Dating Advice from Your Weird Spinster Neighbor

15 03 2010

(More imaginary excerpts from an imaginary life I’m imagining. You may be wondering if I’m starting to show signs of schizophrenia at this point. You may be right.)

  • There are a few ways to prove to yourself that your boyfriend likes you. Try cooking him a terrible meal. If he pretends to like it, he’s yours. If he points out that he won’t put raw cat food in his mouth, this little minnow needs to be thrown back into the sea. Where he is not a salt water fish and will likely die.
  • Have you thought about plucking  your eyebrows? You should stop thinking about that. A man likes a lady he can look in the eyes, but can’t make direct eye contact with because of the eyebrows. You should never make direct eye contact with a man. It’s disrespectul.
  • Mention Harry S Truman whenever you can, but pretend not to know that the S doesn’t have a period after it. Men like it when they know more about periods than you do.
  • I see you wear pinstripes a lot. You ever think that might be part of the problem? No? Okay.
  • I had a few boyfriends when I was younger. Much younger, oh so many years ago. I must have been nine, ten years old the last time I had a boyfriend. They don’t really like to be “it”. It’s hard to explain, but make sure your man is never “it”.
  • Those plain t-shirts you’ve been getting at the Gap or whatever are a little… revealing. Something like J Jill is how you really snag a man. Or any place you can pick up some curtainy florals. That Fraulein Maria had a point or five in The Sound of Music. Actually, the closer  you can come to shaping your life around The Sound of Music, the better.
  • Good Housekeeping. Just reading the magazine, not actually doing it. Have you seen my living room? It’ll take you a few years to get that “just forgot to clean” look, but you’ll get there. Practice makes perfect.
  • Taco Bell: It’s not just for dinner. Always, always appropriate. Particularly on anniversaries.
  • You have to remember: a man is just like a lady, except with some extra pieces. You can get those extra pieces at a lot of places that are vaguely more respectable than you’d expect.
  • You should consider calling men more often. In fact, you get one phone call per minute that you’ve met them. Talked in a bar for twenty minutes? Call him twenty times the next day. No, it’s true! It’s a ratio! I read it in a book! You don’t have to believe me, but you know you could show a little bit more respect to me as your elder. I have a lot of life experi- oh, what’s that? A call on the other line? Okay, but this was a 7 minute call, so I’ll talk to you 7 times tomorrow.




Diary of a Mad White Tween

11 03 2010

In which we take a look at page 61 from an imaginary diary of an imaginary girl who is like, OMG, having the craziest year ever.

***

“blood all over her gym shorts. And Mrs. Pierson is like, ‘Corinne, it’s just your period’ and Corinne is like ‘No way, Mrs. P, it’s not my period.’ And we were all thinking like, maybe it is her period, maybe she’s becoming a woman before all of us but like, in what universe is that even fair? She’s never even been to a rainbow party and all of the sudden she thinks she’s hot shit because she got her period before everyone else? Yeah right. Corinne is such a skank. God.

But then it’s like, totally obvious that it’s not actually her period because we were playing volleyball and because our school is SO GHETTO there were razor blades stuck to the volleyball and one sliced Corinne in the ass because Randy kicked it at her because Corinne and Randy were dating, but then Randy cheated on her and somehow that’s Corinne’s fault. But he was trying to do it as a metaphor, you know? Like he wanted her back, so he kicked a volleyball at her ass. Kind of like lighting a fire under your ass. But a volleyball. Randy is soooo deep. I wonder if he’ll take me to prom? Oh BTDubs, diary, it was totes me that Randy cheated on Corinne with. But like, it doesn’t even matter, it’s not like anything was facebook official. They were so barely dating, it wasn’t even MySpace official. Like, how lame can you get?

ANYWAY. So now Corinne’s bleeding out her ass, but everyone still thinks it’s her period, and so everyone’s just laughing at her, but then it starts to get pretty obvious that either she has a super heavy flow (just like Mean Girls!) or something because she passes out and Mrs. Pierson’s all like, ‘Oh someone call the nurse’ like it’s not even HER RESPONSIBILITY to call the nurse. I mean, hello?!?! What do they pay you for, just to teach gym and not even know what a period is? God.

So she’s passed out and then there starts to be a puddle of blood on the floor and Greg slips in it, but he doesn’t fall all the way down because he’s so flexible from wrestling. Woof, Greg. Wrestling.

But then the nurse gets there and like, slaps Corinne in the face because that’s apparently what you’re supposed to do in these sort of situations and then all of the sudden the paramedics are there and she’s getting oxygen or whatever and she like, wakes up for one second to wave to Randy, like HOW SKANKY CAN YOU BE? YOU’RE DYING, GET OVER IT.

And then they take her away and she updated her facebook later, so she’s probably okay. Randy’s like, totally back in love with her because he’s disgusting. It’s like, you’re the one that sliced her in the ass, Randy. It’s cool that you get how to do metaphors, but if you love her so much, why’d you try to kill her? I guess her parents are gonna sue the school or something, which means she’ll probably go to private school and become a lesbian.

But at least she didn’t get her period before me.”

*****

JOKE ATTACK:

Question: What did the women in the middle ages call their periods?

Answer: The Traveling Menstrual

Alternates: The Red Plague, A Rat Gnawed Off My Insides Time, No Babies to Work the Farm O’Clock





A Salty Engagement: Episode Six

2 10 2009

Things are starting to get weird. I think I really enjoy writing from the perspective of Tom Arnold. I really hope he’ll let me write his comeback.

And yes, I’m aware that writing fan fiction about yourself is nothing short of self-centered. But I can’t help how interested I am in my own improbably futures.

A Modest Proposal

“I think you know what I want, Ramos. What we both want.” Tom Arnold stepped over the dead Pole, placing an arm precariously over Telly’s shoulders.

Surprisingly, Telly did not shrug him off. She found herself torn between what her body was feeling and what the insides of her body were feeling. Was that nausea? Or the sting of a love long lost?

“I’m with my little man now, T Arns.”

“I love when you call me that.”

“I can’t leave him behind for something that should have been, but wasn’t,” Telly said, letting a tear slip from her lids and a small sliver of boogs drip from her feminine nostrils. At this point, Tom removed his arm of his own volition. He had lost her.

He stepped back over the Pole, who had started to melt slightly in the hot New Jersey sun, like a wayward drop of ice cream. Shaped like a dead body. Tom Arnold reached into his pocket and pulled out a checkbook, replete with personalized Tweety Bird checks. He chuckled at the sight of that yellow bird. That cheerful, scheming, yellow bird. Mr. Arnold liked to think that he was much like Tweety. Always been chased, always outsmarting the competition. What was he doing? He was wasting this great comparison, nay, metaphor on his internal monologue instead of spouting it to the adoring public in front of him! Fool, Tom. You are a fool!

Tom took another glance at the screen, where Eric was starting to stir a bit from the bed on which he resided. “We are going to play this my way. Since, you’ve clearly chosen this Skinny Glasses Man over me, I don’t think there’s much I can do to change your heart, but maybe I can do something else. Add a little spice to your life. Make it so you never look at him without thinking of me.”

No one had any idea what he was talking about.

“What are you talking about?” Paul asked, his eyes glued to Eric on the television screen.

“The only thing bigger than my heart is my checkbook. Are you aware of how relevant I was in the early to mid 90s? Let’s just say Old Tom made some wise investments, and I am prepared to write a huge check – HUGE – to anyone here in exchange for one thing.”

Paul and Sarah looked at each other, salivating. They would do anything for money. They loved each other very much, but nothing says true love like millions of dollars. Besides, Sarah thought, Paul had neglected to have her sign a pre-nup. So “what’s yours is mine” could potentially become very much hers.

“In exchange for WHAT!” Paul yelled, hardly noticing how loud his voice had become. He hoped not to sound too eager, but Papa needs a new leather money sack.

“For that little man’s head. Unattached to his body.”

To catch up and read Paul’s parts, check out A Salty Engagement: The Blog.





A Salty Engagement: Episode Four

11 09 2009

Episode 4: Things Get Polish

Tom threw his head back maniacally, letting loose a cackle not often heard on this earth, except for in areas that have a heavy bad guy population. He laughed so hard that one of his molars flew out of his head, hitting Paul in the eye.

“Aahhh, my good eye! And right before my wedding! Tom, you shrew!” Paul yelled while eye goo started to run down his face. Sarah saw this and promptly pulled a Telly, throwing up at a very inopportune time. Fortunately, she had several plastic bags at the ready, as this particular group of people seemed to projectile more often than most.

Telly kept her eyes glued to the television set, trying to collect as much information about her dear Eric’s whereabouts. One of the Polish workers – an accomplished surgeon in his native land but here, only a lowly assistant fudgemaker – caught a glimpse of the television screen. He called his fellow subordinates over and pointed at the screen.

“Look at this, everybody. We are to be helping keep this skinny glasses man in a box. We are to be helping him be unhappy.”

“Franz, he looks like he is alway being the unhappy.”

“True, but he is of the most unhappy in this little box. The skinny glasses man should be free. Mr. Tom Arnold, you said nothing of keeping skinny glasses mans in boxes. You are only saying that we make fudge and have a fun summer in the seaside!”

Tom Arnold turned to his fudge brigade. He had trained them well, but not well enough, apparently. “Are you dissenting, Franz?”

“Not of the dissenting, Mr. Tom Arnold, not of the dissenting. Just of the wondering what in the fruitcakes is going on here? This is not a fun summer in the seaside for the skinny glasses man!”

Without a second thought, Tom whipped out a gun and shot Franz in the guts. Once again, Tom crouched down, expecting a crowd to come at him this time not with adoration, but with anger. None came. Lucky for Tom, they were in New Jersey, where there are no cut and dry rules about shooting fudgemakers who you have hired specifically not to give you any lip. The Dirty Jerz welcomed his violent streak with open arms.

Sarah barely blinked, but the rest of the gang – not being from The Garden State – found themselves in a state of shock. “This would never happen in Wisconsin,” said Paul, shaking his head sadly.

“It has happened only twice in California,” Telly admitted. “But I did not approve either time.”

“So, the ball is in your court, Ramos. Once again.”

Telly stared Tom down, like a slug might stare down a salt shaker, if it had eyes that faced the same direction at the same time. “What is it that you want, Arnold? How do I get my life companion back?”

Have no idea what’s going on? Me either, really. Get the whole, on going story here: pruse.wordpress.com





A Salty Engagement: Part Two

8 09 2009

While I formulate my thoughts on the most depressing zoo in the history of zoos, please entertain yourself with my first excerpt from the soon-t0-be-legendary joint venture, “A Salty Engagement.” Read the first part and whatever upcoming parts we create at: pruse.wordpress.com

Part Two: The Depths of Tom Arnold

“Hey look, it’s Tom Arnold!” Paul nearly screeched in delight, having been one of Mr. Arnold’s biggest fans since that seminal film, The Stupids (1996).

Tom took cover instantaneously, covering his body from the impending deluge of fans he was sure Paul’s yell would send his way. None came.

Tom turned his attention back to Telly who had, in fact, evacuated her insides once more. Utterly devoid of stuffing at this point, Telly wiped some spittle from her lips and squinted hard at Tom. Sarah took the building tension as a sign to go get some ice cream. She was pregnant, after all, and would appreciate it if you would not judge her.

“Tom Arnold. We meet again. I’ll thank you not to comment on my body’s projectiles.”

“I’ll comment on whatever I please. I think you owe me that, after what we’ve shared in the past.”

Telly shuddered. “It was one night, Tom. One stupid, crack cocaine filled night. If I had been old enough to watch Roseanne and realized you’d been married, I most certainly wouldn’t have obliged your requests.”

Sarah made it back, working on her second double scoop, and stood next to Paul to watch the conversation between Tom and Telly. The wedding would have to wait, as anything involving Tom Arnold was bound to be way more important and interesting. “Oh right. You guys fucked, right?” Paul yelled, fueling the fire. He was having trouble controlling the volume of his voice, not to mention the fact that his proximity to his idol was making it hard to control the flow of his thoughts.

“Paul!” Telly whispered, slapping him across the face.

“We made love,” Tom Arnold whispered, the heat rising in his cheeks like a small hobo village that’s been set ablaze. “It takes a real man to make love.”

Paul was brought to tears nearly at the eloquence of Mr. Arnold, an eloquence he had rarely heard since Mr. Arnold’s uncredited appearance in “Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery.” Paul turned to his love, his blushing bride, in the hopes that merely witnessing this sentiment would put all of their hopes and fears to rest.

Unfortunately, Sarah had wandered away, a cell phone held to her ear. The phrase “How long is your longest footlong?” could be heard, wafting in the wind.





How we are spending our cloudy day at the shore.

8 09 2009

Besides going to another FREE ZOO (this one has more than 200 species, as opposed to nearly 200 species. A difference of at least 3 species, who’s excited?) Paul and I are also starting a fan fiction story about our own fictional lives. Because we are fans of ourselves.

Read the first installment here: pruse.wordpress.com

And prepare yourself for the next installment, coming shortly after the Cohanzick Zoo extravaganza.