Tuesday, August 13, 2013

Amuse Me

Apparently back in March of 2012, I wrote this post, but never published it.  Rather than dumping it into the delete folder, I'm publishing it.  Because at that time, this amused the shit out of me.

Today’s Ronnie Dunn-free post is brought to you by the letters Q,U,E, and the number of Pi squared. This mediocre blogger is still unable to spell February without the aid of spell-check and is a big fan of profanity. Please direct all rabid comments or winning African lotto tickets towards The Diatribest.

Since December I’ve fallen into the terrible habit of sleeping until the last possible minute before I have to wake up The Kiddo for school. Prior to the never-ending-Niagara-SnotFalls-fest at Christmas, I would get my ass up in time to mainline 2 cups of coffee while watching reruns of Angel.* Now I’ve gotten too lazy to get back into a decent sleep schedule so most mornings I run around the house, working harder than a hooker on dollar hand job day to find a matching pair of sock and shirt that doesn’t look like it was washed and dried on rocks.

I’m lucky if I can get ½ a cup down before I jump in the car, cursing as I realize that the travel mug of coffee will be waiting for me on the kitchen counter when I return. So when I get back and nuke the now cold coffee, I will flip on the TV to drown out the noises of the neighbors next door. This morning the Flintstones were not so loud that I heard the bi-speckled TV grandfather clearly announce: “I use catheters; do you?”

I developed sudden hysterical deafness but not before hearing that Brand X “is so silky and smooth.” While I searched in vain for the clicker (which I had been sitting on) I willed myself not to vomit or think of Sally Field’s Sybil. If I could have I would have brushed my ears with Clorax and a Brillo pad.

Here’s the thing. I have such a sailor mouth that during labor I said words that the attending doctor had never even heard. I have no problem laughing at a penis joke. But please, for the love of Kentucky Friend Chicken, DO NOT tell me about your (un)sexy crotch problems. 

Ever since the world was informed that Raymond’s constipation was eased by a dose of Milk of Magnesia, we’ve been bombarded with commercials about jock itch, vaginal dryness, droopy dicks, feminine odors, and leaky bladders. I’m sorry that John and Joan Q. Pubic are having below the belt problems, but shouldn’t that be something you tell your doctor or maybe discuss with your best friend and not me?

Tomorrows coffee will be accompanied by the second book in the Hunger Games series. Katniss might have to brutally kill several more people, but she won’t inform me on their bits and pieces.

*(PS-David Boreanaz? Is my TV crush! I looooooove you!)  

**(Yes, I know he’s married and no, Rachel, he does not have a huge forehead!)