Now, we’ve established that I’m afraid of weird-ass things.
Jimmy Wales, founder of Wikipedia, for one. I’m afraid he’s – or one of his guilt-inducing minions – is going to knife me in my sleep because I didn’t donate ten bucks to him last year. Plus, I’m afraid that he’d judging me for all the shit I Google.
I’m afraid of showering while no one is home because, HELLO, have you SEEN a horror movie? That’s how they all begin.
I’m afraid of sitting with my back toward any open door because I’m pretty sure I was a mobster in a past life, and hello, have you seen how they always get the shit blown out of them when they’re sitting with their back away from the door?
I’m also afraid of this guy:
Because do you want that guy giving you a thorough rectal exam?
I THINK NOT.
Oddly, it turns out that I am absolutely terrified of commitment. Especially commitment to the government.
See, I’m taking Band Back Together and (spoiler alert!) turning it into a non-profit. And because I am terrified of screwing that up and then owing the IRS sixty-bajillion dollars plus my kidneys (not because I expect to MAKE a single dollar, mind you), I figured I’d call my lawyer.
Yeah, I have a lawyer. It’s not NEARLY as glamorous as it sounds.
So, we get on the phone and I’m all nervously trying to explain what the site is and stuff, and he’s like, “I’m sorry, Becky, but I don’t know much about non-profits. You can PROBABLY do it yourself.”
Which is precisely what the people who help me behind the scenes at Band Back Together said. But I didn’t believe them because do you KNOW how I fuck things up?
Anyway, I went and found the place where I’m supposed to start registering but I got all nervous and started shaking like a Chihuahua. Then I had to close the browser and perform some “deep cleansing breaths” (read: make a margarita).
Do these people not know how STUPID I am? I’ve documented that well, I think. And yet, the Illinois Secretary of State has not BLOCKED me from their website?
That is such an error on their end.
Pranksters, I don’t think I can do it by myself. I can barely go to the grocery store without forgetting why I’m there.
Now I’m waiting for someone to come over and hold my hand and tell me what to fill in for each box and when to click, “submit” and then I will hand them tens of dollars.
Otherwise, I’m going to end up without a set of kidneys and as that Nurse McPervy up there would like to point out, one cannot function without kidneys. Also: he’d like to give you a thorough rectal exam.
You know, when you’re ready.
Hey Aunt Becky –
I submitted a question once before and your answer was pretty awesomesauce, so I thought I’d have a another go at it.
I’m (I think) what you bloggers call a lurker. I read several blogs every day but I don’t think I’ve ever commented. A lot of the time I’m several days behind or I just don’t feel like I have anything interesting/relevant to add to whatever discussion is taking place but sometimes I just realize that it’s kind of weird to be sitting in my living room with my coffee reading up on some stranger’s life!
I don’t want to be a creepy non-contributing lurker. Is it as rude and weird to just sit there creeping on blogs without commenting or should I suck it up and make comments every once in awhile? I follow the blogs because they are interesting to me, have excellent writing or because I can relate.
I’m not a total weirdo recluse, I promise.
Thanks in advance for your complete awesomeness!
Oh, Dear Prankster, I don’t think you’re a weirdo recluse for not commenting. Not a bit.
It used to be that blogging “currency” (if I may)(and I always motherfucking may) was comments. It’s always been a little controversial to put up a donate button/tip jar* therefore a comment was the next best thing.
Since people began to read blogs in their readers (Google Reader, Feedburner, etc), commenting has gone the way of the condor. If the condor is actually dead. If he’s not, then I just lied. If you have a full feed published to your reader (which you should), people just read there.
The obvious answer would be to publish a partial feed so people click through, but partial feeds piss people off. For good reason. From a reader’s point of view, bloggers should make their blogs as accessible as they possibly can. EVEN IF IT MEANS LOSING A FEW CLICK-THROUGHS.
Also killing comments is that there are a number of commenting systems that are, flat out, a pain in the fucking ass to use. I read hundreds of blogs. If it takes me twenty minutes to figure out HOW to leave a comment, guess who loses a comment?
And frankly? I don’t care. You don’t have to comment. I love comments, don’t get me wrong, but I’m happy enough to know my lurkers (and six kazillion robots) are out there.
And, lurkers, if you ever want to speak up, please do (or send me an email: email@example.com). I’m beyond happy to make your acquaintance.
*don’t hate the player, hate the game.
Dear Aunt Becky,
Did you know there’s a new sitcom on ABC called “Happy Endings?” Whether you knew is important, Aunt Becky, because I recently watched a DVR’d episode of said show, and not once, but TWICE, they stole your “Shut Your Whore Mouth” phrase. I do not know if you are secretly working on this sitcom and put it in there so only your lovely Pranksters would recognize it, or if the writers stole your phrase.
So, if you are a secret writer on Happy Endings, kudos–I heard your phrase and recognized your handy work. If you are not, then you might want to go EYE OF THE MOTHERFUCKING TIGER on ABC.
I want some fucking royalties, ABC. Now.
Do NOT make me unleash The Pranksters on you, ABC, because I so totally will. And, ABC, do you KNOW what they did to John C. Mayer? They made him a VERB.
ABC, you don’t want that.
I’ll be expecting your check in the mail, ABC.
Aunt (motherfucking) Becky
Hey, Aunt Beck!
Was wondering…are your tees cut for chicks? You know, a little fitted, a little more narrow at the waist, more of a cap sleeve?
The nosy, and possible purchaser, want to know!
Excellent question, inquiring Prankster.
Fashion Cut shirts = girls shirts = more fitted and tightish around the waist. Now, let me tell you something and don’t get all vain about it when you order one. BUY ONE SIZE UP. Just trust me.
That said, they make your rack look TREMENDOUS.
In which case you’re a dude. Then you probably want to go with Unisex.
And you should buy one. All of you.
P.S. Working on new designs, too. Loved your suggestions last week. Thank you.
I was shocked by how much space my new house had. We’d gone from cramming ourselves into a wee three-bedroom condo without storage space to a house that had three floors and so much storage space that it seemed obscene.
It was beyond startling when, the weekend that we moved in, my new neighbors began showing up at my doorstep with plates brownies and cookies and treats to introduce themselves and to meet us. Our condo building was filled with incredibly unpleasant older, single cat ladies who didn’t like us. They’d have been more apt to leave a bag of poo on our doorstep than a plate of cookies.
With the exception of the people we shared a porch with, there was no one in the building who didn’t hate us. I still don’t know why.
We’d just happened to move into Pleasantville, which is what I STILL call my neighborhood. House after prefab house filled with pleasant, kind people. On Halloween, there’s a house that hands out hot chocolate and hot toddy’s. Another grills hotdogs and passes out beer and soda. If I had a binder, I’d write, “Aunt Becky + Her Neighborhood = Tru Luv” in loopy letters, surrounded by a bunch of pink, puffy hearts.
(sorta like I do with my Pranksters. You all have pink puffy hearts around you)
So when my neighbor, my son’s friend’s mother, invited me over for a “Pampered Chef” party, I was thrilled. Well, thrilled might not be the proper word. I was thrilled to be invited, but I liked cooking about as much as I liked grinding a lightbulb into my eye socket.
But I marched on over there for the party and sat down with a number of older women I didn’t know. Everyone was, of course, way friendly, but the person who was demonstrating the products began to blab. And she kept blabbing.
OMFG she kept on blabbing. I’d never SEEN someone talk so much. (as someone who routinely “talks paint off walls, THAT’S saying a LOT).
It was like one of those cooking shows I never watch because I cannot stand the blabbing. I mean, I love a good meal, but I’d rather cut my leg off than prepare it, or worse, watch someone who isn’t going to GIVE me the meal prepare it.
In the middle of her blabbing, I decided that I, too, could cook. And that I, too, needed THOSE SPECIFIC TOOLS to cook with. Certainly it wasn’t MY problem I couldn’t cook. It was because I didn’t have the Pampered Chef chopper-thingy! Or the cutting board! Or the grill thingy!
I blew a hundred bucks that night on crap so I, too, could be a COOKER-PERSON.
It took a week or so before my order came in. Immediately, I opened my miracle chopper thingy and put it together. I had fajitas I was gonna make! This was a WIN! Plus, my stuff looked so FANCY in the empty cabinets!
Only…the chopper thing didn’t really, well, WORK. The blades were always falling off, which meant that someone as dumb as me was tasked with slipping the blades BACK IN TO their rightful place. Without losing part of my thumb. It took me half an hour to cut up a green pepper, not including the time spent washing the stupid thing out. Had I used a knife, it would have taken less than five minutes.
That Chopper-Thing Was BULLSHIT.
The tiny spatula I’d bought, well, the handle fell off after a couple of months. The cutting board was fine, but nothing I couldn’t have bought anywhere else more cheaply.
I was a little discouraged, knowing I’d never become a Cooker-Person, but I cheered up when I realized that this meant I could eat more McDonald’s.
Those golden arches, they NEVER disappoint me.
Tell me, Pranksters, what do you think of those in-home parties like Pampered Chef or Tupperware? Love ’em? Hate ’em? I need a good laugh today.