Saturday, December 16, 2017

Oh, nothing

Just wiping the last of the slavish devotion that got all over me during my 2,000-seat standing ovation. How was YOUR night?

And how sweet is this hockey gig? We wait in our lavishly appointed dressing room sipping complimentary RC products and getting unlimited tarot readings until we’re summoned to star in the second-to-last number, catch our breath during the last number, and then soak up cheering applause in my beloved Paramount Theatre as Orchestra Iowa plays a robustly joyful “Sleigh Ride” mere feet behind us. Just getting to stand on the Paramount stage is all I need to brighten my whole week ... but RC PRODUCTS TOO?

Also, how adorable is my mom’s childhood toy Rudolph (or maybe it’s just a charmingly disfigured dog — the jury’s still out) that we recently found buried in a box of stuff and added to our standard under-tree decoration collection? It’s twice as old as I am, but we both still look 28 — which is more like 25 when we’re not in the direct glare of the tree lights.

At least I have a dressing room, I guess


I just sang “All I Want for Christmas is my Two Front Teeth”

in authentic soccer gear with my teeth blacked out at the stunning Paramount Theatre with the magnificent Orchestra Iowa behind me. Plus I get to do it again tonight. And then again tomorrow. Bliss.

Get your pucks to the Paramount

for your first and undoubtedly last opportunity to watch me (and four other brutes) sing and dance merry holiday tunes IN REAL HOCKEY VESTMENTS. Because it’s not Christmas without the traditional Dance of the Slapshotplum Fairies and Straightpeople. Or something like that.

My super-dudebro gym outfit makes me look either trendy and age-appropriate or 49 and delusional



Friday, December 15, 2017

Merry Bitchmas!

Mom put an elf-high stack of cushions on the folding chair she's been sitting on to fold and mail the family Christmas letter, in which the paragraph about me is longer than the paragraph about my sister. Which through some exponential algorithm proves my parents love me more, but I'm not very mathy so I can't explain how it computes in any useful detail.

Anyway, Mom has brokered a contingent MFN status with Bitch Kitty whereby Bitch Kitty will allow Mom to feed her three Whisker Lickin's tuna flavor crunchy & yummy(R) cat treats (which we can find only at the north-side Walmart) every morning and clean up indiscriminate piles of her vomit on the good throw rug or the new basement carpet no fewer than one (1) time per day in exchange for Bitch Kitty's right of first refusal to occupy the cushion pile when Mom isn't using it.

This being the holidays, I set up Mom's pro tem Christmas card table and chair in front of the tree so she could be awash in Christmas joy as she writes her heartfelt messages of everlasting friendship and profound human connection to Grandma's old neighbor who'd lost her husband and broken up a marriage then moved to Arizona with a tattooed vacuum cleaner repairman named Jerome and we think her new last name is Tickleshitz but we haven't heard from her in two years so this is our last attempt to contact her, assuming we even have her current address.

So with the tree lit and Bitch Kitty basking in its glow from her four-cushioned center of the universe, I naturally jumped at the opportunity to record for posterity the love we share for Christmas, for cushions and for her never-ending magnanimous benevolence. I even got her to lift her head for our portrait but she chose to express her love for me by gazing at my dad and not at me or even at the camera. But that's the kind of insouciant, devil-may-care love we share. We don't talk about it, but we both understand that as long as I pop in and out and take our selfie portraits within 8-10 seconds, she won't be forced to lacerate my jugular vein and attempt to remove my ear.

And that, my friends, is the true spirit of Christmas. And as you rush around in these last few days of holiday hustle and bustle, we honestly hope you can take some time to contemplate the meaningful relationships you have with your family, your friends and your pets and then make sure you leave Bitch Kitty the fuck alone.

Your empty life of quiet desperation isn't because you're single, Ann.

It's because you're a horrible, repulsive person. I'm single and I'm living a full life of loud happiness. And thankfully you're not a part of it.

Good morning!


#FlashbackFriday: More Hot Pies Edition

A long time ago in a stunningly (ahem) appointed Wedgewood blue dining room far away, my ex and I—along with my visiting parents—used to host an annual pie party for 50+ Chicago friends to help kick off everyone’s holiday waistlines. We (mostly meaning my mom) would make (the oddly specific number) 17 from-scratch pies in about 10 assorted flavors and spend the next five hours gasping in horror as people tore into our beautiful culinary creations and ate them. But it was an awesome reason to haul out all the Christmas decorations in a timely manner, dust the expertly (ahem) installed frame moldings, remember where we’d been hiding the tablecloth and actually use the nice dishes. It was always nice to see our friends too, I guess. Especially the ones who stayed so long they felt compelled to help vacuum crumbs of perfectly (ahem) flaky pie crust out of the rugs.

Wednesday, December 13, 2017


1. When you move home from Chicago to Cedar Rapids three years ago, remember to cancel your Chicago renters' insurance.
1(a). Over the course of those three years, also be sure to notice that the monthly premiums for the renters' insurance that you should have canceled are still being automatically charged to your credit card.
1(b). Every freaking month.
1(d). Or maybe you're too stupid to have a credit card.
1(e). Or insurance.
1(f). Or nice things in general.
1(g). Because think of all the nice things you could have bought over the last three years with the THIRTY-SIX MONTHLY INSURANCE PREMIUMS YOU NEVER NOTICED YOU WERE PAYING AUTOMATICALLY ON YOUR CREDIT CARD.
1(h). Dipshit.

2. There is no Rule #2.
2(a). You're too stupid even to handle Rule #1.
2(b) We thought we raised you to be more responsible than that.
2(c). You're going to spend yourself into the poorhouse buying insurance you don't need for a place you don't occupy in a city where you don't live.
2(d). You'll probably die poor and alone in the street.
2(e). On the bright side, you'll be insured.
2(f). Just not the way you need to be.
2(g). Dipshit.

The Celebrity Appresident!

Dotard whines pants-wettingly about the media 25/8

Sadly, rudimentary spelling of the word still escapes him.

Oh, C4 pre-workout energy drink: 

We are finally reunited after my months-long system cleanse from your mysteriously electrifying, limb-shaking, skin-tingling powers. I have missed your Robitussiny attempt at blue raspberry flavor and the preternatural semi-opacity in which you hide your unholy alchemy. But you are now back in my life on your new rotation into my morning workouts, your possibly emasculating niaciny chemicals are coursing through my unwitting veins ... and my shoulders are somehow the only part of me covered in flop sweat. Welcome home!

In related news that will impress exactly nobody but me, as of this morning I am officially deadlifting 5x10 sets of 185 lbs. Rowr!


Good morning!