Last week I was lounging in a yellow inflatable kiddie pool in my back yard one afternoon when Juice, in her prairie dog phase, rose out of the ground and rested her cheek on my legs, which were hanging over the side of the pool. When I asked Juice why she had risen out of the ground she said, “So I can flick pool water at you like so.”
She began flicking, but I smiled with my eyes closed and said, “Sorry, I’m not annoyed. Plus, I can’t feel my legs. I disconnected them.”
“Gross!” Juice shrieked, causing me to open my eyes. “This isn’t pool water! Your legs are pussing! I think some pus went down my shirt!”
“I’m growing pus to sell to florists. I figured if hangnails will grow a decent amount of pus, imagine how much detached legs will grow!”
“What do flower shops want pus for?” Juice asked, gazing over my increasingly pus-filled pool as I stirred my precious white commodity with my hands. “Pus can’t be more valuable than my little bunny Foofoo,” she added, holding up two fingers to form her current finger friend.
“The presence of my pus grows white roses, which are valuable,” I said.
Needless to say, Juice stripped to her bathing suit and joined me. “Golly, Jolly,” she said, sinking her body deeper into the pus. “Detaching one’s legs is fun.”
“Help me detach my arms,” I squealed, glad for the encouragement. After Juice obeyed, I leaned my head back against the poolside and said, “Now I can grow twice as much pus. I’ll be rich! I can finally buy hairless armpits!”
“What, is there a sparrow town meeting up in that tree or something?” Juice asked, tilting back her head as well.
I looked above me. We were in the direct shade of my oak tree, which seemed to be holding more sparrows than leaves. Then my vision was blurred when a white substance other than pus plinked down on my face.
“One bird dropping and you’re scared out of the pool,” Juice smirked at me as we watched from inside my house a few minutes later. The sparrow convention was raining down their droppings all over my yard, contaminating my pus pool beyond repair. “How many birds are there?” Juice asked.
I leaned my reattached arms on the window sill and said, “They’ll be done soon.”
They've been there for SEVEN FRICKIN DAYS!!!!!!!
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Monday, August 11, 2008
My Rankings of Sir Walter Scott novels
Due to popular demand (if by popular you mean Juice, and I do), below is my ranking of Sir Walter Scott novels. As most of you know, he is my second favorite author after Ryan Rhodes, author of Life Pus. I'm still holding out for the movie version of Life Pus, though Rhodes has apparently turned down multiple offers so far. Anywho, the list:
1. Quentin Durward: I just love positive protagonists. None of these modern "life sucks cuz I don't get what I want but at least I found myself along the way" craptagonists. Quentin is optimistic, idealistic, and his cuteness just leaps off the pages. Plus he finds true love. Too bad no GOOD movie was ever made from this story. I did see the old crappy movie version, and am still having anger-management issues as a result of that butchery. A+
2. The Fair Maid of Perth: This book has it all--romance, violence, drama, violence, death, kidnapping, violence, a hero who kicks butt, and a heroine who converts from anti-violence to "Oh, violence has merit." We'll never see a book that awesome again. A+
3. Ivanhoe: Juice will disagree with me because of one or two chapters where she had no idea what was going on, but this was the first Scott book I read so it will always have a special place in my heart. Who needs characterization when you have a medieval setting? A+
4. The Pirate: I loved the characters, loved the ending, and unlike alot of Scott's books that I ranked much lower, this one had a plot that actually moved, and you got where it was going before the midway point of the book. Always a plus. A+
5. Count Robert of Paris: Again, I got interested in this one pretty quickly. It helped that it was shorter and had a medieval setting. Scott does this setting well. A
6. Peveril of the Peak: This is my favorite of Scott's 17th century novels. The plot sounds dumber than it is when I describe it, but it really is a good read. A
7. Waverley: Scott's first novel, and a very good one. The female characters were underdeveloped, and it was a little predictable, but the plot moved well and kept me interested. A
8. Castle Dangerous: I'm a little surprised I placed this book so high. It was Scott's last novel, and I did get a sense he was a little tired of novel writing during the book. It took a little while for the story to get going, and the end seemed rather implausible, but it was a good way to spend a few long flights during vacation. A-
9. Redgauntlet: This book's title makes it sound a lot cooler than it is. It's actually a book that's half made of letters between two best friends who just graduated, and one of them ends up getting kidnapped, so the other one goes on a quest to find him. The epistolary parts get a little cheesy, but I really liked it for all that. I'm a sucker for epistolary cheese, I guess. A-
10. The Talisman: Again, title much cooler than book. The talisman has little to do with the story and was probably just chosen in order to sell the book. There's a ton of Saladin-worship in it, so if you're a Saladin fan you might enjoy it more than I did. Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but I get it already, Saladin is perfect. B+
11. The Betrothed: More boring, romantic girls might like this book alot more than I did. Very cliche plot about a couple in love, but she's betrothed to his uncle. Gee, I don't know where that's going. The medieval period makes up for some. B+
12. A Legend of Montrose: This title is actually accurate. It's a short book, so maybe it would have been ranked higher if the story was more fleshed out. Or it might have been ranked lower, because the story would have moved more slowly. B+
13. The Fortunes of Nigel: I liked this book, but I hated Nigel. Biggest baby ever. Dude couldn't even dress himself, the priss. He didn't deserve a happy ending, but I was happy for him anyway. B
14. Woodstock: Rather contrived plot that takes place during the time of Cromwell. Some good fight scenes and other dramatic scenes. Nothing special. B
15. Anne of Geierstein: This book is one of Scott's weird ones that kind of take place outside of a bigger story, or multiple bigger stories. The action is very sporadic. It's like Heidi with a little political intrigue and war tossed in there. B
16. Guy Mannering: Scott's third book. I liked the characters, but the plot was all over the place. It's like he made it up as he went along, which would be ok if the plot ended up being plausible. He really should have made fewer of his books about kidnappings. B-
17. The Black Dwarf: Like A Legend of Montrose, lengthening this book might have made it better or worse. It was fine for what it was. B-
18. The Heart of Midlothian: This is supposed to be one of Scott's best novels. It was fine, but the female characters were a bit overkill. This one could have been alot shorter. B-
19. The Abbott: I would have liked these characters much better in a different story. Basically they're stuck guarding Mary Queen of Scots the whole time, until she gets taken away to be killed or something. Mmm-kay. B-
Everything below this point should not be read unless you really want to waste your time.
20. Rob Roy: The worst of Scott's titles that were obviously chosen to sell books. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but come on, Rob Roy was a tertiary character in this story at best, and the real plot isn't a speck as interesting as anything Rob Roy was involved in, and the end was such a rip-off. D+
21. The Antiquary: Scott's second novel, written solely for Scott's enjoyment of writing about a character who was a geek about all thing ancient. The plot teetered between boring and nonexistent, but what there was of plot was predictable. D+
22. The Monastery: This book had potential, but it sucked. D+
23. A Tale of Old Mortality: Do not read this book. It was an excellent book up until the last chapter, and then it became the stupidest, most cliche and unsympathetic book ever. You begin the book being set up to think that Old Mortality is a character in the book, and that one of the male characters will become him. Turns out Old Mortality is NOT a character in the book, he was just used to set up the story and has nothing further to do with it, causing most of the interest of the book to be taken away. I hate this book. The ending makes me so angry! F
24. The Bride of Lammermoor: It's pretty much like the opera, only not as good. F
25. Kenilworth: This was praised as one of Scott's best novels. Huh? Why? The only decent thing in it was two tertiary characters. F
26. St. Ronan's Well: Scott's only contemporary novel. No one in the history of mankind liked it, including Scott himself. F-
27: Chronicles of the Canongate: A couple lame short stories. F-
1. Quentin Durward: I just love positive protagonists. None of these modern "life sucks cuz I don't get what I want but at least I found myself along the way" craptagonists. Quentin is optimistic, idealistic, and his cuteness just leaps off the pages. Plus he finds true love. Too bad no GOOD movie was ever made from this story. I did see the old crappy movie version, and am still having anger-management issues as a result of that butchery. A+
2. The Fair Maid of Perth: This book has it all--romance, violence, drama, violence, death, kidnapping, violence, a hero who kicks butt, and a heroine who converts from anti-violence to "Oh, violence has merit." We'll never see a book that awesome again. A+
3. Ivanhoe: Juice will disagree with me because of one or two chapters where she had no idea what was going on, but this was the first Scott book I read so it will always have a special place in my heart. Who needs characterization when you have a medieval setting? A+
4. The Pirate: I loved the characters, loved the ending, and unlike alot of Scott's books that I ranked much lower, this one had a plot that actually moved, and you got where it was going before the midway point of the book. Always a plus. A+
5. Count Robert of Paris: Again, I got interested in this one pretty quickly. It helped that it was shorter and had a medieval setting. Scott does this setting well. A
6. Peveril of the Peak: This is my favorite of Scott's 17th century novels. The plot sounds dumber than it is when I describe it, but it really is a good read. A
7. Waverley: Scott's first novel, and a very good one. The female characters were underdeveloped, and it was a little predictable, but the plot moved well and kept me interested. A
8. Castle Dangerous: I'm a little surprised I placed this book so high. It was Scott's last novel, and I did get a sense he was a little tired of novel writing during the book. It took a little while for the story to get going, and the end seemed rather implausible, but it was a good way to spend a few long flights during vacation. A-
9. Redgauntlet: This book's title makes it sound a lot cooler than it is. It's actually a book that's half made of letters between two best friends who just graduated, and one of them ends up getting kidnapped, so the other one goes on a quest to find him. The epistolary parts get a little cheesy, but I really liked it for all that. I'm a sucker for epistolary cheese, I guess. A-
10. The Talisman: Again, title much cooler than book. The talisman has little to do with the story and was probably just chosen in order to sell the book. There's a ton of Saladin-worship in it, so if you're a Saladin fan you might enjoy it more than I did. Not to say I didn't enjoy it, but I get it already, Saladin is perfect. B+
11. The Betrothed: More boring, romantic girls might like this book alot more than I did. Very cliche plot about a couple in love, but she's betrothed to his uncle. Gee, I don't know where that's going. The medieval period makes up for some. B+
12. A Legend of Montrose: This title is actually accurate. It's a short book, so maybe it would have been ranked higher if the story was more fleshed out. Or it might have been ranked lower, because the story would have moved more slowly. B+
13. The Fortunes of Nigel: I liked this book, but I hated Nigel. Biggest baby ever. Dude couldn't even dress himself, the priss. He didn't deserve a happy ending, but I was happy for him anyway. B
14. Woodstock: Rather contrived plot that takes place during the time of Cromwell. Some good fight scenes and other dramatic scenes. Nothing special. B
15. Anne of Geierstein: This book is one of Scott's weird ones that kind of take place outside of a bigger story, or multiple bigger stories. The action is very sporadic. It's like Heidi with a little political intrigue and war tossed in there. B
16. Guy Mannering: Scott's third book. I liked the characters, but the plot was all over the place. It's like he made it up as he went along, which would be ok if the plot ended up being plausible. He really should have made fewer of his books about kidnappings. B-
17. The Black Dwarf: Like A Legend of Montrose, lengthening this book might have made it better or worse. It was fine for what it was. B-
18. The Heart of Midlothian: This is supposed to be one of Scott's best novels. It was fine, but the female characters were a bit overkill. This one could have been alot shorter. B-
19. The Abbott: I would have liked these characters much better in a different story. Basically they're stuck guarding Mary Queen of Scots the whole time, until she gets taken away to be killed or something. Mmm-kay. B-
Everything below this point should not be read unless you really want to waste your time.
20. Rob Roy: The worst of Scott's titles that were obviously chosen to sell books. Perhaps it wasn't his fault, but come on, Rob Roy was a tertiary character in this story at best, and the real plot isn't a speck as interesting as anything Rob Roy was involved in, and the end was such a rip-off. D+
21. The Antiquary: Scott's second novel, written solely for Scott's enjoyment of writing about a character who was a geek about all thing ancient. The plot teetered between boring and nonexistent, but what there was of plot was predictable. D+
22. The Monastery: This book had potential, but it sucked. D+
23. A Tale of Old Mortality: Do not read this book. It was an excellent book up until the last chapter, and then it became the stupidest, most cliche and unsympathetic book ever. You begin the book being set up to think that Old Mortality is a character in the book, and that one of the male characters will become him. Turns out Old Mortality is NOT a character in the book, he was just used to set up the story and has nothing further to do with it, causing most of the interest of the book to be taken away. I hate this book. The ending makes me so angry! F
24. The Bride of Lammermoor: It's pretty much like the opera, only not as good. F
25. Kenilworth: This was praised as one of Scott's best novels. Huh? Why? The only decent thing in it was two tertiary characters. F
26. St. Ronan's Well: Scott's only contemporary novel. No one in the history of mankind liked it, including Scott himself. F-
27: Chronicles of the Canongate: A couple lame short stories. F-
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Vicious Pirate Trainees Suck!
We've ended our stint as Vicious Pirate Trainees mainly because they changed the dress code. The bigwigs kept the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt but replaced the rest of the wardrobe with khaki shorts. I’m all for wearing khaki shorts on my butt, but wearing additional pairs as earrings, bracelets, a hat, a belt, and a necklace was a bit much for me.
So today I was sitting in the park with my mother. She was sitting on the seat of a park bench, and I was trying to balance on the seat’s back so as to distance myself from her as we read separately. I managed to keep my balance by fitting my toes into a pair of paper cups littered beneath the bench. While we were reading, along came Borel.
“Hi Jolly and Mrs. Rogers,” she gushed. “You look like you’re in uncomfortable positions.”
Mom, whose legs were crossed several times over, said, “I really have to pee, but I’m trying to shrink these pants.”
“Shrink your pants? You’re too old for such trends!” Borel squealed. “You’re aging as we speak!”
“But according to The Idiot’s Guide to Fake Youth, age can be fought,” Mom replied with a wrinkle-ridden smile. “Not with scalpels or acids, but with meditation and a nighttime neck brace named Fluffy.”
“Ok, I won’t say anything. Anyway . . . Jolly, you’re reading Pork Hockey? Wasn’t that book banned by the Vicious Pirate Trainee Association?” Borel gasped, looking at me.
“I don’t care,” I said, leaving my uncomfortable seat. “I find it to be a very moving account of a girl who’s a loser but finds that she has a gift for playing hockey as long as a frozen pork chop is used as the puck, which conflicts with her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. Besides, I’ve quit the Vicious Pirate Trainees.”
“Oh pooh!” she gushed. “No real Vicious Pirate Trainee would ever quit. Look at me. I’ve never taken off this red shirt since I joined. It may have cost me my friends, what with the odor and the festering sores, but I’ve been elevated to the rank of hypnotee. I gape like a big screen actress and my hands take on a life of their own.”
“Don’t listen to Borel, Jolly,” said Mom. “Vicious Pirate Trainees may have clout and fan clubs, but they can’t fight age. Here.” She held open her book for me to see. “Gaze at these words of wisdom and--oh wait, this is a blank page for notes.”
“Borel, wait,” I said as she began to turn and strut away. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather be a Vicious Pirate Trainee than bond with my mom. Help!”
“Forget it,” she scoffed. “You had your chance. I’m going tooth shopping, and then I’m going to convince the association never to readmit you!”
We watched Borel strut away singing.
“Looks like she’s composing a song about your failures as a Vicious Pirate Trainee,” Mom said to me. “This is all my fault, isn’t it sweetie? I feel ready to cry. Oh wait . . . no, that’s just gas. Oops. That one didn’t sound too good.”
I regained my uncomfortable seat and edged further from my gaseous mom as she muttered, “Must shrink pants! Must not wet pants beforehand. Now my slimmed neck is sinking into my lungs. Aack! The trials of youth!”
“Ha!” I said, my face resting on my palm. “You think you’ve got problems? I have a wedgie.”
So today I was sitting in the park with my mother. She was sitting on the seat of a park bench, and I was trying to balance on the seat’s back so as to distance myself from her as we read separately. I managed to keep my balance by fitting my toes into a pair of paper cups littered beneath the bench. While we were reading, along came Borel.
“Hi Jolly and Mrs. Rogers,” she gushed. “You look like you’re in uncomfortable positions.”
Mom, whose legs were crossed several times over, said, “I really have to pee, but I’m trying to shrink these pants.”
“Shrink your pants? You’re too old for such trends!” Borel squealed. “You’re aging as we speak!”
“But according to The Idiot’s Guide to Fake Youth, age can be fought,” Mom replied with a wrinkle-ridden smile. “Not with scalpels or acids, but with meditation and a nighttime neck brace named Fluffy.”
“Ok, I won’t say anything. Anyway . . . Jolly, you’re reading Pork Hockey? Wasn’t that book banned by the Vicious Pirate Trainee Association?” Borel gasped, looking at me.
“I don’t care,” I said, leaving my uncomfortable seat. “I find it to be a very moving account of a girl who’s a loser but finds that she has a gift for playing hockey as long as a frozen pork chop is used as the puck, which conflicts with her Orthodox Jewish upbringing. Besides, I’ve quit the Vicious Pirate Trainees.”
“Oh pooh!” she gushed. “No real Vicious Pirate Trainee would ever quit. Look at me. I’ve never taken off this red shirt since I joined. It may have cost me my friends, what with the odor and the festering sores, but I’ve been elevated to the rank of hypnotee. I gape like a big screen actress and my hands take on a life of their own.”
“Don’t listen to Borel, Jolly,” said Mom. “Vicious Pirate Trainees may have clout and fan clubs, but they can’t fight age. Here.” She held open her book for me to see. “Gaze at these words of wisdom and--oh wait, this is a blank page for notes.”
“Borel, wait,” I said as she began to turn and strut away. “I’ve changed my mind. I’d rather be a Vicious Pirate Trainee than bond with my mom. Help!”
“Forget it,” she scoffed. “You had your chance. I’m going tooth shopping, and then I’m going to convince the association never to readmit you!”
We watched Borel strut away singing.
“Looks like she’s composing a song about your failures as a Vicious Pirate Trainee,” Mom said to me. “This is all my fault, isn’t it sweetie? I feel ready to cry. Oh wait . . . no, that’s just gas. Oops. That one didn’t sound too good.”
I regained my uncomfortable seat and edged further from my gaseous mom as she muttered, “Must shrink pants! Must not wet pants beforehand. Now my slimmed neck is sinking into my lungs. Aack! The trials of youth!”
“Ha!” I said, my face resting on my palm. “You think you’ve got problems? I have a wedgie.”
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Vicious Pirate Trainees
Summer hasn't been all fun and games for Juice and me. One day we were just walking along the outskirts of a cemetery when little stars started bubbling out of the many scrapes on our arms. (The outskirts of that cemetery were a pretty hazardous trek, let me tell you.) Our predicament outraged me because it was so unrealistic, and I am consistently a realistic and logical person. Juice, currently in her Jewish gay man phase, said we were at fault for examining our nails so much, which prevented us from watching where we stepped. My response was to puke my grape popsicle all over my shirt.
When we reached my house we tried to scrub off the star-bubbling scrapes in the kitchen sink, but the boiling water splashed soap in Juice’s eyes, making her mad. Our efforts were only partly successful; the stars stopped bubbling for a while, but the scrapes remained. We sat outside on my front doorstep, hoping the scrapes would fade in the sun. Waiting for scrapes to fade away makes people pensive, so before long Juice said, “You know, we should stop slouching so much. We might suffocate and die.”
I didn’t respond. I was privately wishing Juice would stop scraping out her earwax with her fingers. I looked away from her and promptly groaned. “Oh no. Here comes Borel, trotting up to us like a twenty-year-old gymnast. Aren’t you annoyed that she copies off of your patented tendency toward stupid phases?”
“At least she has geeky boots,” said Juice with a smirk.
“Why the frowns?” Borel gushed. I don’t think we were frowning.
Suddenly I recognized her outfit: the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt, the blank name tag, the yellow tablecloths tied around her waist and head, the black pants, the onion ring jewelry, and the shoulder sling-shot. “Borel!” I gasped. “Are you one of those Vicious Pirate Trainees?”
“The ones that put glue on people’s toilet seats?” Juice asked.
“But of course!” Borel gushed. “I’ve also stolen people’s underwear for my own personal use, and killed a minor celebrity!”
“And probably put itchy powder in a hamburger!” Juice called after Borel as she strutted away. “Ooh, I’m so impressed.”
“Those stars are coming out of my cuts again,” I sighed, holding up my hands.
“I’ve always wanted to glue people’s butts to things like toilets,” Juice responded.
So we are Vicious Pirate Trainees for the time being, at least until Juice progresses to her next phase. We had to cook until we were promoted, but fortunately all our ingredients were stolen: suede shoes, pooper-scoopers, bumper stickers, etc. After a week of kitchen duty we got to moon people entering the cemetery, but Juice could never do it right. She blamed it on a force of habit; she wasn’t used to pulling down her pants without pooping or peeing, so her mooning victims got an extra bonus.
When we reached my house we tried to scrub off the star-bubbling scrapes in the kitchen sink, but the boiling water splashed soap in Juice’s eyes, making her mad. Our efforts were only partly successful; the stars stopped bubbling for a while, but the scrapes remained. We sat outside on my front doorstep, hoping the scrapes would fade in the sun. Waiting for scrapes to fade away makes people pensive, so before long Juice said, “You know, we should stop slouching so much. We might suffocate and die.”
I didn’t respond. I was privately wishing Juice would stop scraping out her earwax with her fingers. I looked away from her and promptly groaned. “Oh no. Here comes Borel, trotting up to us like a twenty-year-old gymnast. Aren’t you annoyed that she copies off of your patented tendency toward stupid phases?”
“At least she has geeky boots,” said Juice with a smirk.
“Why the frowns?” Borel gushed. I don’t think we were frowning.
Suddenly I recognized her outfit: the red, horizontally-ribbed shirt, the blank name tag, the yellow tablecloths tied around her waist and head, the black pants, the onion ring jewelry, and the shoulder sling-shot. “Borel!” I gasped. “Are you one of those Vicious Pirate Trainees?”
“The ones that put glue on people’s toilet seats?” Juice asked.
“But of course!” Borel gushed. “I’ve also stolen people’s underwear for my own personal use, and killed a minor celebrity!”
“And probably put itchy powder in a hamburger!” Juice called after Borel as she strutted away. “Ooh, I’m so impressed.”
“Those stars are coming out of my cuts again,” I sighed, holding up my hands.
“I’ve always wanted to glue people’s butts to things like toilets,” Juice responded.
So we are Vicious Pirate Trainees for the time being, at least until Juice progresses to her next phase. We had to cook until we were promoted, but fortunately all our ingredients were stolen: suede shoes, pooper-scoopers, bumper stickers, etc. After a week of kitchen duty we got to moon people entering the cemetery, but Juice could never do it right. She blamed it on a force of habit; she wasn’t used to pulling down her pants without pooping or peeing, so her mooning victims got an extra bonus.
Saturday, July 5, 2008
Summertime
This summer has been a blast so far. I've been basking in the sun so long my arms developed super solar powers, enabling me to stretch them far enough to touch my house from our backyard hammock. Juice has been coming by every day, now in her “Save Saturn” phase complete with a T-shirt she had designed herself, depicting a cartoonish version of Saturn. I told her the shirt was ugly.
“Nothing compares to my magical powers from the solar rays,” I said to her one day after rejecting her suggestion of a round of potato golf. “I can change the colors of the sky and the house. Look, I even made a rosebush appear and a window by the back door vanish. I’m awesome all by myself. Who needs guys like Jiff and Smarty?” (Smarty is Juice’s equivalent to Jiff.)
“Not me,” said Juice, standing up and turning away from me. “However, I intend to go to King’s Opinion with them, let them pay for everything, and then ditch them cruelly. Have fun being uncruel to dorky guys . . . or would you like to come, Jolly?”
“Must come!” I panted. “Must be cruel to dorks!”
We've gone to King’s Opinion with those guys like twenty times this summer, and they just don't get it. Every time we went with them we ditched them, and we told them that we intended to do as much.
“They’re so stupid,” Juice laughed with me as we were visibly ditching them on one such occasion.
“We’re never going to sincerely enjoy their company.” I laughed loud enough for Jiff and Smarty to hear.
“Who’s going to pay for this floating popcorn, Smarty?” I could hear Jiff ask.
“I don’t have any money left,” Smarty said. “No wonder they keep ditching us.”
You see? I told you they don't get it!
“Nothing compares to my magical powers from the solar rays,” I said to her one day after rejecting her suggestion of a round of potato golf. “I can change the colors of the sky and the house. Look, I even made a rosebush appear and a window by the back door vanish. I’m awesome all by myself. Who needs guys like Jiff and Smarty?” (Smarty is Juice’s equivalent to Jiff.)
“Not me,” said Juice, standing up and turning away from me. “However, I intend to go to King’s Opinion with them, let them pay for everything, and then ditch them cruelly. Have fun being uncruel to dorky guys . . . or would you like to come, Jolly?”
“Must come!” I panted. “Must be cruel to dorks!”
We've gone to King’s Opinion with those guys like twenty times this summer, and they just don't get it. Every time we went with them we ditched them, and we told them that we intended to do as much.
“They’re so stupid,” Juice laughed with me as we were visibly ditching them on one such occasion.
“We’re never going to sincerely enjoy their company.” I laughed loud enough for Jiff and Smarty to hear.
“Who’s going to pay for this floating popcorn, Smarty?” I could hear Jiff ask.
“I don’t have any money left,” Smarty said. “No wonder they keep ditching us.”
You see? I told you they don't get it!
Friday, May 9, 2008
My day? MY DAY??????
My new bust-enhancing backpack is making me feel confident enough to flirt with the flowers, which in turn has made the sky say to me, “I think I’m gonna puke.”
Today, a cheerful bird’s song that I heard from the window I sat near during third period helped me to forget that my desk had been stolen. That in turn inspired me to barge into band practice despite being expelled for telling the director what he already knew--that no one loved him. He looked pretty downcast and desolate when I snatched one guy-girl’s flute out of his/her hands and made it smile in tune to the bird’s song.
In our one o’clock study hall together, Jiff was smacking me so hard my paper airplane hat flew off my head.
Walking home with Juice, we showed off our bust-enhancing backpacks to a scurvy sky. We could actually hear it gag.
Coming home wasn’t too pleasant, though. I found Mom spray painting light blue over the crescent moon I had carved in our coffee table. She threatened me at vacuum-point to hop up the stepladder and clean the chandelier, all while balancing on one leg. Fortunately she rewarded me with a trendy glue pencil, although inhaling the pencil made me as pukey as the sky, so I laid my face down in my glue writing before it dried on my homework. I can still see the freckles I had to leave on that page as I tore my face away.
Today, a cheerful bird’s song that I heard from the window I sat near during third period helped me to forget that my desk had been stolen. That in turn inspired me to barge into band practice despite being expelled for telling the director what he already knew--that no one loved him. He looked pretty downcast and desolate when I snatched one guy-girl’s flute out of his/her hands and made it smile in tune to the bird’s song.
In our one o’clock study hall together, Jiff was smacking me so hard my paper airplane hat flew off my head.
Walking home with Juice, we showed off our bust-enhancing backpacks to a scurvy sky. We could actually hear it gag.
Coming home wasn’t too pleasant, though. I found Mom spray painting light blue over the crescent moon I had carved in our coffee table. She threatened me at vacuum-point to hop up the stepladder and clean the chandelier, all while balancing on one leg. Fortunately she rewarded me with a trendy glue pencil, although inhaling the pencil made me as pukey as the sky, so I laid my face down in my glue writing before it dried on my homework. I can still see the freckles I had to leave on that page as I tore my face away.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Messy entry
In lieu of a real blog post, I've decided to type alot of gibberish to fill up my life's blank pages.
patronizing Philadelphia cheesecake sausage lamb ham entry face milk turtles potato pancakes Joy lemon eight force fart cake dial nose error pizza pencil twelve cup camera lotion monitor freckles Juice breath skin elves Brian nerd cheeks butt neck knees wrist computer post-its Brittany Spears fourteen paper stapler garbage Paris Hilton Drudge Report earrings bangles mortician fingers typing numbers calendar spitwad dollar sign money friction plethora ludicrous asterisk tennis makeshift airplane rocket buttons glue Jiff necklace question worthy enemy retard tower yuppie underwear ignorant opera palace arrogant saucy depth forks spoons grace head Jolly ketchup lipstick xanthophyll zethyr cookies varnish baby nuggets unworthy machinery acorns math studies books cartilege depression ring alchohol purple monky dishwasher twirly maggot twin potato twilight crane
patronizing Philadelphia cheesecake sausage lamb ham entry face milk turtles potato pancakes Joy lemon eight force fart cake dial nose error pizza pencil twelve cup camera lotion monitor freckles Juice breath skin elves Brian nerd cheeks butt neck knees wrist computer post-its Brittany Spears fourteen paper stapler garbage Paris Hilton Drudge Report earrings bangles mortician fingers typing numbers calendar spitwad dollar sign money friction plethora ludicrous asterisk tennis makeshift airplane rocket buttons glue Jiff necklace question worthy enemy retard tower yuppie underwear ignorant opera palace arrogant saucy depth forks spoons grace head Jolly ketchup lipstick xanthophyll zethyr cookies varnish baby nuggets unworthy machinery acorns math studies books cartilege depression ring alchohol purple monky dishwasher twirly maggot twin potato twilight crane
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