I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm perpetually clueless and uncool about...Well, most things in life. I've been spotted strolling out of more than one ladies room at posh restaurants and night clubs with a trail of toilet paper secured to the bottom of my shoe. It really doesn't matter how incredibly fashionable your stilettos are. Whether their labels read Jimmy Choo, Manolo Blanik, or Payless Shoe Source...having seven squares of Charmin dancing, snakelike in your wake is a serious faux pas.
I also walked into a party sporting sexy new jeans that still had the stuck-on transparent row of 6's down the back of the leg. Why in the name of all things sacred do they put those size stickers on clothes? Do I need them there? Am I suddenly going to forget what size jeans I'm wearing and need a quick reminder? "Oh, what size are these? Hmmm, let me check right here. It says 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6. I guess they're a size six."
So, now that I've admitted to comitting terminally uncool style blunders such as those named above, I'd like to know what heinous mood killing boo-boo's you've witnessed or perpetrated yourselves.
Heck, I'd like to know if anyone out there reads this blog. The llama sleeps in the apricot tree, but on Wednesday the organ grinder will develop psoriasis. I wonder how long I could write completely nonsensical passages like this before someone calls and asks "Angela, have you lost your mind?"
So post your comments about fashion blunders, llamas, clothing for llamas, the differences between llamas and alpacas. Organ grinders, why they always needed the companionship of monkeys. Where they bought those little vests and hats that the monkeys wore. Organ grinder style trends through the years.
The job market for organ grinders today must be at an all time low because I never see them. What a shame. I think they all became telemarketers and collections people who call my house looking for some guy named Johnny James. He once had my phone number and gave it to every lender who stupidly issued him credit, all 937 of them. They now harrass me and my husband in the evenings. The persistent ones try to wear me down asking over and over if I'm sure I don't know Johnny and where he is. They think he's my derelict brother who's hiding out in our kitchen cabinets. They think that if they interrogate me long enough I'm going to hand the phone over to Johnny who's been standing there the whole time sipping brandy out of a crystal snifter that he never paid for. Like I'm going to suddenly realize, "Oh, you mean THIS Johnny James. Yeah, he's right here. Hold on."
I've started calling them back and asking if they've heard from him yet. "Hey, Sue from Bank of America, did you ever get ahold of Johnny because I have messages for him from Chase, Citibank, Washington Mutual (the high interest rate division), In the Hole Credit Card Company, Failure at Life Auto Loans, Blind Bob's Rent 2 Own Recliners, the Family Jewels Pawn Shop, Kidneys 4 Kash, and some guy named Louie Ballsmasher who wants da money he lent you.
If any of you good Laurens Countians know Johnny James, I'm sure he's a swell guy. But for goodness sake, don't co-sign on anything for him and tell him to stop using my phone number.
I also walked into a party sporting sexy new jeans that still had the stuck-on transparent row of 6's down the back of the leg. Why in the name of all things sacred do they put those size stickers on clothes? Do I need them there? Am I suddenly going to forget what size jeans I'm wearing and need a quick reminder? "Oh, what size are these? Hmmm, let me check right here. It says 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6. I guess they're a size six."
So, now that I've admitted to comitting terminally uncool style blunders such as those named above, I'd like to know what heinous mood killing boo-boo's you've witnessed or perpetrated yourselves.
Heck, I'd like to know if anyone out there reads this blog. The llama sleeps in the apricot tree, but on Wednesday the organ grinder will develop psoriasis. I wonder how long I could write completely nonsensical passages like this before someone calls and asks "Angela, have you lost your mind?"
So post your comments about fashion blunders, llamas, clothing for llamas, the differences between llamas and alpacas. Organ grinders, why they always needed the companionship of monkeys. Where they bought those little vests and hats that the monkeys wore. Organ grinder style trends through the years.
The job market for organ grinders today must be at an all time low because I never see them. What a shame. I think they all became telemarketers and collections people who call my house looking for some guy named Johnny James. He once had my phone number and gave it to every lender who stupidly issued him credit, all 937 of them. They now harrass me and my husband in the evenings. The persistent ones try to wear me down asking over and over if I'm sure I don't know Johnny and where he is. They think he's my derelict brother who's hiding out in our kitchen cabinets. They think that if they interrogate me long enough I'm going to hand the phone over to Johnny who's been standing there the whole time sipping brandy out of a crystal snifter that he never paid for. Like I'm going to suddenly realize, "Oh, you mean THIS Johnny James. Yeah, he's right here. Hold on."
I've started calling them back and asking if they've heard from him yet. "Hey, Sue from Bank of America, did you ever get ahold of Johnny because I have messages for him from Chase, Citibank, Washington Mutual (the high interest rate division), In the Hole Credit Card Company, Failure at Life Auto Loans, Blind Bob's Rent 2 Own Recliners, the Family Jewels Pawn Shop, Kidneys 4 Kash, and some guy named Louie Ballsmasher who wants da money he lent you.
If any of you good Laurens Countians know Johnny James, I'm sure he's a swell guy. But for goodness sake, don't co-sign on anything for him and tell him to stop using my phone number.
(photo from InMagine)
No comments:
Post a Comment