Now I love teenagers, which makes me in the shallow minority of adults. I find them endlessly amusing probably in no small part because I share the same emotional range and maturity level as they do. I’m just older, so it’s more pathetic. I’m not a freak, though, so I don’t like hang around used record stores trying to relive my Glory Days and buy smokes for 16-year-olds in the vain attempt that I might “be the COOL adult” now because THAT is just sad.

Nah, I just like ’em. Much more, I should add, than I do most other age brackets, up to and including preteens.

Preteens, however, I’m convinced, rule the fucking world.

Case and point. On Twitter, for the three of you blissfully without an account, for like 4 weeks or 6 years, Justin Beaver was a trending topic. Trending topics are SUPPOSED to be things like “Oil Spill” or “Britney Spears Crotch,” you know, RELEVANT things, but instead, we had the preteens of the world automating twitter with “JUSTIN BEAVER” over and over again so that he remained a trending topic day after motherfucking day.

Twitter, God BLESS them, finally pulled the plug and refused to let his foppy hair-cutted ass trend any longer. Because really, unless someone assassinates him or proves that he does, indeed have a beaver (neither of which I am advocating), it’s not fucking national news.

So Twitter, this is Your Aunt Becky humping your leg for doing that AND removing #sponsored tweets. If you live under a rock and don’t know what those are, I applaud you because those make me Furious George.

MOVING ON BEFORE MY HEAD ESSPLODES.

Last night was the esteemed Glee Live tour. I won’t go as far as to say that I’m a “Gleek” because that’s a fucking DUMBASS name, but I love that show. Hard. Yeah, okay, it’s contrived and silly and a little soft, but you know what? IT’S COTTON CANDY. It serves no purpose other than to be there and make you happy. In a world where we very well may need to buy a large area rug to cover up the oil spill in the Gulf, maybe we can use some fluff.

I expected that the theatre would have some teenagers in it. And probably some awesomely gay men. What I did NOT expect was that the theatre would be packed wall-to-wall with screaming hoards of preteens bursting with irritating noise and energy.

Had I not been dying of the Flu Made Who and unable to stand for more than .2 seconds at a time, I would have found their exuberance merely funny rather than exhausting, but as it was, every time ANYTHING happened, they SHRIEKED. I couldn’t muster a single WORD without it making me tear up in pain and they were flaunting the use of their perfect vocal chords RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME.

Had I had a cane, I would have swatted them with it.

They’re all clearly robots because NO ONE has that kind of energy without being high as a kite, insane in the membrane, or artificial intelligence. The amount of money and time put into their elaborately made “GLEE shirts” illustrate to me that they are clearly decepticons from the future, sent to destroy humanity, one decibel at a time.

The show, however, was worth the shrieks. I didn’t take pictures because really, it was kind of pointless because they were all DANCING and MOVING and shit, but I’m telling you this: if you like the show and you can somehow score tickets the next time they go on tour (which, they will because FOX will bleed those kids for every cent they can possibly make) DO IT.

You may be killed by decepticons posing as awkward preteens, but at least you’ll go out whistling “Sweet Caroline.”

Because I am a narcissistic asshole, I have carefully chronicled the problems I have had with flying. While I am sure that MOST have you have carefully poured over my archives while wearing an “I HEART AUNT BECKY SHIRT” while burning incense at your Aunt Becky Alter, for those of you who haven’t had time, I’ll give you the Cliff’s Notes Version:

(P.S. I’d use real bullets, but the make the font REALLLLY tiny and then I get upset because it LOOKS BAD and then I get anal and wring my hands about it and then I realize that maybe I SHOULD have been a graphic designer except that I am not THAT anal because I am distracted by the promise of hot dogs)

*I have been singled out and strip searched by the TSA for most of my flights since I was a small child. I used to think that it was because I was devastatingly sexy, but no, I realized that I actually look sort of maybe Middle Eastern. Racial profiling does, in fact, exist.

*All of my luggage was lost on my honeymoon. In fact, my honeymoon was a disaster from the moment it began until it ended. We did get our luggage back, BUT LOOK AT MY CORNROWS:

*On our trip to Heather Spohr’s baby shower, the tickets we printed at home were all ‘SEE TICKETING AGENT’ which never bodes well, because obviously. So we were all nervous because we’d never been away before and then the tickets were MYSTERIOUS and turns out, we were on an exit row.

*Flight HOME from Heather’s baby shower, the plane nearly crashed. No, seriously. It wasn’t funny.

So I wasn’t exactly happy to be getting on a plane to go to my cruise because, well, something always seems to be amiss and airline travel now is a HUGE pain in the butthole. But CRUISE! How could I go wrong?

The flight out was delayed about an hour, but whatever, I was coming in the day before and it all worked out.

The flight HOME, see, now, THIS is where I got fucked.

I’d made the mistake of buying some ridiculously overpriced shit at the salon on the ship. Those of you (read: ALL of you) who will be going on our cruise, HEED MY WARNING, the cruise ship’s salon is INSANELY expensive. So, I bought some shit before I knew what it cost and then realized it was over the 3 ounce limit the TSA allows.

(the terrorists are SO winning)

So I’m all, okay, I’ll check my motherfucking bag. WHATEVER. I drop my twenty-five bucks at the American Airlines curbside check-in and the guy is all “I’ll take care of it for you.” And then I said bye to my bag as it was loaded onto the back.

I got home and couldn’t walk straight which should have been the first sign that I was coming down with the flu, but I’d been traveling all day, so I was all “WHATEVER” and went to bed. The next day, I was equally mumbly and went around in a fog and basically walked into walls and still couldn’t figure out why my brain felt like it had been attacked by ice cream scoops.

The FOLLOWING day, I finally attempted to unpack my suitcase, where it had languished in the hallway, and, upon looking closer at one of my ridiculously overpriced salon boxes, I realized something: it was empty. After calling a meeting of the usual suspects, I realized that it couldn’t POSSIBLY have been my children, who lacked the dexterity to open such a box.

Which meant one thing: I’d been robbed by American Airlines, not the TSA, because they didn’t leave their calling card.

Also missing: my iPod/iPhone/iPad charger (the same piece of equipment).

American Airlines has tried to help but is basically like “*shrugs* We opened a case for you.” Did you know they have a whole DEPARTMENT for this shit? A PILFERED BAGGAGE department? That’s fucked up, yo.

I’m planning to call American EXPRESS (the card I used to buy my ridiculous face cream on) who may be able to leverage a little more weight than me and my Twitter Campaign of Doom will be able to, because genuinely, I’m not thinking much will come of this at all.

It’s just all so fucked up. I mean, we can’t really LOCK our baggage to keep them out because the TSA has to be able to access our stuff at all times to search it, and we can’t do anything about getting our stuff back because how can I really PROVE that my stuff is missing?

If this is the new world order, I don’t like it, Pranksters.

So I’ve frequently waxed on about how my daughter kicked neurosurgery in the balls because, well, anyone who undergoes brain surgery as a 3 week old and walks off with as wicked a scar as my Mimi did deserves to say that about themselves (or have their mother brag about it). Her scar is such that she’s going to have to come up with some kind of wicked story like, “bar fight” which is my go-to story when strangers ask.

Trust me, I get some looks.

Later, I said that Mimi kicked ass because she beat a diagnosis that often kills babies, or leaves them severely retarded. She’s entirely normal, if not a bit feisty, which, again, kicks ass.

What I didn’t count on was that my daughter would be a bruiser.

Sure, my mother often said that I was born “smoking a cigar and barking out orders” but I sort of thought that she meant that I was a short, fat, balding bookie kind of baby. I don’t know why I always pictured myself as The Penguin from Batman, but I did.

I didn’t think she meant that I was a BRUISER. Apparently, THAT was what she meant, not that I was a villain-baby, because to hear her talk about it, she STILL shudders when she describes me as a baby.

Maybe that was why my first word was “fuck.” I don’t know. But it does explain a whole lot about my personality now, doesn’t it? (just nod, it’s easier)

But that would be my daughter, who is, apparently, myself, who is, without a doubt, kicking all of our asses to get what she wants. It doesn’t really matter WHAT it is, she’ll fight you for it. Ear-bleeding shrieks followed by tiny fingered pinches, then followed by a gaze from those beautiful, luminous eyes, I mean, you IMAGINED that tantrum, didn’t you?

Nothing this sweet looking could be such a devil in disguise:

Underneath that sweet, cake-eating exterior, she’s plotting how to steal your wallet AND car-keys. Amelia, she’s a thug-a-lug.

Really, I thought that my testosterone-fueled middle son would have been the member of the Sausage Factory to contend with but it turns out that his sister is going to be the member of the family that will be all DROP AND GIVE ME FIFTY, SOLDIER. Mimi, who will probably drop the fluffy sounding name and go by the more refined sounding “A-Dog” will make an excellent drill sergeant where she will inflict her torture on her troops so much that they will have nightmares that she is standing over them, pinching them.

Of course, she will be standing over them, pinching them while they sleep, because she is THAT kind of bruiser.

I’m wicked proud of my ickle A-Dog, even though I’m sure eventually she’ll try to cut my hair into a regulation buzz-cut every time she sees me, which is fine, so long as I don’t go to sleep (Aunt Becky doesn’t sleep, she waits). Because I bet she WOULD do it while I sleep.

It’s a good thing, I think. The world needs more strong, fearless, smart, pinchy females to stomp the earth in their combat boots making everything their bitch. Amelia will be like Chuck Norris, only cuter.

Just don’t tell her I called her cute. She’ll punch me in the throat.

Fear me world, because I have come to CONQUER you.

Once I finish my juicey.

—————

At Toy With Me, I’m talking about my BRILLIANT plan: Peckers of the Caribbean.

I started the morning by grousing about the state of the world in general, followed that with a piping hot bowl of prunes, and then watched my Matlock for a spell because I am an old person. Also, I do not eat prunes because I am not insane and prunes, no matter how tasty and fucking delicious they are, look like fucking cockroaches.

Sure, our old mattress was this ancient hand-me-down Tempur-Pedic thing that was actually ripped so badly that it was disintegrating, but because we are not normal, we bought an old people Sleep Number bed. I tried like crazy to get Daver to allow me to get the one that went up and down like a hospital bed with the radio and the TV remote built into the side, but he refused.

Apparently, me shrieking about “mah bedsores” in the middle of the mattress stores wasn’t enough to convince him that we needed a $4,000 bed. Ass.

The upside to getting a new mattress when one comes down with the flu, I suppose was that I spent most of the week in that bed. And I have to give it over to old people: that motherfucker is COMFORTABLE. I mean, sleeping on a box would be preferable to sleeping on the busted Tempur-Pedic because that thing had a gorge in the middle of it. A cavern. A chasm. It was kind of like a vagina in the middle of the mattress.

Now I can totally pick up dudes with my Sleep Number (40) rather than my zodiac sign. Because explaining that I’m not REALLY a Cancer and a lot more like a Leo makes me sound all kinds of neurotic.

Shut UP.

But that’s all kind of a moot point because until I can pick up dudes at the Urgent Care Clinic*, I’m kind of screwed. Flu Made Who is pretty much got me down for the count and is trying to make me his bitch.

This here, Pranksters, is motherfucking bat country.

How are YOU today, my Band of Merry Pranksters? I assume you’re not sweating with the exertion of sitting up and praying for the sweet release of sleep death dramatics Vicodin to overtake you.

*is it me, or does the word “clinic” make you think of STD’s?

Dear Aunty Becky,

So I finally figured out what I want to do when I grow up, and how I want to get there.  I’ve found the perfect college to go back to, enrolled, and am now trying to figure out how to pay for it.

This is where I need help.  I have anxiety issues and money is a HUGE trigger for me.  I’m at the point where I dream that I can’t fall asleep because I’m too busy thinking about how I can pay for my dream to come true.

I’m 33, I have 4 kids, I’m married, I’m recently laid off…. I don’t know how to make this work!  It’s what I want to do more than anything (except maybe live) but I don’t even know how to pay for it?  What can I do, besides drink more before I go to bed?

Yours truly,

The Neurotic One

Oh Neurotic Prankster, you are SO not alone in this one, and for good reason. The cost of college is damn daunting especially if you look at it from a beginning-to-end perspective (which I was smart enough NOT to d0)(or stupid enough)(whatever)(let’s not nitpick, Pranksters, I have the FLU).

Here’s where I’m going to veer away from the smart financial people who will no doubt rail on me in the comments and suggest that you will FIND a way to pay for your dream. If this IS what you want to do, Prankster, then you MUST do it. You’ll know in your bones if this is It, and if It is, then you simply must find a way.

There are always college loans, work-on-campus programs and ways to pay for the tuition. You can buy text books used from Amazon.com rather than take it up the butt from the bookstore. Take some of the prerequisites from a junior college (MAKE SURE THEY TRANSFER INTO YOUR FUTURE COLLEGE, FIRST. THIS IS MY WARNING TO YOU)

Go in and make an appointment with the admissions counselor and have them walk you through how you can pay for it. I assure you that most people don’t have hundreds of thousands just laying around to throw at college.

So, DO IT, Prankster. You only go around this crazy planet once. Might as well be doing something that fulfills you.

I’m considering going back to school to become a RN.  Only because I want to be a lactation consultant.

Would I kill myself?  Is it horrible?  Do I have to learn stuff with needles?

Any advice is appreciated, yo.

Zak

Aw, ZAK, this brings a tear of joy to my eye! I’m so proud of you for wanting to go to school to fondle boobies! Also: I will send you my scrubs so you have some to start with because, obviously.

Anyway. No, you totally won’t kill yourself, because you’re going to nursing school because you want to, not as a Long Suffering Aunt Becky who hated every moment of it because I really wanted to be somewhere (anywhere) else.

The things I have to say about nursing school are this:

It’s exhausting. The pace they put you at was a new class load about every 8 weeks, which meant that we were on the quarter system. It was a semester’s worth of material in half the time, but that’s pretty indicative of how the medical field works (sink or swim) so you do get used to it. I swear.

No one will coddle you. But I know you and I think you’d punch someone in the cock if they tried to, so this is good. Just keep it in mind that you’re on your own and you’re going to be doing a lot of work. Again, you get used to it. I’m pretty sure if I tried to go back and take a normal college class I’d be disgusted by how easy it was.

It’s satisfying. I never wanted to be a nurse, but a lot of what I did learn was highly satisfying even if I only use that knowledge to gleefully correct televised medical dramas and/or solve the mystery on House, MD before his team does. I bat a pretty good average on that one, actually.

Actually, you probably won’t have to do much with needles in school (which, ROCK ON). Not only is a hugemongeous liability for the school because y’all could be throwing around blood-borne pathogens thanks to poor needle practices, but every hospital uses different needles AND has a different set of standards for the way that their staff handles needles.

Needle work comes once you get hired somewhere or work somewhere as a patient care tech.

Other than that, I have a huge amount of respect for nurses and anyone who wants to become one. So to you, I take my hat off. Or I would if I were wearing one. Actually, I might be wearing one, but the flu has made me hallucinate.

Was my mother right: Does the white stuff around oranges have nutrients like iron? Is it good for you? I’ve gone my whole life choking on the stuff and/or painstakingly peeling it off. I have to know!

Thanks,
V

The white stuff around the oranges is called “pith” which sounds very properly English, doesn’t it? I can only picture English people saying it dressed in fancy 18th century garb (like those gigantic headdresses) while sipping tea, but THAT, Pranksters, is the drugs talking.

Anyway, my parents were always saying the same things to me, although they never quoted iron specifically. But it was always “nutritious things” in that pith. And when I went to look it up, the only word among the many, many I found, that made any sense whatsoever was “fiber.”

The rest sounded like New Age made-up words. Which, maybe they were. Because I’d never heard of them before. And clearly, if *I* hadn’t heard of them, they were fake words.

Either way, the pith of an orange tastes like butthole, that we can all agree on. And generally, the things on this planet that aren’t lethal that taste like butthole are really good for you. So my guess is that the pith is probably really good for you.

(I still peel it off. I like bitter things–like my heart–but that shit is WAAAAY too bitter for me)

—————–

As always, Pranksters, please feel free to fill in where I left off in the comments.

P.S. This probably makes no sense because I’m still hallucinating.

P.P.S. I am going to punch the flu in the cock.

P.P.P.S. I wish the flu had a cock so I could punch it there. Hard.

Of the past 48 hours, I’ve spent nearly 36 of them laying supine while the room spun around alarmingly. As I slurred to The Daver, it’s like being wasted while totally sober and if I felt any better, I’d be enjoying myself mightily because a free high is a free high.

But I can’t think straight which is frustrating to me because I have THINGS to do, like organize my Serial Killer of the Month Cards and rearrange my Garbage Pail Kids and I simply can’t. I can barely type this post, to be honest, because the room is tilting out of control and all I can think is that line from that awful song, “it’s hard to leave when you can’t find the door.” Because really, it’s TRUE even if that song sucks.

Considering I had the Swine Flu already, you’d think that I’d get a break and not get The (ever-loving) Flu again but apparently, the Swine Flu ruins your immune system for awhile afterward. Ain’t THAT a bitch?

So I’m going to shuffle back to bed, leaving my house in shambles and my children to run amok (which, hi, that word looks HILARIOUS to me. Is that even a real word? Because it doesn’t look like it. HOORAY FOR FAKE WORDS.) so I can go sweat and dream about hot dogs and zombies munching on what is left of my grey matter.

Good night and good luck, Pranksters.

I’m going to be uncharacteristically honest here because I am hallucinating tiny pink penguins marching over the monitor on my Big Mac and I don’t think that anything I say can be held against me in The Marriage Court and say it: Dave isn’t a great gift buyer. He’s gotten better over the years, for sure, but that’s only after I spent about four separate birthdays crying, “You mean, you bought me this pack of gum from a GAS STATION?”

I recognize that gifts and being thought of on the day of one’s birth (or on other holidays) isn’t important to everyone. For those of you who don’t care about such material things, I give you massive props. You are CLEARLY better, more evolved than I am.

I’m a slothly, mouth-breathing, knuckle-dragger of a person who likes my stuff-n-things and really, I want someone to THINK of me on my damn birthday (which, Pranksters, should be a national holiday).

That said, there are a couple of things that if The Daver thought to buy me on my birthday (or any other present buying day, really), I’d be Furious George.

Like this (brought to my attention by my new brother-in-law Patrick):

The BETTER MARRIAGE BLANKET. It officially reduces the incidences of those pesky Dutch Ovens and night farts. Which, to me, are like the best part of marriage.

I’m not a terribly gassy person, but The Daver, well, he is. So when he gets into bed and rips ass, I do the only thing a person CAN do in this situation. I grab the quilt and I quickly pull it over his head, trapping the noxious odors inside where he is forced to rebreathe his own stench for minutes at a time (this, Pranksters, is a Dutch Oven).

He’ll lay under there, howling for mercy, chocking on his own disgustingness while I lay on top of him cackling wildly.

If I had the Better Marriage Blanket, I could not do such a thing and that WOULD MAKE ME SAD. Because I consider that to be high sport and while I’m sure a good lot of you are shaking your heads wondering how I conned someone into marrying me, I can honestly tell you that I have no idea, either.

So BACK OFF, Better Marriage Blanket People, and let me have my fun.

And The Daver, if you buy me this, I will somehow manage to find a way to get Auggie to pee on your pillow. That’s a promise.

——————–

What’s the worst gift YOU have gotten, Pranksters?

I am, apparently, dying of what we shall call “airplane sickness” but is probably the flu. This means that I cannot effectively post anything or do anything of substance besides sit here and sweat and occasionally moan pathetically.

If this is the flu, I fully intend to sue, as I did with the Swine Flu and I expect that once again, I will win. Thank you, The People’s Court for ruling in my favorite over that fucking pig and it’s stupid virus.

But the cruise, Pranksters, well, it’s happening. I’m beyond excited that all of you are showing interest in it and Angie and I are putting together more information and we should have it all set up and neatly ready for take-off within the next couple of weeks.

We’re thinking March 2011 because March is a SHITTY ass month, but we’re not solid on dates yet.

Here’s what I CAN tell you.

You do NOT need a blog.

You do NOT need to have a POPULAR blog, if you are a blogger. Neither of us are A-listers or give a shit about that kind of thing, so don’t bother getting worried about that stuff.

You don’t even need to have an internet connection or know either of us.

You can bring your kids/spouse/family/whatever. Most ships have a daycare that you can send your crotch parasites to. Just don’t count on Your Aunt Becky to babysit. Imma be drinking heavily.

The cruise, however needs a name. So far, Angie and I have come up with: “Aunt Becky’s Family Reunion,” which is pretty awesome. But I want to see if you can do better. The “I’m On A Boat” is kinda funny, but won’t be by then. So we have to do better, y’all.

What do you think? What’s a good name? And what else do we need to do?

Because I called my cruise a business trip, Angie and I talked shop for a little bit when we were together. Although, I’m going to be honest, a lot less than you’d think. When I was a waitress, post-shift, the staff would pour out of the restaurant together like a bunch of lunatics that hadn’t seen the light of day in 16 years and we’d proceed to talk about “the assholes at table 24” for the next 2 hours while we drank ourselves into a pit of oblivion.

Server stories are endlessly entertaining to other servers, but blogging stories simply aren’t interesting to anyone…even other bloggers. I mean, could I really be all, “ONE TIME MY DNS THINGY CRASHED AND I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT EVEN MEANS” without making other people want to slit their own necks?

Plus, saying, “I have a blog” is kind of not full of the awesome because it STILL sounds like I could have a site devoted to my cat, Mr. Sprinkles, and his wacky anecdotes. Because let me tell you, Mr. Sprinkles is one wacky guy.

Angie and I did, however, talk conferences. Specifically the docket for next year.

I’m doing BlogHer this year, and I’m even speaking, which must have been some grievous error on BlogHer’s end because I am not classy and they are classy and maybe someone will spike my drink so that I won’t get up there and be all ‘YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH’ in front of people.

They probably thought I was the OTHER Aunt Becky.

Anyway, I don’t normally do conferences, but I guess I should start because there are OTHER people at conferences whose legs I should like to hump with my vagina (yes YOU Pranksters) and that’s essentially what I told Angie who is not the island of a blogger that I am.

*warbles Islands in the Streams*

It was there, over Strawberry Frozen Yogurt when we came up with our most brilliant idea.

Why not say “fuck it” and all get our assess onto a boat? We could do a Blogger Meet-up on a boat!

Let me break it down.

It’s cheaper than a hotel per night if you bunk up with someone (especially in the middle rooms like where Your Aunt Becky stayed)(because I am a cheap ass) AND the airfare down to Florida isn’t exorbitant depending upon when we go. A cruise would be no more than a conference, especially if you got a roommate.

So, I’m thinking that this is the wave of the future. GET IT? WAVE? It’s me being nautical again. HILARITY.

What’s not awesome about getting on a boat with a couple of bloggers and then proceeding to:

a) drink

2) sleep

@) drink THEN sleep

8) eat anything you want

*) swim

10) smuggle in narcotics

I mean, really, nothing not awesome.

The idea is still in it’s embryonic form because I have to research REAL blog conferences with you know, real speakers and stuff, so that I don’t book something that’s conflicting with it, but I’ll be on a motherfucking boat. Angie will too. You can join us.

If you guys are dead set on having some conference shit going on, I’m sure that Angie (who is a legitimate business owner) and I (who am a bullshit blogger) can come up with some sort of agenda.

Like this:

8-10: Motherfucking SLEEP

10-11: Eat breakfast, chew aspirin to work off hangover. Laugh at previous night’s antics once laughing doesn’t hurt.

11-11:20: Lazily discuss blogging. Ask if anyone else actually makes money blogging. Make the one poor sap that raises hand buy drinks.

11:20-11:30: Chug beer through makeshift beer bong.

11:30-1PM: Lay by pool trying to catch the elusive she-mullet on film. Winner gets free drinks.

1-2PM: Lunch. Lazily order “one of everything” on the menu. Laugh when server asks “really” then say, “of course.” Eat it all.

2-4PM: NAPPY TIME.

4-4:10- Discuss traffic levels on blog. Decide it really IS all about content. Get distracted by someone in a whimsical t-shirt.

4:10-5:00- Try to decide if anyone actually knows the words to the Macarana. Stop fist-fight between two irate (and drunk) bloggers who swear that it’s actually an Irish Folk Song.

5:00-7PM- SHOW TIME. Laugh at the awesome show put on by the band. Debate whether or not the show people know how bad their show is. Laugh more. Applaud loudly because NO ONE ELSE IS.

7-8:30- DINNER TIME. Marvel over how good dinner is. Marvel over how fat you are becoming. Marvel how you just don’t give a shit.

8:30-10PM- Back up to the deck to people-watch. Realize that no matter how bad you feel about yourself, really, it’s not so bad. EVER.

10-11PM BEDTIME, baby.

————-

Really, Pranksters, this is going to be full of the awesome. You should do it. You don’t have to be a blogger, like blogs, or even read them to join us. It’ll be a floating party of awesome.

Angie and I will be on a boat. Mr. Sprinkles, my fictitious cat, will not be.

————–

Also my column at Toy With Me, penis tattoos? WTF?

*If you didn’t get it, I was making a reference to the SEA, Pranksters by referencing knots, which I think are some sort of sea thingy, or maybe they’re actually not. I could be referring to DON KNOTS who isn’t from the sea, I don’t think. He could be a Poseidon for all I fucking know. I’m still half tripping from the Dramamine, which should come with the label “WILL FUCK YOUR SHIT UP, BITCHES.”

I want a sandwich. And a snowcone. Actually, I want a snowcone sandwich.

Anyway, so I am back from my cruise and let me tell you that it was FULL of the awesome. Technically, it was a WORKING vacation, and Angie and I have come up with a fantastic idea which I will reveal tomorrow when the walls stop moving and I stop walking into my dogs.

So we were on a motherfucking boat wearing our flippy-flops, with apologies AND accolades to T-Pain, which is sort of like a traveling NASCAR fan hotel with all of the assorted classiness and hilarity that went along with it. I’m telling you that people watching cannot be better anywhere.

I got my first decent massage AND my first taste of true bad taste on the trip.

The massage was by a British woman and she was alarmed by the state of my stress level (an 8)(what, is that bad?) and the state of my back. Apparently, it was all kinds of tight and wound up and that’s apparently bad. Pretty much, she said that I would die unless I got more regular massages and stopped being so stressed out and maybe took better care of myself.

I tried to interject with “does Vicodin count as a stress reliever?” but then she sort of laid on my back with her elbows and I wept in pain and couldn’t speak. Or I could, but it would be a scream. I tried to make her tell me that my back was “knotty” so that she’d say something like, “Oooh, Rebecca, you KNOTTY girl,” and maybe then smack me around, but no such luck.

Just more of the elbows and threats of reducing my stress or “death.” WhatEVER.

The ship wasn’t exactly decorated from this era. In fact, it’s pretty much the LAST sort of decor that you want to see if you’re drunk and/or seasick, but it’s pretty much full of the hilarious. Brightly patterned carpets and brass and wall paper and colors! every! where!

It’s going to be vintage soon.

The worst place that I found was this: a HAND bar. I want whatever they were smoking when they decided that THIS was a great concept for a bar, because it had to be strong.

So you’re walking down the way and you see THIS:

Two giant hands. I assumed, nail salon. TACKY nail salon, but nail salon. Nope. The strains of a bad keyboard player ministering to a group of cougars wafted out and I could make out “My Girl.” Badly.

I was intrigued.

THAT is over the bar. I cannot impart how scary that looks. It’s a gigantic hand. Over the bar. What. The. Fuck.

The horrible keyboard player belts out shitty songs and drunken cougars vie for his attention and suddenly I’m horrified AND embarrassed.

The wall is home to the handprints of his conquests? OR VICTIMS…

The fingers wave creepily as I back out of the bar, happy to have escaped with my hands intact.

I’ll never listen to “My Girl” the same way again.