Murder, They Guessed

My parents and I saw Agatha Christie’s “Spider Web” at the Alley Theater last night. All three of us are obsessed with murder mysteries, which makes us a) overconfident but dangerously accurate amateur detectives, and b) horrible, horrible audience members.

[Warning: Spoilers below.]

Everyone else in our section: “I can’t wait to find out who the murderer is!”

My mom: “ALRIGHT, PEOPLE. THIS IS WHAT WE’VE BEEN TRAINING FOR.”

Me: “BRING IT.”

My dad: “MISS PEAKE HAS TO BE THE ONE WHO MOVED COSTELLO’S BODY.”

My mom: “COSTELLO IS THE MISSING LINK IN SELLON’S NARCOTIC RING.”

Me: “PIPPA IS PRACTICING WITCHCRAFT BUT DIDN’T ACTUALLY KILL ANYONE. WHICH MEANS…”

My dad: “WARRENDER MURDERED COSTELLO TO PREVENT HIM FROM STEALING THE RARE STAMP HIDDEN IN THE SECRET DRAWER OF THE ANTIQUE DESK.”

My mom: “BAM.”

Me: “CASE CLOSED.”

Everyone else in our section: “Goddamnit.”

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Sugar is Intersectional and So Are You

Bartender: “Here’s your coffee!”

Patron: “Thanks! But I need the stuff to make it white.”

Me: “Privilege?”

Everyone else in the bar: “…”

THIS IS WHY I’M NOT SUPPOSED TO BE LEFT UNSUPERVISED, PEOPLE.

Permanent Ink In Your Eye

“You have to look at the card for a few seconds before you see that the animals that pull the chariot have neither reigns nor bridles. It’s the Captain James T. Kirk card, the card of leaping before looking, of burned bridges and uncovered asses. The card of thinking you know what’s going on when you don’t. As a message for the reader, it was ambiguous.”

–Rosemary Edghill

If almost anyone in my social network sent me a text that said, “I just hit myself in the face!” I’d respond with something like, “Oh no! Are you okay? How did that happen?” However, when I receive the same message from my buddy Angelo, I’m usually like, “Good job, but you really don’t have to tell me every time you masturbate.”

To steal a turn of phrase from Co-Witch A., Angelo approaches the carnal arts like the rest of us eat dessert: Voraciously, and with gusto. And please know that if his vibrant enthusiasm for sex was causing unmanagability in other areas, I’d be the first to pack his ass off to convent school. Thing is, he has the same level enthusiasm for pretty much everything. Whereas most people experience a variety of preferential emotions, from aversion to apathy to appreciation to adoration, Angelo has two speeds: asleep, and “OH HOLY GOD, THIS CHICKEN SALAD IS LIFE-CHANGING.”

Most recently, Angelo launched himself on a mission to come up with a concept for his next tattoo, and it was with no little happy pride that he emailed me to show off the design he’d decided to have etched on his bicep:

thurisaz

Totes innocuous, yo.

“Isn’t it amazing?!” he wrote. “It’s simple, clean and meaningful. PERFECT.”

His glee is always infectious, but something about the rune he’d picked was niggling at me. The runes themselves are decidedly not my forte, as I tend to shy away from anything occult I can’t pronounce, but seeing as how I have the entire Internet at my disposal, I poked around and quickly found a name and description.

Thurisaz. “Thorn.” Conflict, destruction, violent aggression, raping and pillaging, generalized stabbiness and male sexuality. Or, as Angelo saw it, conflict, destruction, violent aggression, raping and pillaging, generalized stabbiness and MALE SEXUALITY (-ALITY -Ality -ality…).

In an attempt to distract him with metaphysics until I could figure out a nice way to throw rocks at his joy, I was all, “Hey, that reminds me of the geomantic figure Rubeus.” To which Angelo responded,”Dude! You should get that as a tattoo when I get mine!” While I appreciated his determination to include me in his escapades, I’m about as likely to get a tattoo of Rubeus as I am to have the word “republican” branded on my forehead. What I am likely to do is have a controlled meltdown over his identification with Thurisaz, but only because I fundamentally disagree with his interpretation, and I’m never, ever wrong about anything.

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Yes. Dolores Claiborne. Exactly.

Dear Homeowner,

While I’m sure your pit bull/Rottweiler/Komodo dragon mix may in fact be, as you believe, “the sweetest puppy in the world,” your neighbors are terrified and don’t want to live in a Stephen King movie anymore.

Also, the apology notes left on doorsteps and signed with giant, smeared paw prints are just creeping everyone out.

A+ for effort, though.

Solve for Ex

Douglas: “Should I buy these boots? They’re $60, marked down from $119.”

Me: “Well, you played laser tag this morning, and you thought it was going to cost $20, but it was only $7. So if you buy the boots on top of that, you’ll have saved $73 today, which is basically making money.”

Douglas: “That’s brilliant! Why aren’t you taking my math class for me?”

Me: “Dude, this conversation is exactly why I’m not taking your math class for you.”

Douglas: “Good point.”

But My Friends Call Me Pumpkinhead Moontime

[A conversation between myself and my Misfits brother Space Cowboy (which is the honest-to-Gods name on his club vest; I am not making that up).]

SC: “The father of one of the girls in my kid’s class just sent out an email to let everyone know that his daughter won’t be attending school for a few days, because she got her first period.”

Me: “Huh. She certainly won’t spend the rest of her academic career trying unsuccessfully to live that one down.”

SC: “Well, luckily, he only sent it to the teacher and the other parents.”

Me: “So as long as none of the parents tell their children, she’s in the clear.”

SC: “Yup.”

Me: “Otherwise, she’ll be Bloody Mary until she goes to college out of state.”

SC: “…”

Me: “Or burns down the prom with her telekinetic powers.”

SC: “That’s awful, dude.”

Me: “Yeah. I’m a little ashamed at how quickly I came up with ‘Bloody Mary.'”

SC: “Bully.”

Me: “I’m only a bully because of my own insecurities. I started my period in the 4th grade, too.”

SC: “Wow.”

Me: “Too soon?”

SC: “I’m going to call you ‘Red Tide’ from here on out.”

Me: “I prefer ‘Rags’.”

SC: “Red Tide Rags!

Me: “Uh-oh. You just got way too excited.”

SC: “That’s your Misfits nickname.”

Me: “Um… that sounds like a vengeful ghost from Appalachian folklore.”

SC: “Even better!

And that’s how Misfit Red Tide Rags officially made his debut. I do have to say I’m not 100% thrilled about going down in Houston Leather History as the guy named after uterine discharge, but considering that other Misfit nicknames include “Twinkle Bear” and “Honey Biscuit Dancing Queen,” I probably got off easy.

And Then He Broke My Legs

Me: “Watch me whip.”

Alan: “Stop it.”

Me: “Watch me nae nae.”

Alan: “Stop it.”

Me: “Watch me whip…”

Alan: “Stop…”

Me: “… whip.”

Alan: “… it.”

Me: “Watch me…”

Alan: “Stop it.

Me: “…”

Alan: [glare]

Me: “… nae nae.”

Alan: “STOP IT.”

Lights, Camera, Don’t Drink Until Saturday

Remember back in September, when I mentioned a cryptic writing/directing project? Well, if you’re trapped in Houston tomorrow, you officially have a legitimate reason to escape from your family, because all of us are sick, but some of us are…

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Tickets are $5 at the door. You’re welcome to attend even if you’re not in recovery: I’ll just explain all of the jokes during the Q&A session.

Curmudgeonly Me

I was goofing around online the other day and unearthed an old blog post that features references to my original site, Lover of Strife.

Typos aside, it’s a fun read. Thought you guys might get a kick out of it.

Enjoy!

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