*You know what’s bullshit? When people are all, “oh, well, that’s a pain in the….(pause) neck” instead of saying, “ass” or “taco” or “motherfucking asshole” or something. I’m a big fan of profanity. You might even say that I’m profanity’s number one fan. I could wear a Number 1 Finger for Profanity every day. Even if it’s not actually a swear word. Like “pube” or “crotch” which can be totally used in swear form, even if it’s not a swear word.

Aunt Becky + Profanity = BFFFFFFFF!

So, it grieves me to title a post “Pain in the Neck” because it looks like I’m trying to say something else.

I’m not.

For months, I’ve had a pain in my neck. It’s not like a TUMOR or like a little person living there or something, my neck just fucking hurt, and because I’m a responsible person, I ignored the shit out of it. I ignored it until I couldn’t, and finally, I went to the doctor. I hate going to the doctor almost as much as I hate cream-based condiments, and so I’m all *slink-slink* “my neck huuuuuurts” and when he said, “what did you do to injure it?” it was all I could do to not say something juvenile.

I refrained. I snickered, but refrained.

So he prodded my neck and was impressed by the spasms he felt. I felt impressed that he was impressed. I give good “spasms,” I guess. Then he gave me muscle relaxants, I nearly tongued him because by this point, I was in so much pain that I would have licked the toilet clean if it meant that it would stop hurting. I practically chewed the tabs after I got them and when I had no relief, I actually did cry (you shut your whore mouth. I can cry in pain, Pranksters) because it had hurt so much for so long and HOLY FUCK MAKE IT STOP.

I was back at the doctor within a week. This time, he prescribed Physical Therapy (in capitol letters).

I was Not Happy (in capitol letters).

Now, I know there are people that swear by Physical Therapy, and I’m sure they have had great experiences. That’s fabulous. PT is awesome for people who are going through rehab for actual injuries, trauma, you know, people who have a need to have P motherfucking T. Unlike me. I still don’t fucking know what I did to myself. It’s not like I was rescuing a basketful of cute kittens from a burning building or something.

My beef with Physical Therapy is this: I like stuff that doesn’t take me six motherfucking months to see results. I was in pain NOW, therefore I want relief, well, NOW. But the doc was convinced that therapy was where it’s at, so I left with my orders, and I promptly abandoned them at home. For a week. Until the pain was bad enough that I was all, ‘FINE, YOU WIN, PHYSICAL THERAPY.’

Turns out, this Physical Therapy shit isn’t so bad. Looks like I might have some “muscle spams” from being “unable to relax” or something.

The worst part is actually the massages. I know, I’m like the only person on the planet that hates massages, but I tell you, I hate to relax. Genuinely, I have issues with it. Laying face down on a table with my head in what appears to be a vagina isn’t my idea of a great way to spend the morning. I’d rather work. Or work out. Or uh, feed the homeless. OR ANYTHING ELSE.

This is not my massage table. But I had to show you the Vagina/Head Hole and why I find it incredibly dangerous (also: why I should never, ever be allowed to alter photos):

But after the massages, I do some weird electrical thing where they stimulate my neck. I’m hoping it’ll turn my neck into a Hulk Neck. Why be dainty when you can HULK SMASH?

Either way, it turns out, it might be helping a little. I hate to admit that Physical Therapy might actually be worth something.

Even if they don’t advocate drugs. Which, hi, that’s kinda bullshit.

—————–

Dude, check out who has an ANIMATED interview up over here at Mompetition. That? Is full of the awesome.

And CHARITY is full of the awesome too. Pulling a David Cook for free Cold Stone for a year, yo.

Several years ago, I wrote the first in a series of posts to my television husbands, this one to Vincent D’Onofrio, where I divorced him for having the audacity to impregnate someone else. This of course, was shortly after I’d popped out crotch parasite numero dos, Alejandro, and blatantly overlooked that I had recently had a baby that hadn’t been presumably sired by him.

I also frequently called myself the “anonymous Midwestern girl with kicky hair” which should have told anyone that I didn’t take myself SERIOUSLY. The letter was, of course, a total over-the-top joke. I had to Google his fucking name to even write the damn thing.

But after I wrote it, my tens of readers laughed, because writing a fake love letter to a fake TV husband is kinda funny (shut up) and then an odd thing happened: Google Reader picked the damn thing up as in, “if you like, “xxx” you’ll LOVE “yyy””

THEN the Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio showed up on my doorstep. I’m not talking about people who have some Law and Order: Your Doesn’t Suck So Hard on DVR, no, I’m talking about the people who have entire BLOGS devoted to him. Who know his wife’s name (he’s married?) and paint murals of him on their walls.

They were *ahem* displeased with Your Aunt Becky.

And I was shocked that so many people could devote so many hours a day to caring about celebrities. It just hadn’t dawned on me that anyone, well, WOULD.

I still get people who swing by and yell at me about it, just like the teens who yell at me on Twitter for misspelling David Archuleta’s name. Not, oddly, that I said “I thought about buying David Archuleta’s book until I realized he’d been a Barbizon Model and then punched myself in the face.”

(I’m bitter that my parents wouldn’t let me take Glamor Shots and for some reason I have my wires crossed and Glamor Shots = Barbizon = Be a Model, OR JUST LOOK LIKE ONE)

But now, I’ve realized that my true love is not Vincent D’Onofrio, Lovers of Vincent D’Onofrio, so you can all back off.

Because after years of searching, I’ve finally found The Love of My Life:

Rod Blagojevich’s Hair: (he’s the former governor of Illinois, where I live. State Motto: We Impeach our Crooked Governors! He’s also…just…wow.)

When we met, I was immediately smitten. Sure, politics aren’t my thing, but the hair, people, THE HAIR.

His magic hair and I went for long walks on the beach, looking at rocks, rotting fish and hypodermic needles.

And just when I thought I couldn’t possibly be any happier, his hair took me for a long romantical visit to Detroit, where, over fried chicken and waffles and cans of Diet Coke,  his hair asked me to be it’s bride.

The day I married his hair was the happiest day of my life. My dad walked me down the aisle to strains of “Dude Looks Like a Lady” and when I met his hair at the alter, I promised to “Love, Honor and Repay” his hair for the rest of my days on Earth, til baldness (or Rogaine) do us part.

His hair just floated there, like a mystical being from another planet while I beamed serenely. My heart was finally happy.

His magic hair completed me.

You know what happened next, don’t you?

9 months later, the product of our Magical Union, the sweet Hair Baby baby popped out of my crotch.

The day I had his hairs’ baby, well, that was the second happiest day of my life. Second only to the day I became, Mrs. The Magic Hair Blago.

Of course, a mystical being like Blago’s Magical Hair can’t be contained for long, so I’ve been left to raise our Love Child alone, but that’s okay. I’m lucky to have had his Magic Hair for as long as I did.

If you love something as special as Magic Hair, you have to let it go to be free. If it comes back to you, it was always yours.

Or…uh, something.

Pranksters, I heart you so much that my cold black heart has grown nearly thirty times it’s normal size. I hope it stays that way. I woke up to like 900 Facebook thingies and a bunch of tweets and YOU GUYS, *wipes tears* I’M NOT WORTHY.

Now I have to confess that my birthday is cursed because I ended up back on Vicodin and Prednisone (it’s a very boring story, actually) which makes me TOTALLY all ‘THIS IS MOTHERFUCKING BAT COUNTRY’ so I’m pretty sure I’ll be beating people with a banana all weekend.

Good damn thing The Internet is closed over the weekend. Heh.

Thankfully I have a guest post today so you’re avoiding me being all, “I HATE MOTHERFUCKING GENERIC TOILET PAPER, PRANKSTERS! IT’S BULLSHIT!”

P.S. I will be humping email today for all of you who I owe emails to, because I am on strict, “rest your sorry ass” orders.

——–

You can find me Allison blogging about absolute nothing over at Me and Mine, WHICH, by the way, is under construction. She’ll be moving on over to a new site, with a new look, at the end of the month! Oh! And you can also follow her nonsense on twitter ~ @allisonzapata.

* * *

Greetings, Pranksters! My name is Allison and I am scared shitless.

Hi Allison!

Hey guys.

Hi Allison!

Okay, stop it. Seriously. Hi.

So, when Aunt Becky so awesomely asked me to be a guest blogger this was pretty much what went down.

A. I screamed like a little bitch.

B. I fainted

C. I puked.

After cleaning myself off, it happened.

The thoughts came flooding in.

Because the self-doubt?

I haz it, folks!

Why the hell would she ask ME to guest post?

Oh shit! She must think I am an actual writer or something.

OMG, they’re all gonna laugh at me!

I desperately tried to focus and figure out what the hell I should write.

And finally, it came to me! I would write about this mortifying little thing that happened to me in high school.  Something I have been a little hesitant to share on my own blog, since I have a few teenage nieces and nephews that follow it.

It was perfect!  I could share it with all you pranksters without looking like Aunt Ho to the fam.

I sat down at my computer, with a vat of wine, and began to type away.

And this is what came out.

* * *

When I was 16 17 years old, I snuck my boyfriend into my house while my mom was sleeping.

I drunkenly marched him right passed my mom’s room and into my own.

After explaining to him that we needed to hide on the floor on the other side of the bed in case my mom walked in, we proceeded to make awkward teen love. You know the kind? With all the weird noises (see: stirring mac n’ cheese sound. eww. sorry. barf.), the not knowing what to do with “it”, the “Oh no, I am so not ready for THAT. Well, okay, go ahead. Because if you leave me?  I. will. die.”

After we were finished 30 seconds later, Juan Doe (I grew up on the border) asked me where he should put his used condom (HOORAY FOR SAFE CHILD SEX!)  and I was all, “Just put it in that half empty coke can next to my bed.”

Because really, WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

Besides everything.

* * *

So, after getting to this point in my story, I got stuck.

“I mean, really Allison, this so isn’t that funny. And so not worthy of the Prankters. Gah! You are such a loooooser”,  said one of the voices in my head.

I slammed my MacBook shut and turned on the TV, telling myself I shouldn’t force it. That it would come to me.

After apologizing profusely to my MacBook, for being so rough with it (and not the good kind of rough), I french-kissed it a bit and caressed it in all the right places. Satisfied that we were all good, I gently closed it and turned my attention back to the television and The Bachelorette.

Oh Ali Fedotowsky!

As per usual, my ADD mind began to wander.

What if I were on a reality show?

I could SO be the next Bachelorette. I mean, if I wasn’t all married and shit.

I can see it now.

Oh hey, Roberto! They have a great day planned for us. First, we are going to ride in a helicopter and then we get to be in a Broadway show. And, well, while all this sounds really cool in theory, I hate helicopters and flying in general and moving and all that stuff. And I really hate dancing and singing in front of live audiences, especially since I can’t dance nor sing and also because I hate being around humans that don’t live in my computer or in my television.  And seriously, I pretty much hate leaving my house at all. Getting dressed in normal clothes, brushing my hair, my teeth, all of it!  Just UGH! It’s all such a drag my little Robertito. So, I was thinking, how’s about you and I just stay right here in our pajamas lounge wear and eat some of these here funny brownies I paid some guy for baked and drink some wine and watch stupid shit on TV? Hold me.

Annnnnd scene.

Snapping back into reality, the panic of not letting you Pranksters down came flooding back. Like a bitch.

I sat and looked at the crap I had just written.

I. Was. Stuck.

Sigh.

Annnnnyhoo, I thought about asking Aunt Becky if I could take her up on this awesome offer another time. After my mojo returns.

After junk punching and water boarding myself for having such a stupid thought, I reached for my laptop and tried to focus.

And this is what came out.

* * *

“I kicked Juan Doe out of my house after all the teenage awkward sex-like stuff went on.  Slowly locking the door behind him, I crept back to my room and dove into bed. I laid still for some time, making sure my mom hadn’t heard us or the sound of his big ass sub-wolfer when he drove away. Confident that I was in the clear, I breathed a deep sigh of relief and passed the fuck out drifted off into sweet, sweet slumber.

I woke up around noon the next day (ahhhh, the life of a teenager) to my mom washing dishes in the kitchen. Feeling like a monkey shit in my mouth while I was sleeping, and so thirsty I could not speak, I walked to the fridge to grab a Coke.

I plopped myself down on a stool and began chatting with my mom as she washed dishes. Her back turned towards me.

She was in such a good mood, so I was confident she had no clue about the skankiness that had just gone down in my room the night before.

And then? It happened.

She explained to me there was this new thing called recycling that would totally help the planet. And I was all, “Sounds awesome mom, anything for Mother Earth, you know! Go rainforest!”

We continued to chat….

And she continued to empty out the Coke cans she had collected, from ALL OVER THE HOUSE, into the sink to prepare them for, how you say? Recycling.

The second I realized what was happening, I ran over to her. I got to her just as she grabbed the remaining Coke can and began emptying it into the sink.

IN SLOW MOTION, the condom came rushing out with the flat, syrupy coke.

SPLAT!

Right in the sink. Both of us staring at it. Slack-jawed.

My super amazing mother looked at me and said, “I’m not sure I like what Juan Doe does with his Coke cans.”

I ran to my room and locked the door. Terrified.

The next day she drove me to the vagina doctor and I was put on the pill.

* * *

Then? I was stuck. Again. I couldn’t think of a single funny one-liner to wrap it up, all nice and purdy. No witty way to end the story.

Nothing. Nada. Zip.

I was back to stupid square one.

What in the hell am I gonna right about?

And guess what? I never thought of anything. I have had like three effin weeks to try and impress you lovelies and I totally blew it. Hard.

I suppose the only thing left for me to do is beg for forgiveness from all you guys and from the magnificent Aunt Becky.

You’re a kiss ass, GAH!

Anyway, I promise if you all give me another chance, one day when my mojo returns, I’ll do better.

And also? Thank you SO MUCH for not throwing tomatoes at my face.

Carry on Pranksters. Carry on.

Huge hugs and major gratitude,

Allison

There’s this BIG ASS blogging conference going on in like a couple of weeks, Pranksters, and unless you’ve been living under a very large rock or perhaps are an alien, you probably have heard of it. It’s called BlogHer and pretty much it’s the Grandmother of Blogging Things.

(okay, we’ll forget how lame that sounds for a second and proceed)

It’s in NYC this year, and while I was all WHATEVER, I’m not going, I totally broke down and bought tickets because, it’s NYC which, like California, is sort of where I feel home. Not, incidentally, where my ACTUAL home is, but that’s just details. It’s further proof I need to marry Mick Jagger so I can get a sweet house on both of the coasts.

Then, I was all, WOW, I turn 30 in July, I should do something rad for my birthday, because historically, my birthdays have sucked, so I immediately thought of Vegas. I’ve never been to Vegas, but it seems like the place that people should go when they want to be debaucherous and turn 30 and forget that the past year has pretty much sucked the life out of them.

But, I’m more of a broad stroke kind of person, so I got caught up in thinking about the adventures of my fake Monkey Butler, Mr. Pinchy, and how we were going to steal the purple coat from Shaft and probably some colorful jewels from somewhere and then the next thing I knew, it was JULY.

It’s July and I haven’t done fuck-all for my birthday OR BlogHer.

So, last night, I did the highly responsible thing and ordered 4 dresses for BlogHer that may or may not actually fit. Because, you know, it’s better to have cute clothes than it is to have plane tickets. My logic is damn near impeccable and should never, ever be followed by anyone, ever, unless you want to take a lesson from my personal playbook: “How To Never Get Things Done, Unless Other People Do Them For You.”

It looks like, with 8 whole days until my birthday proper, Vegas is out. DAMN YOU, MR. PINCHY.

Luckily, I’m not all that tied to having to celebrate my birthday on it’s actual date, so I’m going to do it ANOTHER time. Because I WILL celebrate my birthday in Vegas *shakes fist* dammit, I will. I may be celebrating my HALF birthday, but really, what’s it to you? (P.S. You’re all invited.)(P.P.S. I won’t be wearing my whore pants which are STILL MIA).

Today, I’ll probably have to beg The Daver to order plane tickets for BlogHer, so I don’t accidentally book them for the wrong month (which I HAVE done) because I signed a contract saying I’d be there to speak. Poor, poor BlogHer, won’t know what hit them when I open my whore mouth.

Then, I’ll try and find more places to buy cute clothes because it’s been so long since I’ve been clothes shopping that I genuinely do not know where to shop any more. So, Pranksters, where do cute clothes live for someone who likes Anthropologie and uh, ModCloth?

Next, I’ll ask my Pranksters who are going to BlogHer if they’d like to exchange phone numbers so that maybe we can meet up, because OBVIOUSLY. If you WOULD, just email me at aunt.becky.sucks@gmail.com. That’s my real email address, because I have a sense of humor. Or not, I guess, if you don’t think that’s funny.

(I have about a gazillion emails to return, and I’m sorry, they’ve been having babies in my inbox and I need to get on that STAT)

NOW no one will ever want to give me their number. Whoops.

Blah, blah, blah, if you want to vote for me for Funniest Blogger you can vote once per day.

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.”

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.

The Daver: “You look ridiculous.”

Aunt Becky: “These headphones are for SERIOUS MUSIC PEOPLE, Daver. They’re Senheiser HD 280 Professional headphones.”

The Daver: “You know that your Nano can’t even keep up with those, right?”

Aunt Becky: “I want to make sure I hear my Rod Stewart PERFECTLY.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “Besides, how can I attract a rock star if I don’t wear these in public?”

The Daver: “Um. You kind of look like an alien.”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah, but any musician will hump my leg the second he sees me wearing these. He’ll boof in his pants when he sees a girl wearing these because most people like those tiny ear buds. And THESE are for SERIOUS music people.”

The Daver: “People who listen to Rod Stewart aren’t SERIOUS music people, Becky.”

Aunt Becky: “Yeah, well. Imma wear these when I go to LA this fall. Then? THEN? Imma meet a rock star!”

The Daver: “Oh?”

Aunt Becky: “And then I am going to have his LOVE CHILD.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “He’ll be bewitched by my headphones and my iPad and then he’ll fall madly in love with me. Then he’ll stick his penis in me and I’ll be SET FOR LIFE.”

The Daver: “Okay.”

Aunt Becky: “I see a lifetime of pleather pants and shiny shirts…OH! And In-n-Out Burger! There’s nothing not awesome about this.”

The Daver: “Except the STD’s. And the affairs.”

Aunt Becky: “Good point.”

The Daver: “But don’t let anyone crush your spirit! You chase your dreams, baby. Maybe he’ll rework The Becky Song for you.”

Aunt Becky: “I was thinking more that he’d sing “You’re In My Heart” to me as we strolled along a beach somewhere.”

The Daver: “You’re kind of delusional.”

Aunt Becky: “I find it adds to my charm.”

Aunt Becky: “Oh wait. I heard somewhere like The Enquirer or maybe a dream I had that LA had flying cockroaches! FUCK THAT.”

The Daver: “Time to come up with a new plan, killer.”

Aunt Becky: “Fuckballs.”

——————

Today (at midnight!) is the last day to enter my contest, Pranksters!

Last week, I was watching American Idol* and admirably substituting “Becky” everywhere in the songs that they sung “Baby” which is ALWAYS what I do. Dave was laughing at me when he wasn’t grumbling about the lack of talent this year because that’s ALWAYS what he does.

(aside time!! When I started dating Daver, I likened our relationship to that of Mr. Wilson and Dennis the Menace. What’s most full of the awesome is that I was motherfucking RIGHT.)

Anyway, since I use all social media to be a moron, I decided to be annoying and tweet the pointless shit that I always do rather than the deep and purposeful shit that other people do. So I said something to the effect of “I always substitute “Becky” for “Baby” in songs because no one ever sings about a girl named Becky.”

Well, Twitter is fucking smart. And before I knew it, I had a kajillion responses that were all, “you know what, duder? There IS a Becky song.”

And they were fucking right. There is. Only if your name IS Becky, you don’t want to know it, I assure you. Like, you really don’t want to know it.

I’m embedding it here, but I am telling you RIGHT NOW, do NOT listen to it at work or around kids and if Aunt Becky is warning you, you know it’s bad. It’s SO dirty that even I blushed and that takes WORK.

Anyway, after I saw that, I went to Urban Dictionary to read about my name. What I saw made me immediately want to change my name.

“Becky” means one of two things, per Urban Dictionary.

1) to give a blow-job (apparently, white girls give the best blow jobs, for those of you who didn’t watch the Becky Song)

2) cocaine (that white girl Becky)

I’d always thought that Rebecca, my Hebrew name taken directly from the Bible from Rebecca, the wife of Issac, meant “to bind” and really that’s not all that sexy either. Often the “binding” part is in context with a noose. Wow. That’s hot. Rebecca makes you want to die.

So I’m sort of thinking it’s time to change my name to something that doesn’t mean:

1) BJ’s

2) coke

3) death

I’m sort of batting 0/3 here with the meaning behind my name. And I can’t be all “oh, but my MIDDLE name is awesome, so I can go by that” because when I got married I LEGALLY dropped my middle name (Elizabeth) and switched to my maiden name (Sherrick). So unless I want to go by “Sherrick” I am pretty much in need of a whole name renovation.

But first, I’m gonna have to scour Urban Dictionary to make sure I’m not inadvertently renaming myself something that means “Cow Shit” or “I Love John Denver” something.

So, Pranksters what does YOUR name mean? Is it better than “blow job?”

*Shut up, like YOU don’t watch it, too.

You know when the Urgent Care doctor looks concerned after he’s examined you that you’re pretty much fucked. You know that you’re really fucked when he actively prescribes you narcotics and steroids that you’re really fucked. Sadly, I was able to procure no fentanyl lollies, but still, I have a big ass bottle of Vicodin with my name on it.

Rather than loll about the house in a narcotics filled haze (THEY ARE LEGAL, MR. DEA AGENT) occasionally hallucinating Cuban cabana boys (and, for that matter, a cabana), I am as tightly wound as a wee circus mouse on a crack bender. I’m desperately wishing that I had some houses to build or decks to pound together with my bare hands or perhaps a dozen orphans to care or maybe a small island to build with some dirt and a bucket.

This here, THIS IS MOTHERFUCKING BAT COUNTRY, Pranksters.

Or maybe I’m just on speed. And it totally and completely sucks.

I’ve never been on it before, but Ben had to take it for his chest years ago and I remember he was a total asshole whenever he was on it. Daver and I always dreaded it.

I’m just incredibly annoying to be around and I’ve apologized preemptively to anyone who deals with me on a regular basis because I’m now wired and COMPLETELY aggressive.

My internal monologue is something like this:

WHERE IS EVERYONE? WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING TO ME? I AM THE KING OF THE WORLD. HELL, I WISH I COULD LAY OFF THE SPEED. WOW, I CAN GET SO MUCH DONE. WHERE IS EVERYONE? WHY AREN’T THEY TALKING TO ME? WHY ISN’T PURPLE A FLAVOR? WHY ISN’T SOMEONE MAKING ME BACON RIGHT NOW?

So if I’m annoying to deal with, it’s actually MORE annoying to be inside my head.

Only. seven. more. days.

I am over at Toy With Me talking about how I annoyed a stalker into submission and shockingly, it’s safe for work, which means I am probably losing my edge and should be taken out back and shot.

When Ben was a couple of months old, I went back to work as a waitress. I’d waited tables for years before, so I was eagerly hired at the new pizza place that opened up in town. In a sea of newbies, I was a Master of my Trade. Queen of the Kingdom.

The general manager of the restaurant was a guy I’ll call Phil (although, I am stating for the record, this was not his name) and he was a decent guy. For an over-worked underpaid restaurant GM, that’s a huge thing.

He’d show up on the weekends and despite occasionally trying to get us to unsuccessfully have team building meetings at 5PM when the dinner rush was beginning to discuss things like “selling more pizza,” and often telling a server who was so slammed that she was eyeball deep in the weeds to “smile more,” I always liked him. Probably because he called me “efficient” which is a label–unlike ’stupid bitch’ which I am called quite often–that I had never before heard.

Hokey and corny, yes, but Phil was a good guy. Which meant we’d often mock him behind his back–although, I must add, not unkindly–and try to do our best Phil impression. This often involved frowning a lot and bursting out conspiratorially with the often-heard “I think someone is stealing cheese,” and by far and away the best impersonator was one of the managers, a mexican dude named Cesar.

One Saturday night after close, Cesar, who was the night manager, pulled from the manager’s office this large cloth contraption. Mystified, we all grabbed our smokes and gathered ’round, our piles of tips left on the tables near the halfway rolled up basket of silverware. Cesar was laughing so hard that he was crying. Although this wasn’t uncommon as he was known for his excellent sense of humor, we all clamored to know what the hell was so fucking funny.

Once he’d caught his breath and wiped the tears, he turned around the cloth contraption he was holding. On the back it had been brown but on the front, it was red. With large circles of purple and dots of grey felt and slices of green felt. It took us a moment to realize what we were looking at, but we all saw it at the same time.

“Holy SHIT,” Amy–another server–yelled. “That’s a gigantic fucking pizza suit.”

And it was.

Phil had bought us, for no reason we could ascertain, a gigantic triangle-shaped pizza suit. I can swear to you, The Internet as my witness, that I have never, ever laughed so hard in my entire life. It was a typical Phil thing (it is killing me, I should add, to not tell you his real name not because it’s an exciting name, but because I can’t think outside the effing box) to do: pointless yet hilarious, hokey yet comedic, and one of those things that no one else would think was a good idea.

I mean, sure, I do sometimes see those poor fuckers, dressed up as a taco or a sandwich on the side of the road. We live far enough from stuff that driving from place to place is a necessity, so these people merely stand listlessly on the side of the road, wilting in the heat and freezing in the cold and choking on the exhaust of Escalades and Bentley’s. And I will tell you that I have never, ever, EVER stopped to eat somewhere because they had a person dressed as a chicken sadly standing at the side of the road.

If anything, I keep driving and pretend for both of our sakes that it never happened. I had not seen an actual humiliated person standing there, dressed as a large Chicago hot dog or a milk shake. Seemed healthier that way for all parties.

Anyway, there we were, a cluster of servers, bartenders and delivery drivers, staring slack jaw awash in awe of the possibilities that only a gigantic felt pizza suit would provide.

Which.were.endless.

Rick, one of the delivery drivers, acted first. He swooped down, all 6 feet of him, and grabbed the pizza suit from Cesar and held it up to his burly chest before running into the bathroom with it. He emerged, several minutes later, as a slice of pizza. A HUMAN slice of pizza with his face sticking merrily out of the middle of the slice.

It was just too much. I nearly soiled myself.

Who the hell thinks that a human dressing up as food is anything other than a) humiliating or b) hilarious? Phil had, obviously, seen this as an amazing way to attract attention and perhaps increase profits tenfold, but his thinking was predictably flawed.

While a dancing slice of pizza was sure to attract attention–the same way an afro on a white man attracts attention: it was, of course, the wrong KIND of attention. And it was such a uniquely Phil way of doing things, just like standing in front of the single pop machine during the dinner rush to inform some server or another that they were using too many napkins.

Valid point, stupid timing. Could be the slogan for restaurant GM’s.

But for us, all of whom had been interrogated at one point or another about the Curious Incident Of The Cheese And The Nighttime, it was just that much more hysterical. I mean, really, a dancing PIZZA?

For the next several weeks, during the start of the dinner rush, well before the drivers were needed to shlep pizzas back and forth, the delivery drivers would take turns putting on the pizza suit and running through the dining room. I’m fairly certain that in this manner, many children were suitably traumatized. But it never failed to make us laugh: this a stupid, corny costume.

Once in awhile, Phil would convince one of the poor line cooks (poor as in the take-pity-on-him not in the broke-as-a-joke way.) during a slow lunch shift to go to the nearby road to wave at passing cars. As far as I know, it never attracted a soul into the restaurant to drop some bucks, but 50 million marketing geniuses (genuii?) can’t be wrong. Can they?

One Friday night after work, Rick and I were sitting and counting our tips and having our shift drink together, and I was grumbling and grousing about how he always made more bank than I did. Little did we know that the opportunity of a life-time was about to be hatched.

I don’t know who suggested it thanks, in no small part, to my tall Jack-n-diet-coke, I can’t full take credit for it so instead I will simply say that we mutually came up with a brilliant plan. The following Thursday night, when I was off work but while Rick was working, we would meet up at the restaurant so that I could help him deliver his pizzas.

Rick would, we decided, dress up in the pizza costume and deliver the pizza to our unsuspecting victims as a slice of pizza. Because short of throwing Rick into a thong, his bulge hanging out for all the world to see, I couldn’t think of anything weirder than getting a pizza delivered by a slice of pizza.

So that’s just what we did. With my friend from school, Arlene, manning the video camera, we–acting as normally as possible of course–drove Rick’s route that night. He’d ring the doorbell and hand the pizza to the victim while I would help make change. Just like this was the most normal situation. Just a random Thursday night delivering pizzas dressed as a slice of pizza lah-dee-dah.

Acting like this was nothing out of the ordinary was harder than it no doubt sounds.

Arlene took some footage that I am certain would rival The Blair Witch Project for most nauseating camera work on an independent film. I would pay a lot of money to see that footage now, but I haven’t seen Arlene since I graduated college and have no idea where to find her.

Shockingly, not a single person commented on this. Not one soul acted as though anything was out of the ordinary. It was as though we were being Punk’d while we were trying to Punk others.

In our efforts to behave as normally as possible, it seems that the houses we hit were full of people for whom this is an everyday occurrence. Maybe they are always served hot dogs by people dressed as gigantic wieners, Chicago-style. Maybe every ice cream cone is hand scooped by a walking, talking milkshake. In a world where a sandwich is always made by a sandwich, we were mere players; costumed pawns in this parade of nameless, faceless food mascots.

I would totally live in that world, you know. So long as I could make the rest of my family wear sausage costumes.

Just so I never have to wear the Santa costume again.