE ON ME.  And by all eyes, I mean Zac Efron’s two eyes.  Do it, Brianna.  Just fucking stadium whistle the shit out of that stadium.  DO IT.

And I can’t.  And the JumboTron camera pans to me, frozen, my own inability displayed on a ten-foot by ten-foot screen for Zac Efron and all the other people-who-are-not-as-hot-as-Zac-Efron to see.

I am going to die without Zac Efron, inside of a bear’s stomach, because I cannot stadium whistle.

important planning for the future

Finally!  After spending many art history classes brainstorming, I’ve finally got it– The three size options for my future roadside BBQ shack will be:

“Lord Loves A Workin’ Man”  (small)

“Don’t Trust Whitey”  (medium)

“See A Doctor And Get Rid Of It”  (large)

Perfect.  PERFECT.  Steve Martin solves every problem ever.