Happy, Happy Weekend!!!!

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Reader 1:   Why is LK so happy?   She never wishes us a happy weekend!

Reader 2:    Yeah…Gee Wally, what gives?   She’s usually as ornery as a Haskell.  She puts the piss in pessimism! 

Reader 3:  That makes no sense.

Reader 2:   Well, in print it doesn’t.

Reader 1:   So, why then did you……?   It’s not even spelled the….  Oh never mind, but it is a wee bit disconcerting whenever this broad is in a decent mood, much less when she’s outright happy.

Reader 3:  Yeah, you’re right.   Something is up.  I don’t know what it is, but I think I should warn you all–gurd your loins!!!

LK:  Fear not, readers dear.   I am in a good mood and there will be no repurcussions as a result.

Reader 2:  Uh, did you get laid then?

LK:  No..and what exactly is “getting laid”?   I seem to have forgotten.

Reader 3:   Do we have a lottery winner in our midst?

Reader 2:  Did you meet a nice guy who’s loaded?

Reader 2:  Have you become a really successful prostitute?  Did poverty force you to swallow your pride…and that of about 6000 different men at 50 bucks a pop?

LK:  To answer all three of your queries:  no, no dammit and HELL no!    Settle down and I’ll explain why I’m smiling.

You see, I had a very important job interview with an entity under the auspicies of Harris County, of which Houston is the county seat.   It’s media related and will be a sizeable advance in scope, scoop, and sciput.   That’s what the ancient Hebrews called cash.    I don’t know, I’m lying.

Anyway,  the job would be a tremendous feather in le chappeau du Laurie.   Not only that, I think I could do a great job at this job.    More interviews are being conducted through Monday, but as I see it, I’ve got it in the bag.   After I walked out of the building, I looked around.   Lovely edifice…nestled amid the huge pines of NW Harris County.   As I walked to my car, I noticed that the building street number on the facade was not only low, but rather loose.   So, I burped sulfur as I donned horns, a tail and cloven hooves as I changed the numbers.

 How deviously delicious is that???  

(Inswert evil laugh with a clown photographed at a funky angle.  Like a scene out of “Batman”…the Adam West version, thank you!!)

 

Wanna know what I did.   Well, 4690 West Hughes is now 9064 West Hughes.   Potential candidates will never find that building….ever!!

This job is mine.   My vast journalist acumen be damned!!!   Sometimes, you just have to screw with fate.

And building street addresses.

In the meantime and before Judeo/Catholic guilt makes me feel otherwise, I am happy and content and yes, dare I say optimistic.

And my readers–both of you–will reap the benefits.  

My gift to you?   Wonderful, hoot-filled cartoons to read and forward to your likewise  skewed and deviant friends, until I return Monday….paler, weaker and 17 pounds lighter after a  gut gnawing, guilt and angst ridden weekend.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Happy Birthday, You Doll You!!!

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EDITOR’S NOTE:  IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR PHOTOS AND VIDEOS OF EXTREMELY GROSS PUS FILLED SPIDER BITES, PLEASE CLICK HERE!!

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As I type this, I will turn 50 in less than two months.

Unlike my good friend, Cheryl  (our birthdays are one day apart…same year), I have no qualms with reaching the half century mark….at least, not yeat. 

 I don’t look 50, but I sure as hell feel it.  When I wake up and attempt to get out of bed, I hear a cacophony of cracks and snaps and pops.   I’m like this big peri-menopausal bowl of Rice Krispies.

The audibles that my body often call without my consent are only half the battle though.  I have other symptoms of aging, too.  I tend to forget things these days; my bladder control has all the effectiveness of Mexico’s militia and my skin is getting dryer.   I eat Omega-3 vitamins like candy; I try to stay hydrated, yet my skin still looks like slightly buffered dry wall.  Thank God it’s not manifesting itself in wrinkles, but the dryness is still there.   Guess my once  OPEC  friendly oil glands aren’t producing like they used to. 

I’ve tried putting vegetable oil on my face and hands–something about the emollients (or so I’ve heard) is good for the skin.  Well, it is GREAT for your hands and arms.  You can see a visible difference in just a few days of application.   This ISN’T great for your face.   I applied vegetable oil before going to sleep for two nights.  You’d be surprised by how easy this stuff is to rub in.   While my hands and arms were softer, the oil on my face, understandably served as  nothing but zit fuel.  Intellectually, I knew putting this on my face  was wrong, wrong, wrong, but I was desperate.   My face ended up looking like the back of a white chocolate Nestle’s crunch bar.   One pimple was so big it had a Black Diamond trail on it’s north slope .

But I terminated the oily irrigation source and applied some of the same shit Jessica Simpson puts on her facial version of the Pyrenees and then a day or two later, I popped that huge pimple of mine with Vesuvian like results, which were satisfying.

Ever noticed that women are crazy for popping pimples and/or protruding cysts?  Why is that?   We don’t care what it is–blackheads, white heads;  big, hulking bulges on the backs of  our husbands or boyfriends.  We pinch, they wince and we push out this mass of ugly that both enthralls  and disgusts us.   We push the bulk of the evil out from the depths of the dermis, then we scream and act horrified,  but uultimately, we  come back for round two.  God forbid we should ever get our hands on a nice, juicy primed Brown Recluse spider bite.

So, dear readers, I face my 50th head on, but this noble, “hold-my chicken neck attached to my head high but I’m faking” bit, met with difficulty today.   One of Satan’s spawn  sent me a video just to  remind me, not of my mortality,  but that at age 50, I’m a hell of a lot closer to staring it in the face than I was a mere year ago.

Here’s the gist of this rambling nonsense: Cheryl and I both turn 50 this year….and so does Barbie.   I wasn’t much of a doll girl, Cheryl was, she had Barbies, I didn’t.   If I had dolls, they had to do something human-ish;  they had to walk, talk, burp, cry or have an intact , fully operational Mattel engineered excretory system.   My dolls had to  produce foul Infamil-like toy doo-doo.    Oh, I had imagination, I just dug the magic of technology in my play things.

Even so, I’m the same age as Barbie and I’ve realized that she, as a former pilot, gymnast, debutante, homemaker, model, attorney, vice cop,  Madoff’s PR consultant, haberdasher, astronaut, mechanic,  moil, stewardess, Teamster, toll booth worker, gay advocate, teacher, princess, game show host, post Civil War Carpetbagger,  junkie/whore, doctor, nurse, TV personality, corporate mogul, movie star, AFL-CIO lobbyist, pool boy, a mail woman,  politician and depression era wet nurse,  has had a far, far more successful life than I have. 

And she did these things…while consistently maintaining a 1.3″ waist…that Acrylonitrile Butadiene Styrene’d bitch!!!

So, watch this if you will and effort to feel empathy for my nearly 50-year old anguish at this sad, sad comparison.

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Wanna