Enrobed = EN-AWESOME.
That is all.
Enrobed = EN-AWESOME.
That is all.
Dearest Darkly Dreaming Dexter,
When I first heard of a television show where a vigilante serial killer murdered the bad guys that the police weren’t able to catch, I admit that I was intrigued. But I am also very cheap, so while I have basic cable, the premium channels, my love, well, I don’t have them. Shh, shh, there there, it’s not you it’s me! Why, I don’t even buy premium vibrators and those go on my cootch!
But I was intrigued. Because hello! Being a D-list blogger is ALMOST like being a vigilante serial killer except not at all, but let’s totally gloss over that, shall we?
Then I had some more kids and sort of lost my mind and forgot about you, current love of my life for as long as you hold my interest or your show stays on the air.
But it was like The Fates, or as I like to call it, Twitter, brought us together again when I asked them casually one night if I should maybe watch your show. The result was a unanimous “FUCK YES,” and so I did.
And I thought it was great, although I will admit to finding you more like a bumbling friend than a fuck-buddy. People who like to kill other people just don’t make my vagina tingle. But you’re charming in the very same way that my husband charmed me, so there’s something about very sweet guys like you and he that I find just ADORABLE.
And then three things happened at the same time:
First, I got infected with The Swine Flu and required buckets of this:
This is the Good Shit. The cough syrup that Daver gets carded for every time he goes to the store to buy it for me. Also, there’s a big fat warning label which means that if you take too much of it, it pretty much rots your brain. No, it does, so be careful.
At the same time, I managed to buy this:
And I was all, This is full of The Awesome, it was on sale for like a gazillion dollars off which made me moist AND high and I justified it by saying that Dave could give it to me for Christmas! But then I left it on the kitchen counter because how depressing is it to hide YOUR OWN Christmas presents in your room?
So you sat there, beloved Dexter, where you looked creepily at me any time I walked by to drink this:
The last thing that tipped me over the edge was when I found this, while rummaging through the pantry looking for some purple flavored Kool-Aid:
BEEF STICKS. The most repulsive, repugnant, disgusting thing I have EVER seen in my life. Not only were they NON-REFRIGERATED TUBES OF MEAT, Dexter, BUT THEY WERE GENERIC. While I am a connoisseur of most things encased-meaty, this, THIS was going TOO FAR.
I needed a new husband…
…..and cupcakes, FAST. Both were conveniently located IN MY KITCHEN!
Because nothing says, “I love you and like to murder and maim bad people like sprinkley holiday cupcakes! They’re so festively gruesome!” Suddenly that sinister creepy look is kind of a come-hither look. I bet YOU don’t like generic beef sticks, Dexter. Because you are a man of EXCELLENT taste.
Dexter, I don’t know much, but I know that you must think that any bag labeled “HOLIDAY BITS” must be totally FULL of The Awesome just like I did. So when I opened this, I was fucking FULL of holiday cheer all of a sudden. It was like Christmas exploded in my kitchen and my funking pants. I was suddenly whistling “Joy to the World” out of my butthole and it sounded like a choir of fucking angels!
That, Dexter, is how a shiny bag of Holiday Bits makes me feel.
And look at my whimsical fucking snowman cupcake liners, Dexter! It’s like I have Christmas Spirit flying out of my every orifice like funky sputum! When we are married and you go off and kill people while I stay home and, uh, blog and sit on my butt offering up the illusion of doing things, I will occasionally do stuff that is so corny that it’s almost cute. Then I will pepper it with swear words and gross imagery and it will almost make up for the fact that I did something normal.
You’ll get used to it.
I swear that no one can add oil, eggs, or water as skillfully as me. Except for The Pioneer Woman, but she has a cookbook and I failed Home Ec, so there’s that. Don’t you agree, Dexter? OF COURSE YOU DO BECAUSE I HAVEN’T REMOVED YOUR SHRINK WRAP YET.
There, there, sweet-cheeks, I will. I will. Give me time. I am taking our relationship SLOWLY.
And look at me, all PHOTOBLOGGING. I swear, there is NOTHING I cannot do. Except for cook, and photoblog and really write anything of any value or, well, I could devote a blog to my many shortcomings, but that’s kind of depressing. Dexter, I am sure that you would want to see me beat things because you like to murder people.
SO LOOK AT ME BEATING STUFF.
Heh. Beating stuff. LIKE MEAT. Heh. She said beating meat. Heh.
This is me, whistling “Joy to the Motherf*cking World” because we are in the presence of some HOLIDAY BITS PEOPLE! HOLIDAY BITS!
There is nothing like Holiday Bits to get ME in the mood for some festive fucking EGG NOG and maybe a whimsical light up REINDEER SWEATER that sings “Santa Claus is Coming To Town.” Because he KNOWS who has been NAUGHTY and who’s been nice. ME.
BRING OUT THE MISTLETOE, assholes!
If you don’t like cake batter, you’re dead inside. I mean, I know you kill people for a living, but cake batter is one of the true joys of this earth if you don’t like it Sweet Baby Jesus will cry. Also, I will be forced to store the Beef Sticks on top of you.
While at first, your look said, “I don’t know about these motherfucking holiday cupcakes, Aunt Becky,” your eyebrows now say to me “Not only do I love of the holiday cupcakes, but I also want to make desperate love to you. I WANT TO SHOW YOU MY HOLIDAY BITS.”
So to you, my new boyfriend, Dexter, I say this: steer clear of beef sticks and that fuck bag in Season 2 with the black hair because so help me GOD if she goes near you again I will kick her in the crotch.
I love you, never change, except win some Emmy’s and send me some diamonds.
Your New Wife,
P.S. I mean it about the bitch with the black hair.
P.P.S. And the beef sticks. That’s just…wrong.
Dear My Husband Doctor House,
I *can* call you Greg, can’t I? I mean, because it’s your name and all and because we’re married. Wasn’t our wedding day special? I’ll never forget how your mom cried when we said our vows, and how the light caught your eyes justso and they looked as blue as the Caribbean Sea. And that dress that I wore, how we laughed when the cake got smashed on my train, my elaborate, diamond-encrusted 40 foot train sewn with the tears of Bonsai Kitties.
It was the happiest day of your life.
Being married was the happiest you’ve been: we shared a love of Vicodin cuddly kitties and playing air guitar, of blues music and being cranky assbags, and the satisfaction of always being right. Hell, we’re both snarky windbags. It was a marriage made in heaven hell New Jersey.
I followed you through all of your stupid fellows and obvious attempts at emulating reality television–which, I frequently moaned, was kind of stupid. The cases got pretty annoying, especially when Cut-Throat Bitch was front and center. I hates me some Amber.
Shit, I even supported your co-dependent relationship with James Wilson (whom I find ridiculously attractive, but since I am your wife and he is your BFF, that makes it all pretty awkward)(let’s forget that I said this)(seriously, DROP IT) and your mousy coworker who was obviously in love with you.
But I’ve finally hit my breaking point with you. It’s not your addiction to narcotics rainbows and sparkly unicorns or your overall unpleasantness, no.
I CAUGHT YOU HAVING THE SEX WITH ANOTHER WOMAN ON TELEVISION. How DARE you come home to my television after you had sex with that lady with the fantastic rack? How COULD you flaunt that in front of THE WHOLE WORLD? YOU DIRTY BIRDIE!
How dare you act like you’re not married to some anonymous Midwestern blogger who is no longer anonymous but linked inexplicably in all sorts of places to the lady who drank a fifth of Absolut and killed all of those people? Because. OBVIOUSLY. The same thing.
(don’t compare poor taste with drinking a fifth and driving kids to their death)
So I wept to The Daver–sorry about not telling you that I was already married–and he tried to tell me that you weren’t a REAL PERSON. I screamed at him, yelled that our love, OUR LOVE was REAL and that NOTHING he could say could convince me otherwise.
Until he pulled up Wikipedia.
There you were, Greg House, THERE YOU WERE. Turns out that your name? NOT DOCTOR HOUSE. Your name is a ridiculously English one: Hugh Laurie. I could scarcely believe my own puckered eyeballs! I pulled up a Youtube Video to be sure.
And there you were again! Only this time, instead of sounding like a surly American tortured genius doctor, you sounded like you had a mouthful of marbles! And you were making jokes that simply WEREN’T funny and yet an entire studio of wily Brits were laughing like you were making actual jokes! My brain sort of melted because THEY WEREN’T FUNNY.
So I guess this means we’re over, Doctor House Hugh Laurie Vincent D’Onofrio whatever your name REALLY is. Because while I can overlook the 3 children with another lady–HEY, don’t you DARE point out my glaring hypocrisy! There are people in this world without legs and you shouldn’t…oh look! A blue car! Oh HAPPY DAY!
So good riddance, my third husband from television. I’m sure this fall line up will bring me a new husband, a new LESS OLD BALLS new husband.
I Hate You You Philandering Misogynist
Your Bitch Ass Best Be Leaving Me My Vicodin
Your Former Wife,
P.S. Watch out, Cast of Glee. Momma’s HUSBAND-hunting.
Dear Vincent D’Onofrio,
I fell for you when I was a crazy pregnant loon, and I learned that plugging myself into the television ensured that I wouldn’t pick a fight with anyone over the ugly light fixtures in the kitchen or my inability to move without waddling.
I endured many criticisms over our love, darling Vincent, mainly from my friends who couldn’t possibly understand what I saw in a slightly round actor almost as old as my father. They showed me pictures of you as Sgt. Pyle (which was a terrible name. Did you know that the Brits call hemorrhoids “piles”? You should have negotiated for a better name when you took that role. I’m just saying.) and as the bug from Men In Black, and I let it roll off my back like so many drops of water into the ocean of our love.
As an avid People reader, I was shocked to learn that not only are you married, but your wife is having a baby. YOU ARE HAVING A BABY WITHOUT ME, and I don’t appreciate that one teeny bit, Vincent. Sure, we’ve never actually ‘met,’ but that shouldn’t have stopped you from pining for some anonymous, but fabulous, Midwestern girl (with bonus kicky hair!), AND NOT KNOCKING SOME OTHER LADY UP!
How COULD YOU?
I mourned our lost love for a couple of weeks, in between arranging my socks and shaving my cats, before I made the acquaintance of a new television boyfriend: Anthony Bourdain.
Okay, okay, so I am not a cook. Maybe I’m even an “anti-cook,” I can hear you laugh, my favorite recipe being “shamelessly order takeout.” In fact, 99% of the things my new boyfriend eats with gusto, I wouldn’t be in the same room with.
You might even say to me, “Now Aunt Becky, you don’t even CARE about food,” and you would be correct, I don’t. But I do care very much that he can work the phrase “Oh look, there’s a pube in my drink,” ONTO MY TELEVISION. I care about that very much.
As you should know, Vincent, “pube” and “moist” are two of my favorite unintentionally hilarious words, and to hear him use one of those appropriately made me swoon with love. For him. Not you.
Because the best that you can give me is acting like more of a lunatic and forgetting to shave your face, WITHOUT using either of those words, the words that are the key to my heart (like hot dogs!)(and bacon!).
I’m sorry, Vincent, but it’s over between us, and I hope that you’ll agree that it’s for the best.
With Former Love (but less than I have for my new boyfriend. A lot less.),
PS. I hope that your baby cries. A lot.
PPS. A quick internet search has led me to realize that many other people shared my love for you, and they make me feel quite gooshy (in a bad way) inside. They’re creepier than me, right?
PPPS. Hope that you’re not getting any sleep with that new baby.