Ah, Delightfully Offensive Cartoons Make My Heart Glad

I had ice cream four times in two days and I feel like I’m dying.

I’ve wrapped myself in my 47lb furry bathrobe and have been horizontal for the past five hours.

When I’m lethargic, dyslexia takes the wheel and uses the monster truck for a Sunday drive over my motor skills. While trying to add No Doubt’s “Hella Good” to a playlist (shut up), I typed in “Hood Gel” and surprisingly still managed to find the song without having to retype it. Take pleasure in the small successes. Also, I think Hood Gel would be a great name for a gel that promises to cement your hair down so you can wear a hood and pull it off without ruining your hairstyle. Nvm, I just filed for the patent, sorry.

Needing a pick-me-up, I started looking for Tiny Toons videos, as one does when they are tired and need to refresh themselves mind, body and soul.

Thankfully, I found the perfect video. Now I can pinpoint the exact moment my childhood started falling apart.

This is probably why I started doing comedy. At least now I have an accurate timeline for my memoir.

My power just went out so I think that’s a sign that maybe I should get off my computer for 10 minutes and get up and walk around and maybe breathe clean air instead of mouth-breathing into my bathrobe collar that I have covering my entire face.

alright, darlings – inhale, exhale, smoochsmooch143

Reading is Fundamental and so is Writing Too, I Guess

Hey Klingons,

I found out today that there is a small publishing company accepting non-represented work to be considered for print. HOORAY! This is great news.

Also, the deadline is in exactly one month.

What the Christ is my game plan, you ask? I have no idea. I guess pick a subject? A theme? I’m leaning towards either my childhood traumas or the jobs I’ve hated. So really, shitting my pants as a child versus shitting my pants as an adult. Or I could write three hundered and fifty pages on how I’ve spent $75  on ice cream delivery in one week. You would spend that much too if you found out there was an ice cream delivery store open until 2am right up the street from you.

I’ve joined a couple of online writer’s groups and it’s been the most motivating experience. Every single day, people post all the great things they are working on and have had published. Meanwhile I’m thinking, Oh. You guys actually work on stuff? You use your ideas and work on them until you feel they’re finished? Interesting. What a concept. Maybe I’ll try that.

 The discipline of sitting down to write without any idea of what you even want to say terrifies me. With that being said, this blog is completely stream of conscious. As for the overall topic, throughout the day if I become aware  I’m consistently thinking of a particular subject, I’ll think Oh yeah, maybe I should write about that in my blog! Then return to picking my nose and swallowing my gum.

I have this welcome mat sized coloring pad I started using to write down (in crayon) all the working titles of my stories. If asked on the street to share a story from my life, I’d go glassy-eyed, start slurring my words, and tell  you about my favorite Beanie Baby (Sparky). When I’m home and need to come up with enough essays for a book in under a month, then the list of ideas and stories comes in handy. I suggest you also revert to your childhood and buy a coloring pad the size of refrigerator.

For the next few weeks, this blog will probably be turning into my sounding board for what should go into the collection and what should never see the light of day again. Buckle up kids because Click-it or Ticket but also some real family truths may surfacing. Let’s enjoy it while we can.

Okay, bye! smoochxoxo

 

FOURDEEN

Pick up the nearest book and flip to page 29. What’s the first word that jumps off the page? Use this word as your springboard for inspiration. If you need a boost, Google the word and see what images appear, and then go from there. 

Day 14 in a 30 challenge that ended a month ago.

“Kool-Aid” from Moshe Kasher’s Kasher in the Rye.

I googled it to see where in the lineup a Family Guy reference would place but surprisingly it came up with the “Kool-Aid Killer” hanging in the top spot. He allegedly poisoned his wife with Kool-Aid and prescription medicine. I was more of a flavored milk girl than a fruity beverage gal myself.

Speaking of prescription medicine, I had to take oxyhoohaa when I got my wisdom teeth out and nearly suffocated myself in my cat’s fur in my delirium. It was traumatic for both of us. She has white fur so Kool-Aid would stain her indefinitely. My hair is kaka brown so when any attempt at dyed tips ended in a tint I’d like to market as bloody stool sample number 40.

I’m tired, rub my butt.

❤ Lo

 

 

Do You Want to Build a Snowm–I Mean Write a Book?

I’ve seen Frozen three times, cut me some slack. 

Also, my laptop is about to die so this whole post may be a jumbled crapball. I COULD go downstairs and get my charger but shut up already, jeez what’re you my mom? Oh? You ARE? MOM STOP READING MY BLOG, GOD. 

But I digress.

I’ve been meaning to smash a bunch of my essays together and wrap some hard plastic around them and call it a book, but I’m going to take the time and energy and make it my best. The overall theme of it will be the tragedies in my life, infused with my own sick sense of humor, of course. I have some (true) stories, if you could voice your opinion on what you might like to read?

Some toupées: 

I mean topics:

1) Worcester, MA- Part One-In which my friend and I get chased by a homeless man. SPOILER: He jerks off on the car.

2) Worcester, MA- Part Two-In which we did not learn our lesson the first time, so we get caught in the crossfire of two rival street gangs. (Yes, guns. Bang, bang, shoot-em-up.)

3) The Dentist-Part OneIn which the dentist drops his drill and I attempt to swallow it.

4) The Dentist-Part Two– In which the dentist removes my wisdom teeth and also part of my nerve, leaving my face numb (forever).

5) The Accusal- In which my fellow kindergarteners accuse me of stealing the markers and drawing on the walls. But did I really do it?

6) Vacation From Hell: Mexico-In which we have no money, no clothes, and are driving with an insane man that only speaks in Beach Boys lyrics. 

7) College Graduation– In which I am in my driveway at 8:30am. Graduation starts at 9am. I am an hour and a half away. Do I make it in time? Some factors: My mother having diarrhea, makes me stop for anti-diarrheal medicine, I knock down the display. Does she shit in my car?

Those are just some of the stories I’ve wanted to tell for a while. Let me know!

K love you or whatever, my twinkling stars. 🙂 

 

Fake Face, Day 30

Hey Kling-dongs. 

That’s my new brand of plastic wrap with cartoon dicks all over it. To be used to cover the left over deviled eggs at your bachelorette party. 

Do people like deviled eggs? They seem like a staple at family parties. You see them arrive in their special little caddy but you never actually see people eating them. BUT, the mystery–there are never any left over because Uncle Marty throws his hands in the air and goes “awww who ate all the deviled eggs?!” and everyone laughs, except for Aunt Edy because she and Uncle Marty had a falling out years ago, in which Marty forgot about, but Edy still shoots stingy remarks about Marty under her breath to any female relative in near proximity. No one likes Edy, she should just let it go. 

But I digress. 

DAY 30.

BLOG CHALLENGE.

QUESTION: What’s in your makeup bag? (revs blow torch, lowers mask)

As a person who dumps more money into Sephora than should be legally allowed, you’d think I’d be able to talk about all the super great things I have in my 5 different makeup bags that turn me from 8 year-old boy to 40-something drag superstar. But alas, I’m still trying to pull off  the “She’s All That” look before she actually turns “All That.”

So why do you need 3 different gold eyeliners for all those New Year’s parties you’re not going to? BECAUSE.

What about this $50 smokey eye palette? I NEEDED it and Pinterest gave me a vague idea of how to use it, so leave me alone I just want to rock the two black eyes that gorilla gave me when he punched me at the zoo. 

I enjoy makeup, but anything above “you don’t look completely dead” makes me feel like a clown. Everything in moderation. Except for things with sugar in them. You can have extra of that. 

Anyways, new topic, I have half an episode left of the X-Files and the last movie before that chapter of my life comes to a close. It’s bittersweet because X-Files was a crutch for me, BUT I mentioned that I would be starting some new (relative term) shows like Twin Peaks, The Sopranos, The Wire, etc. AND GUESS WHAT? I got a request from a lo-lite (my nickname for anyone who has ever enjoyed any of my humor in any capacity) to live-tweet my thoughts on Twin Peaks. The idea that anyone would want my opinion or reaction to anything is extraordinarily flattering. SO THANK YOU!

ONE MORE DAY LEFT OF THE BLOG CHALLENGE! 

Lolo signing off.

Until next time, my Quispy Queens.

Mama’s Gotta Brand New Tooth

Hey skeebermeisters!

I got me a brandy-new tooth in my face hole.

I realize that I have many face holes, but it’s in my biggest face hole with the rest of my teeth.

Following a 3 year diet consisting of 6 cokes and 2 Hot Pockets a day, one of my teeth rotted out into oblivion.

I swear I have nice teeth otherwise, this was in my “tween” years where my essential bodily upkeep was not up to normal standards. Unless you consider glittery eyebrows and white eyeliner normal.

I can’t chew on that side of my face for week. I chew aggressively so hopefully the right side of my jaw doesn’t turn into one giant beefed-up muscle.

I’ll take pictures if that happens.

Until next time, scuba boobs!

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.

PSSST!

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.

PSSSSST!

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.

PSST!!!

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.

All Hope is Not Lost

My  poster I’ve been bitching about came today. YAY!

After a few obnoxious e-mails to the people at Random House (I’m sorry, I’m just paranoid) I got the poster for Maron’s new book, “Attempting Normal.”

Except it wasn’t signed. Fuck.

But I’m trying this new thing called “tipping the scales.” I have to try to have 51% good thoughts during the day, instead of you know, hating everything at every moment for the rest of all eternity.

It just so happens Marc (we’re on a first name basis because we are going to be best friends) will be doing signings in Boston for his book. Perfect opportunity for me to run up and kneel in front of his signing table like a child. (Remember that time I did that to David Sedaris?)

Well if you don’t it’s here—>https://lolokirby.com/2013/04/09/meeting-david-sedaris-but-really-this-time-part-three/

Maybe I can will into existence another precious moment between professor and fuckface.

Speaking of tipping the scales, I had 8 bowls of cereal today. Living life like that makes it really easy to be happy more than half the time.

Also, in the next episode I’m going to talk about how I think Greg Giraldo is haunting me.

Until then, my little clarinet players!

Animow

I’m wearing a jacket and leaned my elbow on the desk and it made a farting noise. Hehe.

But back to Animows. Today I was sitting at lunch, eating my second bowl of fiber cereal, which isn’t the best tasting, but it’s cereal and no one can just eat one bowl, unless you’re a witch.

I got to thinking about how fitness trainers and diet planners say not to reward yourself with food, because you aren’t an animal. Pardon me, while I hate all of that and drink a gallon of smashed up McDonald’s french fries. Firstly, yes I am an animal and secondly, I don’t think I want to know a person who doesn’t treat eating like a reward. That’s the whole point. Sure, it sustains life and that’s great but that only comes second to how fantastic shoving your mouth full of soda and strawberry doughnuts and pouring chocolate syrup down your face feels.

That’s how I start my day. I reward myself for getting out of bed and going to work by stopping at a coffee place and getting the largest vat of mocha iced coffee they have. If I didn’t do that, I’d be crying at my desk all day. Useless, sad, alone. But with my scrumpsh reward, I can somehow find the strength within me to live and do things like check my Facebook and watch RuPaul’s Drag Race and answer phone calls.

Another point is, it’s April. Everyone knows that April is the crusty butthole of the 12-month calendar year. It’s April, it’s raining, and it’s a Tuesday. Monday’s are better than Tuesday because you know they are terrible. Wednesday means we got through the bad part, Thursday means we can say YAY TOMORROW’S FRIDAY LET’S DRINK, and Friday means we get to sleep in Saturday. How can a person even live through a Tuesday without rewarding themselves with gourmet microwave popcorn their mother planted in a movie theater butter popcorn box because she’s a dirty trickster.

I see no other reason than to celebrate food and be enslaved by it’s glory.

Until next time, Wondersluts!

Meeting David Sedaris (But Really This Time!) : Part Three

I think I can finally make it through this post without sobbing.

Here’s the story.

The past few months I’ve been having a bit of a quarter-life crisis. It dawned on me, as I was sitting on the work toilet counting the dead flies caught in the fluorescent light, that I didn’t know what the hell I’ve been doing with myself for the past 23 years.

I’ve always been a sheep. I like  doing what I was told and begging people to tell me what to do. That meant I wouldn’t have to take responsibility if I sucked.

Thankfully, I finally had breakthrough. “I NEED TO DO SOMETHING WITH MY LIFE,” I shouted at my fly friends, startling my fellow employees outside the restroom.  I pulled up my pants and went back to my desk (don’t worry I wiped and washed).

Five minutes later, I got a text from one of my best friends. She asked if I had read Me Talk Pretty One Day. Being favorite of David Sedaris’ books, I told her it was my Bible. “I’m convinced I’m reading a book you wrote” her next message read. Naturally overdramatic, I sobbed and looked up David Sedaris show dates. It just so happened he’d be in Boston the next month. Click. Two tickets bought.

During my crisis, I visited some different people, who I like to refer to as I’m-here-so-you-don’t-ruin-your own life advisors. Naturally, in every interaction with a human being I had, I let them know I was going to see David. “Can you get some of your work to him?” one of the advisors suggested. I just sat there staring blankly. “Well, I guess I could.” I had four weeks to prepare something, I guess it was worth a shot.

It was an hour before I had to leave for the show and I was still staring at a blank word document. Shit.

I then unloaded the insults onto myself. “Lauren, you fuck! You have to leave. BUT YOU HAVE TO FINISH THIS.” I had never done something so bold for myself and I knew I’d have to throw myself down a flight of stairs if I didn’t bring something for this opportunity. So I wrote, and wrote, and wrote some more about a time I had find a way not to take a piss in my dad’s ashes (I’ll explain later) and edited it down to four pages of semi-funny shit, and flew out the door.

I picked up my friend and we drove into Boston, passing the venue David would be speaking at. There were hundreds of people outside the theatre waiting to get in. “Oh…other people are going to this?” The fantasy of me, my friend, and David, laying around in robes talking about what type of cheese we’d like with our tuscan flavored Triscuits, did not include the mod scene forming around us, fighting for their favorite types of cheese. The essay folded in my pocket burst into flames.

We got in the theatre and watched an amazing reading. When it was finished David said “I’ll be out in the lobby signing books after.” A collective swoop sounded and the entire auditorium made a dash for the doors. After the smoke cleared, my friend and I made our way behind the others, as we were pushed and shoved like we were passengers running the corridors of the Titanic.

“Welp, I guess we’re never going to find the lobby.” In my heart I felt like a moron for thinking I could fight my way through these people. We stopped walking amidst the chaos. Goddammit. We should probably just head home. At that moment, a man behind us shoved open a set of doors nearly invisible to the naked eye. Behind ehind them was the signing table.

I don’t want to say we tuck and rolled into the lobby, but I can’t really remember from all the tumbling. We claimed out place in line, 10 people deep. David came in, and we slowly made our way front.

He signed books and chatted with the other fans, and I tried to keep myself grounded in the moment. I have a tendency to let my mind go on autopilot (similar to a coma) and I don’t come out of it until the moment has passed. I wanted to be present when talking to him. I wanted to be professional and fun, but not “fan girl”. The couple in front of us left in what looked like slow motion, and David sat there waiting for us to move forward.

A normal person would have shaken his hand, gave him their book to sign, made a little small talk, thank him, and move on.

We ran up to him and said hello, and immediately I knelt down in front of him, like a child, and stared in his eyes. My friend held the conversation beautifully, and I made incoherent comments every so often. David liked my outfit, and confessed his displeasure of Cold Stone Creamery. I hate Cold Stone. I hate that when you tip them, you have to sit and take their singing as if you’re being rewarded. I didn’t make any witty comments though, I just shouted “YES.” Original. Professional. Fun.

As the moment wrapped up, he signed our books, and the nervous rash I developed flared up my neck and to my face. I stood up and like an ostrich, I shoved my entire head in my purse in search for the essay. I pulled it out (with my mouth? I’m not sure).

“I WROTE THIS FOR YOU!” I shouted, and shoved the folded chunk of paper at him.

“Oh. Thank you, I’ll read it later!” He said and smiled, as he stuck it into his back pocket.

I don’t remember what was said after that, but I know I stumbled away, my shirt see-through from the gallons of sweat I poured out.

I kept laughing hysterically out of nervousness the rest of the night. Myy friend and I talked and fantasized about our future visits (robe-wearing dates) with David. I dropped her off at her house, and as soon as I hit the highway to go home alone, I sobbed.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I sobbed the next day.

And I weeped a little today.

I hear that when you are around someone who does what they love, they emit a different kind of energy. I’m no new age hippie, but I like hummus, and every time David looked down at me, I couldn’t say anything. I couldn’t cry.

It was awesome.

I don’t know if I’ll hear back from him. I don’t think it really matters (Yes it does). I did my part, which was in a nutshell (teehee) to grow a pair. Sure, the essay wasn’t my best, but I’m the type of person that still makes my mom order the pizza so I don’t have to interact with anyone.

This was a huge step. What the hell have I been waiting for (aside from the pizza)?