Clareified

News Reporter goes Crazy!! Funny as hell!

JP | MySpace Video

When the birthday season ends, Dawn Summers vanishes for a bit. She must restore the ratio of hermit isolation to attention whoring. Nothing absolute, just cutting way back on the blogging, texting, tweeting, emailing, facebooking, and leaving my house-ing.

As always, I had a great birthday season. Reading this post reminded me how lucky I am to know all most of you.

But after something like five sustained weeks of the birthday season, I am even sick of myself, so we’re Desmond Tutu-ing for a bit…probably till September. Unless the Mets overtake first place in the NL…hahaha, yeah, so September.

Don’t worry, I’ve already lined up an all-star team of Poetry Wednesday guest bloggers and I’m sure Libearace will post some more production numbers. He is one talented bear. And I’ll still be your expert source on animals trying to kill us.

As for Dawn, she’ll be hibernating/hanging out with young Sammy and the people who, even when they are sick of her, are tethered to her by blood. Poor bastards. She’ll also be catching up on her movie watching and filmchaw blogging (I met the one person who reads my reviews!) Blockbuster has been all cocky these last two months, we must put it back in its place. That place being bankruptcy.

I’ve got a toddler birthday, a trip or two to AC, huffing my Droid X power source and ill-advised emotional cutting to occupy my time. Plus, a shit ton of books to get through. Angela gives quizzes. (Speaking of which, do you want to read with us? Join our invisible internet friends bookclub…no, not you, but you? Get on over here and grab a virtual beanbag.)

Enjoy the radio silence…while you can, cause it will soon be followed by lots and lots of…

GO RIOTS!

And now, for your moment of Zen…

Somebody get me the Octomom on the phone!

via www.twitter.com/kenwheaton

I had lunch with my Indian-from-India co-workers today. And one told a story about being mugged by monkeys of her lunch as a girl at boarding school. I jump in with “did they take your ipod too”? Then my other white guy co-worker goes “no, the monkeys in India are no joke!” And he tells me about this story!

THE MONKEYS TOTALLY MURDERED THAT GUY!!

Where is Ken Wheaton and his youtube videos now?

Um…yeah, that pretty much sums it up.

Dog shoots man!

via Michael

Dog bites firefighter who saves him.

Tiger eats Canadian guy. Not Woods, the animal.

Seriously.

Ok, just because I’m engaged to Zac Efron doesn’t mean I’m all snooty now and only writing posts that start with “you know why I’m so awesome.” In fact, I’ve had to add a new feature to my twitterfeed: “How I know I fail at life.”
And what inspired this particularly hilarious revelation? (Ooh, another hilarious revelation? I think I might just enjoy steamed coffee-flavored skim milk. #dibs #TM #mine #Iwillcutyou). Um, ok, not gonna lie to you guys, in addition to an exclamation point problem, I may be developing a parenthesis addiction. (Can Grammar Queen recommend someplace nice for my recovery? “Promises” for punctuation addicts? Maybe someplace Safire stayed?)
Anyway, back to my story. My building, a 16 story, 1970s cooperative is doing some kind of renovation. Whatever it is, the other day I’m chilling on my couch and I see something flash across my living room floor. The screaming heard by the couple eating lunch a mile away in Prospect Park is why I don’t have a pet.
I tell my mommy and she all blah blah blahs about me not eating around the table and leaving glasses about, etc. Now, I’m messy, but my apartment’s not messy. Plus, my eating habits haven’t changed in four years and I never had mice before, so…
I put it out of my mind, since it happened so fast and I see things all the time and well, The Nile ain’t just a river in Egypt.
Is that spelled right? Looks weird. (I am currently listening to “Flower” by Liz Phair. Um…that song is misnamed. I can’t reach my ipod forward button. But if I could…*shakes fist* Fuck and Run, however? Doesn’t bother me. Properly named. Kinda like my problem with that famous singer woman who is a woman, but sounds like a man. Angela knows.)
Anyway, I don’t give the mouse thing another thought until I’m with my mom in the grocery store, a few weeks later, on one of her increasingly frequent “I’m looking for a store that sells object A for 20% of what it should really cost” projects. In June it was nineteen cent watermelon. In July it was thirty cents a can Cokes. This particular day it was “buy any ten items for ninety-nine cents.” But you *had* to get ten or you paid full price for however many you got. AND it had to be ten of the items on sale for .99 cents. But when we got there, the shelves were fairly bare and they didn’t have anything she wanted…but they still had a bunch of crap and it was on sale, so…
If anybody has a hankering for lime green jello, email me.
Anyway, as I am trying to fend off momtilt as we wander aimlessly from aisle to aisle, I see the sticky mousetrap thingy and grab one.
“What’s that?”
“For the mouse.”
“Dawn, put that back, what’re you going to do if you catch one? Scream it to death?”
“No. I’ll dump it in the incinerator.”
“Yeah, right.”
Whatevs, old lady, you ain’t the boss of me, I absolutely do not say as I put the sticky trap thing in the cart.
Again, I get home and forget all about it.
A couple of weeks after that, my mom and her friend Dawn come over to pack my summer clothes away and also decide to clean my apartment.
*No, no please, you don’t have to do that. Oh, stop. My arm. The twisting. Well, if you insist*
My mom’s friend sees some mouse droppings in one of my bottom cabinets.
“Where’d you put the traps, girl?” My mother says calling me by the affectionate nickname she has for me when she forgets the name of her only child.
I find them…I dunno, somewhere and my mom puts one by the fridge and the other one in the cabinet.
They leave and I go about my young life.
A couple of days later, I’m talking to my mom on the phone and go to the kitchen to grab a seltzer from the fridge.
I see the mousetrap on the floor. It’s empty. I grab my drink and remember the trap in the cabinet.
I open the doors.
I scream. I drop my seltzer. I run.
“What happened? What happened?” My mom is yelling on her end of the phone.
And then I calmly say: “Well, mother, I believe the rodent catching contraption in the cabinet has captured two grey mice. Cheerio.”
I like when imaginary Dawn is British.
Real Dawn, however, was more like “ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhRATSTWOHUNDREDFANGEDVAMPIRERATS!ahhhhhhahhhhhhhhheeeelllpppppp” *insert bawling*
“Calm down. Calm down. Just get a broom and—”
“AhhhhhhhahhhhhhhhhhhFANGSWILLEATTHEBROOMAhhhhhhhahhhhhhh”
Yes, yes. I fail at life. I told you.
“Ok, ok…you want me to come over there?”
#Pleaseandthankyou
I drive over to my mom’s house and she tells me we have to go pick up her friend Dawn cause really, my mom is no good with mice either.
So I go pick up Dawn, we drive back to my house, I open my front door and run immediately to my bedroom.
Outside I hear: “oh, that one’s not dead yet…do you have a knife?”
My mom screams and runs.
I hear the other Dawn rooting around for a knife.
I hear the front door open and a few minutes later, she comes back and says “y’all can come out.”
The other Dawn is Southern.
I see a broken butter knife on the floor.
“Oh, I had to kill one of them with it. Just popped off its head a little.”
I am moving. I am fucking moving.
Dawn, the one who doesn’t fail at life, starts cleaning out the cabinets. I insist everything be thrown away and/or burned.
They decide to “wash them with bleach and hot water.”
After they are done, my mom plugs the cabinet creases with brillo.
I object. What if there are mice who live there, who are currently at work now? I don’t want them coming into my room.
This argument is deemed unpersuasive.
Whatevs. When he gets home from work. He can have the keys. I’m Audi 5000.