Zombie Apocalypse for Dummies

Surgery is my favorite thing in the world.  I’m not having surgery, and I haven’t had surgery recently, but today I was reminiscing about how the only time I ever get any decent sleep is during surgery.  AND after surgery, the doctor comes in and is all like “can I get you some toast” and I’m like “duh.”  Then he even lets me pick a flavor of jam and also when I get home my mom is all like, “would you like some vicodin and Chinese food?”  Basically, 90% of the good things that happen in my life occur about three hours post-op.  I’ve only had surgery twice and it was on my pinky fingers.

This has nothing to do with my story, but I’m tired.  In fact, I’m SO tired that I sent several family members a nonsense underwear-related email.  Stockings are for underwear and toothpaste, and I wanted to get this right.

“Do you want special Christmas underwear?  I can only assume that Christmas underwear would make you feel all tingly from the magic of Christmas being so near your butt.  I don't know what I meant by that.  I should stop studying and go to bed.  And I'll get you regular underwear.”

I haven’t slept in a week.  Also, beware, anyone in my family...beware of Christmasy underwear.

I HAVE ONE MORE STORY BEFORE MY REAL STORY!

I was at Best Buy purchasing a few non-undergarment-related presents.  I had to stand in line for about an hour because that is what Christmas is all about.  By the time I reached the front of the line I was sweating shining with Christmas magic and grumpy not grumpy.  One of the Best Buy employees was sorting us into lines. 

DIALOGUE REENACTMENT!

Employee: Hey KIddo!

Me: Kiddo?  I’m like...married and crap.

Employee: **Squints at me, puts both hands on her hips, bends down and stares directly into my eyes** Does somebody need a cookie?

Me: **Pouts** Yes.

The moral of the story is...take cookies from strangers.  I assumed the cookie was poisonous, but I ate it anyway because I was hoping for surgery.  Also there is a very age-confused woman working at Best Buy.

ACTUAL STORY!

I feel like complaining.  Like complaining about the Zombie Apocalypse.  Because it’s stupid.  I think I am in a bad mood because I have two different brands of contacts in my eye and one is thicker than the other and you should probably pity me because I’m like Quasimodo except instead of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, I’m the Bumpy Eye of My Particular Apartment Complex. 

Anyway, more often than one would expect, I am asked silly questions like, “Who would win in a fight: zombies or unicorns?  What about zombies or vampires.”  And I reply with, “Let me answer your question with a question.  Is there any trick to remembering how to spell “breath” versus “breathe?”  Then no ones’ questions are answered, and I have probably written a lot of awful papers in which I “took a deep breathe.”  Also, zombies will never win anything.  Here’s my book “The Zombie Apocalypse for Dummies.”

 I hope you all have a very neutral holiday,


-Whitney


PS A huge "thank you" to John from Strange Weapon of the Week, for some blogging tips.  Go check out his site if you want to learn about awesome things like vomit guns.  Seriously.  It's a thing.

‘Tis the Season of Disillusionment and Squandered Dreams.

As a little girl, I was always kind of sensitive and anxious and didn’t really like to be away from my mom’s side for very long. 

One year, a few weeks before Christmas, my dad was out of town so my mom had to do all of the shopping herself. She was about to leave me in the care of my big brother and sister--which was in and of itself enough to scare the pants off of any child. These were the people that had once tied me up inside of a laundry basket and left me there, and had also at another time nearly blinded me with bathroom cleaner spray...and let’s not forget the time they slammed my finger in a door hinge!!! But I digress.

I really didn’t want my mom to leave that day, so I kind of threw a nasty fit that was probably inappropriate for my age. I really don’t remember how old I was, but I was probably just a little bit older than I would admit if I did.

My mom quickly got fed up with my amazing display of drama, and burst out with,

THERE.

IS. 

NO. 

SANTA CLAUS!!!!!

**picture of my mom that doesn't really look like my mom.

She went on with, "Do you know how your presents get under the tree? I put them there!! And the only way for you to get presents this year is for you to shut up and let me go shopping RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!"

My mom tells me this  story every year, despite the fact that I remember it quite vividly without her help.

Bah humbug.

Happy Christmas, everyone.


-Rachel

Timmy, Whaddya Tase?

Classes are all finished now, and I only have three finals next week, so I think I win.  Every semester around this time I get stressed out and threaten to quit school and do something ridiculous for the orphans.  This year I plan on quitting school and opening a classy bowling alley. 

Me: Ryan, I want to quit school and open a bowling alley.

Ryan:  Please think about what you’re saying. Do you really want to associate with the “bowling crowd?”

Me: Rednecks need love too, Ryan.  But, I’m not going to associate with them, I am going to “own” them.  It’s for the greater good.

Ryan:  Mullets are not for the greater good.  They are all business in the front and a party in the back.

Me: WAIT. A. MINUTE.

Ryan: What?

Me:  CLASSY BOWLING ALLEY.  There will be martinis and a discotheque.  That’s what kids are into, right?

Ryan: Discotheque?

Me: I’m pretty sure Obama said something like that.

Ryan: Where?

Me: In Time Magazine.

I’m really looking out for the children.

REAL STORY

Since “LOL 4 Dummies”  seemed to force me to threaten many people with free boats teach many of you an important lesson, I thought that I’d continue with the “4 Dummies” series with “The Zombie Apocalypse 4 Dummies.”

THEN, one afternoon I was wasting time on YouTube, and searched “Taser,” (don’t question my antics) and from the videos that popped up, it became apparent to me that someone needs to teach people what should and what shouldn’t be tasered.  tased.  tasered.  tased.  I am currently setting my “4 Dummies” efforts aside to dabble in children's literature.  This first book is really moving is titled “Timmy, Whaddya Tase?”

You might have to click on the pictures to read the text.  Sorry it's so small, but I'm an author, not a magical make text bigger wizard.

See?  I'm an American hero.

-Whitney

PS When I gave you my twitter name and was all like, "hey, follow me," I didn't mean for you to open a new twitter account with the names like "Cinnamon DeepLusty,"  take a topless picture of yourself, and THEN follow me on Twitter. 

PPS I want to do some serious pimping out of this blog.  I know NOTHING about html stuff, so if anyone is willing to help me out, shoot me an email.  I don't really have money, but I'll give you my firstborn. Ryan.  a shout-out for your blog or something.

The Stache Stash That Discourages Friendship

This post is going to be short because I’m going to ROFL Reduce Optimism in Foreign Lands.  That won’t make any sense unless you’ve read this.  But seriously, this is going to be short and possibly unfunny because I’m tired from spending my morning conducting a choir of 45 girls who were probably all judging me for what I was wearing really impressed with my skillzs.

I thought I’d introduce you all to my Stache Stash.  What’s a Stache Stash you ask?  It is what happens when you get married when you’re 20. It’s not a disease.  Hold on, and I’ll explain.

STORY

I had this conversation about 42 times after I got back from my honeymoon:

Friend: Oh my goodness, how was your honeymoon!?  I bet it was like so totally super romantic!!!!! LOL!

Me:  LOL OMGEE IT LIKE SO TOTALLY WAS We bought fake mustaches. 

Friend:  Uh, what?

Whitney:  It’s really nice because when I put one on you can’t even tell who I am.  Plus, it emphasizes the physical similarities between myself and Andy Reid.

Friend: ...

Whitney:  Umm, I’ll be right back.

And then I put on one of my fake mustaches and none of my 42 friends ever recognized me again.  They also never tried to call, so I put them on my special list because I’m sure they’re all very busy.

All of the mustaches are now stuck on the mirrors of my car.  If you are ever in trouble with the law, let me know because I’ll come rescue you and hook you us with an array of disguises.  Here, look at my pretty pictures.

You can put them on the mirror so you can see how awesome you look being in disguise

I do have a story though about how the Stache Stash does not help me make friends because sometimes I forget about the Stache Stash and how it usually requires a small explanation.

STORY 2

Once upon a time, I was giving a girl from school a ride to her apartment.  The sun was shining, so I lowered my mirror to block the sun...thus revealing Stache Stash.  Then the following happened:

*Girl eyes Stache Stash and looks a little scared*
*I think one thing, but says something else completely out of context*

Me: It’s okay.  I’m married.

Girl: Oh, how nice.

Me: No, I mean it’s okay that I have fake mustaches in my car because they half belong to my husband and also they help disguise us and emphasize the physical likeness between myself and Andy Reid.

Girl: You can pull over here.

Me: I’m normal!

Girl: You can pull over here.


Friendship averted earned.

-Whitney

Crouched down in secrecy

*UPDATED* Tina Fey Did Not Comment on My Blog and I am Saving All of the Birds

I did have a favorite comment this week!

“Anonymous said...
Whitney I love you”

Anonymous can be anyone, so naturally I’m assuming it is Tina Fey.  I was going to chisel her an award on a sheet of solid gold, but I don’t have a chisel.  So I’m going to write her an awkward very heartfelt letter.

Dear Tina Fey,

Today I had this conversation with my husband:

Me:  Look at me playing with the cat AND stirring macaroni.  I’m multitasking!

Ryan: But are you also pooping? That’s what Tina Fey would do.

Me:  You’re right.

**Several seconds pass**

Me: Umm...don’t come in here.

Tina, THAT is dedication to your advice.  And THIS is a picture you being a little risque and cartoon me not being very risque because I can’t draw that.  I look a little scared, but I think that's healthy.

I saw the other day that you anonymously commented on one of my blog-posts.  There is no need to be anonymous, Tina.  How are we going build an everlasting friendship if we’re both continually sending anonymous mail to each other? I have a picture of your face tattooed on my bicep.  And, people who leave comments on my blog are practically family, so I thought I’d share one of my irrational fears with you.  I am afraid of icicles falling off of buildings and stabbing me in the part of my brain that controls bladder function.  Or like...finger nail growth rate.  Something awful.  For this reason, I have added a hardhat to my Christmas list.

Whitney

PS  I would also like you to know that I watched you receive the Mark Twain Prize for American humour, and I thought your speech was very racist prolific.  

ACTUAL STORY

For those of you who aren’t aware, I have spent the past month painstakingly plagiarizing writing a research paper which led me to write two incredibly valid emails to Aquaman and the United States’ Congress.  Neither responded, but that’s not the point.  The point is that we can now deduce that Aquaman is dead. 

Anyway, my actual assignment was to write an eight-page research paper about something to do with the BP oil spill.  I asked my teacher if I could write about how I think Aquaman died from the oil spill and maybe also I’d throw in something about birds.  She said, “How about just the bird part?”  And then her eyes got kind of glassy, and I can only assume that she was remembering how, earlier this semester, I turned in a paragraph about how I sometimes run outside to yell at birds if they wake me up too early.  Then I’m pretty sure I watched her try to figure out how to get me transferred to another class so late in the semester.


That was a recap.  Now onto the new stuff.  I researched birds, and like, all the birds are dying, you guys.  Some people have even quit their jobs to go down to the Gulf of Mexico to clean the oily birds.  So I decided that I really should do something for nature since it is always there for me when I turn on Animal Planet when I run twenty yards, walk another twenty yards, and then post on as my facebook status “just ran like 5 miles!”.  I wanted to do something for birds in particular since they have been a part of my life for the past couple of weeks.

What could I do though?  All the birds have migrated, so I can’t go feed them or anything.  I sat at the window and stared up at the trees like you would expect in the post break-up scene of a movie that has the word “sleepover” in the title, while I contemplated what I could do for the birds that they would appreciate once they got back in the Spring.  Looking up at the trees made me think about woodpeckers, and that’s when the brilliant idea hit:  woodpeckers make holes in trees.  I have no idea why they do this, but it really doesn’t matter.  Woodpeckers like hole-y trees, and I can make hole-y trees.  I armed myself with a fork and headed outside to make some tree holes.  I figured no one would believe me so I asked my mom to take some pictures.  This is how a couple of those conversations went down:

Mom

Me: Mom, I really need you to come outside and take a picture of me stabbing a tree with a fork.

Mom:  Okay, but we have to do it now because I need to leave.

Ryan

Me: Today I had my mom take a picture of me stabbing a tree with a fork.

Ryan: Good.  Did you know we’ve almost been married for one year and four months?

You guys, people are learning to tune me out and that terrifies me is probably for the best.

But here is the picture of me stabbing a tree for the birds:

Now I have to start writing a new paper.  The paper has to be an argument, so I’m all set to argue about why I should not have to pay for tampons politics?.

-Whitney

PS I’m thinking about writing a eulogy for Aquaman, so if you’d like to contribute a little something, leave a comment with your final words to Aquaman, or shoot me an email at rachelandwhitney@gmail.com.

PPS  I’m starting a “Zombie Apocalypse 4 Dummies,”  but I have a lot of exams this week, so you guys will have to be patient.


PPPS  Some people have asked if Claire's ever responded to my email.  They did not, but they are seriously going to regret it when all of the twelve year-old girls are clamoring about "baton head."

PPPPS  I finally got on the Twitter train. Wbradlaaaay is my name or whatever you call it.  If you say some "@" me, it will probably take at least two months for me to get back to you, because I don't know how to use "@" yet.


**UPDATE**  People have left me comments and sent me email claiming that they are Tine Fey, so I think you all need to comment or send me an email give me a reason WHY you are Tina Fey, and then I'll pick a winner and thou shalt be crowned TINA FEY.

-Whitney

Also, you can be expecting a post very soon about my "stache stash" so stay tuned or else *very intimidating threat* 

Awkward encounters and Amish people

The title of this, I realize, might be rather misleading. I did not have an awkward encounter with Amish people. I had an awkward encounter with a different kind of person than an Amish person. Not that Amish people are .......different......well, yes they are. Shut up.

Anyways, this weekend, I had the immense pleasure of meeting the friend of a mutual friend at the aforementioned mutual friend's party, and this friend...the one that...I was not previously acquainted with................could I have worded this more confusingly? No. I think not. Regardless, we'll just say I met this guy at my friend's party, and he said to me, "Hey, you're one of the writers of that website, aren't you?? I'm a follower!" To which I replied awkwardly, "I..uh....yes....I am that.....ummm...I'm uncomfortable..."

And then I got kind of overwhelmed by Party Peoples and went to hide out for a half hour in my friend's bedroom and text my mom. Because I know how to do a party right, suckas!

Anyways, awesome guy whom I had the pleasure of meeting, I'm sorry that was so awkward! I am even more sorry that I seem to have irrevocably forgotten your name....which is not cool of me. Please don't un-follow our blog because I have a terrible memory and am a sucky people person. Meanwhile, I am going to rename you Travis. While I don't remember your real name, I definitely remember that Travis is NOT the correct one, but it's too late. You will forever be Travis to me. And Travis, I want to congratulate you for being the very first Chunky Knubby Navel fan that I have met without having been acquainted prior to the launching of this blog, let alone without having nagged you to click the "follow" button. My mom hasn't even clicked the "follow" button. Meh. Oh well, at least she texts me when I am at parties and miss her. Unfortunately, Travis, I have no reward to offer you for being my first whatever it is I just said you were....and not even this Honorable Mention really counts because no one knows who I'm actually talking about.

But anyways. Thanks Travis. Feel free to comment and tell me your real name and I will probably continue to call you Travis because now it's what I remember.

Moving on. I haven't posted in quite some time.....partially because I am too busy doing important things like painting my fingernails purple, then getting bored with purple and switching to blue, then getting sick of that and going back to purple....and right now you are not getting illustrations because I just put on a fresh coat of purple and I have to be very careful typing and therefore will have no time left to do justice my masterful illustrating skills.......so you get lots of fun words, yaaay!

But one of our followers sent me this message the other day:

"Dear Rachel,
While I adore posts from our good friend Whitney, I am saddened at your lack of postage on ChunkyKnubbyNavel as of late. It is distressing to me and I wish you would post again. Or else I will have to start a competing blog and out-blog you.
The end.
Your affectionate sister Liz."

I remember Liz's name so there's no need to give her a fake one...but if I had any reason to do so, I'd probably call her Penelope. But instead I'll just say Liz. It's shorter and easier to type.

Liz's note made me feel kind of guilty and sad, but it only lasted like four seconds because no one really listens to their sister. Come on. You don't listen to your sister either, Liz.  Just admit it.

So I have not had many exciting things to post about. My time has been occupied with work, which is running out of funniness because office humor can only go so far before you just want to slam your head into the copier and shut the lid down on it until you are unconscious, and maybe, if you somehow convince them that it was an equipment malfunction, they'll give you disability pay. But that's not funny. It's just sad, with maybe some free money, which is neither funny nor sad.

So when I am not at work, I am usually pestering my dad and watching movies with both my parents. 

Tonight I watched this old movie with Tim Allen and Kirstie Alley about Amish people. It was not as hilarious as my mom had led me to believe. So I got bored halfway through and went upstairs to make my bed (at nine o'clock at night, because I am too lazy to make my bed in the morning but I am really OCD and hate getting into an unmade bed....so every day, for the past 12 or so years, I have made my bed at night.) and tried not to think about how much I had to pee because I had just painted my nails and if I went pee I would have to wash my hands and that would ruin my nails so even though I'd had a hearty glass of whole milk and a cup of tea, I had to hold my pee so as not to ruin my nails. 

Whoa, wait a minute. I was talking about Amish people. Not pee. I don't understand the fascination with Amish people. There's like a trillion Christian novels about Amish people, which, if you think about it, is like the worst set up for an intriguing plot, because how exciting can their lives really be? Wouldn't excitement and drama defeat the purpose of being Amish? I have been at times compared to Amish people...because I am homeschooled. Ok, they're not the same. Doing math homework on your couch and reading classic novels for fun may make you a bit of a dweeb, but it's not the same as being Amish. I don't make quilts or wear headcoverings or churn butter or anything like that. 

So as I was watching this movie, I said to my parents, "I'm glad we're not Amish. Amish people are weird."

To which my mom replied, "Well, we're weird."

And then, in unison, my mom and I both said, "But not as weird as Amish people....."

And before you get upset about how intolerant and socially unacceptable everything I just said is, calm down. They're Amish--they don't have the internet. They'll never know.  

I realize that this post has absolutely no plot cohesion or even a solid ending, but it's over now, because I still haven't peed yet, and I think my nails are dry.

--Rachel

PS Brian Vulcan, I don't know you, but you have a cool name. 

LOL 4 Dummies

ALL CAPITAL LETTERS WHICH WILL GRAB YOUR ATTENTION EVEN THOUGH I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING INTERESTING TO SAY.

So I didn’t really have a favorite comment this week, so you all lose.  However, I did get a comment that complimented me AND insulted me in about 3-ish sentences which is kind of mean a skill.  I thought about making an award for this insult/compliment complisult, but instead a just wrote “good job” on the back of an old receipt that I found in my pocket.

“This is completely off-topic, but chunkyknubbynavel almost made me piss myself laughing. I just thought you should know. Your artwork is much better than anything I could do, which actually isn't much of a compliment. Sorry.”  -That Ain’t Kosher

Thanks and unthanks, my friend!

ACTUAL STORY

Internet language has always been a frustrating topic for me.  I think it is because I believe that the English language is some totes magotes wicked sweet lingo affective if used correctly.  Actually, I think I might just be bitter because it wasn’t until a few months ago that I actually learned what ROFL meant, but I didn’t want anyone to know that I thought ROFL meant “Reading On Front Lawn” I didn’t know how to use ROFL, so I used it anyways.  No one ever corrected me because all of you are jerks.

Example 1
Friend: Hey, want to go grab some dinner.
Me: No, I can’t, man.  I gotta ROFL and ROFL
“Read Oedipus for Lecture” and “Rescue Orphans from Lightweight boxers” 

Example 2
Friend: I’m balding.
Me: Omg, ROFL.

“Rogaine Omits Follicle Losses”

Basically, I’m very helpful and heroic...acronymically.  Which is a WIJI (Word I Just Invented).

A few days ago, my anger at internet language exploded, which consequently caused two people to go without dessert because I’m that powerful.

Texting:

Me:  Hey!  What’s going on?
Friend: Eating dinner lol

No one laughs about eating dinner because eating dinner isn’t funny unless you’re eating dinner with midgets I mean little people.  Then I turned green, ripped my shirt off like the Hulk, found a new shirt, and texted my friend’s mother and told her not to give my friend any dessert because my friend is an idiot.

Friend’s Mom:  But she loves dessert lol
Me:  You can’t have any dessert either.
Friend’s Mom: Okay.

I’m influential.

So I wrote the most powerful eight page novel of this generation a stupid book about shirtless vampires.  It is called “LOL 4 Dummies” because I also hate when people use numbers instead of words and so when I use “4” in my title, I am being hilarious.  Appreciate it.

I'm going to be a billionaire.

If any of you dare to leave me comment that just says “lol,” I will figure out your address, and mail you a letter that says you won a free boat, but you WON’T HAVE WON A FREE BOAT. You will be sad, and I will win.

-Whitney

...I Probably Shouldn't Have Said That?

This is going to be short because I have to take a nap write a paper.  I promise a longer entry soon.  With poorly-drawn pictures!

Last night, Ryan and I had a coupon for a Chinese restaurant downtown.  We had to wait a very long time for a table, so naturally we were both getting pretty racist hungry.  When I’m racist hungry, my brain to mouth filter starts to malfunction.  I was already on a role of saying stupid stuff since, one night earlier, Ryan had seen my non-filtered ambien mode. 

Ryan: I made chili, do you want a bite?

Me: I hate chili.

**Takes bowl from Ryan and eats all of the chili**

Me: I hate chili.

**Begins conversation with lamp**


Anyway, we finally got a table at the restaurant, filter mode was off, and Ryan decided to bring up WWII.

Ryan: So what do you feel was accomplished in WWII?

Me: What?

Ryan: You said you enjoyed talking about something serious.  WWII is serious right?

Me: Uh, yeah.  I guess it is.  What did I feel was accomplished in WWII?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me:  Well, we stopped Germany from becoming a world super power, and also it led to the basic plot scenario for Saving Private Ryan. Basically, it is now the plot for about 80% of all movies and video games.  WWII was probably the greatest thing to ever happen to us.

Someday soon I am going to get shot in the face by a veteran a stern talking to.

-Whitney

PS  I'm not racist at all, and I think WWII was awful, so please don't yell at me.

Dear Congress and Aquaman

This might be a lot of reading, but I believe in you!  Much more than I believe in myself.




Oh, you guys are just the best.  There is nothing like taking a break from hours of mind-numbing homework to learn that you were very close to being the cause of unplanned urination.

“I almost peed when I read your latest blog.” -Tabbatha Renea Maria Plomaritas

So once again I will be presenting an award since this is my favorite comment of the week.

I need to clarify that I did not spell “a lot” as “alot.” It is just smashed together.  I also found something new that I am awesome at drawing besides bald eagles and stars: a swirly.

I’m sorry that is has been so long between posts, but school is making it so when people ask me how I am, I just kind of grunt at them teaching me valuable life lessons.  Right now I should be writing a research paper about the BP oil spill.  I’m having to resist the urge to write about how Kevin Costner created a real-life Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that would clean all the oil while all of America sang a rousing rendition of “Toot Sweets,” but I have a feeling that my idea would be stupid brilliant not taken well. I also thought it would be hilarious important write about why Aquaman hasn’t done a blasted thing to save the turtles and also maybe why hippies haven’t sacrificed their bodies by using themselves to plug the leak.  Where are my dedicated hippies!?  Chugging soy milk and selling me water in paper cartons isn’t really helping any of us now, is it?

I’m going to write a letter to Aquaman.  And maybe Congress. Then I will hand in the letters I’ve written instead of my paper to my professor, and once again she will tell me to go sit in the hall, but that I can always come back inside if I calm down.

I just called Ryan.  To tell him that I was writing a letter to Aquaman.

Me: “So I am writing a letter to Aquaman.”
Ryan: “Okay.”
Me: “But I looked him up, and he’s like, really lame.  I don’t know how he could help with the oil spill.”
Ryan: “He could plug it with his butt.”

He doesn’t question me AND he provides an even dumber idea than I had????  I definitely married the right dude.

LETTERS
This is my letter to Congress:

Dear Congressmen (and women.  You all look very nice in your pant-suits today!),

I figured that is it my duty as an ignorant 20-something year old American to tell you what to do about this whole oil spill thingy we got goin’ on.  My very educated suggestions come from the advertising on facebook years of research.  I have come to learn that the spill has essentially been stopped.

However, I drink soy milk.

Whitney=Soy milk
Soy milk=Hippies/Lactose Intolerance/Lactose Intolerant Hippies
Hippies=Overly concerned about nature, but not so much about how they smell

By the transitive property:

Whitney=Overly concerned about nature, but not so much about how I smell.

So merely stopping the leak is not enough to please me or the cows that now have uncomfortably large udders because of me not drinking their milk.

Congress, I, a very concerned citizen, suggest that you use the bat signal assign your finest biologists the task of finding Aquaman and making him clean to oil spill.  If you’re not willing to find him yourself, I simply need a resurrected Sam Quint, and I also need a boat.  And sequins.

Obviously the best citizen,
Whitney

PS What’s Tina Fey’s address?
PPS I read yesterday that Sarah Palin got to add a word to the dictionary.  “Refudiate?”  I’d like you to refudiate her refudation and have you add my word into the dictionary.  I’d like it to be: “hicktanglo.”  If you have “hicktangloed,” then you have tied up a cowboy with his own lasso.  Thanks.

LETTER
This is my letter to Aquaman:

To whom is may concern (That’s you, Aquaman),

Earlier, I wrote this letter to you on paper, but when I went to mail it to you, via the ocean, the paper disintegrated because, Aquaman, I am an idiot.  I hope you can accept messages etched by my teeth on a slab of rock because this is the best that I can do. Don’t get picky now, Aquaman.

If you weren’t already aware, billions of gallons of oil have been leaking into your ocean over the past seven months or so.  Since you have not responded, I can only assume that you are dead and my two front teeth that are now ground down into tiny stumps from carving this message have been wasted.  Aquaman, please send me two replacement teeth.  Shark teeth are preferable.

My husband suggests that you get off of your butt and then use it to plug the oil leak, but don’t listen to him because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about 1) because the leak has stopped and 2) “butt-plugging” is not one of your listed powers. I, on the other hand, know that you possess the power to sense the primal emotions of aquatic creatures through "The Clear."  Do I have any idea what that means?  No I don’t, Aquaman, because I just Googled you about 30 seconds ago.  However, it sounds as if you know when your fish friends are sad, and let me tell you what, Aquaman, oil makes fish really sad. They are so sad that they are dead.

I would like you to consider this a threat:  I have emailed congress asking them to resurrect Sam Quint, and the two of us are going to team up to catch you by throwing sequins into the water because from your super outfit, I can deduce that you will totally like, come to the super shiny things that will make you look fabulous.  Once you’re caught, Sam Quint, you, and I will get super drunk and compare our scars.  There may also be singing.  But the singing will be in English, Aquaman, not in dolphin.  We will probably sing “All the Singles Ladies” in three-part harmony.  You should have plenty of time to prepare.

Take care (of the oil please),

Whitney

PS I found this picture of you.  Awkward teen years, Aquaman?

Well, I think I just earned an A.

-Whitney

UPDATE:  We now have a fan page on facebook, so look us up if you'd like!

Whitney’s Interaction with Jehovah’s Witnesses **UPDATED**

I was trying to think of something interesting to post, when I realized that all I had done today was 20 minutes of homework before I got distracted and spent about an hour debating with myself whether or not  “cushions” was actually spelled “cutions,” and I then remembered that I own a dictionary. 

I actually managed to start my homework, but then I got sidetracked and wanted to know if my conducting baton could actually stab someone because musical murder is probably the artsy-est type of murder wrong.  So then I poked my dog with my baton to see if it would even hurt him tickle, but he didn’t mind and then he wanted an ice cube.  Then I never practiced conducting because I realized that I probably would never be a conductor, and instead I would use my baton for stabbing tickling or assisting in some sort of up-do hairstyle.

Oh my goodness you guys, I’m going to be famous.  May I introduce you to “The Baton.”  Hip enough for prom, conservative enough for Bible study!

I’m seriously going to email Claire’s.

Here is my email to Claire.  I let you know if she responds:

You have to click on it.

And this is why I most certainly will be failing my midterm tomorrow.

Now I’m wearing sweatpants which is my most favorite thing besides all food, and I am eating my “lean” chicken alfredo lunch that came in an unopenable (spellcheck says that’s not a real word) box, and it is tasting a lot like someone shredded cardboard and dunked it in non-fat mayonnaise.  I’m realizing now that no one is forcing me to eat this, so I think I’ll stop and tell you about when I had a friendly conversation with got attacked by Jehovah’s Witnesses.

This story may be slightly exaggerated, but it actually stays pretty close to what happened.  If you don’t believe me, then you can take the time to hunt down my sister and ask her about the time that she almost made me leave a football game early because I was making a scene since the lady in front of us had hair that was SO big that I couldn’t see any of the game.  Run-on sentence. Also I think she was hiding cocaine in there.

ACTUAL STORY

I was frantically playing piano the other morning because I am supposed to practice for 10 hours each week which I never, ever do always do because I want to manage a Wendy’s someday be a musicology professor.  I heard someone knock on the door, and I thought it was probably a polite serial killer, so I opened the door.  It was a couple of older-looking ladies.  I assumed that their car had broken down and that, despite knowing nothing about cars, I would be able to fix it, and these women would give me a lifetime supply of free cookies.  Because that’s what old people do.  They. Make. Cookies.

Old ladies: Hi.

Me: Hey.

Old ladies:  We’d like to discuss prayer with you.

My brain: No.
My mouth: Sure, but I pray like all the time, so I think I got it down.

They never actually talked to me about prayer.  Instead, they asked where I went to school and I was all like, “Calvin.”  I think that going to a Christian college to them is like being taught by Satan while being bottled up in hell.  I didn’t want them to think that I had learned anything from Satan so I tacked on an, “It’s cool there” which was totally also a pun about the temperature so that they knew it was cold at Calvin, and whether a Jehovah’s Witness or not, everyone knows that Satan doesn’t like the cold so obviously he isn’t at Calvin.

They asked me what I was studying.

Me: “Music theory.” 

Old Ladies: “Ohhhh! What instruments do you play?”

Me: “The alpenhorn and the oboe.”

Old Ladies: “Ohhh! Lovely!”

They must have no idea what an alpenhorn is because it is not lovely at all.  Here’s a picture of an alpenhorn just in case you haven’t been carefully cataloging your German instruments for the past 5,000 years:

They smiled, but I knew that they were probably judging me.  I automatically assume that all door-to-door religious types agree that all women should do nothing, but cook and stuff so I said, “...but I know I shouldn’t go to college because I’m a woman and I shouldn’t do anything I like, and I should probably go put a steak on my husband’s TV tray because he likes to eat while he watches anime.”

They were all like, *stare.*

So I kept talking which I probably should not have done. “...but I guess it’s okay because now I can serenade him on the alpenhorn while he sits on his fat, but well respected, butt and does his daily Biblical crossword puzzle.”

No, I didn’t say that last part.

*Clarification*
Ryan is not fat at all, and I love him dearly.  In my Jehovah’s Witness fantasy, he is very fat.  And I’ve also never seen him to a crossword puzzle, but he should because it exercises the mind.

Eventually the ladies left, and I got back on twitter continued to practice the piano.

I left the pamphlets for my mother in case she felt like converting to crazy, but when I got home and inquired if she had read them, she was all like “I threw those straight in the garbage.  I’m not even recycling them.”  So you should all be thankful that my mother has kept you from, somewhere in the future, purchasing animal bedding made from our Jehovah’s Witness pamphlets.  Then I thought about how many people probably do recycle those pamphlets and that probably almost all animal bedding is made from Jehovah’s Witness material.

-Whitney

**UPDATE**
I just wanted to make mention of the new blogroll on the right side of the screen.  These are all people I find to be hilarious, or awesome, or inspiring, or hardworking, or absolutely insane.  This is my warning to you... The Bloggess, although she will make you cry and wet yourself because she is so funny, is also very vulgar.  Don't go there if you are easily offended, and there are definitely some posts that you should skip altogether.

ALSO!

If you would like to be added to our blogroll, shoot us an email or leave a comment with your URL, and we will check out your site! 

I have officially gone insane.

I have a tendency to talk to inanimate objects. That's not that unusual, right? Everyone, including me, curses their work computer (you'll notice I specify "work" computer. My home computer and I have a very good relationship, and I only speak lovingly to him…..it.), or coaxes the senile toaster into doing its job…right?? 

But I think in my case, it's maybe gotten a bit out of hand.

For example, today I had a conversation with Vladimir.

Vladimir is my car. We haven't known each other that long, but we are becoming quite close. I named him Vladimir after the jolly mustached man in the movie Anastasia.

(guy on the left)

I have always liked that movie, and I likewise named my Macbook after another character in said movie, Bartok the bat. 

I also have been reading way too much Tolstoy and have grown to like Russian names. Hence, Vladimir seemed to fit. 

Anyways, today as I was searching for Vladimir in the very large parking lot of my place of employment so that I could warm him up before my mom and I left for the day, I began monologuing, and it went something like this…

Vladimir, where the cuss are you?!?! Oh! There you are Vladimir. Did you miss me? See, you needn't have worried, I was just at work, and I am back now. Now, I know you want to go home, but we have to wait for momma, ok? She'll be here in just a minute…….

We (I) said some more stuff after that, but I don't really remember it all and I'd rather not disclose it. I think I was pondering aloud how Vladimir would look with a beard, but decided he should stick with the clean cut look.

And then I realized that maybe I need to find some friends.

-Rachel

Coffee Cup Sizes and Dr. House

Before I begin hating on coffee cups, I want to share with you the two most beautifully encouraging comments that I received this week.  We’ve been up and running for only one week, and we have gotten TONS of positive feedback about making you guys laugh which happens to be our goal.

“Whitney Bradley, The writings of you and Rachel Dupont HAVE made me laugh like a FOOL! Keep it going :)” -Hannah Nobel

“Hi Whitney, you don't know me. I'm Rachel's brother's girlfriend's eldest brother. Your blog is amazing. It looks great. I can read it easily. The white text on black background is the way to go. Also, everything both of you write is pure gold. Keep it up or you may have a revolt of at least 8 people. No pressure.” -Adam Plomaritas

So I made you guys an award for being my favorite people:

Those things at the top that look like butts are actually very intricately drawn bald eagles, you just can’t tell because your mind isn’t used to art of this magnitude.

REAL STORY

The other night, I was driving my two-hour drive back to Jackson when it suddenly hit me...if I didn’t get some coffee in the next two minutes, I would be sad was going to die. Probably from a brain aneurysm because my head felt a little funny. 

Oh, shout out to whoever finds me after I have this aneurysm (my head still feels funny): I would like you to get me Dr. House.  Don’t tell me he’s made-up.  I would like him to be my doctor, and I would like you to ask him to please skip his two wrong diagnoses and get right to his third correct one.  Also if you could tell him to not discover something extra, like that I am a man or that I’m pregnant with eight children who are being absorbed by my small intestine, that would be great.  The show “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant” has taught me that whether your a guy or a girl, fat or skinny, there is about an 85% chance that a baby is going to fall out of you at any second and that stuff freaks me out.  So I really need to spend most of my time continuing to worry about that and not something else.

So I stopped to get some coffee.

I can’t remember the name of the obscure no-name coffee shop, but it probably had the word “java” or “mocha” in it.  Then the owner probably tried to make it something cute, so maybe they called the coffee shop “Polk-a-Mocha” which is supposed to sound like “polk-a-dot” but it sounds nothing like “polk-a-dot” because they are idiots.  Then you sit on the bench outside Polk-a-Mocha in the dark, amongst the serial killers, wondering if the name of the shop is instead somehow related to James K. Polk since no one could be so stupid that they think “mocha” is a proper substitute for the word “dot.”  Forty minutes later, you realize that who the heck cares why some no-talent Indie musician names his coffee shop Polk-a-Mocha and now you don’t even want your latte.  I have no idea what the name of the coffee shop was, it wasn’t Polk-a-Mocha, I just hate cute coffee shop names.

If Polk-a-Mocha is a real place, I made a new banner for you:

I got in line behind a sixty-something man who was telling the guy in front of him that “they should really put this stuff in an IV” as if he was the first person to tell the coffee IV joke.  I wanted to tell Old Guy that I was there, twenty years ago when that joke was told for the first time, and I crawled out of my crib and punched the person who said it with my baby fists.  Also if you injected coffee straight into your veins, you would probably die, and death isn’t funny and also it’s just a bad joke. I held myself back, but I did make him this award since I was making one anyway and I found a yellow marker that I hadn’t used yet:

He gets a star because it’s the only thing I can draw besides the bald eagles.

When I was about eleven, my cousin taught me the art of ordering at Starbucks.  After pronouncing “grande” as “grand” for a couple months, I got the hang of it.  However, I’m still intimidated every time I go into Starbucks because all of their employees like, genuinely want to know how I am doing.  Their kindness confuses me so my mind overcompensates and I end up yelling “I want a mocha. CALM DOWN.”  Then there was the other time that they asked me how I was, and I started crying because of the Holocaust. They gave me free coupons because Starbucks cares about my feeling, you guys.

Anyways, I have learned that Starbucks must not have managed to obtain sole ownership of the words “tall,” grande,” and “venti,” but they somehow managed to have rights over the ordering them “tall,” “grande,” “venti.”  That means every other coffee shop on the planet also has a “tall,” “grande,” and “venti,” but they are all jumbled up in a random order so that you never really know what size you’re going to get.  Sometimes  when you order a “tall” it’s like, “here’s your magnifying glass so you can find your coffee. sucks to be you.” And other times they practically have to hire a helicopter to airlift your drink from some sort of military base.  I was at (not) Polk-a-Mocha, and I wanted a “Starbuck’s tall.”  I ordered and was waiting for my coffee when I realized that the barista practically needed a semi-truck to haul my drink to the counter.  It turns out that she just had impressive semi-truck-like upper-body strength.  This is also when it started to make sense why I just paid about $26 for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t question them Polk-a-Mocha because I have an anxiety disorder I’m super rich.

 
I kinda looked down at the coffee cup, well, I guess I looked up at the coffee cup since it was practically equally proportional to the Washington Monument (that might be an exaggeration).  Then I told the barista in my best valley girl accent that this cup like, totally would not be fitting into my cup-holder.  She really didn’t care, but she should have because now there is officially material about her on the interwebs.  Then I asked, “ummm, could you maybe put this into two smaller cups?”  She though this was a really stupid idea.  She said that if she gave me two cups, she would also have to give me two lids and two sleeves which would cost the company like forty whole cents.  I told her I only really needed one hand to drive, so I could skip one of the sleeves and get 3rd degree burn which would only cost her about twenty-eight cents and also a hospital bill.  I added, “IT’S FOR MY CAR SAFETY.”  She still didn’t care, so I asked her if I could borrow a red wagon (the color matters) and some bungee cords to get my coffee to the car and properly secure it to my roof.  I might not have said that last part, but I thought it, and is was a good thought.

This is getting too long so here’s a quick summary of everything else that happened once I got my coffee to the car:  I balanced by cup in the passenger’s seat, hit the rumble strip every 15 seconds as I tried to get a drink, did the “mom arm” to keep the coffee from spilling when I had to brake for stoplights, and also I was up until 5am because I was so hyped up on twenty gallons of coffee.

-Whitney

PS  France may or may not have emailed me today and they may or may not have included this picture.  Apparently I’m a big deal over there seeing as I watch all over all of parliament.  Basically I run the French government.