BugginWord » Cast of characters

Kitty Killing and Sexy Sea-Monkeys

BugginWord — Wed, 22 Jun 2011 16:43:29 +0000

So far my parents are failing miserably at the little “Grandkid Caretaker Trial Run” test we’ve given them with the cats.

Well, that’s not entirely true. They were going gangbusters for a bit there – building toys, attempting to play chase despite arthritic knees, napping on the floor of the basement in the hopes that Lucy might momentarily leave her hiding place amongst the air-conditioning ducts, occasionally sticking a cat’s head in each other’s mouths to keep up good training, etc.

But things started to take a turn to the ugly last week when Mom called to say, “That Mildred is a bitey little bitch.”

“She bit you? She doesn’t bite. What happened?”

“Well the slut was sprawled out on the edge of bed so I gave her tummy a rub and she started stretching even more, showing off her bits. Then she started to slip off the edge and I knew she couldn’t possibly land on her feet, so I grabbed her foot and pulled her back on. Then the little shit bit me. And when I tried to pet her again, she hissed. We’ll see if she gets HER belly rubbed again.”

“And Lucy?”

“The other one? She likes your dad, though I’ve no idea why. You should see how rough he is with her – but she just eats it right up.”

Then last night, I decided to call for another update.

Mom answered in a chipper tone, “Did you know your cats love Gladiolas?”

“They what?”

“They LOVE Gladiolas. Lucy came upstairs for the first time today and she was standing on the kitchen table gnawing away at the flowers.”

“I’m pretty sure those are poisonous for cats, Mom.”

“Oh shit. Are they really? How do we find out?”

“I’m googling it now. Yup. Toxic. So maybe don’t give them anymore Gladiolas, k Mom?”

“Damnit! Nothing is going to happen to these cats. Not on my watch!”

“They aren’t going to die, Mom. They just might hurl a little.”

“Bob. BOB! Have you seen the cats?”

“Mom, calm down. Just give them a little less food tonight. And put the flowers on the porch.”

So you can imagine that finding a voicemail on my cell phone first thing this morning was a little terrifying.

Mom answered again. “Hello?”

“Which one died?”

“Lucy. Wait. She didn’t die. Elly! But she’s limping. Has that ever happened before?”

“Nope. Exactly how rough is Dad again?”

“She was limping last night and today she won’t put any weight on it. We have a vet appointment at 10:45 this morning. At least she’ll be easier to catch today.”

*sigh*

Oh and I Sprocketed. Turns out time-traveling sea-monkeys shouldn’t have sex. True story.

Author’s note: As per usual, I may have exaggerated. But only slightly. I don’t think Mom actually said anything about Mildred’s bits, but she definitely called her a slut. Repeatedly. Hi Mom!

Oh and just because I like to keep you kids abreast (heh. breast.) of all the frightening images available on the Interwebz, this is what happens when you google “sexy sea-monkey”:

You’re welcome.

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Muppets and Monsters

BugginWord — Tue, 17 May 2011 16:47:45 +0000

I’m the worst Jim Henson fan ever. I didn’t realize yesterday was the anniversary of his death. Then again, I always think it’s nicer to celebrate the anniversary of someone’s birth. Which, for Jim, is September 24th. But I saw this video this morning and there’s no way I’m going to remember to save it until September 24th, so I’m posting it now. Because it made me cry.

And NO I’M NOT HORMONAL so shut it.

I just miss Jim.

‘Cause he always makes me think of Dad.

When we were kids, we measured time in Muppet Shows. When we were all crammed in the car driving to Illinois to see Mom’s family, we’d scream from the back, “How much further?”

Dad would calmly answer, “Five more Muppet Shows.”

We were SO into the Muppets, that Dad even made his very own monster puppet and spent hours pretending to gnaw off our faces with that fur-lined mouth. He still has that Muppet.

I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to be seeing a lot of that bug-eyed creature over the next couple of years.

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Short (Like My Attention Span)

BugginWord — Wed, 11 May 2011 16:55:57 +0000

Mom: So. An entire post on a uterus?

Me: It could be worse, you know.

Rocco: If you say so.

Me: You two should be grateful I write about plushy reproductive organs. I could write a blog post about all my past romantic endeavors. Or how hard my childhood was.

Mom: Either way, that’s a short post.

Ladies and Gentleman, my mother.

Oh and I Sprocketed. Should you need to kill a little more time.

And lastly, just to stick with the “short” theme, here’s one half of Flight of the Conchords with a ukulele orchestra. Because obviously.

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Creative License

BugginWord — Wed, 09 Mar 2011 17:49:40 +0000

Thom: Thanks for stealing my line.

Me: What line?

Thom: The “stop raping my daughter Lifetime Movie” line.

Me: I thought that was Chris’s line.

*Our waiter drops off a pitcher of beer and a blond beehive wig which Thom immediately places on his head.*

Thom: You didn’t give him credit either.

Me: I’m sorry.

Thom: And I never said I wanted to be aluminum siding.

Me: Ok.

*A busboy stands behind Thom’s seat and leans around to apply blush and lip gloss.*

Thom: And you’re always trying to make me gay.

Me: Well, I always wanted a sister.

Thom: You just make all this stuff up, don’t you?

*a flock of cartoon blue birds descend from the rafters and drape Thom in pink chiffon*

Me: I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Thom: Like tonight. I bet you’ll write something about tonight and none of it will be true.

Me: It’s possible. I seem to be all drool and no creative juices this week. Do something funny so I don’t have to make something up.

Thom: [EDITED. YOU OWE ME , INTERWEBZ]

*NPH dressed as a Vegas showgirl rides in on a white unicorn pulling a parade float covered in chinchillas and rainbows*

Me: I’m not sure that’s funny, Thom. I’m not even sure that’s legal.

Thom: Only because you aren’t drinking.

*Thom, lifted from table by winged leprechauns, joins NPH and Ani Difranco on parade float and performs “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” on a steel drum. After performance, Thom nods head a la “I dream of Jeanie’ and instantly reappears in seat.*

Thom: Half the stuff you write about never even happens.

Me: But at least half of it does.

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I’m Never Buying Panties Again

BugginWord — Tue, 18 Jan 2011 17:46:56 +0000

Rocco: Girls really like horses, don’t they?

The Entrepreneur at Work

Me: Oh I dunno, I was never really that into them. Unless you count unicorns. But I sure liked horse books like My Friend Flicka.

Rocco: *coughs*

Me: Yes, I suppose girls really like horses.

Rocco: Wasn’t that Victoria’s secret?

Me: What?

Rocco: Didn’t she make it with the horses? Wasn’t that her secret?

Me: You mean Queen Victoria?

Rocco: Yeah! She’s the one with the underwear store, right?

Me: *blink, blink*

Rocco: …well that’s how it is in my mind anyway.

By the by, some wonderful people (that I obviously owe sexual favors to) nominated me for some awards over at Studio 30. If you have some free time, click here and pimp me. I’ll owe you a margarita…or twenty.

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Thom Gets Old

BugginWord — Thu, 18 Nov 2010 17:46:07 +0000

The only thing better than drinking a pitcher of beer with my brother Thom is drinking a pitcher of beer with my brother Thom while we play with a cellphone some fool at our table left unattended. That sentence seems awfully bold on second read. To be perfectly honest there are probably a zillion things better than drinking cheap beer with Thom in Dirty Jersey (like making caramel apples with NPH while enjoying Justin Timberlake’s naked private concert in the mountain cottage we all share, for example), but it’s still a good time.

I think Rocco started it years ago with the ghetto old flip phones of the 90′s. His favorite game was to snag a friend’s phone and replace their name with the words “Low Battery.” Then Thom visited and changed Rocco’s phone language to Mandarin. It all went downhill from there.

If you spend any time with my little brother and you don’t have someone with the name Whorey McLovin’ in your address book, then Thom obviously doesn’t like you. That or you never leave your phone sitting out on top of a table. Odds are more likely for the first option though because that boy is not afraid to rifle through your bag. Adding Whorey McLovin’ to your address book is Thom’s way of marking you as his territory. You know how dogs pee on their favorite things? Well, it’s just like that. But dryer. Usually.

Personally, I prefer to tweak the already existing address book entries of my victims. I’d guess about a third of the students and faculty at the Stevens Institute of Technology have Thom’s phone number listed under either the name of their spouse, their significant other, or their mother.

You’d think people would learn to watch their phones a little closer, right?

Nope. Just the other night while we dined on buffalo wings (Thom prefers to refer to them as “small portions of atrophied limbs dipped in extracts of peppers and dairy byproducts.” Hard to believe he isn’t in marketing, right?), Thom managed to crank the cellphone shenanigans up a level. It seems his new game is to snatch someone’s phone and text their mother, “How do you know if you have an Oedipal complex?”

It’s hard for me to believe he turns thirty-two today, too. I just hope I’m there to witness the moment all things come full circle and he ends up texting himself his own Oedipal question.

Oh by the by, Thom – Creamed Corn picked this present out just for you. (For those of you considering clicking that link, don’t. Even I feel the need to scream NSFW!!! Not even a little bit. Screw work, it’s not safe for anyone who might consider consuming food or sleeping ever again.)

Happy Birthday, Little One.

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A Missing Unicorn

BugginWord — Thu, 11 Nov 2010 17:52:02 +0000

Seeing as how today is Veteran’s Day and both my parents are veterans themselves, I’m going to say thanks to them for their service by not making a single vagina joke in today’s post. Instead, I’ll just point you to this fascinating article on cricket testicles.

The tuberous bushcricket’s testicles account for 14 percent of its body weight. To put that in perspective, the testicles of a man weighing 200 pounds (91 kilograms) with that ball-to-body ratio would weigh 28 pounds (12.7 kilograms).

I know, sometimes I overwhelm myself with my propensity for thoughtfulness.

You know what else is fascinating? This picture that someone sent to me after spotting this flyer near central park.

Photo By My Friend Linley

My first thought was, “How the hell did Apocalypse get through the Lincoln Tunnel?” But then I noticed the missing unicorn is a girl. So obviously it’s Apocalypse’s girlfriend, right? I mean how many unicorns inhabit the tri-state area?

Though I always assumed Apocalypse was gay…and not just because he loves show tunes almost as much as he loves cupcakes.

Regardless, I called the phone number to see if the distraught unicorn caretaker wanted me to question Apocalypse on her behalf. And also because you don’t NOT call a phone number on a missing unicorn flyer, am I right? And that’s how I found this site.

There I found audio recordings from New Yorkers that have sighted the unicorn on the streets of Manhattan. So far, I’ve learned quite a bit. Apparently unicorns love candy corn and accept magic beans as a form of currency. Who knew?

So far, no update on what percent of a unicorn’s body weight is devoted to its testicles. I could discuss that with Apocalypse I suppose, but I like to respect his privacy. Then again, if it was 14% like that poor bushcricket, I probably wouldn’t have to ask.

This post? This is what happens when I can’t make vagina jokes, Interwebz. Blame the veterans.

Actually, there are probably a whole slew of veterans that like vagina jokes. It’s even possible that my two favorite veterans actually don’t mind vagina jokes…unless they involve their daughter’s vagina. I can respect that.

So this is my thank you, Mom and Dad, for your years of service. Next year you’d probably rather have a card, right?

(Pssst. Mom and Dad? I really didn’t mean to use the word vagina so much in your thank you post but then I figured if I didn’t, you wouldn’t really know it was from me. So better to throw a few into the mix for good measure, right? You know, like how I like to throw the perfect pottery vase and then at the last second mess it up ever so slightly so people will know it’s hand-made? This is just like that. But with vaginas. And less mud. And a unicorn. Technically two unicorns. I’m going to stop now. Love you.)

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Further Proof NPH Should Be My BFF

BugginWord — Wed, 10 Nov 2010 17:49:21 +0000

Me: Is this the coolest thing you’ve ever seen? *shows page from catalog*

Ripped From the Latest Signals Catalog

Rocco: Since when do you like Jane Austen?

Me: No, the t-shirt!

Rocco: *blank stare*

Me: *singing* Now bring me prisoner 24601, your time is up and your parole’s begun. You know what that means?

Rocco: *blank stare*

Me: *whispers* Sing, “Yes it means I’m free.”

Rocco: *blank stare*

Me: Come on, sing it!

Rocco: *mumbling* Yes it means I’m free?

Me: *full on belting* NO! It means you get your yellow ticket of leave. You are a thief. *whispers* Now you sing, “I stole a loaf of bread.”

Rocco: Honey, I don’t have the slightest idea what you’re doing.

Me: Les Mis? Hello? Which one of us works in theater?

Rocco: *blank stares*

Me: NPH would totally play my game.

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I Can’t Even Remember What “Take” We’re On Anymore

BugginWord — Wed, 20 Oct 2010 16:51:37 +0000

So just to summarize the week so far: I watched a “comedy” that left me sobbing, I forgot my vagina story, and instead of finding a loving supportive group, I discovered I’m one of a whopping three people that vacuums their oven. And I haven’t even told you about my cat Lucy’s latest debacle involving brussel sprout leaves and Rocco’s suede jacket.

Frankly, it’s only Wednesday and I’m starting to seriously worry about what the rest of the week holds.

But let’s face it, if I don’t finish the post I had intended to write yesterday (Remember? The one that started out about Thanksgiving and then turned into you guys dousing my dreams of being a normal girl? *sigh*) I’ll never get it done.

So here we go – Why I’m Thinking About Thanksgiving: Take Two.

One of the very first years we were living in this apartment, our rowdy neighbors across the hall invited us over to watch some football and partake of their allegedly delicious Turducken. Everyone knows what those are, right? A de-boned chicken inside a de-boned duck inside a turkey? I know. *shudder* It sounds an awful lot like a horror story to me. In fact, ever since I heard about that horrible “Human Centipede” movie (And NO I will not link to it because I love you, Interwebz. And I refuse to expose you to anything THAT disturbing.), I think of it every time I think about Turduckens.

Shit. Well maybe I haven’t been thinking about Thanksgiving at all. Maybe I’ve been thinking about Halloween. Shit, here we go again - Why I’m Thinking About Thanksgiving, Or Was It Halloween: Take Three. I should really pay more attention sometimes.

Does anyone else feel like we’re sliding off the rails again? Have I mentioned I’ve been having a wee bit of trouble sleeping again? I think its best that I not tell you too much about the dream I had last night where A Vapid Blonde, while wearing Mildred’s cone, diagnosed me with a raging case of Rabbit. (FYI, in Elly’s dream world, a diagnosis of Rabbit is VERY serious and not at all as cute as it sounds.)

Oh for the love of vagina! Let’s try this one more time from a completely different angle – Why I’m Thinking About Thanksgiving, Or Was It Halloween, Never Mind – Here’s a Gwen Story Instead: Take Four.

I’ve been a little upset with my friend Gwen (remember Bridezilla?) because she foolishly passed on the chance to be a prison nurse. I mean, a prison nurse! As in a nurse that works inside a prison. Like with a syringe in one hand and a billy club in the other. How can a person pass on a chance to do something like that?!? Think of all the great stories I would have had to share with you, Interwebz. I mean, it’s like she doesn’t even think about our needs. Sheesh.

So I’ve sort of been avoiding her because how could she possibly have any good stories to tell now that she’s working in some bourgeois clinic on the Upper West Side, right?

Me: I’m bored.

Gwen: Well then this guy came in with heart palpitations.

Me: Bored.

Gwen: Shortness of breath?

Me: Bored. *pounding table* WE WANT VAGINA!

Gwen: I didn’t even see any women today.

Me: BoredBoredBoredBored.

Gwen: *sighs with defeat* Well…

Me: YES! *shouts to waiter* Another round!

Gwen: Well it’s not really my story. It’s a “I heard it from a girl who heard it from a girl” kinda thing. It probably isn’t even true.

Me: This is getting boring again.

Gwen: Well at some clinic somewhere, there was this woman who had a reputation for coming into the ER with things in her…You aren’t going to blog about this, are you?

Me: *crosses fingers behind back* Would I do that?

Gwen: I guess it was some sort of mental thing where she wanted to be pregnant so she gave birth to these…objects.

Me: Like what? A tennis ball? A lampshade? A stuffed animal?

Gwen: All kinds of things I guess. All I know is that the ER staff would make the new residents deal with her. So this brand new gal goes into the exam area, gets the patient in the stirrups, and finds a…

Me: A what? What?!? Balloon animal? House slipper? A cell phone?

Gwen: A chicken.

Me: A chicken?

Gwen: A chicken.

Me: Like a cornish hen?

Gwen: No, a regular full size chicken.

Me: That’s a lot of chicken. Was it cooked?

Gwen: What is wrong with you? Of course not!

Me: I’m the weird one because I want to know if it was cooked? A woman is shoving raw poultry in her kayak yet I’m the weird one? A chicken gets smaller after it’s cooked, right?

Gwen: It might have been de-boned…

So now, between this story and the “Human Centipede” thing, I really never want to hear the word Turducken again.

Even worse, I can’t think of a single witty name for a chicken inside a chick. I mean, chickchicken isn’t funny at all.

Thank goodness I have you people…

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I Could Have Sworn It Was Grease

BugginWord — Thu, 14 Oct 2010 16:50:03 +0000

Me: I need a word.

Thom: Bird.

Me: No.

Thom: The bird is the word.

Me: No, it’s like “frequent” but it’s not that.

Thom: Elly, I don’t know if you’ve heard but the bird is the word.

Me: Bird is not the word. It has more syllables. And it’s a verb.

Thom: The bird, bird, bird – the bird is the word.

Me: You know, like when you frequent a restaurant? But it’s more than that. Sort of like an endorsement or something?

Thom: Ba boppa um mau mau. Boppa um mau ma mau.

Me: Uh, no. Still not it. It doesn’t have to be a restaurant. It could be any sort of business.

Thom: Patronize. Like what’s happening here.

Me: Yes! Wait, you were listening?

Thom: Don’t you know about the bird? The bird, bird, bird – the bird is the word.

Me: Good talk.