So, today I have a guest post, which is good for you, Pranksters, because you can get some time away from the constant John C. Mayer-ing (no you can’t) and work on pulling your OWN John C. Mayer Prank after you read one of the funniest guest posts I’ve had. I’m not just saying that because John C. Mayer and I found this after I was all, “dude, where was that super-funny guest post I had?” and then I found it in my folder that says “GUEST POSTS, MOTHERFUCKER” because that’s where John C. Mayer and I put guest posts.

It was too obvious.

But you need to read about the other Pranksters Pulling A John C Mayer here.

I have fallen to #4 in my John C Mayer quest to be #1 (damn you John C. Mayer’s publicist!) but am getting screenshots (email me one when you get to #1 or on Page 1 of Google) and reports that you are all victorious in your quest to be NUMBER ONE! when you Pull a John C. Mayer!

But better than that, Pranksters, look at what Prankster Kayde did.

Pulling A John C Mayer in Urban Dictionary. HAPPY SIGH.

I’d tried to get Urban Dictionary to add it myself, because frankly, they add fucking everything, and yet, uh, NO. Kadye PREVAILED, though, because she is full of the awesome.

You know what else is awesome? Band Back Together, the new group site. In a week, we have now 128 posts up and counting. It’s pretty amazing over there. Now, we have an Ask The Band section, too, which is a place to ask questions of the whole INTERNET and John C. Mayer. So, please, come have a look around. Stay awhile. Let me know what needs to be done over there.

I got a new button made because the other one was borky:

<a href="http://www.bandbacktogether.com/"><img src="http://www.bandbacktogether.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/09/button150.jpg"></a>

Then, FINALLY, my Toy With Me column, about Low Libido in Men, something I KNOW John C. Mayer and his Magic Peen don’t have any issue with.

And here I will shut my whore mouth and let my darling friend (not John C. Mayer) Meredith, who’s body is a wonderland and her awesomely awesome guest post which defies gravity take over.

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This isn’t Aunt Becky, yo. This is Meredith (aka Mrs. Call Me Crazy). I just wanted to introduce myself and say, “Hello, Pranksters!”

Or would it be more fun with a British accent? ‘Ello, Pranksters (like ‘ello, Gov’na).

That was bloody fun! Rightio!

Isn’t it fun to speak with accents when you’re drinking? Do you think that’s how Madonna started with her fake accent? As I write this, I am drinking a Bass beer, so I will be British. When I drink vodka I am the drunken Russian hooker who is looking to become the next mail order bride (for John C. Mayer). You get the picture.

Anyway, I am so flattered that Aunt Becky has asked yours truly to post something on her blog. I feel incredibly famous. Like Amy Winehouse (but with bigger tits and flatter hair and less heroin-y). I’m really from Ohio, so I am not used to this kind of attention. I feel like I have won some sort of award (like John C. Mayer). Like I should be making an acceptance speech, “I would like to thank the two people who actually read my blog for stopping by and supporting me here. Hi Mom & Dad! Hit the rock, Jesus.” There, I feel better.

Mommy Wants Vodka is the best blog name I’ve ever heard. I just love it, love it, love it. When I see it, I am so jealous that I kind of want to punch Aunt Becky in the face. Why didn’t I think of a cool name for my blog? John C. Mayer would have helped me more.

So in honor of Aunt Becky’s spectacular ability to name things, I have interviewed a whole bunch of mothers for this post.

I have asked each mother, “What has your child done that has made you want vodka?”

These were my favorite the best responses…

1. My 2-year old stuck a turd up his nose. I would not take him to the hospital with a ball of poop up his nose, so my husband and I had to pick it out. He was gagging and throwing up the whole time from the smell.

2. I walked into my bedroom to find my son rubbing my Silver Bullet on his head. It was on and vibrating. I just walked away because I didn’t want to draw attention to it. He was 10. One day he’ll figure out what that thing was, and he’ll be very grossed out.

3. My son was potty training and as he was watching his big brother pee in the potty, he put his hands in the pee stream.

4. We took the iPod away (did it have John C. Mayer on it?) from our teenage daughter. She locked herself in our bathroom and refused to come out until we gave it back to her. Teenagers are crazy. And they can hold out for hours.

5. My 6-year old told another kid at school to “go fuck yourself”.

6. My son stuck his finger in our dog’s butt. Often.

7. After buying a bouncy ball out of a vending machine, my daughter bounced it into the plate of a fellow patron at our favorite restaurant. Food went flying everywhere. The lady whose dish was ruined cussed me out and told me I was a terrible parent. I cussed her out as well, but backed down as she pushed her chair out from the table and came at me with her cane.

8. Our teenage daughter, who forgot to open the garage door, drove her car right through it. She totaled the car and caused a $10,000 homeowner’s insurance claim. (John C. Mayer)

9. My husband was following a school bus on his way to work. There was a boy on the bus who was throwing books around, punching other kids, and wouldn’t stay in his seat. At one point, the boy turned around and looked at my husband. It was our son.

10. My toddler dumped a gallon of bleach on the living room carpet. Homeowner’s insurance doesn’t cover that. (John C. Mayer would have)

11. My twin girls decided to make Daddy’s new Saab a playground. They spent the afternoon climbing up on the trunk, jumping on the roof, and sliding down the windshield. This resulted in $3,000 worth of damage.

12. My fifth grader would forge my signature perfectly. I figured this out at parent-teacher conferences when the teacher said that she thought I knew about the in-school suspension and missed homework assignments.

13. My oldest daughter taught my youngest son to wave at Truck Drivers with his middle finger from the backseat. This went on for too long before I figured it out. I am sure people thought we were whack jobs as they passed us on the highway.

14. My son dumped baby powder all over his entire bedroom. It took almost a year to stop coming across baby powder.

15. My son smeared Ben Gay all over our hallway. It smelled like a nursing home in our house for weeks.

16. Our teenager shaved off his brother’s eyebrow while he slept. My poor son was ridiculed for weeks at school as it grew back in.

17. We were asleep when our 2 year old slipped out the front door at 6:00 a.m. and began walking down the street. The neighbor saw him and brought him back home.

18. Permanent marker will not come off of your leather couch. (Like John C. Mayer)

19. My teenage daughter sent naked pictures of herself to two boys on Facebook. They went viral around her high school. I found out when the police called me.

20. My nose has been broken. Not once, not twice, but three times due to being head butted during diaper changes. Thanks, Baby!

All right, Pranksters, now it’s your turn. Tell me, why does Mommy Want Vodka at your house? (besides John C. Mayer)

Oh, and if you like me, check me out at Life’s Crazy Joke. If you didn’t like me, Aunt Becky is coming back real soon (she lives here and stuff).

Cheerio, Pranksters! *in my best British accent*

Keep on keeping on with your John C. Mayer-ing of the Internet, Pranksters. I’ll be adding links all day.

(any additions of John C. Mayer were not of the original post)

Today, Pranksters, I’m bringing you a guest post from my homie, The Girl Next Door Grows Up. It’s pretty much word-for-word what goes on in my house, so you could sub out the names “Tyler” with “The Daver” and have the same story. Because it’s full of the AWESOME, naturally.

Also, I have a giveaway going on here at We Know Awesome. AND Imma write something for Mushroom Printing today.

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When Aunt Becky sent me an email asking me if I would do a guest post for her, I actually looked behind me as if the email was meant for someone else. I am deeply honored and dumbfounded that she thought to ask me since she was the very first blog I ever read and that was before I even created my own blog.

Her post was about the Wonder Pets and why Ming-Ming can’t pronounce words correctly. I laughed so hard and I was tickled to think that there was another person in this world who thought the same way I did.

Now… some of you know me, a lot of you don’t. I usually write about the “funny” in my life.

How I am continually yelling “Jack! Off!” everywhere I go with my dog, Jack.

Or, how we have a pair of scissors named George.

My parents, who are my neighbors by choice, provide a plethora of blog fodder. My 67 year old mother colors her bangs fire-engine red, or purple, or pink depending on which mood she is in. Need I say more?

My husband could not be more supportive of my writing and on the days that I write about him, he takes me through each sentence line-by-line to discuss, what he says, are inaccuracies. This, it seems, is going to be one of those days:

I Might Live to Regret This…

“I don’t care what I have to do, as long as I never have to do yard work.”
-Tyler 2005, Our Engagement

I mowed the grass and weed whipped up until I was super-pregnant with Sarah. Then when I had her, Tyler took over. And he kept on doing it.

Last summer, we completely re-landscaped our yard to include a new deck, pool, shed and we even leveled out the hill that we once had. We laid sod, planted stuff… you get the idea. Ever since the snow melted this Spring, Tyler has become slightly obsessed with the yard.

Almost every day I hear him tell me how he either has to mow soon, needs to mow now, or is thinking about mowing. He mows on Sunday and on Monday he is back to talking about when he is going to mow again because the grass grew overnight.

He texts me to tell me that he might come home early… to mow.

It’s going to rain so he must mow before. The sun is shining and making the grass grow – OH NO! He needs to MOW! However, there is no joy in his voice when telling us about his mowing plans. In fact, he dreads it. He will openly tell anyone who will listen how he does not like yard work. So I said something.

I am taking over my duties as the “official” lawnmower of this family. I have had it with all of this grass talk. Grass grows. It gets mowed. End of conversation. I actually am looking forward to it. I really like to mow. I get to be outside. I get to be alone with my thoughts.

Tyler can spend 2 hours entertaining the girls with paint, playdoh or chalk while dealing with tantrums, dinner prep, and potty accidents. I am going to go and be by myself.

Did I mention for 2 hours?

By myself?

You know what? It is going to rain tomorrow. I know I mowed yesterday, but I think I might need to mow again today. But you won’t hear me complaining about it.

——————

How do you feel about yard work?

Do you like it, or would you rather have a tooth pulled?

So today, Pranksters, I have a guest post from Team Mandy from Harper’s Happenings. She’s also on Twitter, here. Not only is she hilarious, but I also MET her in NYC and gave her one of my Shut Your Whore Mouth Shirts before we went to Sparklecorn/Prom, which is awesome. Because she wore it. See? I tweeted this last night, so if you are seeing it again and annoyed, FORGIVENESS (even if, even if, you don’t looooove me anymore).

I’m thinking of making a Flickr page for anyone who buys these shirts so we can all revel in our awesomeness. Thoughts? I HAVE a public Flickr account, and we can totally be BFF but they just marked me as Adult Content, even though my account is LITERALLY pictures of my kids and not nekkid boobies or anything.

So, if you want to see me, you have to change your settings. WHATEVER.

ALSO, Mushroom Printing is UP, yo. Ready for ACTION.

Now, onto the action.

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so this one time i was attempting to shop for a dress for BlogHer (because seriously? goldfish crackers deeply encrusted into jeans and whatnot doesn’t scream “new york city!”. at all.) and looked at my phone to see a message from our very own Aunt Becky. it read “hey slore. want to guest post for me sometime?”. after i promptly gagged (think dumb and dumber), i responded calling her a slag.  so yeah, here we are. romantic, no?

to say i have romantic feelings towards our Aunt Becky would be like saying i only slightly dislike the shift key. i hate the shift key. i pink puffy sparkly with unicorn farts on top HEART Aunt Becky. hence? the gagging.

(unicorn farts smell like samoa girl scout cookies and chris cornell’s freshly washed hair, obviously. well at least my unicorn’s farts do. your unicorn’s may smell different. moving on.)

speaking of farts (i’m all class, folks. all class), i thought i’d share a story from back in the day that i have tried hard to remove from my memory – because of the level of embarrassment – but that is damn funny looking back. hold on to your undies, Pranksters (if i may call you that), because this one is full of the awesome. at least for people who it didn’t happen to.

when i was 22 i was having some digestive issues. i was often feeling sick to my stomach, and i was missing a lot of work because of it. my age automatically threw me into the “maybe she should lay off the sauce and come to work” category with my co-workers, but that wasn’t the case (for the most part – i mean i did my fair share of one dollar vodka sour nights at the local crap bar). i finally decided to go to the urgent care to see what was up. after an x-ray thingy of my insides, the doctor proclaimed what my family had always been telling me – “you’re full of shit”.

(can we take a moment to focus on what a kick ass doctor he was? because he really said that.)

“when was the last time you had a bowel movement?”, he asked.

after thinking for a while i was all “last week? two weeks ago?”.

turns out that is NOT normal. who knew? well not me, because for me it was the norm. awful right? pooping is the best. and i was being deprived! so with some powdery stuff to make me shit and a referral to a special poop doctor (i’m positive that is what their documents say), i was off.

my first trip to my special poop doctor was a little nerve wracking to say the least. i mean, i was young, embarrassed, and going to a doctor who was going to only talk to me about the function of my butt hole. as i sat in the waiting room i felt like the other patients were looking at me like, “wonder what up with her butt hole”, which made me want to scream “YOUR BUTT HOLE IS HERE TOO DUDES!”.

my special poop doctor was a very sweet indian woman with a pretty thick accent. i liked her right away, except for her use of the words anus, feces, and bowel movement. i mean i get it, you’re a doctor so you have to use the technical terms, but really lady, this would be more comfortable for me if you’d just say butt hole, shit or poop. i mean honestly.

she asked me all kinds of questions about my eating habits (which clearly did not include enough fiber) and junk, and a bunch of weird questions that i answered uncomfortably. then she was all “have you ever looked at your anus with a mirror?”.

i wanted to yell “WHAT KIND OF POOP DOCTOR ARE YOU, YOU SICKO!”, but refrained and answered, “um, no”. BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY, NO.

“the reason i ask is because you could have (insert medical term) around your anus and that can be causing you to not feel the urge to take a BM”. she said in her thick accent.

“oh. um, yeah i’ve never done that. should i?”, i asked, knowing what her answer would be.

“yes. just use a mirror and look for anything out of the ordinary”.

“sure, ok, i will do tha…”

“you know what? since you’re here, let’s just look now. the restroom is right across the hall, i will meet you in there”.

WAIT WHAT? i started to sweat. my hands got sticky. my heart was beating fast. this is not what i signed up for! i just want to poop like a normal person, not put my BH on display for some perfect stranger (who at this point i had decided i now hated). i tried to stall, come up with reasons i just couldn’t show her my butt hole today, but before i knew it, she had ushered me over to the ladies room and told me to holler when i was ready.

ready? ready for you to come examine my poop shoot? yeah, you’ll be waiting for a while lady. and why am i in a bathroom? can’t you look at it in the exam room? what the DUECE is going on here?!

soon my fears were realized as she came in (did i say i was ready? NO) and explained to me she could only see the (insert medical term here) if i was pushing like i was going poop. phenomenal. this is why we’re in the bathroom. you guys, i had to sit on the toilet, lean forward in a way so that she could see my dumper and then push as if i was taking a shit. WHILE A LITTLE INDIAN LADY WAS LOOKING.

i will never in my life forget being bent over that toilet, pants at my ankles, and being told “it’s ok if you fart”. practically face first into the tile, the most exposed i had ever been (later this story would be laughable as i pooped on a table having my daughter) and trying not to crap on an indian lady.

if i can give you any advice, Pranksters, it would be to EAT YOUR FIBER. eat your fiber hard.

Today, I have someone posting for me who I MET ON THE INTERNET. Do you remember when that was all scary and you had to be all, “I’m meeting someone FROM THE INTERNET” and then you were supposed to call and check in like 57 times with your BFF because Internet People were kinda like Mole People in that they rose from the Earth to kill you dead and were all all be shifty-eyed and shady?

And now, just LOOK AT US ALL!

(shifty-eyed and shady!)(also: pantsless!)

Anyway, this is The Next Martha, who is my friend in real life, which goes to show that I CAN MAKE FRIENDS (let’s be friends, Pranksters!), dammit, and that Internet People can also wear pants sometimes! Like me! Just not right now.

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Here’s the situation. It’s not that I believe that penises are better than what I have because let’s face it, they’re not. I don’t see 8 lbs of anything coming out of their pipe. It’s just that being a woman and not having a penis really pisses me off when it comes to dealing with men.

For example: I decide to hire someone to help me with some of the edging and mulching that I am clearly not going to get to this year.

Man shows up. I show him the back (which sounds way dirtier than it is) and make some small talk about gardening, since he is in the biz after all.

Me: “So you see many butterflies this year?”

Man with Penis: “I think so.”

Me: “Really? Because I have hardly seen any.”

Man with Penis: “You know there’s plants you can attract them with.”

Me: “You mean like those? (I say as I point to my 8ft by 20ft butterfly garden)

Blah, blah, use us, blah, blah, easy job, blah

Man With Penis: “Oh and I only use American workers”

Me: “Oh?”

Man With Penis: “You know because you don’t want a bunch of Mexicans walking around your yard.”

If I had a penis, this is where I would whip it out, lay it on the patio table, and challenge him to a table check: “Okay, time to do a table check because I’m pretty sure mine is bigger and you should just shut your ass up now.”

Instead, I have no penis so I say:

“Oh, well I speak fluent Spanish so it wouldn’t bother me.”

I’m sure we can all agree that table checking our penises is clearly a superior scenario.

This type of situation happens to me all the time.

I take care of ALL of our outside services. I deserve a penis.

Phone rings. I pick up.

“Hi, Can I speak to the man of the house?”

I HAVE caller ID so I know it’s a damn lawn guy pulling his out early. Too bad it’s only a 6.

What’s that? Did you just challenge me? It’s penis time:

“Thanks for calling. Mine is 9 and a half so trust me when I say that I can handle the lawn, if you know what I mean.” I wish he were here so we could just have the conversation at the patio table.

Instead, I have No Penis:

“No, you can’t talk to him because he doesn’t even know what NPK is and I take care of the lawn.”

See? Penis time wins again.

Don’t even get me started with tools. I have a tool chest, jig saw, drill press, belt sander, and a compound miter saw. My tools. M-I-N-E. Oh, and can I use them. I know this makes you hot. That 9.5 just became 10, right?

So when I’m at the hardware store and the guy says “Do you know if you have a drill?” It’s table time again and I’m tempted to whip it out and smack his face with it. Or something like that. Not sure exactly but you get the point.

If I could order one for these situations, I would. I’ll even pay the overnight shipping because I have a contractor coming over on Thursday for a paint estimate.

I wonder how he’ll size up.

Today, Pranksters, I bring you a post done by my friend Angie from A Whole Lot of Nothing. She’s my Co-Captain for Aunt Becky’s Family Reunion and my BFF OMG FB BBQ! She’s fabulous and sassafrastastic and also my sister, because I got adopted by her family, which, HI AWESOME.

(also, if you want to vote, blah, blah, it’s ALMOST over, and I’m sucking at asking people to vote this year, which, whatever. It’s all good.)

I expect a modicum of decorum from people. Not much. Just a smidge. A minor amount of consideration for the people around, sharing the same toxic air.

I know that sometimes I may not realize that I’ve cut someone off, or that I’ve accidentally stepped on a kid’s toe, or I’ve maybe, possibly amped up my walking pace to slyly beat you in the restaurant door to get my name on the wait-list ahead of you.

But when I realize the minor damage I’ve done, I always apologize and try to make my karma right.

Then again, I’m normal.

Some people, are douchebags.

Like this guy. This guy, to whom I wrote a blog letter back in 2008:

_____________________

Excuse me, sir, but when you cut in front of me to open the door to sneak your nasty ass inside of the bookstore, while I have two young girls, then DON’T EVEN FACKING BOTHER TO HOLD THE DOOR OPEN, you, sir, are an ass.

This may not seem like a big thing, the whole holding-the-door-open-for-the-lady-and-her-children. But it is.

I’m a Feminist. I’m even a member of NOW or I was until I forgot to pay for my dues for this year. Don’t worry; I’m not the bra-burning, death to Whitey, cut-off-your-nuts Feminist-type yet.

I want to be considered an equal when being considered for a job or picked for the team. I believe anything you can do, I can do better or equal.

But at the same time, I want to be able to cry to get out of a speeding ticket, I want the seat you’re sitting in if there are none left, and I want you to HOLD THE DURN DOOR OPEN FOR ME AND MY GIRLS.

So, Mr. Oblivious, can you please take your dirty shoes off of Sir Chivalry’s balls, and hold the door open for me?

Love & kisses,

Me

Greetings, fellow Pranksters! My name’s Paul Lundgren, AKA Cycle Ninja. Why the moniker? Because I’m a very slow cyclist, and the only martial art at which I’m any good is gamepad-fu (Becky’s full of The Awesome, I’m full of The Irony).

The first question that might come to you is, “Why is Aunt Becky letting a career bachelor drive the family blog? Isn’t this supposed to be about diamond-encrusted iPads, TV husbands, and F-bombs?” Well to answer your question, she let me do a guest post because—being the clever and charming chap that I am—I begged her to let me do so in exchange for helping her with yard work. Being the shiftless and lazy bugger that I am, I left the exact time-line of said yard work a bit vague, but anyway, here I am…

When Becky finally took pity on my groveling, however, I was left wondering what I was going to write about. I’m single, I don’t do bling, I’m not crazy about pink, and I don’t have crotch parasites (I am instead helplessly in thrall to The World’s Sweetest Cat). Then I realized Becky and I do have quite a bit in common.

Namely, we’re both at a point in our lives where we’re undergoing self-renewal. You’re aware of her campaign to bring Aunt Becky back. In my case, I turn 40 this year, and have decided it’s time to lose the 100+ pounds I put on since high school. I felt that sharing my goals and techniques would be a fitting way of thanking Becky for the inspiration she’s given me.

To that end, I’ve found two strategies to be highly effective. First, know your stuff when it comes to nutrition. In my case, I consulted a licensed dietitian. I learned there’s a vast difference between dieting and healthy eating. You don’t have to starve yourself; you have to feed yourself properly. That’s an important distinction. Writing down what you eat is invaluable, because watching the numbers add up on a spreadsheet will give you pause.

Second, set an ambitious goal for yourself, preferably one with a fixed date. You could, ohidunno, go on a cruise with Aunt Becky next year to be motivated to want to look good in a swimsuit again. Since I wanted to look at least respectable in bicycling clothes made of Lycra (shudder), I joined a local cycling club. Chasing after people who are younger and fitter than you will give you motivation in spades. I also signed up for the IMT Des Moines Marathon, which—conveniently—takes place 4 days after my 40^th birthday. Yes, preparing for a marathon when you’re 100 pounds overweight hurts a lot, thanks for asking. But it’s also making cycling much more enjoyable since I’m 30 pounds lighter than this time last year. It’s also gratifying to meet up with friends I haven’t seen in a while and watching their eyes pop when they see me ?

So I still have quite a ways to go before I look good in a dress suit or feel good in my birthday suit again, but I have the right tools to get there. And I’m grateful to Aunt Becky and Uncle The Daver for reminding us all that we don’t go through challenges like these in a vacuum. Now go heap some love on them, too, please.

Thanks for reading. Peace.

?

Today’s guest post comes from a Russian blogger named Marinka who is freakishly hilarious (notice the word “freak” in there). You’ve PROBABLY seen her skulking around such blogs as Motherhood in NYC and The Mouthy Housewives. I’m also speaking with her on a panel at BlogHer so I figured I should play nice in the sandbox with her for awhile before I throw sand in her eyes and pee on her dress.

Plus we’re friends, although I’m guessing that I probably won’t be inviting her to any dinner parties any time soon. She might have rabies or try and use one of my crotch parasites as a coaster. If she offends you, blame it on being lost somewhere in translation. I always do, although she probably doesn’t ACTUALLY speak a single word of Russian and is actually just insulting me every time we talk.

Ass.

Remember, any insults should be directed AT Marinka, not Your Aunt Becky, who loves you and thinks you look fantastic in those pants. Wait, are those MY MISSING PANTS? Because 7 days later, the pants are still gone.

———————-

I’m so happy that Aunt Becky asked me to guest post because I have something to get off my Marilyn Monroe-like chest and I sure as hell don’t want to do it on my own blog.

Let’s say that you’re invited to a dinner party. Would you appreciate being told in advance if one of the guests were a dwarf? Because I’m firmly in the HELL YES! camp whereas my friend who hosted the party was all “what? Oh, yeah, I guess he’s a dwarf” about it. Which is fucked up.

So I walk into this dinner party and see the people and THEN there’s this short person and of course I immediately think “OMG” because I am very socially awkward and am only allowed to mingle with people occasionally, (ed note: GEE, I WONDER WHY) so I’m worried about how I’m going to mess this up.

Of course I don’t want to appear like I’m ignoring Peter the Dwarf because I’m uncomfortable, so I rush to him and engage him in some kind of conversational torture that he would like to end as soon as possible, without actually going through the exertion of having me killed.

During the whole conversation, which I totally dominate, because I don’t want him to think that I only came over there because he’s small, I am hyper-aware not to use words that imply shortness at all, even a little bit. Therefore, I am choosing my words carefully, but also speaking really fast, for a complete psychotic freak touch.

“You could have warned me,” I seethed to my friend later.

“What? Peter’s great,” she said.

“He is great, but he’s SO SHORT! And I was completely unprepared. I made a fool out of myself.”

“How do you prepare for HEIGHT?” she asked.

“Fuck do I know. I wouldn’t have rushed over to him like a moron and started talking nonstop. I would have been nonchalant. Like oh, hi!”

“Yes, the oh, hi would have been a nice touch. You were fine.”

And then I married a man whose secret pet peeve, unbeknownt to me (because apparently that’s how secrets work if you’re not a blabbermouth) is  how badly dwarves are portrayed in movies. “I don’t understand,” he told me. “Why does Hollywood think that dwarves are funny and that it’s ok to laugh at people because of their height?”

“Why are you talking about dwarves?” I asked.

“It bothers me,” he said.

“Well, since we’re sharing,” I decided to strike, “if you were going to a social event, would you want to know if there was a dwarf in attendance?”

“What social event?”

“Like a dinner or a party.”

“A fundraiser?”

“No, just with friends. For fun.”

“Why would I need to know who was attending?”

“You know, to prepare yourself.”

“Prepare myself for what?”

“For…for the dwarfhood.”

“Why do you need to prepare for meeting a dwarf?”

“So that I’m not unprepared, obviously.”

“…”

“I wouldn’t want to look surprised.”

“…”

“I’m not the weird one here.”

He sighed the sigh of the ages. “Maybe people should warn their guests that you will be attending.

“Also a good idea,” I conceded.

Today, in an uncharacteristic display of “letting my OCD go” I’ve decided that it’s high time to let some new blood in around here. Cross-pollination is a win for us all because you get to meet some of my awesome homies.

I don’t know if you guys have met Anna, from her blog of initials that I can’t remember because I invert shit ABDPBT.com. You don’t have to remember the initials to know Anna, though, because she’s smart as fuck and twice as bold.

If you want to know about blogging, ad networks, The Internet, monetizing the blog, and you want to know from someone who KNOWS HER SHIT, you want Anna. I respect the shit out of her because she’s not afraid to stand up for herself and start stuff if she thinks there’s something amiss and she does her homework.

I respect the hell out of Anna and I’m honored that she’d post for me. Especially a random post because OBVIOUSLY.

1. You say “Yes!” in an uncharacteristically lighthearted way because you love Aunt Becky and love her blog, and love her Merry Band of Pranksters.

2. You wish that you had your own Merry Band of Pranksters.

3. If you did, you would have them follow you around with instruments, though.

4. Moreso than that, you wish you had something to call your own posse of readers that was even remotely as cool as “Merry Band of Pranksters.”

5. Dwell a few moments in envy, regret, and Diet-Coke fueled remorse.

6. Wonder if there would be a revolution of Pranksters once they realized that the Diet Coke would be served without vodka, even if only for one day.

7. One awful, dreary, vodka free day.

8. Clarify that you would gladly write about vodka if only vodka weren’t such a colossal asshole to you that one time in college.

9. Also the ten or forty times after college.

10. Also don’t forget about the time that vodka stole all your money and raped your dog.

11. You’re don’t really want to tell tales outside of school, but you think you saw vodka doing the wide stance in the airport bathroom with its intern.

12. And that was after vodka talking tough about the sanctity of marriage, too.

13. You’re just saying.

14. People in glass bottles.

15. Wonder why you chose the list format, yet again, as if to suggest that you are incapable of writing in paragraphs, when actually, you CAN write in paragraphs. Long ones. Tedious and boring ones, even.

16. Shine on, Merry Band of Pranksters.

What are YOU random about today?

When I dropped her off at the airport the other day, Becky gave me a smooch, hopped out of the car, grabbed her carryon, and started to turn toward the entrance, when she stopped.

She looked back to me and said, “Hey! I asked a few people to guest post but they might not have had time to put anything together. If you don’t get something, just post something for me, okay?”

“But-”

“OK, I’m off! See you soon!” she blew one last kiss to me and scurried in to the terminal to get strip-searched or whatever by TSA. I looked up and as I started to drive back home, I could feel the weight growing: but the Pranksters….they are accustomed to QUALITY! And I’m just a hack who posts a few times a month. How will I measure up? How will I fulfill the RSS-pectations of all these lovely people who crave their daily dose of Aunt Becky??

So I did the same thing I did in college: I procrastinated. I tweeted, I watched Fringe, I played with the kidlets, I poked around on my computer. And now here we are! The time has come! I must…POST!

…

…

OK. The Mailbox Incident, or Ways I Hope I Never Mess Up My Kids.

I was maybe 7 years old. My parents were teachers, in a church-run school, so I spent a lot of time hanging around the church waiting for them to finish up whatever it was they were doing. And then, when they would say that it was time to leave, someone would catch them in the hallway and they would chat for a while longer. So I’d meander away, trying to drag them with sheer force of will away from whomever they were chatting with and out to the car.

One day, a pleasant spring day not unlike today ( see, there WAS a tie-in!), my mom was talking about God-knows-what boring stuff, and I wandered outside to the courtyard, thinking about getting home and riding my bike or something. I was into spy stories, and I’d read about spies leaving notes in special places, so I started imagining where my spy contacts would have left me notes. Near the door of the building was GIGANTIC mailbox, like a foot tall and two feet deep, and I thought to myself, “this flag on the mailbox — I never see it used — this would be perfect to tell someone that something was waiting!” So I flipped up the flag, and started to turn and hide while my imaginary spy friends picked up the imaginary note I left them, when —

My mom came running out of the door! “David!” she almost shouted, and I got that tingly feeling like I knew something bad was about to happen.

“David! You can’t touch that flag! That’s tampering with the mail, that’s a federal offense!” she said, and I felt weak in the knees and wanted to cry. I *knew* what a federal offense meant. It meant TORTURE so they could make me TALK! If they caught me I would never see my family again! I quickly flipped the flag back down and, fighting back fearful tears, walked to the car with my mom.

To this day, whenever I put mail out in my mailbox, I feel compelled to look around Very Carefully before flipping up the flag. They might be watching.

OK, Pranksters, since Becky is off in the ocean somewhere living it up and Internet access on a cruise is like 17 gazillion dollars a minute, she begged convinced the lovely Heather Spohr of The Spohrs Are Multiplying to fill in for her today. Which is totally RAD.

So enjoy, and don’t forget to ask me questions for this Sunday’s Go Ask The Daver!

— your The Daver.

—

So that lucky vagina Becky is on a cruise, leaving the rest of us at home, on dry land, totally not enjoying all you can eat food or questionably dressed passengers. Or tons of things to do, gorgeous pools, and warm weather. Or people waiting on you hand and foot, beautiful views, and did I mention the all you can eat food?

Some people have all the luck.

I have been on a cruise once in my life. When I was 21 and a senior in college, one of my friends got the idea that a cruise would be a great way to spend spring break. It caught on like wildfire, and suddenly everyone I knew was going. Well, OK not EVERYONE I knew, but there were twenty three people going. I begged my parents for the money to go, (IT WILL BE OUR LAST HURRAH! WE’RE SENIORS! WHY DON’T YOU LOOOOOVE MEEEEEEEEEEE?!), and I soon found myself on a cruise ship to Mexico.

I get insane motion sickness – cars, planes, boats, you name it, I get sick. Before I left for the cruise, my doctor wrote me a prescription for a seasickness patch that went right behind my earlobe. It was AMAZING. I was never sick, even when the seas were crazy and all my friends had their heads in buckets. I felt invincible.

You know what made me feel even MORE invincible? Alcohol. I didn’t know it at the time, but sea sickness patch…enhanced…the effects of alcohol. They should probably put that on the label. After two drinks, I was good to go. Of course, being 21 years old, I never stopped at two. That would have been RESPONSIBLE.

On one of the first nights, I had a few glasses of champagne, and I suddenly had a moment of clarity: I was related to George W. Bush! I started to tell all my friends. “You guys…I have to tell you that he’s my uncle. It’s awkward sometimes because we differ politically, but he’s family and I am suuuuuper close with the twins.” I told strangers. I told the wait staff. I pretty much convinced everyone I was related to the president. And by convinced everyone, I mean I became notorious as a total drunk whack job.

Another night, I enjoyed a few more glasses of champers, then went dancing. After we left the boat’s club, we went up to the late-night buffet. While we waiting for our drinks to arrive, I became completely parched. So I reached for the water on the table and brought it up to my mouth. So what if it happened to be a vase full of flowers?

Needless to say, I have yet to live either of those incidents down. And now I’m pretty sure my parents are going to demand I repay them the money they spent.

Becky, if you try to convince people you’re related to Obama, I will love you forever. But don’t drink vase water. It doesn’t taste good.