My Dad: “We found a new place to park that’s much closer to the front of McCormick Place.”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “It’s all street parking. No meters!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “Paying for parking is bullshit!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “It’s also much, much closer to the entrance! NO WALKING!”

Me: (groans)

My Dad: “The best part?”

Me: “…”

My Dad: “It’s in front of Cabrini Green.”

Me: “…”

Me: “The housing project? From Candyman? I almost got killed there once.”

My Dad: “I hope you’re ready to do some jogging!”

Me: “Uh.”

My Dad: “You know how I hate paying for parking, Rebecca!”

Me: “I didn’t bring a semi-automatic weapon, Dad.”

My Dad: “Well, you probably won’t get mugged. It’s day time!”

Me: “…”

Me: “I’ll buy parking today, huh? MY TREAT.”

My Dad: “It’s the PRINCIPLE, Rebecca.”

Me: “Well, how about this? I’ll drop you off in front of Cabrini Green and you can walk! That way, you feel like you got free parking!”

My Dad: “Well, if you’re paying…”

I’ve been joking that “purple should be a flavor, dammit,” for as long as I can remember. I probably got the idea from somewhere else, I can’t be certain.

I used to have a blog theme with a changeable tagline, probably intended for people to say things like, “Mommy Wants Vodka: The Best Gosh-Darn Blog Ever,” but I’d change mine to say things like “Mommy Wants Vodka: Now THAT’S Fucked Up,” and then, “Mommy Wants Vodka: Encased Meats Are The Two Finest Words In The English Language Besides ‘Hooray Beer’,” because I am classy and that is what classy people do.

Someone recently said that “her name tastes like purple” because she’s got Synethsesia, a neurological condition wherein the activation of one sensory stimulation automatically evokes stimulation from a second sensory pathway. Basically, using one sense (touch, taste, hearing, smell, sight) stimulates another sense. My Metal Head friend Scottie once, while very, very intoxicated, informed me that he could see the music coming from the speakers.

So, there you have it.

Synethesia.

It’s kind of a neat way of looking at things, although, of course, I don’t have it. I just like to put together words in unusual ways. When I’m not here, I write groups of essays that I will one day put into a larger collection. A “book,” if I may. And watch dancing cactus videos.

Fucking love dancing cacti.

Today, Pranksters, I’m off to the Chicago Auto Show, probably annoying The Twitter with tweets like, “Wonder if I can steal a fucking car and run these assholes OVER,” because, well, obviously.

And I’m offering you a chance at immortality.

My friend Jimmy, who makes tea, (it’s his hilarious ad on the sidebar) and sent me a story to cheer me up yesterday about how he was once beaten up by a gang of Jewish guys dressed up as the Pope, wants to do something for you. I laughed, of course, because I knew it was probably true.

So anyway, now that I’ve explained what an asshole *I* am because I laughed at my friend who had been hurt by a group of Jewish thugs dressed as the Pope, here’s your shot at immortality, Pranksters.

He wants you to describe your perfect tea blend. Maybe it’s a green tea with rose. Or maybe they want unicorn blood and the tears of angels. Either way, for the randomly selected winner, I’ll do my best to create the blend and then I’ll even put a photo of themselves on the tea created.

Your own tea blend WITH A PICTURE OF YOU. You could probably make him put a picture of whatever. I mean, the ad picture is Mr. Sprinkles, my fake dead cat.

(oh, and he gave you all a free shipping code: ShutYourWhoreMouth )

Mine might look like this, for example:

Although, I’d want him to use this picture:

Because I’m still laughing at it.

(modeling agencies, CALL ME)

So, HAVE AT IT, PRANKSTERS. You can be IMMORTAL.

P.S. Make him work.

P.P.S. Modeling agencies, CALL ME.

P.P.P.S. I cannot wait to see what you come up with.

Yesterday, I woke up and Billy Motherfucking Mays was all:

IT’S VALENTINE’S DAY, YOU DIRTY SLUT, SO GET YOUR LAZY BITCH-ASS UP AND GET READY TO FUCKING SPARKLE ALL OVER THE FUCKING PLACE.

When Billy Motherfucking Mays is the first voice in your head in the morning, you shut your whore mouth and you listen.

Gingerly, opened my eyes and thought about my plans for the day. I had an appointment with my neurologist who looks, incidentally, like he stepped off the set of a spaghetti Western somewhere (I’ve diagnosed him with GERD)(gastroesophogeal reflux disease)(he should really get that taken care of). Over by the neuro was the mall. At the mall were STORES. At the stores were PRESENTS. Presents for ME.

Today, I thought, was going to be a very good day indeed.

I sat up. Easy-peasy, I thought to myself. Eye of the Motherfucking Tiger!

Then, in an alarming fit of poor judgment, I stood up. Whoops! My bad. My legs felt like wobbly stumps, thanks to the migraine and Imitrex. Well, shit. Hard to take on the world without properly functioning legs.

I hummed “Life’s Been Good To Me So Far,” as I made my way to the bathroom. All right, I cheered. I got my fucking sea-legs.

When I looked in the mirror, this is what looked back;

Woah. That’s hot. I should probably become a model or something.

(BARBIZON, BE A MODEL, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

I tried to scrub the ugly off my face but it just wasn’t happening. The Ugly Cry has it’s aftermath.

I wobbled down and drank some coffee, giggling at all of the anti-VD Tweets (I have other holidays I feel similarly about) and tried to peck out a post. I’ve been writing in the mornings for so long that if I don’t, I feel like I’m missing an arm.

But I couldn’t.

I was wobbly in the head, too.

Billy Motherfucking Mays piped in:

“SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND WRITE A GODDAMNED POST, YOU LAZY DRUG-SEEKING BAG OF WIND.”

But luckily, Bob Motherfucking Ross was right behind him:

“Happy Clouds, Aunt Becky. Focus on the Happy Clouds.”

I tried to see those happy fucking clouds and write my goddamed post at the same time and I just couldn’t do it.

Then it came to me. I needed to go where I’d never (willingly) gone before to do something I’d never (willingly) done before: look at laptops.

We all know that my technical knowledge begins and ends with I push a button and the Magical Elves in the Email Machine come alive! So the very notion going to a computer store for the express purpose of looking at computers for myself is as laughable as me painting my kitchen with my tongue.

Normally, I only go to Best Buy if ambushed:

Daver, My Dad, or My Brother: “Oh HEY there, Becky/Rebecca/Stumpy, let’s go to MCDONALDS!!”

Me: “OOOOOOOOH CHEESEBURGERS.”

(I get into the car like a rube)

Me: “HEY WAIT A MINUTE THERE’S NO CHEESEBUR…GAH, OH MY GOD THE BLUE AND THE YELLOW AND FUCKING SHITBALLS IT’S SO BRIGHT IN HERE. LOUD. LOUD. LOUD. HALP ME HALP ME HALP. MAKE IT GO AWAY.”

Daver, My Dad or My Brother: “You think you’d learn, but you never do.”

Then I hover, invading their personal space, until they get fed up and leave. Alternately, I insist that they buy me something exorbitantly expensive. Like a pony.

To actually want to go to Worst Best Buy is the equivalent to hell freezing over. But I need a lappy and I don’t have a lappy and every time I try and look for one online, this is what it looks like,

And then I get really annoyed because there are so many fucking NUMBERS and I don’t actually CARE about most of them so then I go and watch Dexter mutilate people and feel better until I realize that I still should figure out which laptop I am going to buy because, hi, this staying home all day bullshit is making me twitchy.

Also: I need to take the Internet away from Jimmy Wales and Mark Zuckerberg because it’s time for a GIRL to be in charge. I need to RUB MY VAGINA on the internet, Pranksters, but I have to be able to be MOBILE to dominate the world and shit.

I proceeded into Best Buy after perfecting my GET AWAY FROM ME GEEK SQUAD look in the mirror.

See, if you don’t watch out for them, they sneak up on you and the next thing you know, you have to hear a sermon on why you should buy their stupid anti-virus protection or whatever, but you’re just standing there, mentally rearranging their features kinda like Mr. Potato Head but geekier. So you have to be wary of them. Very wary.

I snuck to the back of the store where the keep the lappy’s hostage, ogling the desktops as I went past.

And there they were: row after row of laptops. Finally, I could stop obsessing about my inability to decide and just fucking decide already. This was too tedious, even for me, to obsess about.

I rolled my eyes at the tiny netbooks. I didn’t need no stinkin’ netbook. Child’s play.

And there it was. A light, a beacon of light, shone down and I saw exactly what I needed. A laptop that said, “hey world, I’m a fucking blogger. You’d better take me and my 17 inches of swinging death seriously or I am going to go all CPU (whatever that means) on your ass. I’ll punch you in the throat if you don’t take me and my oversized screen and too many memory chips and stuff fucking seriously because I am a blogger and this is an absurdly awesome computer.”

A laptop that was absurdly absurd. Too much computer. WAY too much computer.

Just like I like it, baby.

Just as soon as I sell a kidney, Imma get me a fucking big ass 17-inch MacBook Pro. So I can go all (insert a bunch of nerdly phrases that I don’t understand here) on the Internet’s Ass. I’LL SHOW ZUCKERBERG WHO’S BOSS.

Just as soon as, uh, I get it. And stuff.

SO TAKE THAT, ZUCKERBERG. In um, a, um, couple of months…and stuff, I’m going to take over the INTERNET.

#BOOYEAH

I was all Happy Pants this weekend. I had this awesome post planned out for you today because it’s VD-Day and I love Valentine’s Day like I love Diet Coke and Uncrustables and anyone who can use the phrase “soft palms” as a put-down.

I love Valentine’s Day like everything I love: in an unnatural, slightly creepy way. I’m not even about romance. It’s just the red and pink and sparkles and hearts and *swoons* and normally I take the day to buy myself something extravagant and unnecessary just because I can. That way, I’m never all SAD PANTS if no one else gets me a candy heart or whatever. Nope. I just swoon over my diamonds or ridiculous purse and sigh happily because it’s just a good day.

Then, last night, just, well, okay, let me back up.

Last week was kinda a clusterfuck. You read my blog, anxiously checking for updates, refreshing your browser over and over again in the hopes that maybe, just maybe I’ve decided to pollute the world with more of my garbage, or I’m going to pretend you do, because obviously, my feelings were wounded enough last night.

So last week, I broke my tooth while sleeping. HILARIOUS.

Then, I got a double ear infection the very next day. Not quite so hilarious.

Then, because I am lucky, I got a migraine.

If you’ve read my blog for any length of time, you know that I get My Grains. They started in my early twenties and by the time I popped my daughter out (I was 28), I had one every day. Every single day. I may exaggerate some things (especially my hatred of Mark Zuckerberg), but My Grains aren’t one of them.

They also aren’t particularly funny. Upon occasion, I’ll bring them up here on my blog, but generally, I try not to because, well, I don’t know, it’s not something I like to talk about very much. They’re not very interesting and what’s to be said beyond, “man, I hate them,” or “man, this is really hard some days,” or, “man, sometimes, it’s hard to feel anything but sad about them.” It’s not worth it to get into that stuff because it doesn’t make me feel any better to say it. It doesn’t make you feel better to read it. And in the end, they just are.

I’ve been fortunate to have found something that helps stave off most of the migraines. The break-through ones are normally managed by another drug. Where I run into problems is when I have something else happen.

Something else like, let’s say, a double ear infection and a broken tooth.

Here’s what happens: I get a migraine and I’m all EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER and sometimes, it goes away.

Sometimes it doesn’t and I’m still all YOU CAN DO THIS, EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER, and then it still doesn’t go away, and then it’s off-hours, so I wind up in Urgent Care weeping, begging them to lop off my head.

That’s what happened last night and why I’m not telling you about the worst date of my life which is what I’d wanted to tell you about because, well, obviously.

I broke down and went to Urgent Care, which is like, the last place I ever want to go because I’m not interested in dying of Typhoid Fever or whatever infectious disease the patient before me had. But I knew they’d give me a shot in the ass of something and I had an appointment with my neurologist today anyway, so it was a win.

In fact, when I went in, I said, “I have an appointment with my neurologist tomorrow at 11 AM but I am in so much pain that I cannot think,” or something like it.

I didn’t say this:

“I want hardcore narcotics now.”

or this:

*breezily, examining nails* “Um, I want Vicodin. Lots of it. I have “pain” or something.”

They gave me a shot of Imitrex (I hadn’t had it before) and it made matters worse. Suddenly, my head weighed eighty-five-niner pounds and my neck and shoulders hurt and holy shit I felt worse. I started crying. The Nurse Practitioner, who had been a total bitch to me beforehand, sent the actual MD in to see me.

He came in, poked around a little bit and then started talking a bit about “clinic policy.”

I was a little slow on the uptake because, well, I was trying to figure out how to support the weight of my head and I couldn’t exactly see straight, thanks to the blinding pain. Also: I’m pretty stupid to begin with, but that goes without saying.

So while I’m trying to figure out if I can fashion a sling for my neck out of gauze, he tells me that he can’t give me a prescription for pain killers because I’ve been to Urgent Care for migraines three times in the past year.

Oh.

I.

See.

So, they think I’m a drug seeker.

Pranksters, I nearly died. Not in a funny way, either.

I talk a good game and I love a good joke about Vicodin as much as the next person, but frankly, I’m not addicted to it. If I were, I highly doubt I’d be talking about it here. Addicts are pretty secretive about their addictions and I cannot tell you the last time I used narcotics to treat my headaches (I did have some after my surgery). Why?

They can cause rebound migraines.

The very last thing I wanted to do was cause myself another fucking headache, trust me on that.

And as the adult child of two alcoholics, I will tell you that being labeled a “drug seeker” right there was probably the worst, most humiliating thing that has happened to me in a long time. That’s probably the one label; the one thing you could call me that would make me feel like I felt as I walked out of there. I still feel that way right now, actually.

I feel humiliated. I walked out of there, head as high as I could, and the moment I got into the car, I burst into the sort of tears that I cry once in blue moon. Harsh, body-wracking sobs.

Pain is an asshole. It’s supposed to be the 5th Vital Sign, yet so many doctors are afraid to treat it because they can’t see it; measure it; quantify it; run a lab test on it; put it in a neat little box. Chronic pain wears you down. I’m tired of it. It makes me sad that that I’ll probably never go back to any Urgent Care/ER again for fear of being treated that way again. I’ve gotten this treatment from my pharmacy and the asshole nurse at my GP’s office before; et tu Urgent Care?

I wish I had any fist-shaking, teeth-gnashing or manager-calling I could do, some way that I could turn this around, some lesson to be learned, but really, there’s nothing to be said or done.

They have their “policies” to hide behind to protect them. I’m a nurse. I understand.

But I’m not a drug seeker. I just wanted treatment. It’s a shame I can’t get it.

Hi Aunt Becky,

I was in a long relationship that ended last September. When it ended, I had a lot of support from one of my best male friends (someone I’ve known for six years from university, who has always been someone I talk to a lot and share very honest things with).

Naturally, as these things do happen, I started having more-than-just-friends feelings for him.  He is a wonderful person (I’ve always thought so), we have TONS in common, we talk daily (sometimes for hours, and we’ve done this for awhile).  Last week he and I sort of admitted that we have feelings for each other.

It’s good, and I’m happy.  If we were to be together, I think it would be one of the easiest relationships ever (we already have the same social group, like the same things, have families that already like each of us, go to the same major social events, etc).  There’s one thing though, that makes me feel slightly bad and guilty.

Three years ago, he was in a relationship with my childhood best friend (who is not in our university group of friends).  They had met at a party that I had invited her to, they dated for a few months and then called it off.. and then seven or eight months after that they were back together, and lasted for a whole year.  It’s now been another full year since they’ve broken up for good.  She and I used to be very close, but we have gone in slightly different directions so I don’t see her that often, and only talk to her occasionally these days.  We have a long history together, though.

I didn’t want to lie, so I sent her an email explaining that… “as much as I know it’s awkward, I’m having feelings for her ex-boyfriend.”  Her reply was that “she knows she can’t stop me, but that she finds it hurtful and weird.”

I like him… A LOT.  I’m just feeling bad that he has a history with her.

Do you have thoughts or advice for situations like this?  Right now I’m leaning towards moving the relationship forward, despite her, because I really believe he and I can be good together… does that make me a horrible person?

Signed,
Worst Best Friend Ever

Well, Prankster, I don’t think this makes you a horrible person. I can see both sides of the situation and I’m willing that the other Pranksters will be polarized in their advice to you.

The bottom line is this: are you willing to write off her friendship? Because that’s the worst case scenario: you lose her and you lose any mutual friends who may choose to side with her.

You can’t help what your heart wants and she can’t help how she feels about what your heart wants. Which can you live with?

I wish you luck, Prankster. That is certainly a tricky situation.

Greetings Aunt Becky!

I’m looking for your sage advice or at the least a smart ass remark.

Recently, I was in Dominican Republic on holiday.  Met a kind man from Amsterdam.  We had many drinks.  I facetiously said I would come to Amsterdam over Christmas to hang out.  For the sake of having fun in another country and having a cool tour guide.  He agreed we would have fun.

Not wanting to be alone over the holiday, I booked a ticket and room.  I mean, only live once and I was planning on a trip anyways, just hadn’t figured where. I informed him and he said his heart is filled with joy. He is now ending emails with the L Bomb.

Should I be freaked out?

Oh Prankster, I’m so sorry that your email was stuffed unceremoniously into the wrong folder, blocking it from my sight and rendering me incapable of answering you in a timely manner. HOW DARE MY EMAIL KEEP US APART!

I’m not, perhaps, the most romantic person, but I have been known to end emails with “Much Love,” or, “Love Always,” or “xoxo,” because I hate the way “Sincerely,” looks. “Sincerely,” looks, well, kinda insincere, doesn’t it?

That said, I’ve got a story of a good creepers that I dated to regale you with tomorrow.

Guys who drop the L-Bomb right away creep me the fuck out. But I’m as romantic as a booger, so there’s that. If I were you (be glad – very glad – I am not you), I’d probably be a little squiggly and all PROCEED WITH CAUTION from here on out.

Dear Aunt Becky,

Yesterday I broke up with my boyfriend of a year and a half. I feel like it was the right thing to do since we were constantly fighting and growing unhappier with each other every day.

If it was the right thing to do, then why the hell does it have to hurt so much? I feel so lost and alone without him and can’t help thinking about the good times we’d had in the beginning before everything went downhill. I would give anything to have us back at the point when we were happy. But I know that that’s not probable or likely at all.

Is it going to suck this hard forever? And if it was the right thing to do, why do I feel like a huge pile of shit?

Love is an asshole. I’d punch it in the throat if I could.

The short story is that it does get better…eventually. The long story is, of course, that it takes a long fucking time and while you’re getting better, it hurts like hell.

The worse the breakup (for me), the better the relationship had once been. That doesn’t help much, though, does it? Platitudes are fucking bullshit. (so are pants)

I’m sorry as hell you’re hurting and I wish that I could make it better. If you were closer, I’d invite you over for some slasher flicks and popcorn (I hate girly flicks) and maybe even some chocolate ice cream.

Sending you a big, fat, awkward-lasts-too-long-kind of hug right now.

Lots of love.

——————–

All right Pranksters, time to answer with smarter things, the kind I have egregiously overlooked because I was too busy thinking about how much I needed a real, live dancing cactus. Because I really, really do.

——————-

There’s all kinds of blogging discussions to be had all over at my other two blogs. Band Back Together has two and Mushroom Printing has one.

(bloggies)

I met Pashmina in college. She’s one of the few friends that I’ve written about here (Butt Sex Check ring any bells?), mostly because she was my old co-blogger back when Mushroom Printing was a personal blog where we talked about our vaginas and not the stunningly amazing group blog it is today.

I met her when I’d wandered into her dorm room to avoid my roommate, It Means Butterfly, who was probably composing sonnets to her boyfriend (Dave) and, upon spying an ashtray, plopped my ass down and lit a cigarette. We’ve been friends ever since.

While we met Loyola University Chicago, (she was an English major, I was pre-med) I popped a crotch parasite out of my delicate girl bits, she did not. I moved home. Figured my dorm had enough problems with 3AM fire drills; they didn’t need 3AM diaper changes, too. Pashmina stayed at LUC and I enrolled in the nursing program at Elmhurst College.

It was during this time that Pashmina met Dave.

(Dave must have been an extremely popular name from 1975-1985 because there are more Dave’s in my life than any other name)

Dave is not to be confused with The Daver, although, since Pashmina did introduce me to The Daver, initially, I confused the two.

I never had the pleasure of meeting Dave. I was up to my eyeballs in poopy diapers and colic while Pashmina was off gallivanting with her new boyfriend, Dave.

By the time I saw Pashmina again, Ben was a toddler and Dave was no longer Her Boyfriend. I’d taken the train up to her place in the city and as we sat on her couch with our Gay Friend James, overlooking the lake, she mentioned her old boyfriend, Dave. I was instantly riveted.

See, I play War with crappy ex-boyfriends. Like, “So-and-so beats your ex because he did this.” It’s tremendous fun, really. Especially if you’ve had a number of lousy boyfriends (or girlfriends, really), like I have.

So, I perked up. A crappy ex, you don’t say. TELL ME MORE.

James began to laugh. Pashmina joined in. I stared on, perplexed.

“Well,” she said, once she could breathe again. “He wrote me these love letters. And Becky, they were terrible. They were so terrible THAT I SAVED THEM.” She pulled them from a box in the living room.

She wasn’t kidding.

“Read them out loud,” she begged, knowing that acting out melodramatic garbage is something I excel at. She and James were practically pissing themselves.

I stood up, cleared my throat, and began in a voice that any dinner-theatre acting troupe would have admired.

“My Deeearest Pashmina,

I write to you today, my darling, from the train. Oh! (I flung my hand to my forehead to punctuate the emotion) The train is crowded. (I exhaled, dramatically). I thought of you, oh! love of my life! When I was standing in line to get coffee (I paused, to let the emotion roll over me) there was an asshole who cut in front of me! (I pointed my finger at the air, angrily) HOW DARE HE CUT IN FRONT OF ME. (I punched the air with every word)

I love you, my love of my life, oh! (more hand wringing) love of my life.

Dave

P.S. My cat box, OOOOOOOH! (I dragged that out for at least ten seconds) it smells.”

I threw myself back onto the couch in mock-anguish. Pashmina and James had tears coursing down their cheeks.

“I didn’t even tell you the best part,” she choked out. “For Christmas,” she giggled, “he made me a calendar.”

Well, I thought, that was kind of lame. But the two of them were carrying on like it was the funniest thing ever. She went to her bedroom and brought it back out.

“He made me a calendar out of DUCT TAPE and COMPUTER PAPER and the FONT was THESE NAKED PEOPLE HAVING SEX, Becky,” she started laughing again. “Each day was something he loved about me.”

“Holy fuckballs,” I chortled, “that’s SO fucking stupid.” Pashmina wasn’t exactly the “I love you because…” kind of person.

“TELL HER THE BEST PART,” James chimed in.

“THE BEST PART IS,” she broke off, overtaken by laughter, “IT ONLY WENT UP TO FEBRUARY 8.”

“BWAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! THAT’S….that’s so awesomely bad. ‘I only love you 38 days of the year, honey. The rest, you’re SOL,'” I was dying.

“AND,” she gasped, “most of those were repeats!” HE COULDN’T EVEN THINK OF 38 THINGS HE LOVED ABOUT ME.”

“That wins. YOU WIN. OH MY GOD. YOU WIN. I cannot top this,” my sides hurt from laughing so hard.

I’ve been asking her for a copy of this calendar for years now and I still haven’t gotten one, which means that I probably never will. I guess I’ll just have to make one for myself. And shit, to be fair to Dave, I can’t think of 38 things I love about anyone. Then again, I’d never want to make a cheesy calendar about it, either.

Pashmina still makes me perform impassioned readings of her old Love Letters whenever I see her. Some day, maybe I’ll vlog it for you, Pranksters. I never got Love Letters OR Love Calendars, probably because no one loved me enough. Or, more likely, because they knew I’d be unable to handle such grand gestures.

So, who wants to make me a Love Calendar for VD-Day?

YOUR TURN, PRANKSTERS. I want to hear your worst relationship stories.

Bloggies, yo.

———-

In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’ll give away a “Shut Your Whore Mouth” shirt to one of you.

For one entry, leave a comment with a relationship story.

For a second entry, add Mommy Wants Vodka to your blogroll (leave a comment letting me know that you did so).

If all goes well, and I don’t freeze to death like an overly-bedazzled, extra-large Popsicle, I’m planning to go downtown* for the Chicago Auto Show. You’re probably scratching your head, possibly throwing things around your living room a la Jerry Springer to express your outrage, because that simply does not sound like something Your Aunt Becky would like to do. And that is where you would be wrong.

I’ve been going to the Chicago Auto Show since I was a wee lass. It’s a Sherrick Family Tradition, begun many years before Your Aunt Becky descended upon this world, smoking cigars and barking out orders (that is how, Pranksters, my mother describes me). Somewhere, I have pictures of me as a baby – carefully held by one of the models that the car companies used to have by the cars – a muppet with curls toddling around in my fancy dresses, a preteen, a sullen teenager with my earphones on, glaring at the camera, and even pictures of me as an adult.

Between school and squalling babies, I’ve been a little busy and I haven’t managed to go in a couple of years.

When Toyota invited me to the first-ever social media preview of the Auto Show, I was gobsmacked.

You’re probably thinking, “oh, well, you’re a BLOBBER, people INVITE YOU TO THINGS,” and you’d be totally wrong. I’m the WRONG KIND of blobber, Pranksters. The only people who like me are the Car People because they don’t give a shit if I swear and that is fine by me.

That is also a conversation I’d love to have another day because I’m totally interested in what you have to say about it. ANYWAY.

So, I’m nervous.

I love cars. You know that. I’ve worked with Ford before for the What Women Want Series over the summer. Cars = rad. I’m not nervous or bored or apprehensive about going to spend the afternoon looking at them.

I’m picturing a claymation non-celebrity Death Match between:

Social Media (blobbers, The Twitterers, Facebook, Tumblr)

versus

Traditional Media (Newspapers, Magazines, Television)

There’s sort of a war going on between them. The rise of self-publishing platforms (WordPress, Blogger, Tumblr, Twitter) has really really REALLY hurt traditional print media (also: the recording industry). They haven’t been able to figure out a way to keep up with the times and stay relevant when people can pop onto Twitter and watch news as it unfolds. How can they compete with that?

Twitter, is free. Blogging, well, it’s (mostly) free**. Advertisers aren’t paying the big bucks to advertise and that’s where traditional print media makes their money.

(advertisers should really pull their heads out of their asses and realize that ALL of our blogs are, indeed, a good place to advertise.)

Traditional media is grappling with ways to offer something that’s different and more lucrative than social media. Traditional media has been reluctant to change. Traditional media has also considered social media it’s bumbling redneck cousin.

Traditional media has a point.

The crux of social media is also it’s beauty: it’s unfiltered.

There are rarely teams of editors fact-checking blogs and Twitter accounts for accuracy. For many things, that’s great: it gives you that extra emotional connection to the writer that may otherwise be missing. But it also allows speculation, rumors and outright lies to be spread without consequence. Sure, a “troll***” might come along and say, “hey, that’s not true, yo,” but one deletable voice in a sea of thousands?

Not that it doesn’t happen in traditional media too, but at least there, the fall from grace is much more pronounced. A blogger can just close up shop and eventually, we forget they existed. Or we don’t and they serve as a warning: “don’t pull a xxx.”

So that means that if I can shake this migraine (I have a double ear infection, adding insult to my toothless injury) I’m nervous of the reception I’ll get. Should I just show up wearing my Shut Your Whore Mouth shirt and a crummy old pair of boxers with a pork rib hanging out of my mouth?

Also: in Claymation Death Match, will they capture my Super-Villain hair properly?

So, what do you think about it all?

*downtown = Chicago.

**I pay a bit for hosting services and a couple of servers because I run Mommy Wants Vodka, Mushroom Printing, We Know Awesome and Band Back Together.

***there are many who consider people who disagree with them “trolls.” Generally, I do not.

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Bloggies?

My first waking thought yesterday was, “and THAT is why I’ll never do meth.” Must have been a hell of a dream.

I padded down the stairs and blearily poured myself a bucket of coffee. I was out of Redbull, so I made it with water. No wings for me, I thought sadly, as I started to try and piece together something to be offended by. Motrin Moms was so last year. Groupon was too easy. We are PRANKSTERS. We needed something like John C. Mayer, but better, I thought as I rubbed my tongue across my teeth.

Furious George had merit. Furious George Takes Over The Internet. Furious George Cuts Bob Ross. Furious George...wait…what the hell?

My tongue encountered something unexpected. Sharp, even. A popcorn kernel? That wily bastard!

I stumbled to the bathroom to floss (not remembering, of course, that it had been awhile since I’d had popcorn) and looked in the mirror.

What.

The.

Shit?

My tooth was missing.

Or, I should say, a big chunk of it.

I had somehow managed to crack a tooth while sleeping.

I’m notorious for ridiculous injuries. I broke a toe making a sandwich (it wasn’t even FOR ME). I broke a door carrying a diet Coke (24 ounces of swinging death, baby). I jammed up my ankle walking down the stairs (not even saving a basket of cuddly puppies from a house fire). I cut my eyeball at a wedding on my birthday (I can’t begin to explain this one). I don’t know how Lassie makes this shit look glamorous because I sure as hell don’t.

But my tooth. Broken. While sleeping. This takes fucked-up to a whole new level of awesomely dumb.

I got it fixed, of course. I can’t be a toothless blogger. Lord knows someone might actually see me someday.

So if anyone asks, I broke my tooth chewing the bones of my sworn enemies. Like John C. Mayer. And Mark Zuckerberg.

This will be our little secret, Pranksters. Just you and me and the Internet.

Also, uh, don’t do meth.

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What’s the stupidest injury you’ve ever gotten, Pranksters?

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Blah-blah-bloggies. I’ll do something humiliating for you guys if I win. YOUR CHOICE.

I spent a good deal of time yesterday trying desperately to be offended, Pranksters. I looked everywhere. We needed a CAUSE. A pet cause! Something to be Furious George about. Everywhere I looked, Bloggers were angry – really mad – about things.

We had nothing. HM. Maybe that’s a good cause.

(I’m still thinking. Maybe a Furious George Campaign? Fists of Fury? Something SUPER AWESOME that we can all link up together like the John C. Mayer thing)(Holler if you think of something)

Well, I had this, a memory I’d long repressed, thanks to years of painful flashbacks. Another example of how stupid I used to be before I simply shut my own whore mouth and kept my opinions to myself.

Scene: Movado jewelry store, circa 2005. Movado, if you don’t know it, is a fairly fancy watch maker, who also makes modernish, interesting jewelry. It’s like Tiffany & Co, but way better.

I’d gone in with a friend of mine to buy something ridiculously expensive. My taste in jewelry runs from the stuff you have to ensure to this, which I wear most days:

It’s hit or miss.

But that day, I was buying something fancy-pants. I was chatting with the salesperson, who was my age (25) and relatively hip. She brought up engagement rings, something I cannot speak with any authority on, unless you want to talk metal (platinum) or size (big). The minute you start going on about clarity and grading, my eyes glass over. But she and my friend were having a grand old time. They pulled out engagement rings (much to my dismay) and started trying them on, cooing over each of them.

I was bored shitless so I opened my stupid trap.

“Phew, at least you don’t have any HEART-SHAPED DIAMONDS. THOSE THINGS ARE FUG.”*

Now, I love hearts. Valentine’s Day is my favorite holiday because I love hearts so much. Hearts = rad.

But for my engagement ring, something I’m (presumably) supposed to wear every single day? Not so much. I like those uh, circle diamond ones. Whatever they’re called.

(I just got my vagina-license revoked)

Anyway, back at Movado, Girlfriend cast a WITHERING look at me.

She snapped the engagement rings back from my friend as she sputtered out, “MY MOTHER HAS A HEART-SHAPED DIAMOND ENGAGEMENT RING.”

Then she flounced off.

I’d found and managed to offend the only 25-year old in Oak Brook who loved and planned upon owning a heart-shaped diamond.

THAT took talent.

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Okay, it’s your turn, Pranksters. I need some embarrassing stories from you guys now. I’M STILL UPSET ABOUT THIS ONE. I hate hurting people’s feelers.

————

Bloggies? Vote? PLEASE? If I win, I promise to do something incredibly embarrassing.

*I wear a necklace with my name on it. NO one should be offended by my taste in ANYTHING.

I am notoriously dense.

Okay, that came out wrong, because you’re thinking of me like I’m a piece of particle board or something, which I am most certainly not. I am much more glamorous than particle board, Pranksters. But I’m not always very smart when it comes to things that will deeply, mortally wound others. That’s why I was really hesitant to post the question from Prankster #1 yesterday.

The first time I really wounded someone unintentionally, I was in high school. It was Christmas time. I’d just gone shopping for my friends, and if you know me, I’m a great gift-buyer…so long as you don’t expect anything you want or anything useful. A light-up shower head, perhaps, or a toilet seat that sings “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” when you sit on it. These are things on my own want list, so you can imagine what I’d have picked out at 17, when my budget was a little tighter.

I’d bought one of my friends some sparkly Crayola* bath soap and another some Jack Daniels flavored coffee. The one that I deeply wounded, I’d bought some lotion.

It was called “Udderly Smooth.”

Now, I found this uproariously funny. The lotion, that is. It’s lotion, that’s all, “I’m for udders, motherfucker!” I really couldn’t see anything not awesomely hilarious about this. I was certain that my friend, who loved a joke as much as I did, would love it.

This was not what I expected to have happen. I’ve added some pictures so that you can better feel like you were there.

Aunt Becky: “Merry Christmas, yo! Sorry I didn’t wrap it. Wrapping is bullshit.”

My Friend: “WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS?”

Aunt Becky: *giggles* “Isn’t it awesome? It’s like it’s for COWS but it’s NOT. It’s fucking WHIMSICAL. I FUCKING LOVE WHIMSICAL SHIT.”

My Friend: “How could you DO this do me?”

Aunt Becky (thinking that she’s joking): “….”

My Friend: “THIS IS NOT OKAY.”

Aunt Becky: “…”

My Friend: “I thought YOU WERE MY FRIEND.”

Aunt Becky: “….”

My Friend: “We are NOT on SPEAKING TERMS. (flounces away)”

Aunt Becky: “Uh….”

It took her flouncing away for me to understand that the lotion had offended her. I, of course, was baffled. It was LOTION that was HILARIOUSLY HILARIOUS. I crawled back into the hot tub with my boyfriend who tried to comfort me with his penis.

I spent more time knocking my three brain cells around my skull trying to figure out what the problem with the lotion was than I’d spent trying to logicate who had the better version of “Hair of the Dog.” (the jury in my head is still out) I think I finally got it.

She thought I was calling her fat.

I wasn’t, of course. I’m not oblique or shy and if I have something to say, I’m not about to say it through a toilet seat or a bottle of lotion. And, quite frankly, the day that I end up caring about someone else’s weight is the day that I have entirely too much time on my hands.

Anyway, it was good preparation for blogging. Because you can’t say ANYTHING without pissing someone off. Or mortally offending them. It would be hilarious, if it wasn’t so annoying.

Like this:

Me: “Mayo is bullshit.”

Response: “My great grandfather invented Miracle Whip, you know, and it cures diseases. So I’d appreciate it if you never talked badly about it again.”

Response: “Mayo is my religion and we pray to it every night. Are you, Aunt Becky a blasphemer? *THROWS STONES* I SENTENCE YOU TO DEATH, SINNER!”

Response: “I cannot be friends with someone who hates mayo.”

Response: “U R a bitter asshole. Why can’t you be happy for other people who LOVE mayo? Why do you have to be MEAN to people who hate mayo?”

Well, I’m tired of being the person who isn’t offended by things. I’m SO tired of letting minor irritations pass me by unaware, each tiny infraction not complained about, not picked apart piece by ever-loving piece. I, too, can be outraged! I, too, have wells of untapped anger that I want to unleash on the world!

I want a Twibbon and a snappy blog campaign full of righteous indignation! Maybe I can even turn my avatar a different color to support my cause! I want to set a Google alert and troll blogs of people with the opposite viewpoint! I WANT A BUTTON, DAMMIT.

Now, I just need a cause. My broken fingernail? Black socks? Thousand Island dressing? …powdered gravy? These ideas all have merit.

Pranksters, I think that the time for Pranking is afoot. We need a fake campaign of indignation that sounds real.

Suggestions?

*not paid endorsement.