In an effort to outdo my tooth surgery, The Daver’s appendix decided that it was tired of living inside his body, on a constant stream of Doritos and Funyuns.
So I’m sitting in the hospital, mullet-watching and hoping to score some morphine.
I brought my nursing badges and am planning to go scrub in and assist in some surgical cases.
You guys’ll bail me out, right?
(for the record, I can think of at least two of these that fit me. Prolly more. So don’t be TOO offended, Pranksters)
Your last name is Winlkevoss.
You write a blog called “Mommy Wants Vodka.”
You actually LIKE the taste of Pabst Blue Ribbon.
You believe that your i(can’t fucking)Phone screen says something about you:
You still own a beeper.
“Hey, watch this” makes up 75% of your vocabulary.
You actually think energy drinks are good for “energy.”
You UN-ironically call yourself a “hipster.”
You wear your collar popped up.
You back in to parking spaces.
You require at least two spaces to park your car.
You bought Snooki’s book.
You use more product than your wife.
If you claim you can tell the difference between Hardee’s burgers and Carl Jr’s.
You say, “Happy Friday.”
You wear Ed Hardy – non-ironically.
You still use the phrase “Girrrrrlllllllllll” or “Wasssssupppp!”
You leave an open book of poetry on the coffee table all the time, just in case someone drops by, even though you haven’t looked in it since 2004.
You have a liberal arts degree, work in a coffee shop and hate all of your customers for constantly ordering in Starbucks terminology.
You like the band Nickelback.
You drive any car that you’ve put more money into upgrading than you did into buying it.
You have any apparel on that gives out the name of a restaurant, band, comedy troupe, radio station or manufacturer (besides FCUK, because that stuff is awesome).
You every dated someone from Craigslist.
You are a guy and you like to drink Appletini’s. (sorry, iHubby)
You’ve ever used the phrase “kernel panic” in conversation.
You’ve ever been to a Miley Cyrus ANYTHING.
You own anything that says Kardashian on it.
You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and NOT gotten on camera.
You’ve ever been to tryouts for American Idol and GOTTEN on camera.
You’ve ever been to tryouts for The X Factor, at all.
You subscribe to “Walking” magazine.
Your Facebook wall is littered with semi-meaningless quotes, random snippets of unattributed conversation and song lyrics that make you seem “deep”. Don’t worry, Friday’s post about “CAN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU GUYS DOWN AT THE CLUB TONIGHT!!!1! WOO!!” removed THAT illusion for us.
You’re unemployed, but refer to yourself as “looking for the next step.”
You try to take photos or movies with an iPad or Galaxy tab.
You still use the terms “Winning” or “Tiger Blood.”
Then again….maybe not.
Tell me, Pranksters, what other douchebaggy traits can you think of? I’ll add ‘em to the Master List.
Now you’re probably not going to believe me, Pranksters, when I tell you that I occasionally bake. You’ve seen what happens when I try to cook (see also here and here) and we all know that while I’d like to PRETEND that what happened in those blog posts were just for show, they weren’t. Sadly.
But once or twice a year, I forget that I can ruin Jello and decide to bake something. This year, it was my mom’s famous Christmas bread.
Round about September, I got all, “IMMA MAKE HOMEMADE BREAD, BITCHES.”
I mean it.
I carefully mixed up all of the ingredients. I even followed the recipe rather than throwing a bunch of shit into a pan like they do in those cooking shows.
(I learned the hard way that this is not, in fact, how one cooks)
I threw it into a bowl, after I beat the fuck out of it, and waited. I’d started in the mid-afternoon, my cobwebby-memory banks telling me that it took a couple of hours to actually rise. I waited. And waited. I watched some annoying cat videos. I waited some more. I shook my fist in fury at the three toys that randomly come to life and play music whenever the fuck they want, scaring the bejesus outta me.
Still, I waited.
By 6PM, a full five hours after I’d lovingly placed the dough in the bowl? Fuck nothing. It hadn’t moved a millimeter.
By 8PM, I got frustrated enough that I slapped it into a pan and was all, IMMA EAT THIS, YOU’RE GONNA EAT THIS, WE’RE ALL GONNA EAT THIS.
By 8:30, I admitted defeat. I pulled the bread from the oven, dumped it onto a baking rack and realized it could easily double as a brick (to throw through a window) or a paperweight (if people actually used such things). I tried to eat the thing, because I’m stubborn, but it was…it was not good.
A few weeks later, determined that it was, in fact, the YEAST that had fucked mah bread up, once again, I gathered up my ingredients, threw them together and practically sat there, trying to watch the bread rise.
It was like one of those optical illusions – if I looked at it with THAT eye, I could ALMOST see that the bread had moved. ALMOST.
After 8 hours (bonus points for being both stupid AND patient), I sadly accepted my fate: I would not be able to make this bread rise. Angrily I dumped the rock-solid hunks of dough, where, adding insult to injury, they succeeded in knocking over the garbage can.
Last week (or was it the week before), I picked up some frozen loaves of bread. I’m not certain if I was thinking, “Oooo! Bread!” or “Ooooo! Frozen weapon!” but I guess it doesn’t much matter. Same thing, if you ask the Atkins movement.
Yesterday, I dumbly was all, “IMMA MAKE SOME BREAD” because I’m still not on solid food. Fucking tooth socket.
So I pulled the frozen hunk of bread from the freezer and debated using it to kill someone. Seemed like a good idea at the time. In the end, tho, I merely threw it into a pan to “let it rise.” Which, after all that time making UN-risen bread, sounded like a conspiracy.
I’m now strutting around, feeling all accomplished, until I remember that I didn’t actually participate in the actual assembly of the bread.
Which, as I’ve learned the hard way, is how it should be.
So, Pranksters, tell me something. Anything. I’m in the mood for some stories.