Cat Got Ur Tongue?

This tickles me.  And then I feel bad, cuz maybe this is supposed to make me sad or disgust me, and I think, “Franki, what the hell is wrong with you?  Have you no feelings?  Have you no compassion for the plight of man?  Don’t you see that this is yet another sign of the world going to hell in a handbasket?”

But really, it just makes me helpless with laughter.

Dude. (wipes eyes)

And then I think, wouldn’t it be awesome if this happened to Rush Limbaugh and he couldn’t talk anymore?  And then I drift off into a soft, pink fluffy world where Rush Limbaugh had his tongue eaten by a cannabalistic hooker….could anything be sweeter?

*sigh*

Wake up Franki…you’re such a dreamer.

AND, I still want one of those yellow rags…REAL BAD.

One More Reason to Be Scared of the Germans

I don’t know, so don’t ask.

It’s Not You Babe, It’s Me

I’ve got a confession.

I’ve been cheating on you.

I’m so sorry.

No, no, it’s not your fault.  Please don’t cry.

I’m such a jerk. I’ve just been so busy, you know? I miss you, I really do…I just don’t have enough time!

Yeah, I know that’s no excuse…it’s just that she’s so much less demanding. She doesn’t care if I’m not funny or creative.  She doesn’t care about bad grammar.  In fact, I think she prefers a more 2 dimensional me. I don’t have to think around her. I don’t have to read or contemplate her stuff, I can just look at pictures!

Yeah, she runs with a much younger crowd, made me feel hip, I guess.  I just got caught up in the meaningless quickies she could offer in between classes, printing and work. I can hook up with her in the Johnson Center, in the library, in the back room of the print lab.  She’s not picky and only needs a moment to be satisfied.

And I wish I could say it’s over, but I can’t.  I’ve met a bunch of her friends and while they can’t hold a candle to your intelligence, your wit, your thoughtfulness, they’re still a lot of fun and they don’t ask for much…just a little update every once in a while, a little move on Wordscraper, a little comment here and there.

Yeah, I gave her my real name over there, I didn’t think!!! How did I know old stalkers would surface?  How could I have guessed?  But I’ll still keep you secret.  Even though she knows my real name, I don’t share the real me with her.  Only you babe.  Only you know how much I loathe Tom Cruise and Rush Limbaugh and Mann Coulter.  Only you hear about my neuroses, my hopes, my fears, my dreams.  Only you could understand my twisted sense of humor. HER friends wouldn’t want to know about all that. I even feel bad about cursing over there. They might start praying for me.

No, I’m not ending it, please don’t say that.  I still love you.  I’ll still come around when I can, really, I promise!!

I just received a box of presents from my parents and I can’t wait to share it with you.  You may have thought over the years that maybe I was exaggerating just a little bit about my parental weirdness, but you’ll see.  You’ll wonder how I manage to put pants on every morning.  I’ll be back soon lover.

Love,

But Mom says No

In Nick’s defense, he did make me laugh with this one, but I’m not sure it makes up for the 49726 years of bad luck I’ve accrued from not forwarding sappy chain emails.

I also found this one, children really like hores:

Dear Nick,

Since you are so superstitious that you keep sending chain emails that threaten me with bad luck if I don’t comply and forward to all my 10 friends, I want you to know that I just sacrificed a chicken in the back woods in your honor.

Dude, all I can say is, DUCK.

love,

P.S. To the rest of you, Happy New Year!, and yes I’m still here, just slow.

P.S.S. Ben, the day in a life of a vajajay was screwed up.  Who shaves AFTER sex?

As if Further Proof were Needed…

Tim and I used to be drinking buds.  The more we drank, the more brilliantly hilarious we thought we were.  It got so bartenders would hide their cocktail napkins and general managers would groan in dismay when we walked in the door.  See, we were poets; we were the LOUDEST poets. Cocktail napkin scribbled limericks of the bawdiest, most insulting sort would start pouring out of us as soon as the second shot hit our bellies. We were tolerated because no one livened up a bar like Tim.  And we tipped well…that always helps.

At first, we pointed our barbs mostly at each other, but only so many words rhyme with gay (him) and whore (me), so we started to look for other prey. Since we were such good barflies, we usually knew most of the staff and many of the patrons…and their dirty laundry. Man-o-man, looking at this stack of napkins, we were absolutely brutal.  We generally started by questioning the subject’s sexuality of course, and probably something about the size of their genitals (small for men, LARGE for women) but then added something personal and true about…say Jersey Hair, a restraining order, a cuckolded husband, or even an illegitimate child.  Nothing was off limits. Occasionally I think we hurt some feelings, but it was hard to protest because to complain was to show weakness, and to show weakness was to invite the Rains of Pussiness.

We were, genuinely and completely…assholes…and the funniest people we two knew. Yeah.

Ironically, I think the only person not talking to me from this time is my partner in crime, my Abbot, my Batman…my Cher. He has moved far away and is mad at me, for what I am not quite sure. As I near my 40th year, I don’t find myself doing shots in bars very often any more and I haven’t written a rude or insulting poem in many moons.

I was gonna write him a limerick, but I don’t want to put a cramp in his tampon.

Man, I miss that bitch.

Quirky-son Ages, as Do I

My youngest son turns 13 today.  When I think about that day so long ago now, I think,

“OUCH M-EFFER! THAT HURT!”

In honor of Quirky-son’s trek into teenager-hood, I present an A - Z glossary of how pregnancy, labor and childbirth are like geological phenomena.

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Accretionary Wedge - I’m pretty sure this is how I got pregnant in the first place.

Buoyant Subduction - why I don’t have sex in hot tubs.

Cutoff - what the hubby experiences for at least 6 weeks after childbirth, or however long we can get away with it

Debris Flow - you don’t even wanna know

Elastic Rebound - fictional

Fissure Eruption - surprising and unpleasant side-effect where taint is vastly under-appreciated

Gondwanaland - Goned-is-the-Land-Where-You-Wana

Hanging Valley - yeah…ewwwww.

Inertia - this condition can become permanent if mixed with apathy and alcohol

Joint - 1. Whatcha musta been smokin. 2.  Whatcha wish you were smokin. 3.  Where you are sending your husband if he don’t keep his stinkin mitts offa you.

Kuiper Belt - Kuip yer hands offa me!  (call me PunMaster please HAHAHAHAHA) Like the well-known chastity belt, but instead of protecting virginity, it keeps a man from losing an eye-by-icepick.

Liquefaction - spectacle whereas a human’s brains dribble out her/his ears after 145.65 episodes of Barney

Meander Scar - why most mothers won’t wear bikinis

Nebular Hypothesis - a model for the origin of human life which supposes a gyrating womb of egg and sperm that coagulates into a bawling, pooping, peeing mass.

Occultation - The disappearance of light resulting when one object passes behind an apparently larger one.  For example, the passage of Uranus in front of a distant star. (Just wanted to say Uranus.)

Pahoehoe Flow - the technical term for the passageway of the child out of the pahoehoe canal.

Quietudeness - an illusive fantasy in which a milking mother who has not had more than 2 hours sleep in 6 months sits in a corner of her bathroom and sobs quietly.

Return Period - total bummer.

Schistosity - liquidic viscosity of the stickiness factor of a breastfeeding baby’s poop ratio to the scrape-off-ability off a cloth diaper

Tensional Stress - the type of stress that tends to pull a marriage apart

Unconformity - a relationship that represents a break in the fidelity record, caused by erosion and pusillanimousness

Vesicular Texture - a term applied to breastfeeding boobie’s shirts by whereby the texture of a woman’s top becomes “sopping” after hearing a baby’s cry.

Welded Tuff - the unbelievable, but very necessary medical procedure following the Fissure Eruption, otherwise known as The Husband Stitch, which once again separates the Pahoehoe from the….AHEM. Dear GOD I can’t believe I did that TWICE.

Xerophyte - the amount of fight I had left

Yazoo tributary - the years in which parents and teens live parallel lives within the same house but each wants the other to stick it up their yazoo.

Zone of Accumulation - the amount of love accumulated for a 13 year old boy after a mother has mostly forgotten about her ripped taint and is eternally grateful for the amazing, funny, quirky, loving, and intelligent almost man he is quickly becoming.

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Don’t worry, I won’t let him read this.  I want grandbabies someday.

Happy Holidays to All and to All a Six Pack.

No matter which holiday you celebrate, it’s hard to avoid watching the various Christmas movies playing on TV nonstop times two plus infinity squared this time of year.  I always make it point to watch A Christmas Story, my personal favorite.  Each year, I catch a new line which makes me love the movie all over again.  This morning it was,

“Only one thing in the world could’ve dragged me away from the soft glow of electric sex gleaming in the window.”

Well, I suppose that’s true, but it’s also a feel good movie in which the main character, played by Jason Statham, makes some friends, avenges his wife’s murder and most importantly, TAKES OFF HIS SHIRT!

Crikey.

CRIKEY.

You hear me?!

Pant, pant.

Anyway, I’d like to take a moment to wish y’all a very Happy Holiday and if any of you have abs like Jason here, please send pictures.

Best Use of “Minnie Pearl” in a Love Song

I think I’d be insulted if some one wrote me a love song and included the verse:

I don’t want clever conversation
I never want to work that hard

No clever conversation? The mind boggles.

I just want someone that I can talk to
I want you just the way you are.

C’mon Mr. Joel.  You married Christy Brinkley.  She’s not even my type, but I’m guessing it would be pretty easy to want her just the way she is.

I need to know that you will always be
The same old someone that I knew

Same old someone? I’m all atwitter! I think my panties just melted right off.

Nah, for a romantic gal like me, gimme some Dead Milkmen. Tell me it wouldn’t be more of a challenge to love these Punk Rock Girls Just the Way They Are? The hair alone could poke an eye out.

I tapped her on the shoulder
And said do you have a beau?
She looked at me and smiled and said she did not know

Punk rock girl
Give me a chance
Punk rock girl
Let’s go slam dance
We’ll dress like Minnie Pearl
Just you and me punk rock girl

We went to the Philly Pizza Company
And ordered some hot tea
The waitress said well no, we only have it iced
So we jumped up on the table and shouted anarchy
And someone played a Beach Boys song on the jukebox
It it was “California Dreamin”
So we started screamin
On such a winter’s day

*sniff*

Nevermind that I’m way too old to jump up on a table and shout out “anarchy,” it’s the tender ideals that I’m mooning over. We’ve got cross-dressing and greasy food and men who say “beau.”

Punk rock girl
You look so wild
Punk rock girl
Let’s have a child
We’ll name her Minnie Pearl
Just you and me
Eat fudge banana swirl
Just you and me
We’ll travel round the world
Just you and me
Punk rock girl 

*sigh*

Like…what?

My memory is failing.  I’m not kidding. One time, my son asked me to make my special artichoke dip.  I had no idea what he was talking about.

My roommate was like, “You  know, the one with the the parmesan?”

I was like (in my most condescending voice), “Uh, I think I would know if I made a Special Artichoke Dip, don’tcha think? In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever made artichoke dip EVER.”

She was like, “Whatever dickwad.”

So, later that day, I was talking to another good friend and was like, “How weird is it that my son and roommate keep insisting that I make some kinda artichoke dip, when I clearly don’t?”

She was like, “Oh yeah, that one with the parmesan crust, I been meaning to ask you for that recipe.”

I was like, “Asshole.”

Then I found the recipe in the recipe file, you know the one: Franki’s Homemade Special Artichoke Dip Recipe with Savory Parmesan Crust.

I was like, “Who the fuck’s handwriting is this?”

Besides mine.

Dammit.

So anyway, I write a lot of notes to myself.  Grocery lists usually makes sense, especially because we have almost the same list everytime:

International Delight Southern Butter  Pecan creamer

wine

paper towels

food

Generally, if I’ve written something in one of the boxes on my calendar, it’s probably an appointment.  I’ve missed 2 appointments this week because I don’t have a note telling me to look at my goddamned calendar everyday. Daily birth control was a nightmare.  Take 6 in one day and see if you don’t end up pantless in the corner sobbing.

I’ve found a few notes with phone numbers and no name or notes with Very Important Dates Which Have Been Underlined and Highlighted with Big Squares around It And Many Exclamation Points, but no further information. When this happens, I tend to be edgy the whole appointed day, wondering what important thing I’m missing.  One time, I missed double-coupon day at the Bloom.  I was devastated.

But occasionally I find a note that defies explanation. The other day I found a post-it stuck to the side of my computer that simply said “Goat curry.”

GOAT CURRY, PEOPLE.

Why did I write myself a note that says “goat curry”?

Do I want to eat goat curry?  I don’t think I do.

Is Goat Curry the name of the latest celebrity baby?  Possibly, but I’m pretty sure I don’t care.

It’s a pretty darned good name for a band, but I don’t play an instrument.

Hell, I guess I’ll never know.  It’ll just have to be one of those unsolvable mysteries, like the Bermuda Triangle, those Easter Island Heads and why my clone keeps breaking into the house and making Franki’s Homemade Special Artichoke Dip Recipe with Savory Parmesan Crust cuz it sure as fuck wasn’t me..