Photo by John Poor
I didn’t look much like Lady Gaga, but it was close enough for most drunk people to figure out who I was, and then holler encouraging nonsense at me from blocks away. They were only excited because they didn’t see this photo:
(You don't want to know. But you can probably guess.)
However, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. At the beginning of the evening, I looked like this:
Click the jump to see the rest of the step-by-step process! » Continue Reading…
At about 9:30 p.m. my boss calls to let us know that there’s been a string of robberies in the past few days. The perpetrator was a Caucasian male in black clothes who told the clerks he had a bomb hidden under his clothes; alternately, he would show them a butcher knife.
Good plan.
Now, I don’t actually tell my co-worker about this, because I don’t want to worry her, and what are the chances this goon is going to pick our store? Right? We’re as prepared as we always are. We have a selection of panic buttons, two phones, state-of-the-art security cameras, and we’re double-staffed.
Half of an hour later, this clown shuffles in wearing an outfit his big brother must not have wanted and insists he has a bomb hidden…somewhere. He flails around on an explosive Easter egg hunt inside his own pants, and while to us this just looks like public masturbation, he clearly thinks this indicates he has a Looney Tunes-sized case of TNT in his jockstrap.
The way he walks and talks sounds like he really hopes he’s the bad guy in a low-budget blaxploitation flick. If you’re going to use the M.F. word as punctuation, and you want me to be threatened by it, you better sound like you mean it at least as much as Samuel L. Jackson does. Especially when you have sweaty withdrawal skin, googly Cookie Monster eyes, and you’re hiding half of your face like an Old West bandit.
I think the poor robber was just trying to hide his messed up meth teeth.
Him: “I have a bomb! Give me all the money!”
Me: “No. You don’t. We already got a call about you.”
(This is the point where I suddenly realize my coworker ‘Tasha actually thinks there might be a bomb strapped to this nervous wreck’s genitals. Oops. Prooobably should have told her.)
He isn’t stunned for long, but his next brilliant move is to pull out his butcher knife… Which is still in the sheath, with two snaps holding it there. If I was the kind of idiot who refuses to give money to an armed robber (I’m only the kind of idiot who tells them they’re a liar), I could have made it to Miami and been sitting in a wicker chair sipping a freaking maitai by the time his shaky hands got that thing loose, and even if he tried to chase me, he would have tripped over his floppy pants and stabbed himself in his penis. (I don’t know how his junk managed to get out of our store in one piece.)
Also good plan.
Me, as I reach toward the button that opens the register: “Okay, I’ll give it to you. But the police are already on their way here. We hit the buttons.”
Him: “You’re [Redacted]suckers. [Redacted] this!”
He throws a plastic bag on the counter and storms out just as awkwardly as you’d expect from someone who is trying to walk inside of a camping tent. He was a two-second wait from getting several hundred dollars. And he left.
Robber: 0. Me and 'Tasha: Plastic bag.
In conclusion,
1. My retired police officer father is going to kill me when he finds out I sassed a robber after the stories he’s told me and
2. This guy is just lucky he didn’t spill anything on ‘Tasha:
On Saturday, I went on a hike with Hanzo and my friends Elizabeth and Studphish (don’t ask, it’s a long story). We were looking for this little-known trail with lots of big sandbars sticking out into the Skagit River, but instead we found ourselves at a derelict concrete factory by an abandoned limestone quarry.
IT. WAS. SO. COOL.
It's a fixer-upper.
Stud was the first to venture inside:
(sing with me) Fat man in a little hole! Fat man in a little hole!
The inside smelled of pee and wet stone, exactly like a real goblin lair! We set about looking for goblins, but mostly we found dangerous holes and graffiti that could have used some copy-editing.
This building was built by the Swiss. Or maybe by Frank Lloyd Wr--Okay, I won't. I won't. Just put down the hammer.
He doesn't see the resemblance.
I'm thoughtful. And CLASSY.
All joking cat sex aside, my mother is amazing. She’s good at anything she tries to do. She can craft, garden, cook, sew, sculpt, collage, paint, fix up old antiques to look less crappy than they really are, and she is an unending fount of intuitive patience for those she loves (and even those she doesn’t). There’s more, but I don’t want to make you feel bad about yourself compared to how great my mom is.
Here, let me show you a photo!
You can see where I learned my classiness.
All right, all right. Maybe this is a good time to show you this photo. You can see by the way she’s looking at me that she’s used to me posting those other things, and yet she still loves me. Best mother ever!
Classy women like this can easily pretend I'm not their least favorite child.
(BTW I took that photo of those cats last year and I’ve been waiting for a chance to use it. And no, they’re not my cats, who are spayed and neutered because I am responsible like my Mom taught me to be.)
This is just a fracion of my colossal pigsty.
Okay, all finished? Here are the answers:
Bandito’s Burritos is a delicious little restaurant located on W. Holly Street in downtown Bellingham, Washington. One of their major attractions is a well-stocked salsa bar featuring home-made toppings from 1 to 5+ stars, in flavors from savory to sweet. Today, they had this:
If I worked there, I wouldn't have written the "ha ha." Which is why I'm not allowed in the food service industry.
While so far this salsa is my favorite April Fool’s joke (that sucker was NOT one star), I keep seeing awesome contributions to today’s fun, so I’m going to compile a list. This will be updated throughout the day as I find more jokes.
Baby Skeksis born at Franklin Park Zoo
Unicorn Meat for sale on ThinkGeek
Changeable tattoo kit for sale on ThinkGeek
Man from future arrested at Large Hadron Collider (highlight: “It is a communist chocolate hellhole and I’m here to stop it ever happening.”)
Starbucks adds two new sizes of drinks
Unique colony of penguins (this probably isn’t April Fool’s, but it was sent to me today, so it counts!)
Entmoot convenes to discuss same-sex marriage
Me vs. Me
I haven’t gone to bed yet, so I’m pretending my post still counts. It’s more like Pangender Day of Visibility over here, though. Or maybe Ungender. Or Ilikemakeupanddinosaursboth. Whatever!
Grand Prize: A signed (and personalized, if you like) copy of Black Blade Blues, the first of a new urban fantasy series from J. A. Pitts, published by Tor. Also, you get my Cliff’s Notes version, which is pants-wettingly hilarious.
Runner-up: You get my Cliff’s Notes version.
This is how it works:
1. Create an image (or sculpture, or sweater mural, or some other art piece–I ain’t picky) using the theme: “A movie or stage prop that turns out to be real.”
2. Submit your entry by posting it online with a link back to the contest, and e-mailing me the URL.
3. On April 23rd at the stroke of midnight PST, voting begins; on April 25th at midnight PST, voting closes.
4. Popular vote will decide the winner. If there is a tie, my mother will break it.
And now, more about what you win. This is the blurb for Black Blade Blues by J. A. Pitts:
Sarah Beauhall has more on her plate than most twenty-somethings: day job as a blacksmith, night job as a props manager for a low-budget movie, and her free time is spent fighting in a medieval re-enactment group. When the lead actor breaks Sarah’s favorite one-of-a-kind sword, it sends the director into fits. Sarah agrees to repair the blade to avoid reshooting scenes.
One of the extras claims to be a dwarf and offers to help her at the forge. That’s when things start to get weird. Could the sword really be magic, as he claims? Why does he want her to kill a Portland investment banker? And what is it about that homeless guy that has her on edge?
As if things weren’t surreal enough at that point, Sarah’s girlfriend Katie breaks out the dreaded phrase… “I love you.”
Black Blade Blues is about forging an existence in a world that is much different than one expects.
Oh, and dragons.
The contest fine print, which is regular sized because I’m not a douchebag lawyer: You must be eighteen to enter, because while I would have loved this book when I was sixteen, your parents might be more tight-assed than mine, and I don’t like being hunted and slaughtered and made into a Sänskin rug. Also, by entering, you agree to let me archive your entry on my website. I won’t duplicate, redistribute, or alter it without your permission–I just want the contest preserved for posterity. And finally, I’m not going to spend a long time writing more fine print, so if something comes up and I have to make an executive decision, I’m just going to do that. By entering, you agree that I am Contest God and you’ll shut up and take it like a rhinoceros. (I hear they’re pretty stoic.)
Thanks for playing! And hey, if this theme isn’t something you think you can work with, watch for the next one coming up in a couple of weeks. It has to do with superpowers…
When I talk about my dog, I don’t usually just say “my puppy.” I say “my pitbull,” or “my pitbull puppy.”
Why?
Because I want you to know, since you have theoretically found me intelligent, erudite, and pleasant, not to mention amazingly attractive, that I own this breed of dog. Many people have incorrect assumptions about American Staffordshire Terriers. Once you’re aware that I own one, you hopefully will feel comfortable enough asking your burning questions about whether or not my dog mauls children. I can give you answers about how it’s a dog, not a shark with legs, and a dog’s temperament is defined by its rearing, training, and owner’s attitude much more than its breed.
For the record, you may remember the Little Rascals had a pitbull to play with. Pitbulls have been long referred to as “nanny dogs” in the U.K. Many other accepted family pet breeds, even well-behaved specimens, make me much more nervous with small children than a well-behaved pitbull. For example? Lassie.
The person behind me is Brenda Cooper, whose mouth was NOT shut, and therefore, she MAY be infested with extraterrestrial spawn. Just FYI.