Reblogged from Go Jules Go:

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Oh, Chipmunks. I can't stuff a cheek without bumping into another compliment / award / congratulatory butt slap these days. So it goes when you have brains, charm and a disarming perma-grin honed from years of smiling and nodding.

This week I received not only a rad 'stache-themed award from the lovely xdanigirl of The Life and Times of a Mom…

Read more… 721 more words

Now for some important news!

1. There will be a new article written by yours truly on The Indie Chicks tomorrow! I will be tweeting the link and sharing it on Facebook and all of that good stuff. You know what to do! Oh, and while you are there, if you have a moment to vote for me for the Funniest Blog and/or Funniest Vlog categories of their Badass Blogger Contest I will give you a kidney. It’s all good, I have two. I don’t care if you don’t need one, it’s yours.

2. I am off to travel again in about ten days, so you might not see much of me in the next couple of weeks. Now that I have quit my job to become a hippy, what better thing to do first than to travel the country side, right? But where am I going? Any guesses?

3. The Blogger Summit is well underway. There are some exciting things going on behind the scenes. Upon my return, expect to be delivered some updates!

Thanks again for watching/reading/commenting/hopefully not crying.

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When I first heard about the “Draw Your Life” concept, I thought it was a fun, unique idea. Then I popped the lid off of a potent Sharpie for way too long and ended up producing this:

I can do many things. I am multifaceted if you will. But even Bob Ross himself couldn’t help me in the illustration department. Regardless, I had a fume overdose fun. Are you brave enough to stay tuned for Part Two?

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I posted a tweet last week that looked like this:

Edward’s picking up what I am putting down.

This was the result of a deeply reflective moment that I had in my new residence when intrusive thoughts hijacked my brain. Intrusive thoughts are unwelcome involuntary thoughts and images that are upsetting or distressing and can be difficult to manage or eliminate. In my case, they often come in the form of irrational fears. And everyone knows that the most rational reaction to these types of thoughts is to turn to Twitter for comfort.

I’ll give you a peek into my mind’s window. One minute, the propane tank I was having a smoke next to was more likely to spontaneously explode transforming me into pink mist, than I was to be harmed from smoking cancer sticks in the first place. Next, I was certain I was about to become a victim of home invasion, but there was totally no danger of breaking a toe while frantically scaling the stairs to hide from nothing. At one point, I almost convinced myself that some grotesque person was living in the attic and spying on me through the ceiling vents for some sort of sick entertainment. Then, almost as if the weather sensed my paranoia, a thunderstorm chimed in, and I turned to a stiff drink to shut off my asshole mind.

The next morning turned the uneasy night into fog, and I went about the day enjoying the cloudless sky and discounting my previous episode as a fluke brought on by the stresses of moving. But then I started to notice other fears lurking in my cerebral lair. Ridiculous fears of which I was suddenly hyper aware but had never noticed before.

1. I get extremely uneasy when I hear a radio caller contest winner on the radio, because I am afraid that they will forget what radio station to thank at the end, thus immediately vaporizing the entire universe with their faux pas. I realized at that moment that I will never over come this. I will never be caller number nine.

2. Is that radio volume set to 19? Better turn that shit up to a nice, even multiple of five so that I don’t uncontrollably veer into oncoming traffic and cause a 50 car pile up. Whew, that was a close one. Oops, I almost gave that car in front of me a love tap while looking down at the dial, LOL.

3. Karaoke? KaraNOke.

These are just a few examples of some of the fears that coagulate in my brain from time to time. They are never rational, never logical, and never fail to ultimately make me laugh at myself. So what are some of the fears you experience that make you want a stiffy? A stiff drink. Stop saying stiff, Becca.

ALL NEW “DRAW YOUR LIFE” VLOG COMING AT THE END OF THE WEEK! I WORKED HARD ON THIS ONE, SO I HOPE Y’ALL LIKE IT. YOU WILL LEARN WHAT I WAS LIKE BEFORE THE BLOG, AND YOU WILL PROBABLY WANT TO TAKE AWAY ALL OF MY MARKERS FOREVER. BE SURE TO SUBSCRIBE TO MY YOUTUBE CHANNEL IF YOU DON’T HATE ME FOR USING ALL CAPS AS A CHEAP WAY TO GET YOUR ATTENTION! 

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He looks innocent enough, right? Wrong, Read on.

On March 28^th, I purchased a house to make me feel more grown up. I have spent the weeks since transferring all of the money from my bank account to Home Depot and Lowe’s to prove that I am no handy man and should have left everything the way I found it. This past weekend, my girlfriend and I made the official move. So Monday, I made my first trip on my new route to work. 

My normal driving routine is windows down, music up, cigarette in one hand with cell phone in the other and my seatbelt safely dangling behind my left shoulder. I passed the local high school dodging teenagers and the 73 school busses it evidently takes to deliver them to campus. At the next red light is where the excitement picked up. I used the right turn/merge/dodge lane to turn the corner past a Jack In The Box and there are four, I repeat FOUR, East Baton Rouge Sherriff Officers standing on the shoulder of the road. I naturally panicked at the sight, because my driving record has me now counting tickets on my toes.

As I am passing, all four officers run towards me, the closest of which was using his ticket book to flag me down. I did a quick survey of the situation and realized they were all on foot. No cars, no bicycles, no helicopters, no transportation of any sort. So, I did what every somewhat law abiding citizen would have done… I sped up, swerved to dodge the ticket book, and fled like I had actually followed through on my bank robbery dream from the night before. 

My first instinct was to pull out my pistol and fire a few shots in the air to add to the effect but decided with the recent school zone that it was probably not the best idea. I continued my twenty minute commute to work spending more time watching my rear view than I was the traffic in front of me. When I was not focused on the mirror, I was looking for side roads I could use to dodge and hide in case I saw flashing lights. I made it to work with no incident and no sign of a cop car the entire way. I exited my vehicle with hands in the air and loudly repeated a lyric from that famous NWA song. 

It had always been my dream to outrun the police. Granted, it took me being in a car and them being on foot. But there were four of them, so I saw it as a fair fight. I was so proud that I bragged to the first person I saw. This person just happened to be in buzz-kill mode and asked, “Do you think they got your license plate number?” Since the moment that was brought to my attention, I have not left my office building. If anyone needs me before Friday evening, I will be right here behind the locked janitor closet door. Come Friday evening though, I am making a trip to go see Becca, and not even a North Korean nuke could keep me from that!

Editor’s Note: Show Z some love in the comments y’all. He’s a sensitive guy as you can see. Or you could call the cops with an anonymous tip. The choice is yours. Just don’t give them my address. See y’all next week Flysters!

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Ten Important Things I Learned Other Than How NOT to Rip Duct Tape:

1. From this day forth, I refuse to acknowledge the existence of more than one flight of stairs.

2. Love Bugs are vile creatures that apparently find my hair to be the prime coitus environment.

3. If your new roommates aren’t responding to your calls from inside a bedroom, don’t open the door. Don’t you do it.

4. Jack and Ace have the power to reduce 250 pound, burly mover men to cowering in fear. Much like a vision of me in the presence of frogs.

5. Car ride = Kitty laxative

6. I do not need this many lamps.

7. My (ex) neighbors seem perplexed by the creative process of shooting vlog footage.

8. My car likes to spontaneously lock itself. I think I even heard it say TROLOLOLOL.

9. I can still execute a glorious cartwheel.

10. No time for internet makes me sad.

One last note: While I am still going to be writing posts, I seem to be festering more ideas for videos lately, and I am having too much fun with it to stop. At least I am not doing meth. But while I have a lot of ideas of my own, I’d also like to know if y’all have any requests. It can be almost anything. I said almost, creeps. Oh how I have missed y’all.

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Remember this guy? I found out he is not alone…

With all of that bling, how can a monkey look so sad?

Monkeys don’t like rain. My mom doesn’t like lamps. Unless they are monkey lamps.

“Decorations are all evil… unless they involve monkeys” – my mom

Behold the monkey door stop: A whole new level of primate decor

As if figurines, lamps, and door stops, weren’t enough

Sexy monkey illustrations

Don’t look at my left monkey nipple

I saved this stump for you hot stuff

I passed through the kitchen and on to the Roosters at this point. My mother was engulfed by the bright lights of the television, intently watching the 2012 Disney production, Chimpanzee.

Bring on the Roosters

Cock-a-doodle-don’t.

Don’t let Roosters fool you. They can climb.

Loner.

Let’s move on to the enigma species that I observed…

I couldn’t look directly at it, but I also couldn’t look away.

I found this creature in hiding. It had nice eyelashes. I’ll give it that.

I was starting to feel like I might have been slipped some acid, but I continued on my journey.

Another animal holding shit.

Hey look, a black giraffe.

A lady bug trying to become a lightning bug. Or just getting it on with a light socket. You decide.

At this point, I was exhausted, confused, and feeling a bit grimy. I took to the bathing quarters to clear my mind and wash off. When I stepped out of my refreshing shower, I opened the towel cabinet to find myself face to face with this;

NOPE.

Stay tuned for a brand new vlog or two in the coming weeks. 

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The Stoop

I attempt frugality. As well, I pride myself in my research abilities (most of the time). So, when looking for a place to stay in Boston, I luckily found a steal of a crash pad. The place my friend Ellen and I stayed was The Copley House in the Back Bay area of Boston. After my friend in the area convinced me that it was in a safe area and conveniently located in the center of the attractions, I eagerly made a booking.

Instead of a full-blown generic hotel, each room they offered was an individual and unique apartment. After checking in to the main office on Newton St., we drove to our unit around the corner on a different street. Key in hand, we pulled up and grabbed our bags out of the bed of the truck. As I used my key to turn the old rim dead bolt, I felt like I was in a movie scene yet again. You know, the one where I am a successful full-time writer entering her humble city dwelling.

I almost feel like I am cheating readers by making such a lackluster claim, but the apartment we shacked up in was one of my favorite parts of the trip. I am so glad we did not opt for a cookie cutter corporate hotel. Not only would we have spent a fortune, leaving us little money for gorging Lobster and drowning ourselves in Irish car bombs, but the whole experience would have been completely different; think way less traditional character and a lot more generic plastic key card.

We had the maximum amount of privacy. Hell, we barely even ran into any other guests staying in our building. We were tourists who didn’t have to look like tourists (at least until we spoke), and after a day of settling in we started to actually feel like we blended in. Before we knew it, we were eating clam “chowda” and drinking our pre-dinner cocktails at the tiny wooden dinner table by the window of our apartment that overlooked the street.

I particularly enjoyed morning coffee compliments of Dunkin’ Donuts (careful, they are hard to find if you don’t walk more than a foot). I’d enjoy my joe on The Stoop where I could take in the air and watch the Bostonians pass by and ignore me. I imagined what it would be like to be one of them. I assumed by the way most of them walked with such purpose and disconnect to anything other than their own path, that they grew up there. They went to school there and found their people there. City veterans, all of them. The Stoop was where I found excitement in their mundane.

I watched them briskly zip by in suits or saunter along walking their dogs, all while paying no attention to anything other than the gaps hiding in the brick sidewalk. At first, the detached demeanor of the people in the city had me disgruntled. For example, after a man bumped in to me in an old clothing boutique, I reflexively exclaimed, “Oh, I am so sorry!” as if it was my fault. Silence. I was invisible. This sort of thing just doesn’t occur in the South.

Like I said, at first this disconnect was unnerving, but the more I became immersed in the crowd, the flow of the city, and the collective feel of Boston, I began to enjoy their way. No one cares what you are doing, where you are walking, how you are walking, what you are wearing, or why you are even there. Judgement seems to disappear. Everyone is dedicated to their own world and possesses no interest in invading another’s as a respect. It was a refreshing change from the over friendly, intrusive way of Southerners. The scope of the existing cultural polarity had really hit me, and it was just what I so desperately needed. It was more than lack of obligatory small talk. It was full opposition.

I could ramble on and on about the beautiful architecture of the old buildings and the rich historical scenery of Boston. Relishing in our field seats at Fenway Park was also well worth putting in to words. I could even elaborate on how wonderful the harbor is in person or the overwhelming beauty of viewing such a vast city from atop the Prudential Center, but I won’t. I wont, because sitting on that stoop at ground level with all of ordinary Boston surrounding me was, for me, more breath-taking than all of the main attractions. Just like the perfect air, I couldn’t inhale enough of ordinary Boston.

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Reblogged from A Clown On Fire:

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I've been having a ball meeting up with bloggers in their real-life forms lately, and I am soon to be meeting up with them in bulk. But, there was one blogger in particular who I just had to meet one on one. I invited the puppet master of blogland, Le Clown, to come down the bayou for a visit and a snow ball that has nothing to do with actual snow. 

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Why, just last week I had dinner with Mr. OB after an extended period of not having dinner with Mr. OB for no particular reason. He told me the hilarious story about the time that he hitch hiked from Mississippi to Illinois to stay with a friend when he was just 19 years old. He was kicked out of his college for being in a girl’s dorm after hours and decided to get out-of-town to avoid the heat from his parents. Shocker.

We began to discuss the differences between the times. Hitch hiking was common place and not surrounded by the qualms of abduction back then. At least not as much as now. He told me about the people who picked him up along the way.

Me: “So what were the people like? How many different people picked you up?”

Mr OB: “I don’t remember a lot, but I do remember this one hippy chick who picked me up”

Me: “Was she cute?”

Mr. OB: “She sure thought I was. She didn’t take me very far.”

Me: “Well how do you know she thought you were cute? Did she tell you?”

Mr OB: “I just knew, okay. I remember stopping off for a hamburger at one point.”

Me: “Is hamburger code for what it sounds like?”

Mr OB: “Get your mind out of the gutter.”

He went on to tell me about a salesman who picked him up out of pity. Mr. OB hadn’t slept for almost 48 hours when the  man picked him up, so he immediately crashed for most of that ride. He told me about being dropped off in the worst possible part of Chicago. Just before he was approached by a taunting gang outside of a night club, a truck driving savior ran a red light, opened the door to him and said, “Get in. Let’s get out of here.” Would anyone do something like this today? Not likely.

He continued to recount his journey. Eventually, conversation turned to beer goggles, or in his case, weed brownie goggles, and we became lost in laughter at failed romantic escapades.

Here’s to Mr. OB. I admire him for his tenacity for life, for not giving a fuck, for always being bluntly honest, and for always saving me a seat at the bar.

IN OTHER NEWS, Le Clown comes to Cajunland on Wednesday. You won’t want to miss it. See you then Flysters.

I hope Louisiana is big enough for the both of us.

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