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.

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!

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.

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

Valentine's Day

Yesterday my locker vomited out not only my spare fleas but an envelope. Juice was in the middle of saying that maybe if she wasn’t in her pretty-in-pink hunchback phase she might be able to get a date. I was saying, “No way. You’re too ugly. Unless you won some beauty pageant for pear-shaped chics you couldn’t get a date with a chicken muscle. Hark! What’s this?” I picked up the vomited envelope and opened it.

“Maybe if my lipstick didn’t always match my clothes--” Juice was babbling on.

Inside the envelope was a valentine from Brat, the school’s most logical dreamboat and captain of the fishing team, saying that my face was as lovely as a basketball with peas for eyes and that he loved me so much he painted half the school yellow. “I hate yellow,” I squealed, hugging my inflated rubber cheeks with my hands, “but I love him! Hearts are floating around my head, Juice!”

“Maybe if I smile provocatively at him he’ll love me too,” she said, straightening her phase-enforced hunchback posture. “I’m desperate.”

Always true to my best friend, I met up with Brat outside after school and told him, “Brat, I love your card, but you’ll have to share your love with Juice too.” I was confident enough in his logical love to manipulate it in that way.

“Are you nuts?” he said, backing into a protruding brick corner of the building. “That pretty-in-pink hunchback? I’d rather carry books in my fly. Observe!” With that he snatched the valentine from my hand, shoved his books in said fly, and ran away from me, saying, “This is uncomfortable. Hey you! Girl with the nice butt! This is for you. I hope you like guys who wear purple pants.”

“He unzipped his fly sorta-kinda in your presence,” Juice commented. “At least you can remember.”

I told her to shut up. What made matters worse, once I got home I found that Mom had gotten her hair redone, so my sobbing refrain became: “Your hair looks like snakes, and why is my stupid cat smiling? I should have left it at the pawn shop. Oh Mommy, Brat loved me for a moment.”

“I’m sick of snake jokes,” Mom said. “I like my hair.”

Just then the doorbell rang, but it was only my nerdy boyfriend.

“You’re not Brat,” I told him. “Leave me alone, Jiff.”

“I don’t know how,” he shrugged. “But guess what? I got my palms read today and I’m going to win a shoelace! Why don’t we hitchhike our way to the Shoelace Lovers Festival downtown? They have shoe-flavored ice cream floats.”

“With shoelace straws?” I exclaimed. “I’m so there!”

So we spent the evening having staring contests over a shared shoe-flavored float until my eyes dried up. I think Jiff was spitting into the float and I was sucking up his spit.

winter slump

I still can’t seem to get that plaster out of my mouth, but I can talk more coherently now. I was complaining to Mom today that my bath towel kept turning into a giant sponge. Mom just told me to go jump over a candlestick. Then she made fun of my robe and how the sponge towel was wrapped around my head, saying “You can wear that to school on Middle East day.” Little does she know my robe and towel happen to be the latest fashion trend from the Parisian dumpsters, and I have every intention of wearing that ensemble to school.

I stormed into the living room, where Dad was doing arm curls with a piece of firewood. After he strained his back, Mom gave him an “I told you so” slap in the face, and to vent his feelings he started pinching my cheek like a maniac. I told him to stop and he said, “Call me a maniac one more time and this cheek comes off and goes into my mouth.”

“Stop making fun of me, you badly-dressed weasel!” I screamed.

“She has no taste in clothes, honey,” Dad said to Mom.

“Maybe she hasn’t tasted enough clothes to be able to distinguish,” said Mom, rubbing her hands together. “Let’s feed her.”

Then my parents changed their minds and once again decided to eat me for a snack.

“Not with my turban,” I pleaded.

“Go get the pepper, honey,” Mom told Dad. “We’re going to have a feast. I’ll toss her in the fire.”

After they tasted me and whined that I tasted like cafeteria water, they decided to make me smile through my flute instead, while they sang, “One hundred gospel greats on the wall, one hundred gospel greats, sing one badly, drive people madly . . . .” Aargh! I still have that in my head!

Later I bit my tongue so hard while trying to pull a s’more apart that I cried.

While typing this up, the two halves of my brain have been fighting with each other.

Right Brain: I rule because I revel in mushy love.
Left Brain: I rule because I can calculate my superiority.

They both shut up once I turned on my new blow dryer. It’s so strong it can shove my mouth to one side.

post-Christmas stuff

Today was my first day back at school after break. Mrs. Sute (whom everyone laughs at because her name is Polly Esther) gave a bowl-cut to some guy who sat in front of me in tolerance class. She was scolding him, “Young man, the next time you don’t want the sides of your head shaved, try not making fun of my outfit.” She was wearing a bright pink suit, but I didn’t laugh much because I was still daydreaming about my vacation.

I still can't believe that after all the Christmas shopping I did, all I bought were some empty cardboard boxes and a mini-breadstick that I had mistaken for a toaster pastry crescent roll. Then on Christmas Eve I got my holidays confused and dressed up for Halloween instead. My parents and I spent Christmas Eve making dozens of hamburgers, absorbing the grease from the hamburgers by covering them with dish soap. I cleverly wrapped up my radio as a gift so Mom couldn’t tell I was listening to ButtLovers, whom she hates. Dad tried to hang foil stars in the window like he does every year, but I had deliberately moved the Christmas tree in the way of the window--tee hee! After Christmas I used our greeting card collection as toilet paper, but Mom made me wash them all and hang them out to dry.

The only interesting gift I received for Christmas is a lip liner pencil that I can also use as an eraser, but it makes my armpits sweat so much I've been constantly drying them by our fireplace. That's ok; I've been using my time by the fire to practice clawing like a cat in the absence of Whitey, whom I had to pawn off in order to buy presents. I'm getting pretty good at clawing too, though it keeps Jiff from trying to kiss me.