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If there’s one thing awesome about being crammed in a metal tube, hurtling through time and space with a bunch of mouth-breathing strangers, it’s this: SkyMall. Here’s what I’ll be buying myself for Christmas, or Abraham Lincoln’s birthday, or whatever holiday comes next.


Who WOULDN’T want an attic lady popping randomly into your attic? CRAZY PEOPLE, THAT’S WHO. Rather than wait for the bitchy old lady who owned my house to come over and demand money again, I’m going to buy myself a lady! Who can pop in and out of my house! She’s an instant party – or instant sea hag – for sure.


So what if the pool I have is 8 feet by 8 feet with a depth of three inches? No, seriously, SO WHAT?

I want a musical light show while I soak in my wee pool. Hell, EVERYONE will want to come over for a pool party then! Won’t they be surprised when my “pool” is really a “puddle.” A puddle with motherfucking music and LIGHTS.

I can hear the clamoring of my neighbors already.


I genuinely do not know how I do not own this yet. No, I mean it, I need this AND a pack of Old Milwaukee. Because while he SAYS he’s from Texas, I’m in Chicago, and there’s nothing trashier than things from Milwaukee. Like their shit-ass beer.

I require this above all else. He will go in my china cabinet, with my six-pack of Spam with Bacon. And he will reek of style and sophistication.


Originally, I thought this was a singing toilet, which is like a dream come true. I’ve always wanted a toilet that sang for me while I pooed, cheered for me after I flushed, and then did a nice jaunty you-just-peed number (perhaps a nice Gershwin piece or the theme from Sanford and Son) as I exited the bathroom.

I was a little disappointed to learn that no, in fact, this toilet didn’t sing to me. It will, however, prevent me from dunking in the toilet at three AM like an overly-large kicky-haired tea-bag. Which is minorly awesome.

I still want the singing toilet, dammit.

So last time I shopped at SkyMall, I decided the statue of the little boy peeing would be what went above my grave. Along with the gigantic angel statues and weeping out-of-work actors. But I’d never given any thought as to what I wanted BELOW my grave. Besides the towers of flowers.

This, Pranksters, is what I want coming out of my grave.

I can think of no better way to “honor” me than a frightening zombie with a little boy peeing on it.

And oh holy fuck, do you need to see this video. There are no words. Only awesome (it’s totally safe for work):

Oh yeah, who uses social network to do good (AND talk about my vagina)?


Props to each of you who has contributed posts, lurked, and given love to each of our posts on Band Back Together.

(also, I am sitting awkwardly, which is why I look SORTA like a beached whale).

I’m no huge fan of blogging conferences, if I haven’t made that clear, and it’s in part because they keep me away from my beloved Pranksters. The internet in my hotel, even WITH my internet-in-a-box was a hot pile of bullshit. Every time I went to post this is what happened:

Me: “Man, what WILL the Internet do without me for four days? They might not hear of my stupidest exploits or the hilarious, wacky adventures of my fake cat, Mr. Sprinkles! I should post something.”

The Internet: “We are connected to your wifi card.”

Me: “Oh YIPPEE! I can tell the world that I paid 13 bucks for a pitcher of coffee!”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well, the Internet TELLS me it’s connected. It must be user error. I am not very smart. Which I need to tell the Internet.”

The Internet: “PSYCH.”

Me: “Well. That’s rather unfriendly of you, my zillion dollar laptop. Certainly, you’d treat me better than that. I must update The Twitter!

The Internet: “Hahahaha! You’re an asshole.”

Me: “That really hurt, The Internet, that really hurt. Now can I please just get online for ten minutes?”

The Internet: “Nope.”

Me: “What will The Facebook do without me?”

The Internet: “Facebook hates you. So do I.”


The Internet: “Guess you should’ve gone with a cheaper laptop.”

Me: “I’m going to replace you with a Dell, asswipe.”

The Internet: “You go ahead and you try. You know you cannot live without my luscious screen.”

Me: “Oooh! These windows open JUST ENOUGH so that I can throw waterballoons out.”

The Internet: “You’re such a mindless blathering moron.”

Me (yells out the window):LOOKOUT BELOW MOTHERFUCKERS.”

The Internet: “This is why I don’t bother to let you online.”

Me: “I win.”

The Internet: “No, you’re just pretending you win to make yourself feel better. You actually lose.”

Me: “Oh.”

The Internet: “Wait, what are you doing? Don’t toss me out of the open hotel window. What are you doing?”

Me: “Winning.”


So, what did you do while I was gone, Pranksters? Did you go to VaginaStock (BlogHer)? Did you have fun?


I have two columns up at The Stir: Why Yes I Let My Boy Dress Up In Girls Clothes and 8 More Things You Don’t Want To Do With Your Kids This Summer.

You should read them, like them, then come back and tell Your Aunt Becky all about your weekend.

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