Daily Archives: February 1, 2011

(irate) Storm Dispatch #3

You know that one chick? The one who always talks about how much she drinks and how hard she parties and how many dudes she’s slept with and how many pots she’s smokened and then you finally go out with her to party and she orders an Amaretto sour and some guy hits on her and she tells you that he’s “yucky” because he has “cigarette breath”? And the whole time you’re thinking What the fuck? I will never take you seriously again. And then the next day she’s all like “Wow, I had so much fun last night! That was crazy!” And you’re like Hey, stupid bitch, how ’bout ya never talk again?

You know what I’m talking about?

Yeah, we’re totally That Chick tonight.

Because for all our preparing and National Guard deploying and Emergency-comma-State-Of declaring – we get this: a few inches of freezing rain (still, unfun, to be sure). No power outages. No 18 foot snow drifts. Sure, a lot of shit’s closed down and a salt truck got drunk and fell over or something. But really, National Weather Service? How ’bout ya think real hard next time you open your big fat trap?

Talk about a let down.*

Really, salt truck? If you were sleepy you should have just gone home. (Image from stltoday.com)










*Okay, okay. I know there are places not too far from my teeny little corner of suburbia that got some actual snow and some actual problems. And I’ve got several friends in other states with no power and  still others experiencing massive snowdrifts blocking key exits of their domicile.  But those places aren’t here, and I am not impressed.

Storm Dispatch #2

I’ve been meticulously documenting the carnage and devastation that’s quickly torn through the midwest and heartland today. These photographs depict a built-in gas grill (apparently a feature that was All The Rage in the 1970s) located in the backyard of our residence.
The following images are disturbing, and not intended for younger viewers:

appx 10:00 AM CST.

I’d like to draw your attention to the icicles forming on the grill’s edges; this is an apt metaphor, as all of our lives currently hang in the balance of this merciless storm.

appx 11:00 AM CST

The grass, nearly covered with the same suffocating blanket of snow and ice that’s nearly snuffed out all of civilization, from Nebraska to Ohio.

appx 12:00 PM CST

Although these pictures might be difficult to see, they are a monument to the hundreds upon thousands of human lives that have been affected by this storm – no doubt, the Hand of God Itself come down unto us, punishment for The Real Housewives franchise.

appx 1:00 PM CST

The most recent photos are most graphic.

appx 2:00 PM CST

May God have mercy on our souls.

sotd 02.01.11

Imagine if this were the actually from a musical. Oh, god.

“The Secret Life of Morgan Davis” / Ben Folds

Also, the lyrics, for your reading pleasure:
His wife is tired, she wants to sleep
But all that Morgan Davis wants is Cream of Wheat
He waits and when she turns out the lights
He tip-toes through the darkness
As he slips to the night.

this boring life and he leads of buying and selling stocks
Makes him feel he’s growing old and tired
There’s no joy or strife just by passing time
In this boring life.

He wants the lights, the Jaz, a piece of ass
A toothless bitch to blow him for a vile of crack
He cooks his junk in some Gatorade
And scores a bag of chronic on the East MLK.

The secret life and he leads it by selling drugs keeps him up at night
He’s selling hash screwing trailer trash
Hey he’s making cash
It’s a whoring Life

” My friends are all salesman
My wife is a slut
There must be something bigger I can stick in my butt
The IRS is auditing, my life is in a rut.”

And so he’s fired his heat
He’s blown his blow
It’s coming up on sunrise and it’s time to go
He smells like barf
His hair’s a mess
He wipes the coke and lipstick off his fat, hairy, chest

He stumbles home from a ‘lesie’ show
He will be at work in an hour or so
He crawls in bed with his sleeping wife
Just a night to break up his boring life.

Storm Dispatch #1

Mom: Go outside and open the mailbox.

Me: Why?

Mom: Just go see if it opens!

Me: Fine, but I’m putting on real shoes. When you have to take me to the emergency room with a broken leg they’ll ask why I’m wearing fuzzy slippers.

Mom: Whatever.

Me: I will fall and I will die.

Mom: Oh, it’s not that slick.

Me: Ice is falling from the sky.

Mom: But it’s crunchy.

Me: The sound of my skull-bones hitting the pavement? Yes. Crunchy.

Mom: NO. The ice! It’s not slippery.

Me: It’s freezing rain and tar?

Mom: Fine. I’ll go do it.

Me: No. Because you will fall and crunch your pelvis-bones and the ER attending will ask why I made my 61-year-old mother go outside ‘just to open the goddamn mailbox.’

Mom: *muttering words in made-up foreign language*

Me: I’m going outside now! Isn’t anyone going to spot me? Should I have a rope tied around my waist? Call for help if you feel two tugs.

Mom: Ignoring you.

Dad: Huh? What’s going on?

Me: Your wife is sending your only daughter on a death march.

Dad: Huh? Who’s Mark?

Me: I’m leaving now! Farewell, mes amis!

Dad: Hey, I think this is a ‘How It’s Made’ marathon!

*Julie takes the first cautious steps onto the front porch, only to find that the mixture of freezing rain and light snow actually is kind of crunchy and offers surprising traction*

Me: *whispering* This isn’t bad.

Mom: *from inside the house* WHAT? WHAT DID YOU SAY?

*Julie walks quickly to the mailbox. The snow-ice beneath her feet is fun to run through. She tries the mailbox. It is covered in 2″ of ice*

Me: fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Neighbor: What that crazy white girl doing?

Me: shitshitshitshitshitshit *scampers back into house on the moon-snow*

Me: I need a chisel or something. It won’t open.

Mom: Oh, don’t worry about it. I was just curious if it was frozen shut.

*sound of shotgun blast from inside the home*

Neighbor: What that crazy white girl doing?



chicken placentas in a blizzard

I don’t like eggs. Oooh, gross, eggs is what I think when I think about eggs. I like eggs baked into delicious treats, but I do not wish to consume them straight-up (Paula Abdul-style). Eggs: Icky icky yuck yuck is the slogan I’d write if I wrote egg slogans.

But when Foul Weather strikes, and it’s bitch-slapping much of the middle part of our nation right this very minute, there’s always-alwaysALWAYS a motherfucking run on eggs.


Milk? Understandable, if you drink milk. Bread? Yeah, that’s kind of a staple. Sandwiches and toasts and whatnot. But eggs? Really?

This picture was on the front page – THE FRONT PAGE of the newspaper today:
The caption reads something* like “This lady is calling every other store in the county to see if they have any motherfucking eggs, because this one don’t.”

PERSON LADY IS CALLING: Thank you for calling Jim’s Hardware, how can I help you?

LADY: Uh, yeah, hello. Do you got any eggs?

PERSON: Uh. What?

LADY: Eggs! Do you got any?

PERSON: Eggs? Like…egg-eggs?

LADY: Listen, mothafucka, I’m asking you a simple question: DO. YOU. GOT. ANY. EGGS.

PERSON: We’re a hardware store, ma’am.

LADY: I don’t care if they hard-boiled eggs.


But, no, seriously: Eggs? Do regular folks crave omelets when the weather turns foul?**And what if they lose power, as these Doomsday Predictions are predictioning? Milk and bread require no preparation, but you don’t eat raw eggs. I’m no chef, but I don’t think you’re supposed to just crack ’em open and shotgun the egg goo. Triple icky icky yuck yuck.

*Eh. -ish.

** Oh. That’s almost a pun. Heh.