(note: all artwork is original and should be revered as such. Perhaps you can say a prayer or do a dance or something when you see how epic it is)
I came down, yesterday, from putting my daughter down from her nap. I took a cursory glance at my sons, and was all, “Hey Guys,” and started to walk away in search of more dancing cat videos to soothe me. Also: a mop to try and remove the goo that my sick daughter had left all over me.
I noticed something.
While this is what I expected to see:
Without, of course, the washout from the front door or the grainy pixelated quality of iPhone pictures. My son is not pixelated. NONE of my crotch parasites are pixelated.
This is what I saw.
I stood there, jaw flapped open before I began to holler furiously.
Because then I saw this:
After I stuffed my brains back into their cavity, I realized that there was only one guy to call.
Billy Motherfucking Mays.
Now, if you know anything about me (note: you shouldn’t), you should know that I fucking love Billy Motherfucking Mays.
When I use Oxyclean, the voice in my head SOUNDS LIKE BILLY MOTHERFUCKING MAYS. That’s comforting because I miss BILLY MAYS. A lot.
See, Pranksters, BILLY MAYS and I were BFF (best fucking friends) until he had to up and die on me. I’m still not over his death, but when I use his product, HIS VOICE SCREAMS IN MY HEAD, and it’s a little better.
The couches, I saw, they were a job for BILLY MAYS and OXYCLEAN. A job powered by ANGER and CAFFEINE.
I turned on my iPod and started in on them.
“All I Ask Of You,” from Phantom of the Opera came on.
Me: *grumble, grumble* “GOD, this is a crappy wedding song. Why do people choose the worst songs to dance to as their First Dance?”
BILLY MAYS: “THAT’S A BULLSHIT SONG, ALL RIGHT. MY WIFE AND I DANCED TO THE THEME SONG FROM THE SMURFS. NOW HOW’S THAT OXYCLEAN TREATING YOU? REMOVING YOUR STAINS? MAKING YOUR WHITES BRIGHTER? MAKING YOUR LIFE BETTER?”
Aunt Becky: “That’s kind of weird, BILLY MAYS. Even for you.”
Aunt Becky: “HOLY SHIT. I CAN’T FEEL MY FINGERS.”
BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS! FORGET ABOUT YOUR FUCKING FINGERS, YOU SNIVELING WHORE. HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?
Aunt Becky: “SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH ABOUT THE FUCKING STAINS, BILLY MAYS. I HAVE NO FUCKING FINGERPRINTS!”
BILLY MAYS: “BUT THE STAINS!! HOW ARE THE STAINS? DO YOU HAVE BRIGHTER WHITES?”
Aunt Becky: “The worst part is that you’re in my head. And the BILLY MAYS in my head doesn’t care about my fingerprints being seared off by an Oxyclean bath.”
BILLY MAYS: “YOU SHUT YOUR WHORE MOUTH AND SCRUB, WOMAN. THOSE STAINS AREN’T GOING TO UNDO THEMSELVES. BRIGHTER WHITES!”
BILLY MAYS: “JUST WORK ON YOUR COUCH, YOU FUCKING NIMROD!”
2 hours of work, 2 rolls of paper towels and 2 bowls of Oxyclean later, this is what I got:
Don’t recognize it?
(BILLY FUCKING MAYS DIDN’T EITHER)
That’s my daughter’s handiwork. It’s done in Pink Sharpie. On my couch.
BILLY FUCKING MAYS couldn’t touch that shit, ALTHOUGH HE GOT THE OTHER MARKER STAINS OUT.
Some day, I hope to auction this particular self-portrait off for many millions of dollars. Momma needs a yacht. And some new fingerprints.
Although having none could really launch my Life of Crime. Then I could by my OWN yacht. Wait a second…this idea is BRILLIANT.
Thanks, BILLY MAYS. You’re a fucking hero.