matt pointed out to me, jovially, that there was a strange and curious hole in the bottom of the pirate’s booty bag. the curious case of the hole in the pirate’s booty bag.
“do you think it’s been there all that time?” he asked.
i shook my head, mournfully, at the situation and also at his misguided innocence.
“Think of it as a catch 22. There are two options. The first option is that the bag has indeed had this hole since its inception, meaning that this hole has gone thru the Pirate’s Booty Factory Conveyor Line, privy to pox and rat feces. The second option is that the bag has received this hole since living in our household over the past few days. Meaning that we’ve been such voracious Pirate Booty eaters that our DESPERATE FINGERS HAVE, IN THEIR SEARCHING, CREATED A HOLE IN THE BOTTOM OF THE BAG.”
he took that photo, making sure to POINT AT THE ELEMENT OF PLATINUM ON HIS PERIODIC TABLE T-SHIRT.
on a day that will likely live in my brain as Infamous Straw Rocket Second Grade Competition 2k9, and on a day when i am waiting to hear from upwards of 4 literary agents about my shit-tastic* middle grade children’s fiction query letter, i knew that i could count on google image searching the red panda to bring me a true sense of happiness:
*i don’t actually know how to spell shit-tastic. hyphen or no hyphen? why is this subtle nuance bothering me so?
sometimes i think that i am the greatest teacher in the world for the funny math stories that i give to my kids. (first of all, these stories aren’t really that funny at all, but i like to talk about bryan having twenty-six kid-eating pet squids etc etc). then i realize exactly how my quaalude-riddled brain and stories have affected my youngest charges:
1. i would like to hang out with those grandparents, forever and ever amen.
2. it’s really a shame that no real jay reatard music videos exist online. i like the philly one in the streets, though.
3. he does a good job by dancing in his socks.
4. when he breaks it down around 1:11 with the one hand, one leg move.
5. gun motion to the head at 1:24.
forgive my loopiness. my BFF just got engaged and also i read a blog written by some guy who said he didn’t want any photographs of himself at his funeral. and he also wanted his corpse’s head/neck to be rigged in order to bob in time to the tempo of the mid nineties song “i gotta man”. i am crying right now, thinking about the glory of that statement.
it seemed like a MUCH better idea to post this video last night. too bad the vimeo site had a wait time of 185 MINUTES. i felt like one of those people in the 1970s lining up for six hours to get gas. or just like myself, waiting an hour in line at the post office just to get a stamp the other day.
my parents were HOTTIES in the 60s. go mom and dad.
i stole this photo during a holiday bender over college. i must’ve been feeling sentimental and greedy, for i pilfered directly from my mom’s 60s albums. of course, through all the wear & tear of moving in & out of various unsavory apartments for the past 5 years, the photographs have suffered. this one has curled and thus cracked. matt just scanned it for me.
looking at it, he said that i am a perfect hybrid of my parents. GREAT. THANKS. so basically my parents retain all of their hottie features and i, the offspring, get the mutant genes (chipmunk cheeks, dubious pale skin….)
HOTTIE PARENTS > ME
oh i guess i should say that my parents are the hot young things in the bottom row.
i’m on a big nas kick. nas is kind of a whiner, and actually probs an asshole, but you can’t ignore the man’s talent. at least. i can’t.
anyway in one of his songs he’s all talking about how sleep is the cousin of death.
and while i agree with him, i think that death has another cousin. this cousin’s name is called WASTING THE PRECIOUS SECONDS OF YOUR LIFE AWAY, ONE BY ONE, AS YOU ANALYZE THE CARTOON ON THE COVER OF THE NEW YORKER.
maybe it’s just me, and maybe that shit looks like hair to you, but when i first looked at the cover, i thought he was infested with the bubonic plague.
hilarie, six and twenty. born of the land of coal mines, then a six-year stint in the new england towne of blizzards, street trolleys, the pixies and that rustic little ballpark in the fenway. now i live in washington, d.c. with an aussie husband and an unquenchable desire for a skinny gray cat. my passions are education, film and art history (not necessarily in that order). my favorite museums are the free ones. my favorite church picnics are the ones with gambling wheels. my love is true and my drink of choice will always be maker's.
