Daily flash mobs would be mandatory. Preferably in front of my house. Why? Because who can be gloomy when THIS is happening?
Instead of being powered by gasoline or electricity or flux capacitors, cars will be run entirely on music by Prince.
When the recyclables gather in a large enough pile, they will simply band together like a Transformer and walk their way to the recycling plant.
Childbearing will make the female body MORE youthful and beautiful, rather than causing breasts to look like two oranges in tube socks.
Coffee will be the national beverage and mandatory for anyone over the age of seven.
Life on the Internet will no longer be measured in numbers (see also: Klout) but upon hilarity of cat videos.
Split pea soup will be banned because, well, obviously no one should eat something that appears to have been shot out of my baby’s pooper.
Babies will be born sleeping through the night, doing complex geometric equations, and ready to go to work to buy their parents diamonds.
Pants will remain entirely optional, even in polite company.
There will be no “polite company.”
People who use the words “organic,” “sustainable,” and/or “nosh” in the same paragraph will be banned to the ALOT Island along with anyone who substitutes ellipses for periods.
Moon Pies will ACTUALLY be made of bits of the moon.
Detergents that don’t include OxyClean will be banned. The legacy of Billy Motherfucking Mays must live!
Steve Irwin coined the “stupid people antagonizing wild animals” television shows. Which got him dead. Which means that no one should repeat the formula.
For the love of all that is holy, no more reality singing competitions. American Idol was the clear winner and it’s gone the way of the condor. Or whatever we’re calling Paula Abdul these days.
Dish, Pranksters. What else should we add? Because when I rule the Universe, you’re all co-rulers.
On days like today, when I’ve woken to a flood of emails, texts, and The Twitter DM’s, all about someone who is desperate and suicidal, only to have to go find the post she’s written for Band Back Together, edit it (or have someone else do it), rearrange the schedule, then beg The Brains Behind The Band to help promote it.
(P.S. if you want to join the Brains Behind The Band, PLEASE email me at firstname.lastname@example.org)
This isn’t, Pranksters, anything new. In fact, this is pretty par for the course these days. Most of my days start and end like this.
In between dealing with the fall-out from the suicidal post, checking to see if we had any other posts that required OMG NAO publishing, it’s already 1:30 and I’m spent. Exhausted. Ready to crawl back into bed, hoping that I’ll be able to bring the funny back tomorrow. Because today, it ain’t happening.
It was with great glee that I watched the Social Network a couple of months ago. I had The Twitter on the ready, prepared to rip Zuckerberg a new pooper, when, right at the beginning of the movie, he said the words that forever won him a spot in my cold, dark heart. When asked what The Facebook would be, he replied, “I don’t know yet.”
That’s precisely what happened on Band Back Together. When I launched it last September, I honestly DIDN’T know what it would be. People asked me constantly what the site was about and I couldn’t give them anything but a canned answer. What it has become is so much more than I’d dreamed. I’m beyond proud. Beyond grateful. Beyond amazed. Beyond honored for all of the brave souls who have – and continue – shared their stories with us.
Everyone has a story.
I hope you share yours with us.
Because even on days like today, when my funny has been banished to the ALOT Island, when I’m frazzled and running around like a zombie chicken, I know that we’re making a difference.
That, Pranksters, is worth all the funny in the world.
P.S. Wasn’t kidding about the offer to join The Brains. Holler at me, please.
P.P.S. For my baby loss mamas, we’re doing a Wall of Remembrance on the site in addition to the one I do each year here. Here’s more information about that wall.
Eleventy-billion (read: 6) years ago, I was in school. Nursing school, if you want to be pedantic about it, which, as Pranksters, I’m sure you do, because obviously.
As the three of you who have read my blog since I started spewing my words and polluting the Internet may remember, Nursing School was not = to Aunt Becky’s BFF. In fact, Nursing School was PROBABLY my archenemy, if it had feelings, which, I’m presuming, it did not. Otherwise it’d have spit on me whenever I got too close…kinda like that patient on the psych ward.
Alas, I digress.
I was the Bad Kid, the Black Sheep, the Outcast. I’d gone from sitting in the back row, eagerly spitting out answers to questions to sitting in the back row, playing Bejeweled on my phone as I pretended to be anywhere but, well, there.
Every break I got, I popped out to the front steps to smoke my cigarettes and glower at the happy college students bounding past me – probably carefree music majors – until one day, a boy showed up and introduced himself. Ryan was his name, and he was one of two boys in the program, which meant that he was as big an outcast as I.
We’d pass the time that way, he and I, sitting on the stoop of the Nursing School building, me smoking while he talked about his time as a Patient Care Tech. Having never worked in a hospital before, I was fascinated by stories like, “So this one time, I helped this old man onto the toilet and his balls actually dipped into the water.” I hadn’t realized that testicles got REALLY dangly as men age. On those steps, we devised an invention to keep ball bags out of the water: a small intertube that the testicles could comfortably rest in.
As our college (Elmhurst College, for those of you curious about which institution would give a diploma to someone like me) was set on a forest preserve, it wasn’t too long before his bizarre-ness came to light.
One day, as I carefully threw away my omnipresent Diet Coke bottle, a squirrel popped out of the garbage can, just like it owned the fucking place. Like the teenage girl I was (not), I shrieked and jumped back.
“I hate those motherfucking things,” Ryan said, as he chased it away from me.
“Huh?” I wasn’t sure if he was talking about my Diet Coke or the garbage can. With Ryan, you never did know.
“Squirrels. They’re fucking rats with tails. And have you seen their creepy, beady eyes? They’re going to murder us while we sleep,” he said.
I goggled at him, mouth hanging open wide enough for several squirrels to make their wee nests in.
While I’ve felt particularly vitriolic about some things (see also: the color orange and earwigs), I couldn’t imagine anyone actively HATING squirrels. They’re just so…cute! And fuzzy! And fluffy! And FULL of the awesome.
Before any roving squirrels could nest in my mouth, a mental picture popped into my head: squirrels banding together into one gigantic murderous squirrel, breaking into his dorm room, to murder him in a nut-filled haze while he slept. And then, well, I busted out laughing.
“What are you laughing about?” he demanded. “I’m putting together some fliers to post around the school, trying to ban the squirrels from living here.”
I laughed so hard that my sides ached and I couldn’t breathe. He was just so…serious.
“Will you help me?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied, gasping for air. “Can we ban the color orange, too?”
“NO!” he nearly shouted. “That’s my favorite color.”
“I heard that squirrels love the color orange,” I lied. “You should probably get on that immediately.”
“Oh,” he replied. “I guess I can support your cause if you support mine.”
“You got it,” I agreed, even though I find squirrels to be the apex of awesome.
And that was how I ended up putting up hand-drawn posters all over campus that said, “BAN THE SQUIRRELS. THEY’RE PLANNING TO EAT YOUR BRAIN AND DRINK YOUR BEER.”
Because that, Pranksters, is how political Your Aunt Becky gets.
So dish, Pranksters: what’s the dumbest thing you’ve gotten behind?