They should just rename it Blowjob Day

Today is Valentine's Day. If you forgot that, you're probably in trouble. Unless you're alone and, in that case, you're probably just sad. Sorry.

I've always been anti-Valentine's Day. I would spout the "it's just a Hallmark holiday invented to make you buy flowers and chocolates and cards and you should show your love for somebody in little ways every day yada yada yada puke barf fart," crap. Which, you know, is absolutely true. Guys will do anything to get a guaranteed blowjob, so a holiday made specifically for that purpose is like a freaking gold mine for those sappy card-making bastards. 

But what else is absolutely true is that you forget all that shit when someone rings your doorbell at 9 am with a vase filled with pretty flowers because your husband is cool and sweet and probably wants to get laid tonight.

Which he is. And he will (I can say that now because we're married).

Plus, it's a really good excuse to decorate your cardboard TARDIS with some pretty heart lights because you're festive. And too lazy to decorate in any real way because it's a holiday that doesn't really matter and then you'd have to take down the decorations 3 months from now, which is the approximate time it'll take you to stop playing Assassin's Creed or Skyrim long enough to do anything that might be called productive.

Enjoy those lights, TARDIS. You'll probably have them for a long time.

This is what happens when you've taken too much cold medicine.

I'm currently under the suspicion that my body hates me.

Like really, truly hates me. 

I don't get why. I feed it all the fried food and beer it wants. I mean, who wouldn't love a person that feeds them jalapeno poppers and Samuel Adams all day every day?*

Apparently, my body. It's all like, "oh, I need proper nutrition," and "oh, you need to take a shower more than twice a week," and "waaahh! Why did you stay up so late last night watching that episode of Doctor Who where Rose gets left in another dimension and you always freaking cry? Because now I'm tired and hate you!"*

So I got a cold for the second time in a matter of two months because my body doesn't like jalapeno poppers, beer, and old episodes of Doctor Who. It's like it doesn't even know me. Which is ridiculous because, hello, it's my freaking body. Get with it, dude. 

Pat just informed me that we're going to die of a heart attack. I'm pretty sure that's a challenge to see who's going to die first. Oh no you don't, motherfucker. Time to up my game! 

*I don't actually do all of these things all of the time. But I am pretty bad at being an adult. So, you know, there's that. 

How to Survive Jehovah's Witnesses (and, you know, that whole apocalypse thing).

So apparently, according to some calendar made by a bunch ancient assholes that disappeared a long ass time ago, we're all going to die on Friday. Even though, you know, the Mayans probably just didn't think that far ahead into the future and figured they make a new calendar later on. I mean, come on, the vast majority of us don't think the world is ending every time we reach the end of our kitten of the month calender. But I've gotta admit that I never expected the world to end on a Friday. I mean, sure, we've always assumed it would be a Monday, but I think Wednesdays are particularly evil and that's mostly because yesterday was Wednesday and it was pretty gnarly. I had to work on one of the few days where it gets cold enough for car windows to be iced over. And I got stuck in a one-lane traffic jam because the road workers had to close a lane for two or three miles so they could stare at a pot hole.

Anyway, there's probably a lot of things out there right now that tell you what you need to do for the imminent demise of the earth. But don't listen to them because they're boring and stupid and probably wrong. Instead listen to me because I'm smart and always right and I have a college degree that says "with honors" on it which really means that I'm the smartest person alive.

1. Amass your supplies.
This is probably the most urgent and pressing thing to do to prepare for an apocalypse. You need supplies after all--there's nothing worse than being without food or water when all of the fast food restaurants are closed. It's also probably the most boring thing. So do this quickly. Get plenty of water (you never know--the tap water could be poisoned by tricky zombies or something), canned food, blankets, flashlights, blah blah blah I'm already bored. Next!

2. Find a good place to hole up in.
Okay, so we don't know exactly what the apocalypse will entail. Zombies? Fire and brimstone? People suddenly turning into Jehovah's Witnesses and knocking on your door at 7am on a Saturday to tell you about the "good news?" Either way, it's going to be bad. And while locking yourself in your own house for protection may be your first answer, it may not be the best. While you may know where everything is and are better able to point out and fortify the weak spots, staying at home all day and night is sooooo booooooooring! So I have a better plan. Find a nearby store to fortify and hole up in. Think of how much more fun the apocalypse would be if you spent your final days riding the bikes and Power Wheels at Toys R Us. Right?! Personally, Pat and I plan to head to the nearest BevMo, stopping on the way to loot some televisions from Best Buy, of course, so we can drink the end of days away! Plus, they have some pretty tasty cheese platters and OMG, can you imagine the kind of apocalypse party you can have inside a freaking booze store?!

3. Embrace the looting.
It's the freaking apocalypse, dude. There's no better time to learn how to loot than now! Just think of it as Black Friday shopping, only you don't have to pay for anything and nobody is going to blast you on the news for trampling 10 year-old kids. I call that a double win. You, of course, want to loot for the necessities: toilet paper, water, blankets, anything that you forgot when you packed up all your shit in a big ass hurry because you wanted to stake your claim on BevMo before someone else got there first or, worse, stolen all the good booze and left you with Boone's Farm and Goldschlager. But don't forget the fun things: you'll need a television, a video game system with tons of games (bonus points if they're apocalypse-themed games. There's nothing more fun than taunting the pending doom by playing games with it. (Ha! See what I did there?!)), movies, board games, puzzles (hey, when you're bored and desperate, you'll be eyeing those puzzles like a cowboy begins to eye his horse after being lost in the wilderness for two weeks.), and maybe some Power Wheels from Toys R Us. Mostly because I've always wanted Power Wheels.

4. Don't be premature.
Sure, after reading all this, you're just waiting to get out there to loot some vibrators and stake your claim on the local Cost Co, but, like a Doctor Who fan on Christmas, you're just going to have to wait until that special airs, my friend. Yeah yeah, worst analogy ever. Shut up, I'm teaching you how to survive an apocalypse! There's nothing worse than getting arrested for premature looting right before the world ends. Because then, when it finally does happen, you'll be stuck in a jail cell, praying that a fire ball crashes into the wall so you can break free because otherwise? Nobody's going to remember to break you out of jail--especially while there's still looting to do! And by the time somebody finally does remember that your ass is still rotting in jail, all the good shit will already be looting and you'll be stuck using the industrial strength toilet paper and Virtual Boy (true story: Pat has one) while you fortify the gym. Which sounds pretty lame, but at least you'd be more buff than most of the other survivors which could work to your advantage when it comes time to repopulate the Earth and find a new leader. Touché.

5. Ignore everything I just said.
Your best means of survival is not taking survival advice from someone who plans to wait it out in a booze store*.


PS: As I just finished this post, I got a coupon e-mailed to me from BevMo. Silly BevMo. I won't need a coupon once the world ends.





*Not really true. My advice is solid and awesome and I'll be as drunk as I want while zombies try to break in (BTW: getting a zombie drunk would be the best thing ever!) or fireballs rain down on, or even as Jehovah's Witnesses leave another 100 pamphlets outside the door. My advice on everything is solid and awesome. Always. But, as I was writing this, I realized that if everyone followed my advice, the nearest BevMo might already be occupied by the time I got there and all the good shit would be looted and I really want that 60 inch TV so I can pretend like I'm in the theater while I'm watching The Hunger Games. And that really good sound system to drown out the sounds of death and sorrow, not to mention the knocks of the Jehovah's Witnesses. 

Why yes, it IS bigger on the inside!

You know when you go to some historical re-enactment kind of event and you feel kinda nerdy because you like watching the Pony Express riders going back and forth and giggle when one dude tries to sell you miracle elixir? And then you know when they fire a cannon or burn a brothel and you feel kinda justified because, hey, this shit is pretty cool after all?

This post isn't about that. 

This post is about when you go to said historical-type event and enjoy yourself immensely until you go into a store and see a life-size cardboard cutout of a TARDIS. And suddenly your life is no longer complete because you don't own a life-size cardboard cutout of a TARDIS.

This is my (slightly creepy) I'm-excited-because-I-have-a-cardboard-TARDIS face

Yes, I bought a cardboard TARDIS. Yes, I giggle every single time I see it because it makes me furiously happy like only a ridiculous thing like a cardboard TARDIS can. My brain, which should be in full-fledged wedding planning mode because, hello, I'm getting married on Saturday (well, I was getting married on Saturday when I first typed this post. Now I'm already married. Which, ya know, is kinda cool. I'm a wife now, bitches!), is now in full-fledged TARDIS mode. Like when I'm driving to work, but all I'm thinking about is how funny would it be to put the TARDIS in the bathroom while everyone's asleep. Or maybe how dressing Luna up as the Doctor or a Dalek and posing her in front of the TARDIS would make for a fantastic and festive Christmas card. 

Artsy shot of the TARDIS = first place winner in every photography contest.

OR! HOLY BALLS ON THE FACE OF BO, YOU GUYS! Best. Idea. Ever. 

We could ...are you ready for this?... decorate the TARDIS ...you following me here?... for each and every holiday. 

I'm thinking some ghosts and spiderwebs for Halloween...

BOOM! That shit just paid for itself!

The moral of this post: I'm back, bitches, and I have a life-size cardboard cutout of a TARDIS. So expect a lot of  TARDIS-y things from me. A. Freaking. Lot.

The Ongoing Saga of Atticus Finch...who may or may not be a zombie

...No, not the character from the book. I'm fairly certain he's not a zombie. Atticus Finch is a bird. Betcha can't guess what kind of bird!

...What? You say a finch?...Oh. You're right. How'd you know?!

So the day before we're supposed to leave for two weeks at work, this bird who somebody said was dead, but obviously wasn't unless he's a zombie bird, flew into the library.

...Actually, maybe he is a zombie bird. Question: Do zombie birds eat human brains or bird brains? I'm hoping bird brains, but then we'd actually have to find and kill birds for him to eat and I wouldn't really like that.

This shit is getting confusing.

Okay. Back to the story. Bird flies into library where I work. I try my best to chase him out of the open door, but he doesn't want to leave because it's warm in there and apparently he likes law books. I forgot to mention that it's a law library. So there you go. It's a law library. I won't tell you which one because I don't want to reveal my true, not-super-hero identity because obviously having an awesome blog is a total super power.

I spent most of the day trying to get poor little Atticus outside. Because I didn't have anything better to do with my time. Or I did and I just didn't want to do it. Not relevant to the story, people!

All of my 55 followers on Twitter followed the saga intensely. Or not. Really, I think most of them ignored it.

So that means, I'm going to post the Tweets right here!...So more people can ignore them! (Yes, my life is sad.)

@AwesomeWordage

Jeez, even the birds need help today!

@AwesomeWordage

Birdy is hiding who-knows-where. Pretty sure it's not dead.

@AwesomeWordage

It could possibly be dead. Or dancing the cha-cha. It's hard to tell at this point.

@AwesomeWordage

Found the bird. Chased it around the library in the hopes that it would fly out the door.

@AwesomeWordage

He's now hiding under a bookcase. He's a finch and his name is Atticus. Can we keep him?

At one point, somebody managed to catch him, but when he went to show us the bird, Atticus flew away and back into the depths of the library. If I was really good at remembering quotes, this is where I would add a relevant touching quote from To Kill a Mockingbird. But I'm not, so fill in the blanks yourself.

By the way, I'm just assuming you get the reference to the book. His name is Atticus, he's a finch and apparently he wants to spend the rest of his days in a law library. If you don't get the reference, look it up on SparkNotes.

So anyway. The day ends, Atticus is still in the library and we try feeding him nuts, raisins, and bread. He doesn't eat. I get pretty terrified about finding a dead, smelly bird when I return to work. In two weeks. The boss came back the next day and left him bird seed and called somebody out to try to capture him, but he couldn't be found.

He still can't be found. There's little traces of Atticus everywhere. A little poop, some scattered bird seed and random sounds that really make me wonder if he is a zombie bird and he wants to eat my brain. And then I think I see something flying out of the corner of my eye and this bird is possibly toying with my mind and trying to drive me crazy. Before he eats my brains. That's like playing with your food. Not cool, dude.

I wonder what would happen if he does eat my brains. Do I become a human zombie or a bird zombie? How does that work? I need to find out more about the logistics of zombie-ism. Specifically the section about birds.

Really, what is Twitter for if it's not to harass celebrities without any threat of a restraining order?

Conversation I had with Pat while I was peeing...

Pat: Dude, I just thought of something.

Me: ...what? (When Pat says that, you have to be kind of scared.)

Pat: Instead of writing letters to Santa, we should write letters to Tim Allen.

Me: Why would we-- oh...Does he have a Twitter?!

Because, you know, Tim Allen was Santa in that one movie. And the sequel. But I think there was only one sequel because there is such a thing as too many movies starring Tim Allen as Santa.

I know you're wondering and, no, Pat and I don't write letters to Santa. But his dad has a plastic light up Santa on his front lawn every year, and I'm pretty sure that counts. Except for when Santa got stolen and Christmas was ruined. I can't be sure, but I'm pretty sure it was the Grinch. Because that's the kind shit that asshole would totally do.

But really, so many adults would write letters to Santa if he was really Tim Allen. Because we all remember Home Improvement and that was an awesome show. And plus, we could all Tweet him with our Christmas wish lists and that involves way less effort than writing a letter and mailing it. Because who has stamps anymore?

So there you go. An obviously rock-solid logical argument for why you should Tweet @ofctimallen immediately to let him know what you want. And if you actually get it, then we'll know for sure. Tim Allen is magic. And instead of having a sleigh with reindeer, he probably rides a narwhal that will totally stab your ass if you tried to sneak a peek of Santa Allen. 

And while we're here, we also have to use our Twitter power to elect Tom Hanks as president. Because I'm pretty sure that's how presidents are elected and,  really, who wouldn't want Tom Hanks as their president? Satanists, that's who. And maybe a few guys that were forced to see You've Got Mail with their girlfriends and for some reason, they're holding a grudge against Tom Hanks. But really, it's not his fault you have a shitty girlfriend, bro.

So, recap: Tweet your Christmas list to @ofctimallen and elect #TomHanks2012 and I'm pretty sure that will fix the entire world. Do some good this Christmas, folks. 

A response to Lemons. Not the actual fruit, though...stop nitpicking and just read it.

My friend Sam of Sacto Food and Insurance recently posted about a strange tradition his family has involving lemons. Not strange as in we-use-lemon-zest-for-our-human-sacrifices, but more like we're-a-family-of-dorks-that-come-up-with-weird-games-because-we-can-and-because-it's-better-than-zesting-each-other-and-arguing-over-who's-turn-it-is-to-kill-Uncle-Bill.

So, you know. Not strange at all.

And I was going to post a comment about my favorite thing about lemons, but I thought it was blog-worthy because, honestly, I spend too much time reading other people's blogs instead of updating mine and so I should probably just isolate myself from the rest of the world because maybe then I'll actually get something done. Except I'm pretty sure that isolation would mean that I wouldn't even be able to update my blog because the Internet is the world and unless my telepathic blogging powers improve, I still need a laptop and Internet.

Call now to find out about free shipping. But wait, there's more! Call now and we'll throw in a free Crazy Critter!

Sorry. I just got my telepathic blogging confused with the television commercial that I didn't even know I was paying attention to. Wait--does that mean the advertisers are communicating telepathically to me so I can write telepathically to you about Crazy Critters? Touche, dog vacuum cleaner people.

I just had to re-read the beginning of this post because I forgot what I was talking about. Lemons. I was talking about lemons. And human sacrifices. Which pleases the gods way more if they involves lemon zest. I know these things because I watch National Geographic.

In order to understand the awesomeness of lemons, you'll need a hyperactive dog and a lemon. Give said lemon to dog to play with. Watch dog and laugh when her teeth break through the peel and she suddenly realizes that what you gave to her was not a ball, but some sour-tasting ball impostor. Like an alien ball or something. And then laugh some more when she stares at you while licking her lips with that bitter beer look on her face.

But don't leave the room just yet, because soon enough, the dog will smell the lemon. She'll think, maybe it wasn't what created that weird taste. Maybe it was aliens. It's always aliens to your dog if you train it right. And so happy puppy forgets about her first taste of lemon, picks it up, tastes it again, and immediately drops it. And then stares at you with contempt. It's absolutely hilarious to watch, especially if your dog is a little slow and tries to play with the lemon again and again. I'm pretty sure this is like an official dog IQ test.

And if you smell lemons during the middle of the night while you're sleeping, you might want to wake your sleeping ass up and run because your dog is probably very pissed off and may be trying to kill you. But at least her breath smells nice. It's a win for everyone.

Side note: I found this talking cat thing and made it say "If I were you, I wouldn't fall asleep tonight. Just sayin'. I may be a zombie. Or I may just want to eat you because I've always wondered what human flesh tastes like. Either way, I'm feeling a little bite-y today." Except it says it in the Nigel voice and every time I play it, I giggle a lot and I want to show it to Pat, but he's taking a nap right now and I can't send it to him without signing up for a free trial and I'm pretty sure free trials are just made up by companies so they can steal your soul. But the joke's on them because by the end of your life, you've already signed up for a million free trials to get pudding and send murderous talking cats to people, so they really only get a small portion of your soul. And there's nothing you can do with 0.000000005% of a soul, except maybe mash it together with the other small soul pieces you have. And I'm pretty sure that's how monsters are made. So, really, I'm saving us all from monsters by having this talking cat waiting to do his shit on another tab for the past hour (Pat takes long naps), even if it's slowing my computer down. That's sacrifice, y'all. The martyr kind, not the kind with lemon zest.

Side note 2: I just showed the homicidal talking cat to Pat and he just laughed. Not even a lot. But when I told him that waiting for him to get up so I could show it to him, he said "really?!" like I had said that I wanted to season him with lemon zest. But really, I'm saving his life from mashed-up-soul monsters.