Saturday, June 16, 2012

The Flying Spaghetti Monster Strikes Again!

There was a murder done in Boston today. I know because I stumbled upon the bloody scene this morning:

I quickly deduced, as the master Clue player that I am (like a chessmaster, only smarter, ahem), that it had to be my boyfriend, Chris, in the kitchen, with a bowl of pasta. How heating up a small bowl of spaghetti with a little sauce turns into a crime scene to rival any that I've ever seen in my 48 Hours Mystery shows is beyond me, but I have a sneaking suspicion it's my boyfriend's ingenious way of getting out of ever having to make a meal again. Call me crazy but I really don't feel like being the "cleaner" every time he gets in the mood for a midnight snack.

After documenting the evidence, I shook Chris awake and immediately started the interrogation, which didn't last long, seeing as he was the only suspect. Also, I was beginning to get a sneaking suspicion he wasn't taking the allegations very seriously, since he was casually trolling the Internet on his phone while I was giving him his sentence: A lifetime of never being able to go in the kitchen to cook again (which was his master plan all along, I'm sure).

"So did you see this? It's a picture of a flying minivan!"

"Really? Let me see." I am so easily distracted. Plus I felt like I had punished him enough with my endless spiel about the benefits of using a sponge over a dish towel when your bowl of spaghetti has been viciously slaughtered.

Sure enough, he had found a picture of a minivan with wings. I wasn't buying it, though, as it wasn't actually in the air.

"I really don't think it actually flies. If we had the potential to fly around a la The Jetsons (which, by the way, I'm really not sure why we're not at this point. It's 2012, people!), don't you think we'd all have a flying car?"

"I'm telling you, they exist! Here, I'll find a picture of a car that's actually in the air."

As I was wondering aloud at whether a flying car, if one really did exist, actually is more just a regular airplane that is shaped as a car and not actually a "flying car," per se, Chris, playing an impromptu game of our beloved popular perverted Google searches, shouts, "flying spaghetti monster!"


"I was typing in 'fly' into Google, and the fourth most popular search for that? Flying spaghetti monster."

I grabbed his phone, convinced he was punking me to distract me from the fact that he was dead wrong and that there are no such things as flying cars because really who would choose to deal with gridlock traffic and stop signs and crosswalks over being able to fly over all the road ragers with your middle finger high and proud and a big ol' F-you grin on your face? No one, that's who. But, sure enough:

Michaelangelo's first draft.


This might have just replaced chupacabra in the #1 spot on my list of shit I've never seen but totally exist and really want to see before I die. Hopefully not as a direct result at having finally seen them. I was now beginning to think that maybe my boyfriend had been framed. Maybe it was the flying spaghetti monster* all along. Holy crap. I felt horrible.

"I'm so sorry hun. I didn't mean to falsely accuse you like that. It's clear to me that what actually happened was that you were innocently heating up your pasta and sauce and being really clean about it, when the flying spaghetti monster swooped in, grabbed your bowl, and murdered your pasta in cold blood."

Chris looked at me with sad puppy dog eyes and even conjured up a little tear. "I don't know how you're going to make this up to me." Sniff, sniff.

"I'm so sorry. You know what, though? I totally revoke your sentence. I'm actually feeling a little hungry. You should go in the kitchen and whip us up some eggs and bacon and coffee. That'll make you feel much better."

Thank you, flying spaghetti monster. Thank you. You've done more for me than that useless chupacabra ever has. Lazy chupacabra.

*Deity for those who follow Pastafarianism. Of course.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Oh, The Games We Play

My boyfriend, Chris, recently discovered a fun game to play. Just start typing in random words into Google search and see what all those twisted fucks out there are searching for answers for. The top four searches will appear in the dropdown for whatever it is you type in. Like for example, typing in "Can I give ..." will give you: 1) "Can I give my dog aspirin?" (Well, does he have a headache? Well did you ask him? No, you say? He's a dog and can't tell you his symptoms? He's got no vocal chords well-developed speech center and therefore can't sing or recite the Gettysburg Address or tell you to go F yourself with your stinking asprin--give me the tylenol with codeine, biotch! Well, there's your friggin answer!)* 2) "Can I give my dog tylenol?" (Really, people? This is what's weighing on the minds of millions of Americans? I mean how much stress are you creating in your dog's life where he needs to be popping pills all day? Are you sickos forcing Fido to do your taxes? Mow the lawn? Look at pictures of Carrot Top??) 3) "Can I give my dog benadryl?" (So now your pooch has allergies ... probably from being forced to mow your fricking jungle of a lawn you twisted sister. I really should be calling animal services on your ass.)

Just whatever you do, do not bring this game up to your girlfriend's family (*cough*Chris*cough*)--who, by the way, you just happen to be meeting for the first time--using "How much does" as your first example--or any example for that matter--and then divulge that the #1 search for this little nugget of a question is "How much does an abortion cost?" during a previously innocent family game of poker in the game room with a nice roaring fire going, the dog curled up all cozy on your 12-year-old nephew's lap, and a frigging Linda Rondstadt song playing softly in the distance, because now everyone is thinking, "Why did he just tell us that? Is Amy one of the millions of people looking this up?" And then all of a sudden your sneaky instigator sister pipes up and says, "I heard that only what you yourself look up all the time pops up in the dropdown!" (And, by the way, said sister doesn't even have an email account so I don't even know where she even gets off acting like she's all Bill Gates all of a sudden.). And now my whole family definitely thinks at at some point I had resorted to looking up this question all because my boyfriend thought the price of baby removals was a topic of polite conversation. For the record, as far as I know, I've never been pregnant, unless you count that time where I ate a dozen chocolate chip cookies in one sitting my freshman year at college (it was more like the freshman 50 for me), and then a pan of brownies, and then maybe a squirt of whipped cream or two, but I'm pretty sure I only felt pregnant. Yeah. Definitely do not bring it up then.

*I actually had to Google whether or not dogs had vocal chords. Turns out, they do but they do not have "a well-developed speech center." If they did, they would for sure tell me what a nimnud I am.

Wednesday, June 13, 2012

Fart Machine Guys Are The Way Of My Walk

So it's been two years since my last post. I wish I could say I was incredibly busy doing incredibly awesome things during this time, but I was pretty much just working, looking for errant punctuation or, horror upon horrors, the dreaded comma splice. I bet most of you don't even know what this is or why it's so terrible, and I'd explain it to you, really, but I just put myself to sleep for a second just writing about it, and now I've got to wipe this drool off my keyboard. Dang. I hate comma splices.

I've also been getting into great shape (if I do say so myself, and I do) walking to work. And back. And then walking on my lunch break. I even take the long way to get to the bathroom. OK, so I might be a teensy bit crazy about it, but it allows me to eat cheeseburgers and fries dipped in mayo and bacon grease without much consequence (well, except for the obvious -- a stained shirt at the end of every lunch), so it's an insanity I can live with. Not like, say, OCD, which I used to have, where I was checking all the rooms and closets in my house and under the beds and then tapping the wall three times, that I cured myself of years ago. Not like that at all (one, two, three; one, two three). OK, to be honest it might have manifested itself in my blogs, but at least I can leave my house now without checking that the iron is off for the millionth time. I've never even owned an iron. Just kidding. I actually love to iron. So much so that I ironed my carpet. Total accident, but now I have a nice iron imprint on my bedroom floor, so I have this idea of maybe imprinting the whole damn thing so it'll look like I did it on purpose. Appliance decor. It's going to be huge, I'm telling you.

So my morning commute, probably not unlike most of your commutes, consists of walking past a short, chubby guy with John Lennon glasses and a medicated (psycho killer?) smile, who lets out a loud, piercing fart every time I walk in his direction, which unfortunately for me is every damn day. Thank you, work, for giving me a job that I can only get to by walking past psychopathic fart machine guys every morning. And it's not an organic toot, I might add. He has this electronic fart machine that he lets rip every time I get within a foot of him. I swear I am not making this up. Now I can't count on a lot of things in life, like that I'll get to work without bits of breakfast eggs on my face (thanks, all of Boston, for letting me walk four fricking miles without any of you giving me the heads up that I literally had egg on my face) but there is one thing I can count on: at 7:45am there's a crazy guy walking down Cambridge St. with a fart machine that he cranks up to 11 every time I have the audacity to walk his way.

It's gotten so bad that I've resorted to walking in the street when I get within about twenty feet of him. I have discovered that I will risk certain death to avoid hearing obnoxious electronic farting noises. I guess in a way I should be thankful I know what my thresholds are. My coworkers say to count my blessings they're not real. But I think the fact that they're fake is even more disconcerting. I mean, I can understand a guy with a gas problem, but a guy who intentionally and premeditatively commits an act of flatulence every damn day he sees me walking by is right up there with axe murderers and Carrot Top, if you ask me.*

One morning, I was just about to pass a girl to my right, when fart machine guy totally ambushed me and started walking toward me, on my left. It was too late to retreat, so as I was sandwiched between fart machine guy and this girl, he lets it rip, speakers blasting. The girl turns and looks at me right at this moment, with a look of disgust I haven't seen since I was caught drinking out of a used punch cup at a frat party that may or may not have had a discarded cigarette butt floating in it. (They were out of punch, people! Which, by the way, they had been serving to everyone at the party out of a garbage can, so I don't know why anyone had the right to be so judgmental.)

As if this daily situation isn't traumatic enough, one morning last winter, after my encounter with fart machine guy (a label I don't wish on anyone to be forced to use in their daily life, by the way), consisted of walking down Longfellow Bridge behind a guy who refused to let me pass him. He didn't outright say "I refuse to let you pass, mofo," but at the rate I was going (like somewhere between Mach 1 and Mach 2--maybe Mach 1 and a half?) I should've been able to pass him without a problem, but as I approached him, he kind of turned his head to the side, so I know he saw me, at least partially, and then started walking faster. I know he was walking faster because before he was walking normally on a really slushy bridge, and then all of a sudden, his feet were pumping and slipping out from under him at the same time. It was actually kind of funny to watch, like Wile E. Coyote pumping his little coyote feet really fast and not getting anywhere, so I just hung back and enjoyed the show until we were just stepping off the bridge. And that's when things got a little f'ed up.

He started slowing down again, so I thought I'd make my move to finally pass him. Just as I was approaching him, and I mean, I was just about to step around him, without even so much as a glance in my direction, he suddenly jets off like he's being chased by, well, let's go with Wile E. Coyote. I was stunned. I love to make good time, but I actually stopped dead in my tracks and just watched him race/slip away on the crowded Cambridge sidewalk. Once he was a few blocks away, he finally slowed down again into a walk and looked behind him, searching for me in the crowd. I waved. With one finger. What more could I do? I still don't know if he was annoyed I was maybe trailing him too close or whether he actually thought I was a Warner Brothers cartoon coming to eat him. I guess I'll never know. But I do know that not even fart machine loonies and mad morning sprinters even come close to my experiences on the 441, so for now I'll just invest in some good earplugs and pray to Jesus I just don't bump into Carrot Top. I hate that guy.

*And if you don't believe me that Carrot Top compares to an axe murderer, then I know you must have no idea what Carrot Top looks like. Say if the Joker had a baby with the creepiest clown you've ever seen and that baby had red hair a shade I'm pretty sure exists only in Hell and Carrot Top's head ... that's your man.