Last night I had to clean my house. I have some people coming in town and they plan on staying there. I say, “they plan” because I sure as heck-fire didn’t invite them. Sure, they are old friends from college, and sure I plan on drinking myself to death with them this weekend, but letting them sleep in my two spare bedrooms is just a little much. For one thing, the last time they stayed it took me a week to get the smell of stripper vagina out of the house. They don’t really advertise a cleaning product that will accomplish that goal. (“Try Formula 69 - for that nasty skanky smell your hooker left behind”) For another thing, I don’t really have much food in my house. I really only eat dinner there, and it mostly consists of odds and ends that I am able to gather up together. Like skittles and pop tarts or ranch dressing and stale crackers. If I do ever have a woman over, why in the F would I feed her? I operate under the theory I like to call “The Hungry Lady Syndrome.” It is a scientifically proven fact that when you are hungry you have an overwhelming desire to put things into your mouth. When it is just me and a lady-friend alone, why would want to take away that desire? I figure God put this desire there so that I would have a .001% greater chance at getting Mr. Wiggly The Wonder Worm a little tongue bath. (I just made that name up on the spot - wow, I am a super-creative creature devoid of any redeeming social value)
This theory has never actually worked yet, but I am staying the course. Most of the time the woman I have lured to my house ends up saying, “Okay I am here, so what is this dying wish you were talking about, and oh, by the way, if you don’t give me something to eat soon I am going to leave - then I am going to tell everyone I know how you “accidently” exposed yourself in the KFC parking lot.”
Where was I with this stupid story? I have so many non sequiturs it is hard for even me to keep up sometimes. I wish I was better at this for you my dear reader, but hey - you get what you pay for I guess. Okay, so I have friends coming over, I had to clean up. I’ll write more about the friends’ adventure another day. The point is, I clean up rarely. I haven’t done dishes in two weeks. The place is a pig’s anus. Seriously. Something has to be done about this. By “something” I mean, something has to be done about this other than me actually cleaning on a regular basis.
I’m thinking of adopting a Malaysian boy. Angelina did it, didn’t she? Surely she adopted for some good reason like cleaning her mansion and stuff. If I adopted a Malaysian he could clean the house up and have my socks ironed for me when I get up in the morning. Before you say anything (and really it is not okay to judge me - I don’t go to your blog and judge you do I - asshole), its not that different than having a real son to cook and clean for me. I remember from American History that farmer’s often had large families so as to have an abundant source of labor. Do you think anyone protested the American Farmer when he worked his 11 year old in the fields all day picking cotton or doing whatever it is you do to tobacco plants? Hell no. It’s the picture of America. So I am thinking about an 11 year old Malaysian Boy. I immediately nixed the idea of a girl. That would just be too weird and people might start to talk.
His life would probably be better than my childhood. Do you know how many times I had to stand next to the TV, switching stations, while my dad sat with his beer can balanced on his belly, saying, “not that. . . next. . . next. . . goddamn it boy why can’t you find M.A.S.H. on TV?” I have a remote control for my TV. So, I promise never to do that to my little Malaysian. Unless, I lose the remote. Or my thumb gets tired from changing channels. Or if I can’t find M.A.S.H. on the TV.
Remember, don’t judge me. Just love me. By “love me”, I mean “send me pictures of your naked private parts.”
This theory has never actually worked yet, but I am staying the course. Most of the time the woman I have lured to my house ends up saying, “Okay I am here, so what is this dying wish you were talking about, and oh, by the way, if you don’t give me something to eat soon I am going to leave - then I am going to tell everyone I know how you “accidently” exposed yourself in the KFC parking lot.”
Where was I with this stupid story? I have so many non sequiturs it is hard for even me to keep up sometimes. I wish I was better at this for you my dear reader, but hey - you get what you pay for I guess. Okay, so I have friends coming over, I had to clean up. I’ll write more about the friends’ adventure another day. The point is, I clean up rarely. I haven’t done dishes in two weeks. The place is a pig’s anus. Seriously. Something has to be done about this. By “something” I mean, something has to be done about this other than me actually cleaning on a regular basis.
I’m thinking of adopting a Malaysian boy. Angelina did it, didn’t she? Surely she adopted for some good reason like cleaning her mansion and stuff. If I adopted a Malaysian he could clean the house up and have my socks ironed for me when I get up in the morning. Before you say anything (and really it is not okay to judge me - I don’t go to your blog and judge you do I - asshole), its not that different than having a real son to cook and clean for me. I remember from American History that farmer’s often had large families so as to have an abundant source of labor. Do you think anyone protested the American Farmer when he worked his 11 year old in the fields all day picking cotton or doing whatever it is you do to tobacco plants? Hell no. It’s the picture of America. So I am thinking about an 11 year old Malaysian Boy. I immediately nixed the idea of a girl. That would just be too weird and people might start to talk.
His life would probably be better than my childhood. Do you know how many times I had to stand next to the TV, switching stations, while my dad sat with his beer can balanced on his belly, saying, “not that. . . next. . . next. . . goddamn it boy why can’t you find M.A.S.H. on TV?” I have a remote control for my TV. So, I promise never to do that to my little Malaysian. Unless, I lose the remote. Or my thumb gets tired from changing channels. Or if I can’t find M.A.S.H. on the TV.
Remember, don’t judge me. Just love me. By “love me”, I mean “send me pictures of your naked private parts.”
3 comments:
Formula 69..I just laughed so hard that I almost had to explain it all to my co-workers. Good thing this is not a funny blog.
Thanks for humoring me Anne. If there were really such a product I would buy it no matter how well it cleaned. I would brink it with me everywhere and always ask people if I need to sixty nine something. "That counter top is really dirty. Mmmm, so dirty. It needs some sixty-nining. Oh, yeah."
My privacy screen on my computer sure could use a shot of 69.
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