In Which I Have Visions

Hey quackmonkeys,

It’s a little known fact, aside from close friends knowing, that I’m pretty intuitive. I get weird/accurate gut feelings about situations, I manifest people and items quickly, and I’m pretty good at those flash cards Venkman tests those kids with at the beginning of Ghostbusters.

But last night was extra woo-woo. I had a dream that my aunt slipped while out in the snow and had to go to the emergency room. She had to be hooked up to breathing machines, have X-rays, etc.

Pretty simple dream. Short and weird. I woke up, rolled over, and went back to sleep and dreamt that I was a French duck-lawyer, trying to solve my case.

I forgot about the dream and went to work. It wasn’t until later this afternoon, when my mom texted me to say that my aunt  (same accident-prone dream aunt) was in the emergency room, that I remembered it. She had to get her lungs checked out and do breathing tests for an injury she got while out in the snow.


What’s also weird is that I curled my hair and now I smell like burnt fur. I can’t wait to charm all the boys.

Anyways, peace-love-and duck-lawyers!

Lolo von Quackenthecases.

Don’t Cry




My inner monologue has been pretty dramatic lately.

I’ve been working a lot and trying to put more time and effort into my dreeEeaaAaams!

It’s been a very exhausting experience, but very fulfilling even if I’ve only been taking wittle itty bitty baby scabies steps.

ANOTHER huge time consumer has been that I’M MOVING!! (fireworks explode in the air)

I decided to tell my boss of 5 years that I will be moving in the spring time.

I had to go change my diaper after. I didn’t really think about it. I just started shouting across the office that I had an announcement to make and the words just kept falling out of my mouth like Gracie Lou Freebush drinking homemade hot chocolate. (Didja get that reference? Eh? EH?!)

I don’t think I handled it as professionally as I could have, but it was one of those situations that just sort of happened because my big dumb ice cream eating mouth doesn’t like holding secrets even if they are non-secrets like giving your boss 2 months notice because you like to keep the communication wide open like your big dumb ice cream eating mouth. Have I revealed to much about myself?

Okay, I love you, bye.

Proud Moments

Day 17! Blerg Cherhlerng.

What is my proudest moment?

Well, it certainly wasn’t last night.

I went to an open mic and bombed the fuck out of my set.

That’s okay though, I wanted to cry right after, but I woke up this morning not really affected by it.

I have no idea if I’m supposed to use “affected” or “effected” in that sentence. Help?


Anyways, my proudest moment!

I think it would be the time I gave David Sedaris a piece of my shit writing.

He probably gets that kind of thing all the time, but for me, I’ve always avoided doing things outside my comfort zone.

This has definitely been a year of breaking that whole pattern and it’s been great.


I think the other proudest moment hasn’t happened yet. That would be…

…my Showcase coming up on Monday!


I’ve been at the comedy school for over 2 months and all the work we’ve been doing is going to be presented at the Student Showcase!

I’m already proud that I started taking steps to doing more of what I love, which is stand up and comedy. Regardless of the negative feedback I may get (and with comedy-holy shit can the feedback be harsh) I’ve been powering through.

It might seem obvious to the rest of the world that following your dreams should be on the list of things to due while you’re alive, but it wasn’t on mine for a loooong time.

So yay for strides!

Well, it’s suppy time. Until next time my little gingerbread hens!

Crystals and Toe-Sucking

Hey guys, I might be a witch.

Lately I’ve been reading up on crystals and gemstones and their benefits. I have a piece of citrine, an emerald, and a little lapis lazuli (any Gilgamesh fans?).

I carry them around as lucky charms but I also read that keeping certain ones under your pillow will help you have happier dreams when you sleep.

WELL my friends, I did not put my crystals under my pillow last night and I had some pretty fucked up dreams. One of them included sucking the toes (which nails were painted blackish-purple) of a kid I used to like a few years back. There was lots of drag queens, Goldfish crackers, rainbow escalators, and a nighttime pool party.

It sounds traumatizing but I woke up laughing so I’m hoping I haven’t completely become unhinged. Although, I’m not sure if laughing means I am crazy or just understanding of the absurdity.

Judging by the titles of my last few posts, I guess it might be the former.

In other news, I am seeing a psychic this weekend!

It was either that or a therapist and the psychic was cheaper.

And they are usually better at telling people what to do.

Me make a decision for myself? Puh! Unless it’s food or clothing, I’ll take all the advice I can get.

Or this blog. This thing is stream of consciousness. I pick a topic and wipe my ass with it and see how you darling pooptarts like it.

I’m not going to put the crystals under my pillow again tonight and see if anything else kooky happens.

Until next time my Scruvy Fully Bloateds!

Please Haunt Me, Greg Giraldo

I’ve had a talent for willing bizarre things in my life. That includes both good and bad.

Some include:

  • Getting my favorite comedians to retweet me or mention me on a podcast.
  • Getting caught in the middle of a shootout.
  • Dancing around as a Van Halen girl on a movie set for 5 hours.
  • Having a homeless guy chase me through a parking lot and jangle his junk around while pointing at me.

All  instances that I followed coincidences to get to.

I like the idea of synchronicity and every time I’ve followed it, I’ve come out the other end with some sort of story to tell about it.

Greg Giraldo, an awesome comedian, keeps popping up.  In conversations, books,  and on TV. More than I’ve ever seen before, especially considering he died three years ago. I can’t turn a corner without someone mentioning him or some outlet referencing his stand-up.

It’s great, but it’s becoming unavoidable.

So I pulled up some video from his tribute special on Comedy Central. There’s a small segment of him describing his stand-up as “puckish.” I instantly thought of Puck from the Real World circa 1994. That and a Midsummer’s Night Dream poster with Michelle Pfeiffer on it, that hung in my 8th grade English class.

My ability to retain information has gone down since a six month stint in college, so I looked up “puckish.”

Essentially: “playful, in mischievous way.”

An adorable way to describe his comedy.

Then I thought to myself, I wish Greg Giraldo would haunt me and be my spirit guide in the world of comedy.

I thought on it for a while and thought of all the fun adventures we’d have.

Then I went and packed my crap up to go gym.

About ten minutes later, I went outside and opened the driver side door of my car and leaned across it. I threw my gym back to the passenger side, my ass is hanging out the door.


I turned around and looked at my house, thinking maybe my mom was trying to get my attention. Nothing was there.I turned back and started to climb into the car, ass still hanging out, I heard it again.


I turned around again, embarrassed, thinking someone was making fun of my ass and I hadn’t been sharp enough to catch them the first time. I turned back to the car.


I looked around again, at the door of the house, the windows, the neighbors houses, behind the cars. I felt like an asshole. Was someone playing a joke on me and my ass?

It wasn’t an animal, there was no one around, and I haven’t smelt burning feathers recently. It sounded like someone was trying to get my attention.

Awfully, PUCKISH, amiright?

I scrambled into the car, locked the doors, and drove on the lawn.

Could this be another stepping stone on the synchronicity trail?

I’m going to meditate more on this and I’ll let you know if I conjure up anything else.

Until next time, fart-ners.

Prom: A Child’s Tale of Beauty

Prom is an exciting time in most horned-up high schoolers precious little lives. I know I wanted to go the moment my 6th grade self discovered it’s existence in North American folklore. My mother had taken to buying me copies of “CosmoGirl” as “Seventeen,” in her argument, was for girls who were seventeen. Unfortunately, by the time I was seventeen, I had already passed the maturity level of figuring out what the most subtle ways of flirting at a carnival were, and what summertime toenail polish color would best coincide with my star sign (a nice sparkly orange for you Cancers). I really could have used those tips when I hit fourteen, but water under the bridge, I suppose.

However, there was a shining light in my mother’s contradictory parenting methods. I received a 500 page prom magazine, seven years prematurely.

I slapped that sucker open as I laid in bed, looking at all the different dresses and putting together the perfect outfit. There were some darling ball gowns and slinky satin numbers, but it wasn’t until I saw my beauty laid out before me like Kate Winslet on the chaise for Leo, that I knew what I wanted.

The dress was a halter in a muted shade of lavendar. The color found usually as the result of dumping all the food coloring dyes into a white bowl of frosting and stirring it up. Sigh. What’s that? It looks to have a sheen that gives off a rainbow effect once it catches light. Who made this dress, King Jesus? It’s perfect.

What’s more? It wasn’t just any old elegant dress. It was a two piece! Oh, to my delight. Nothing says magical storybook evening like fleshy, deli-ham, skin pouring over the top of the skirt.

That could be easily fixed. Fixed with clear, 5-inch platform heels that lit up when the wearer stomped-I mean floated across the dance floor.


Now, the outfit was fully planned from the neck down. Hm. Something was missing.

That’s right!

A tiara!

In case the other classmates didn’t understand the royalty that would be gracing their presence, the $8 dollar rhinestone tiara would make the vision complete. But what to do with that hair? A princess beauty couldn’t have a tiara sitting on top of some crusty old hairdo. No side sweep will do. Chignons are boring and sound edible. Then, like the light from a unicorn’s horn, a stroke of genius shone down. What hairstyle could possibly compliment such a stunning adornment atop my egg-shaped skull? It’s perfect! It only makes sense! It is the other half of the golden amulet!

A crown of cornrows, of course!

The crown of cornrows would meet the placement of the tiara (did the stars align or what?) then the rest of my hair would be fixed into two french braids that tied together at the ends.


With my forehead so taut, if I had blinked it would change the channel on the neighbors TV. There needed to be makeup shellacked onto this blank canvas.

There needed to be the lipliner, a dark mauve, which surrounded a plum (both in taste and color) lipgloss with gold sparkes. Blush needed to be applied in a circlular motion on the apples of the cheeks in a rich berry. Raspberry, blackberry, or even mashed boysenberry would do.

Then the eyes would need some focus. Simple and chic. White eyeliner to top those lids, followed by a slick coat of blue mascara. I needed to get those eyes to pop. To polish it all off, just a quick glide of maroon “Froot Loop” scented roll-on glitter right into the unplucked eyebrows. A staple in every makeup bag.

A sweet, sensual, Cinderella story in the making.

I don’t know where I went wrong, but I never did get my dream ensemble for prom. I went with something boring, and that includes the Chignon. I like to believe that somehow, somewhere, in a dimension call Skqlarnak, all the girls of the world are living out their dream prom, slow- dancing to Martin Page’s “In the House of Stone and the Light.”

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Normally, I’m not a “hey listen to me talk about my dream for 20 minutes and then analyze what it meant about my childhood and how my family dog, Puffy, never cuddled with me enough and now I’m emotionally damaged” type person, but I feel that if I can ensnare you with that giant run-on sentence, then you might as well stick around and read what I dreamt last night. Enjoy.

I was at a piano recital (Did I say dream? I meant nightmare.) with a male friend when he suddenly dropped  that pesky pencil he’d been holding, by my foot. Just then I realized that I had worn my khaki cargo pants and forgot to shave my legs! Oh God! This wouldn’t be such a problem, had dream me not had giant, muscular, tree-stump legs of a male black bear who never took up swimming so felt that the natural look was more suitable for his lifestyle. He bent down to get the pencil and noticed the furry trashcans coming out from the bottom of my Old Navy $10 Steal-Deals. The look of horror in his eyes had enough intensity to jolt me out of the sleep, wiping the cold sweat from my forehead.

“But Lolo, ” you may ask yourself, “what does that mean? What horrible buried past does that represent?”

I tore the covers off my legs and looked down. The wooly cylinders of sexless death were still there. I screamed.

Spring is here. Time to get out the straight razor and the blow torch. I’m talking to you, ladies.