Dear Aunt Becky,

Judge Judy has a saying: “How can you tell when a teenager is lying? His or her mouth is moving.”

Judge Judy is a pillar of our society. Do we teenagers owe it to her to lie when we otherwise wouldn’t, just to avoid the rude act of contradicting ones elders?

Alexis

Dear Alexis,

Would you really take advice from someone who looks as though she’s been mummified?

Thought not.

Love,

AB

Hello my dear!

I was reading your post today, and you mentioned you have PTSD, and it just made me think, “if this bitch can do it, and deal with kids, and be amazing, WTF is my problem?”

So I just want to know, how the hell do you do it!? The anxiety/panic attacks are fucking killing me! I’ve been dealing with this for years, and it still has a nasty grip on my everyday life.

And another question… I have just moved to a place to get a fresh start, and I have an awesome support group here, but no one knows about the PTSD, or the crippling panic attacks I get, so how do I explain it to them with out coming off crazy? Because I feel crazy when I talk about it!

Thank you so much for your awesomeness! You amaze me, and I am so happy that I have found you and your blogs! Love to you!

Millie

Dear Millie,

I’ve managed my PTSD with a combination of therapy, better living through chemistry and more therapy. Oh, and writing. OH, and my roses. There are days when it still gets it’s wily grips on me and I fear I’ll never again be normal.

Those days, I remember that “normal” is bullshit and I’m perfect just the way I am. I gently suggest you try some therapy and medication to stave off the worst of the panic and anxiety. And when all else fails, try something soothing. Like gardening. It helps your mind be free to work through all of the panic while doing something with your hands. Very therapeutic.

Or, if you’d like, you (that means ALL of you, Pranksters) are invited personally to share your experience on Band Back Together. Writing has saved my life more than once.

As for telling people about your PTSD, there’s no need to do so. I mean, right away. Of course you need a support system, but not everyone will be able to understand how you feel. Perhaps your therapist can give you some support groups in the area so you can find some people who fully understand you.

I wish you the very best.

Hi Aunt Becky!

Disciplining other people’s children: lots of different opinions, OK. What about “mannering” other people’s children? Is it horrible to prompt little Billy-not-my-kid to say “thank you”/blow his nose/ask politely, or will Billy’s Mom have a conniption, like I’m judging her parenting?

A totally different, but related (I swear!) question; My sister-in-law (about my age) has Down Syndrome, and thus is at about the intellectual level of a child (give or take, in various categories). She has horrible manners, due in *part* to her disability (stubbornness, unwillingness to compromise), but mainly thanks to inadequate parenting (I love my MIL dearly, but I can see it even in my husband).

So is it weird to correct my SIL’s manners (not in public or anything)? Prompt her to say “thank you” when I hand her $20 for lunch, or someone goes out of their way to help her? Pranksters, if you were my MIL, would you be hurt, thinking I was critiquing her parenting skillz?

Raising youngsters of my own, and being used to constantly prompting manners, it’s getting harder and harder to not prompt my SIL (and other children we’re around). Hell, my toddler is more polite than she is!

What do you and your Merry Band think, My Dear Aunt Becky? Offensive? Or might I actually do some good? As of yet I’ve kept my mouth shut, but it’s getting harder and harder.

Ta!
Mrs. Manners

Dear Mrs. Manners,

As someone who routinely swears in front of her children (WON’T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?) it may surprise you to learn that I’m surprisingly anal about manners. As in, I’d be shocked and horrified that someone corrected my children before I, in fact, could. However, on the off-chance I was too distractible by the SkyMall kitties and didn’t prompt a “THANK YOU” out of my crotch parasites, I’d be amenable to someone reminding them.

However, if it was simply someone correcting them without first giving me the opportunity to do so, I’d be a little annoyed. Not terribly annoyed, mind you, but annoyed nonetheless.

So what say you, Pranksters? What are your thoughts on that? And, frankly, anything else.

“Mom, do I have autism?” my eldest peered at me through the eyes so dark and deep I could easily be swallowed by them.

My heart stopped a moment, my dancing cactus videos forgotten entirely, unsure of how to proceed. It was a good question. Something we had never spoken of because, well, it never mattered.

The answer was yes, yes he did have Asperger Syndrome. He’d had it since I’d pushed him out of my delicate girl parts, trying desperately to bring him to my breast on the birthing table, only to have him shriek in horror and disgust, something he did with alarming frequency for the next several years.

Clothes made him crazy, their textures too binding, the tags an endless source of frustration. Being held, something most babies (I’d heard) loved, well, he’d prefer to lay on his back, watching his mobile spin for hours upon end, the deep greens and blues soothing him in a way I never could. It broke my heart until it didn’t anymore because eventually, I stopped trying to scoop him on up, cuddle him close. I loved him from afar, my tears dotting his crib sheet as I stood above him, wishing I knew what went on in that glorious brain of his.

By age one, his love of the planets was obsessive. While he couldn’t tell me the name of the animals that lived in the house (dog, cat, for those interested), he could tell me all of the names of the moons of Jupiter – his favorite planet – and identify them from even the grainiest pictures.

Speech severely delayed, by age two, he was enrolled in both speech and occupational therapy, dutifully trucking back and forth to the Early Intervention center, day after ever-loving day. Eventually, he’d been able to touch varying textures of dry rice and beans, eat few things beyond his standard diet of oatmeal, graham crackers and cheese, and adapt his fine motor skills so that he could pinch small things, hold a crayon.

Speech therapy continued until his fourth year. He’d gone from mostly non-verbal – excepting, of course, anything related to the cosmos – to using a handful of words; more each day.

Our relationship had developed, too. While I’d still feel that scar tissue tightening up whenever he chose anyone but me to love on, I accepted that his love was different; unique. Just like his beautiful brain. It was simply different. Not wrong, not right, not better or worse, just different.

I accepted different.

Through all of this, we didn’t bother with labels. Not in my house. Ben’s Asperger Syndrome was no different than saying he’d inherited both my brown hair and long eyelashes. It was just a part of who he was. And that didn’t deserve a label or hushed meetings around the table.

I knew the slippery-slope of labeling and I wanted him to grow up as himself, not as what a syndrome may or may not dictate about him.

So when, at age ten, he asked me if he had autism, I didn’t know quite what to say.

So, with widened eyes, I spoke the truth:

“You have something called Asperger Syndrome. You have since you were a baby. You went through speech therapy to help you talk and other therapies to help you eat. Remember how your sister had speech therapy? You did too.”

His eyes opened so largely I feared they would fall from their sockets.

“But I’m okay?” he asked.

“You, like your grandfather, your uncle (my brother) and your own brother, well, you’re just quirky. You have things about you that are different than everyone else. But really, EVERYONE is different. Different is awesome. So don’t think about yourself as a “syndrome,” think of yourself as Ben. Because THAT is who you are.”

He smiled, the crooked teeth he’d gotten from his paternal grandmother peeking through, making him look like a bobble-headed jack-o-lantern.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’m just Ben.”

“I wouldn’t have you any other way.”

He then scampered off to celebrate his Ben-ness with his siblings.

Daily flash mobs would be mandatory. Preferably in front of my house. Why? Because who can be gloomy when THIS is happening?

Instead of being powered by gasoline or electricity or flux capacitors, cars will be run entirely on music by Prince.

When the recyclables gather in a large enough pile, they will simply band together like a Transformer and walk their way to the recycling plant.

Childbearing will make the female body MORE youthful and beautiful, rather than causing breasts to look like two oranges in tube socks.

Coffee will be the national beverage and mandatory for anyone over the age of seven.

Life on the Internet will no longer be measured in numbers (see also: Klout) but upon hilarity of cat videos.

Split pea soup will be banned because, well, obviously no one should eat something that appears to have been shot out of my baby’s pooper.

Babies will be born sleeping through the night, doing complex geometric equations, and ready to go to work to buy their parents diamonds.

Pants will remain entirely optional, even in polite company.

There will be no “polite company.”

People who use the words “organic,” “sustainable,” and/or “nosh” in the same paragraph will be banned to the ALOT Island along with anyone who substitutes ellipses for periods.

Moon Pies will ACTUALLY be made of bits of the moon.

Detergents that don’t include OxyClean will be banned. The legacy of Billy Motherfucking Mays must live!

Steve Irwin coined the “stupid people antagonizing wild animals” television shows. Which got him dead. Which means that no one should repeat the formula.

For the love of all that is holy, no more reality singing competitions. American Idol was the clear winner and it’s gone the way of the condor. Or whatever we’re calling Paula Abdul these days.

——————-

Dish, Pranksters. What else should we add? Because when I rule the Universe, you’re all co-rulers.

On days like today, when I’ve woken to a flood of emails, texts, and The Twitter DM’s, all about someone who is desperate and suicidal, only to have to go find the post she’s written for Band Back Together, edit it (or have someone else do it), rearrange the schedule, then beg The Brains Behind The Band to help promote it.

(P.S. if you want to join the Brains Behind The Band, PLEASE email me at becky.harks@gmail.com)

This isn’t, Pranksters, anything new. In fact, this is pretty par for the course these days. Most of my days start and end like this.

In between dealing with the fall-out from the suicidal post, checking to see if we had any other posts that required OMG NAO publishing, it’s already 1:30 and I’m spent. Exhausted. Ready to crawl back into bed, hoping that I’ll be able to bring the funny back tomorrow. Because today, it ain’t happening.

It was with great glee that I watched the Social Network a couple of months ago. I had The Twitter on the ready, prepared to rip Zuckerberg a new pooper, when, right at the beginning of the movie, he said the words that forever won him a spot in my cold, dark heart. When asked what The Facebook would be, he replied, “I don’t know yet.”

That’s precisely what happened on Band Back Together. When I launched it last September, I honestly DIDN’T know what it would be. People asked me constantly what the site was about and I couldn’t give them anything but a canned answer. What it has become is so much more than I’d dreamed. I’m beyond proud. Beyond grateful. Beyond amazed. Beyond honored for all of the brave souls who have – and continue – shared their stories with us.

Everyone has a story.

I hope you share yours with us.

Because even on days like today, when my funny has been banished to the ALOT Island, when I’m frazzled and running around like a zombie chicken, I know that we’re making a difference.

That, Pranksters, is worth all the funny in the world.

Mostly.

P.S. Wasn’t kidding about the offer to join The Brains. Holler at me, please.

P.P.S. For my baby loss mamas, we’re doing a Wall of Remembrance on the site in addition to the one I do each year here. Here’s more information about that wall.

Eleventy-billion (read: 6) years ago, I was in school. Nursing school, if you want to be pedantic about it, which, as Pranksters, I’m sure you do, because obviously.

As the three of you who have read my blog since I started spewing my words and polluting the Internet may remember, Nursing School was not = to Aunt Becky’s BFF. In fact, Nursing School was PROBABLY my archenemy, if it had feelings, which, I’m presuming, it did not. Otherwise it’d have spit on me whenever I got too close…kinda like that patient on the psych ward.

Alas, I digress.

I was the Bad Kid, the Black Sheep, the Outcast. I’d gone from sitting in the back row, eagerly spitting out answers to questions to sitting in the back row, playing Bejeweled on my phone as I pretended to be anywhere but, well, there.

Every break I got, I popped out to the front steps to smoke my cigarettes and glower at the happy college students bounding past me – probably carefree music majors – until one day, a boy showed up and introduced himself. Ryan was his name, and he was one of two boys in the program, which meant that he was as big an outcast as I.

We’d pass the time that way, he and I, sitting on the stoop of the Nursing School building, me smoking while he talked about his time as a Patient Care Tech. Having never worked in a hospital before, I was fascinated by stories like, “So this one time, I helped this old man onto the toilet and his balls actually dipped into the water.” I hadn’t realized that testicles got REALLY dangly as men age. On those steps, we devised an invention to keep ball bags out of the water: a small intertube that the testicles could comfortably rest in.

As our college (Elmhurst College, for those of you curious about which institution would give a diploma to someone like me) was set on a forest preserve, it wasn’t too long before his bizarre-ness came to light.

One day, as I carefully threw away my omnipresent Diet Coke bottle, a squirrel popped out of the garbage can, just like it owned the fucking place. Like the teenage girl I was (not), I shrieked and jumped back.

“I hate those motherfucking things,” Ryan said, as he chased it away from me.

“Huh?” I wasn’t sure if he was talking about my Diet Coke or the garbage can. With Ryan, you never did know.

“Squirrels. They’re fucking rats with tails. And have you seen their creepy, beady eyes? They’re going to murder us while we sleep,” he said.

I goggled at him, mouth hanging open wide enough for several squirrels to make their wee nests in.

While I’ve felt particularly vitriolic about some things (see also: the color orange and earwigs), I couldn’t imagine anyone actively HATING squirrels. They’re just so…cute! And fuzzy! And fluffy! And FULL of the awesome.

Before any roving squirrels could nest in my mouth, a mental picture popped into my head: squirrels banding together into one gigantic murderous squirrel, breaking into his dorm room, to murder him in a nut-filled haze while he slept. And then, well, I busted out laughing.

“What are you laughing about?” he demanded. “I’m putting together some fliers to post around the school, trying to ban the squirrels from living here.”

I laughed so hard that my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. He was just so…serious.

“Will you help me?” he asked.

“Sure,” I replied, gasping for air. “Can we ban the color orange, too?”

“NO!” he nearly shouted. “That’s my favorite color.”

“I heard that squirrels love the color orange,” I lied. “You should probably get on that immediately.”

“Oh,” he replied. “I guess I can support your cause if you support mine.”

“You got it,” I agreed, even though I find squirrels to be the apex of awesome.

And that was how I ended up putting up hand-drawn posters all over campus that said, “BAN THE SQUIRRELS. THEY’RE PLANNING TO EAT YOUR BRAIN AND DRINK YOUR BEER.”

Because that, Pranksters, is how political Your Aunt Becky gets.

—————

So dish, Pranksters: what’s the dumbest thing you’ve gotten behind?

Every Saturday night, we’d go out to a nice dinner. There were four of us – the Fantastic Foursome – a group of giggly girls dealing with everything from single parenting to dating abusive assfucks, and there sat, week after week, a different restaurant each week. Sometimes, before we’d go out to eat, we’d watch episodes of Sex in the City, because, well, we were girls of a certain age.

I was the first to dissent. My new boyfriend, The Daver, lived in Chicago, and we, well, we were suburban girls. As much as I planned to bridge the gaps in geography, Daver and I were in the middle of that ever-so-sweet honeymoon stage of our relationship (well before the “I want to claw your eyes out with a hammer as you sleep” stage showed it’s pretty little head), so the very thought of NOT being with him was patently absurd.

I tried to make it back home for those dinners – the highlight of my stressful week – but eventually, the dinners sort of petered out. We’d bring Daver with us sometimes, but it wasn’t the same.

A little after that, Ashley – one of my best friends – met someone too, and for a spell, we’d double date. The only time, I should say, in my life that I’ve done so.

Shortly thereafter, a weekly dinner became a monthly dinner, and those became as unpredictable as my love/hate affair with Christina Aguilera.

Bored one night last January, I decided to, for old time’s sake (back when I had time), pop in my Sex in the City DVD’s. It was there, watching the impossibly irritating lives of those four women, when I realized how far I’d veered. I knew, of course, that having three children, migraines, and a wicked case of PTSD wasn’t exactly as glamorous a life as I’d once (semi) led. I sat there on the couch, mouth in the “catching flies” position, realizing how abjectly miserable I was. And how I needed to regain that part of myself buried under the mounds of bottles, nursing bras and impossibly tiny, yet adorable Playmobil pieces.

It was then when I launched the Bringing (Aunt) Becky Back Project. It was time to pull a Madonna and re-fucking-invent myself.

And I have. Started small. Even though I was still lugging around scads of baby pounds, I bought some clothes that made me feel good about myself. I bought pretty (read: sparkly) earrings and perfume that smelled like roses. I began to get regular pedicures, even though I’ve been certain that those women are talking about my gross feet. I took baths alone and tried to banish the guilt when I decided to dick around on the Internet rather than scrub my floor. Eventually, those pounds fell off and I burned my nursing bra.

I’ve managed to pull that girl back out of the shell she’d been living through a combination of being kinder to myself, scads of therapy, launching Band Back Together and Mushroom Printing, and picking up some freelancing gigs.

The girl who used to have carefree Saturday night dinners with her girlfriends may be long gone, but the person I’ve become knows that hanging out on the couch, wearing happy pants and a stained Purple Should Be A Flavor, Dammit t-shirt while watching reruns of Prison Break (read: documentaries about hot dogs), surrounded by love, well, everyone should be so lucky.

Because I am.

Dear Aunt Becky-

Do you make your I Kicked Cancer’s Ass t-shirts in toddler sizes? I NEED one for my 2 year old. This kid is totally kicking cancers ass.

xoxo
Lisa

Dear Lisa,

YAY for your toddler kicking cancer’s ass! That’s AMAZING.

We do not currently make those in toddler sizes, but we need to. Period. So you’ve put a bug up my ass about it and now? We’ll make it happen. Stay tuned!

P.S. Did I mention that your kid rules?

Dear Aunt Becky,

Do you still have the shut your whore mouth shirts, I cannot locate them on the site or I could be and idiot too!!

Sure do, Prankster! Our Shut Your Whore Mouth shirts are RIGHT here! Enjoy.

P.S. Send me a snap of you with the SYWM shirt when you get it. I’ll add it to my awesome photo gallery.

Hello Aunt Becky,

First I wanted to tell you that I completely enjoy your blogs! And I admire the courage you have for being able to share with humor all you and your family goes through. I am asking if you or any of your Pranksters might have any advice for me beyond the thought of I need a hugging coat and to do the thorazine shuffle, because I do believe I have gone cocoa for coo-coo puffs.

8.5 years ago my twins passed away due to complications with CF. (CF sucks big monkey butt btw)

I was told when they were born that a massive amount of damage was done and I would not be able to have anymore children. Fast forward to present day, I have a huge miracle in my baby girl that is 5 months old now. I love her beyond reason, and want to do my level best for her.

So what the hell is my problem?

Well, I think I’m screwing up. I was so used to parenting 2 very sick little ones, that I have no clue how to be a parent to a healthy child. The poor kiddo gets interrupted naps, because out of habit, I go to make sure she’s breathing clearly, not running a fever, all of those crazy things I had to do before. I find myself having damn near a panic attack when we go to the pediatrician for shots and check ups. I try every day to tell myself that she is not them, and is healthy and I can get a full night sleep. The only reason she wakes up at night, is because I wake her up checking on her.

My logical brain knows she is healthy and I need to knock it off. But that fear, is just sitting there, almost mocking me. I tried talking to my husbands family about it, they told me I needed to get over it. Yeah, I have no real support system to speak of. I guess I’m just wondering if this is normal for parents that have been through this? Or am I just simply that crazy? Thank you in advance for your thoughts on the matter.

And for being a bright spot in many a mothers day.

Oh Prankster, I’m so sorry for the loss of your twins. That makes my heart break into a zillion tiny pieces.

I’ve thought about your question for awhile now (shut up, I CAN think)(sometimes) and in knowing that I am neither a doctor, nor do I play one on the Internet (much), I feel that you may have PTSD. It makes perfect sense, having lived through hell already, that you’d suffer such an anxiety disorder. Frankly, I’d be surprised if you DIDN’T.

If you burned your hand REALLY BADLY on the stove, you’d probably be eleventy-billion times more cautious in the future while using the stove. Raising a child after losing two children is like that, only magnified a quadrillion times.

So yes, your reaction is completely normal and expected. The good news is that while you’ll probably always be more cautious with your daughter, PTSD is a completely manageable illness. If you can find the right help, you’ll be able to work through some of the anxiety you’re experiencing. And may I invite you, AND everyone reading this to post over at Band Back Together. We have a large amount of baby loss parents who work with us who, I’m sure, understand your feelings entirely.

Sending you love and light. Please, please, please, all of you, Pranksters, please write your stories for us.

Dear Aunt Becky,

I recently joined a group of amazing ladies, we’ve been pregnant together and now we’ve started to have our babies. One of these women had her baby, a beautiful little girl and found out soon after birth that something was wrong. Her red light reflux in one of her eyes was wrong. It’s looking like right now that her daughter has a cataract, which is a huge deal for infants.

She’s waiting to get word on when they can travel to start surgery and treatment since there are apparently only a handful of surgeons who can operate on this. She’s scared, and we’re scared for her. I would love it if you could put this out there and see if there’s anyone else that has some positive stories and has been through this.

There’s so much information out there and so much of it is terrifying that it’s hard to even know where to begin.

Dear Prankster,

I’m hoping that by posting this, we can find some people who understand and have been where your friend is. I’m making it a prerogative this week to create a resource page for you on Band Back Together. Hopefully, we can collect some stories for you and your friend so people facing this scary diagnosis have somewhere to go.

Thank you so much for being such an incredible friend. She’s lucky to have you.

Much love to you and your friend.

—————–

As always Pranksters, please fill in where I left on in the comments. And let these two Pranksters know that they’re not alone. Because, we really are none of us alone.

I sort of feel sorry for anyone stuck visiting me. Not because I’m not a gracious host (and I’m using “gracious” to mean yelling “get your own damn soda” while I lounge about on the couch) but because I’m a wicked bad tour guide. I’d rather tour the dumpster I used to get wasted behind than go and visit some of the more touristy bits of Chicago. Mostly because I find my dumpster more enthralling than the masses of people staring up at the Tall Buildings.

For a city who loves tourism as much as we do, we’re awfully rude about having them. I love nothing more than spoiling a nice snapshot by standing behind the lovely tourists and making inappropriate hand gestures while the shot is taken. I’d much prefer to take you to witness two mob bosses having a fist fight than I would ride the Ferris Wheel on Navy Pier. I’d rather take you to the dumpy pizza place, praying we don’t get diphtheria (AGAIN) while we nosh on the most delicious pizza ever created (even if it is a front for a drug cartel) than tour the Sears Tower**.

But my girl Crys is coming into town today. And while I’d like to be all, “Pranksters, come visit and we’ll go do awesome touristy things while I play World’s Best Tour Guide,” I know myself better than that. Because while she’s probably expecting to see Chicago’s Greatest Hits*, I’m planning to sit on the couch and make her fetch me Diet Coke.

In fact, I’m such a good friend that I’m praying she gets introduced to Chicago the way most of us do: fist-fight in the airport.

Because I never know I’m home until I deboard in Chicago, where everyone glowers glumly as they take off or put on clothes – depending on the season – threatening other passengers with their eyes to not fuck with them. I feel sort of sorry for my California-based friends who have no idea why everyone looks so pissed off until they step outside and realize it’s Balls Hot or Balls Cold.

It’s only then that I know I’m home sweet motherfucking home.

Welcome, Crys. Remember: don’t make eye contact.

*an oxymoron.

**It is not, never has been and never will be the “Willis Tower.”

————

PS. Am here at the Stir today. Also: here.

———–

Also: are you guys as lousy a tour guide as I am?

Pranksters, I miss you.

I feel like my life these days is one gigantic [redacted] symbol (if it’s not a symbol, it should be). Each day, I come here, sit at my computer for an hour, cursor blinking merrily on the blank page, as I try desperately to tell you something – anything. For years, writing here has been the only thing that’s kept me sane, and now, I’ve lost my words.

Day in and day out, I sit here, typing, deleting, [redacting] and eventually, publishing something that even I know is bullshit. It’s not for lack of trying, which makes me more infuriated. But my head these days is swimming, overwhelmed, full of the sads. I try to pluck words from the mush left between my ears and they don’t work together. They simply don’t fit. And I know it.

I hate living a [redacted] life. I’m not a [redacted] kind of person. I love being an open book. I’ve always loved being an open book.

But when shit gets serious, I retreat. I put myself in the [redacted] corner and pull inside. Nothing gets in or out. It’s the time I most need people and yet, I cannot even form the words to say so.

This is bullshit.

I cannot live this way. It’s become readily apparent that living a [redacted] life is more harmful to me than it is helpful. Retreating to my [redacted] corner leaves me shaky and hyperventilating.

So it’s time to un[redact] my life.

Pranksters, lock up your cupcakes and hide your vodka: Aunt Becky’s back.

(Scene: 6PM in hotel conference room. Five people sit around a table introducing themselves to an audience)

Girl 1: “I’m from Think Geek. I’m responsible for all of the social media from Think Geek. I also brought awesome swag.”

Girl 2: “I’m from NASA. I work with the NASA blog and Twitter account.”

Guy 1: “I’m from Wired.com.”

Girl 3 (uncomfortably looks at hands): “I’m um…Aunt Becky. From Mommy Wants Vodka. I write a thoroughly mediocre blog.”

(audience stares at her)

Girl 3: “It’s um, a MOMMY blog.”

(audience stares)

Girl 3 (laughs uncomfortably): “Sometimes I write about my vagina.”

(audience stares)

Girl 3: “I have an amazing Band of Merry Pranksters. On my blog. They’re the best people on the Internet.”

(audience glares)

Girl 3: “Except, um, you.”

(audience is beginning to leave)

Girl: “I’m in a bathing suit holding a chainsaw in my Twitter avatar.”

(audience smiles and nods happily)

Works every time.