Feminine Protective Products, Fortune Cookies, and Tampon Guns

September 30, 2010 Leave a comment
tampon blowgun and bandolier

Yeah, baby

My friends Marie, Jo, Allison and I have started a feminine hygiene products company based on the fortune cookie model. Yeah, you heard me, fortune cookies.

Some months ago, I went on a rant about the Always slogan, “Have a happy period.” What a moronic fucking thing that is. Really, can you think of something *more* likely to enrage a hormonal woman than that? In the course of this tirade, I came up with the idea of putting things women might actually like to hear when they’re a little fragile on the peel off strips of maxi pads. Things like, “your ass looks great in those jeans” and “yes, he really is that stupid” and “signs show romance improving in 2 to 3 days.”

As it turns out, this is not a new idea. In fact, there is a woman named Wendi Aarons who is internet famous for a similar rant. I tell you, that Always slogan is poison. Poison! Check her out, she’s a genius. I can say that with some certainty, because she has agreed to pen a fortune or two for us.

Anyway, taking over the world with feminine hygiene products has some serious fun potential. So, I thought I would invite all 42 of my readers to join my tampon militia. Weaponry supplied by me. See picture above. Though, now that I think about it, why does a GUY have a tampon blaster?!? What kind of freak is he? I tell you one thing: if I was PMS, he wouldn’t have it for long. That’s MINE, bitch!

Note(s):

1. Tampon users, I’ve got you covered. You can have fortunes too.
2. More tampon crafts can be found at http://www.tamponcrafts.com. Really.

Comedy writers -R- us

September 23, 2010 1 comment

I just used this as a cover letter for a job application. The ad *said* comedy writers. It also said real estate marketing. What have I done?!?!?!?!

Hello,

I am a medical writer and a profoundly silly person. I don’t know if I’m inherently funny, or if my life just provides good material. I will let you decide. I am pasting in a email exchange with my friend Spencer. While I realize that this conversation would be wildly inappropriate for real estate marketing, it’s the most recent thing I’ve got (from last week).

————-

ME: I accidentally talked about someone’s penis in their presence today. I was trying to talk about the human patient simulator’s penis (he’s well endowed, and his endowment tends to go missing). We call the HPS *Stan* but I got mixed up when conversing with *Sam* and made a really raunchy statement about his junk. Ooops. That was a low point of the day.

SPENCER: Yeah, that happens to me all the time, sittin’ around with the girls, and accidentally start talking about a vagina that happens to be in the room. I feel for you, it happens. Oh, wait a minute, NO IT DOESN’T! How I’d like to spend a day at work with you, what would happen? Would we talk penis? Would I get shot? Would somebody steal my lunch money and/or my lunch? Would hookers offer me free blowjobs? I’m guessing it’s impossible to know! Nothing exciting ever happens here.

ME: You should have been there the day we reviewed the penis/condom size study and Marie and I seriously discussed the merits of using a cock ring as a grommet (should you go a size down and risk breakage, up and risk slippage? Or should you go up and use a cock ring, etc…). That would assume you had one handy though. I probably have 12.

I am on the free gift mailing list for a local porn company, due to me getting giant quantities of condoms (think cases of 10,000) from them for Ecuadorian peasants. Plan K is to get a job as a copywriter at the porn shop so that I too can describe a cucumber shaped vibrator as “one jerkin gherkin.” Anyway, some of the stuff they send is too embarrassing to even throw away. I know my garbage guys, which is a hindrance in this case. I double bag and toss most of the small things, but in my attic, swear to God, is a duffel full of larger items like the Nightstick of Love. I live in fear that a hurricane will take the roof off and scatter enormous dildos around my neighborhood. That is an actual fear of mine. Don’t laugh, it could happen. But, you’re right, probably only to me. I assume the other members of the Dong-of-the-Month club put their “packages” to other use.

————–

Don’t you want the only known sufferer of rain-o-dildophobia on your team? C’mon, don’t you?!?! I, for one, want any job that would even consider me after this, uh, cover letter. Though I’m not attaching my resume. I’ve worked for the past 6 or so years as a medical writer, before that did freelance editing and grant writing while staying home with my kids, and before that worked as a tech writer in software. I can’t see how that is more than tangentially related, other than the fact that I have a demonstrated ability to hit deadlines. If you have any questions or comments, feel free to contact me at hoodoojuju. Thank you for your time and consideration, and also for not using the above for blackmail purposes or to bring shame to my family.

Best regards

Categories: Stories Tags: , , ,

Monkey lovin’

August 8, 2010 Leave a comment

I was reading an article on chimpanzees in some British paper the other day, and the scientists were talking about mating behavior. They were all excited because one group of chimps had learned to make sex toys. You KNOW I kept reading then. Did it involve bananas? No, sadly it did not. It actually was less of a sex toy and more of a seduction technique—the male picks a certain kind of leaf and rips it slowly, while eyeing his lady. The thing that killed me, though, was one of these British scientists describing it as “working a bit like Marvin Gaye,” in terms of making the female hot.

So what do you think, ladies?

Works for me.

Categories: News Tags: , , ,

The one-armed Sicilian watermelon rancher

August 6, 2010 Leave a comment

I am regularly baffled by my life. But I always get into these things in a logical manner, before they take a turn for the surreal.

Today’s story: The one-armed Sicilian watermelon rancher

One day, a man of my acquaintance asked for my help. He knew that I grew up farming and continued my love of gardening into adulthood. He had been in a car accident and had been badly hurt. He wore a brace on his leg and got around on crutches. He may have also hit his head, but I don’t have proof of that. Anyway, he asked if I would be willing to help him weed his garden. I said yes. We set a date and he said he’d come pick me up.

The next Saturday morning, he arrived at my house in a pickup truck. I climbed aboard and we drove. And drove. And drove. 45 minutes later, we were still driving, waaaaaay out in the country. I am beginning to get a little worried. I mean, I don’t really know this guy. He could be a serial killer. But, I figure I can trip him or outrun him, so I dismiss my concerns.

Finally, we turn into a long gravel drive and pull off it in front of a little A-frame cabin. By the front door is a little patch with a few spindly tomatoes and peppers. Perfect, I think, this is only an hour of work, and then I can get Mr. Serial Killer to run me back to town. I bounce out of the truck and head for the plot. “Oh, no,” he says, “That’s not it. Wait, while I get some tools,” and he disappears around the side of the cabin.

I stand there slightly confused, hoping he doesn’t return with a gun, though I still think I can take him. A few minutes later he hobbles back carrying a hoe and a pick. He then proceeds to lead me further up the drive, up to the top of a rise. When I reach the crest, I see below me 40 FREAKING ACRES OF WATERMELONS. This is not a hoe and pick kind of job. This is a heavy machinery kind of job. Or at the very least, a team of migrant workers kind of a job. This is not, NOT, a one little country girl kind of job.

I look at him to see if he’s serious.

He hands me the hoe. Maybe he is a serial killer after all, intent on death by watermelon. I stand there studying him for a minute, unable to process that he wants me to weed a whole freakin farm. He gestures toward the field. I feel my shoulders slump. Might as well. The sooner I do some work, the sooner I can get out of there.

I wander out onto the cracked clay (did I mention I lived in the deep south and this was high summer?), glancing back periodically to see if he was going to start laughing at me for falling for his little joke. He smiles and waves me on. Really? Really????? Yes. Really. I head for the middle of the field, where the weeds are sparsest. I give a vague little wave of my hoe near some plants. I look back. He nods. Crap.

I swing my hoe down at the ground. It ricochets back up. The dirt is like concrete. I slam it down, over and over, shuffling through the vines. 10 minutes in, I have weeded one plant. Only 10,000 more to go.

At first, I worked neatly on one row, but after a while, I just went where the weeds seemed thinnest. I wasn’t going to finish, so what difference did it make? After every plant, I’d look over at the guy, who was now sitting in the grass. Nope. Still not joking. I hopscotched around that field for hours.

Finally, drenched in sweat and streaked with red mud, I give up all semblance of work. “You wanna get something to drink?” Mr. Serial Killer yells. Yes, yes I do. I hand him my hoe and we stagger further up the drive to a trim white house. On the front porch is a one-armed man, sitting by a pitcher of lemonade.

“You’va beena working harda!” He says, handing me a cup. I’m drinking so fast, it’s spilling all over my chin. I don’t care. When I have guzzled the first glass, I take a closer look. Yep. One arm.

“We area soa grateful that youa area helping with thisa!” Okay, so he’s a very NICE one-armed man. Delusional, if he thinks my efforts have really helped him, but nice. I chat with him a bit. He wants me to come back another time so he can make a fabulous Sicilian dinner. “Suuuuuuure,” I say. Nice as he may be, once I get off this godforsaken farm, there is no way I am ever coming back.

In the course of our conversation, he discovers I own a house cleaning company (I did this to work my way through school). “Ia havea somea properties Ia want toa rent,” he says, “whya don’t youa take a looka and give me a bida. Thena Ia cana givea you a ride homea.” YES! YES! A ride home! I will do anything at this point for a ride home.

We get into his white Cadillac (with white leather interior) and take off. Further and further into the country. Freaking yikes. Maybe I have my serial killers mixed up. Maybe the first guy is the beard, luring unsuspecting hoers to their doom at the hand (!) of a lunatic. Maybe there is some redneck/mafia alliance going on. WTF!?!?!?!

I don’t feel any better when we pull up in front of a bombed out trailer. I don’t mean a little rickety. I mean it looks like it was strafed by the air force for target practice. There is a tree growing through the roof. He opens the door and tells me to watch my step. No shit. There’s a hole the size of refrigerator by the front door. The cobwebs are like sheets on a clothesline. The spiders are the size of dinner plates. “Don’ta youa want to looka around?” I emphatically do not. “I think I’ve seen what I need to. Let me get back to you with a price. I really need to go home now.”

The moment of truth. Is he going to break out the rape kit? Am I going to have to dive through the floor and hide in the crawlspace?

He looks mildly disappointed and heads back for the car. THANK YOU GOD! I’LL BE GOOD FOREVER!

He tries to make conversation on the way home, but I am too bug-eyed to be very responsive. I tell him to drop me off like a mile from my house. As I am getting out of the car, he is suddenly worried that I didn’t get paid for my labor. “That’s okay,” I say, “I wasn’t expecting anything.” He won’t take no for an answer, though I am firm in my refusals. When I’m halfway out of the car, he stuffs something into my hands and tells me to call him. I watch until he is out of sight, then turn to hike home. I look at what he has given me.

I got paid with a pack of menthol cigarettes and half a bag of stale Cool Ranch Doritos.

I killed a gerbil with my mind

August 5, 2010 Leave a comment

My friend Marie has been insisting I do this blog. Of course, Marie also insists I should become a maxi pad mogul,* so what does she know?

Marie and I currently work at a major research university doing some major damn research. As it turns out, this can get pretty boring, so every day, we have story time to amuse ourselves and entertain/frighten the young work study students. And now you. At story time, we sometimes tell stories (duh), we sometimes gossip about ourselves, we sometimes have show and tell, and we sometimes go on political rants. We always laugh our asses off.

Today’s story: I killed a gerbil with my mind

One day, I was cleaning out the pet gerbil’s cage and complaining to my friend, Ben, who was on crutches with a broken ankle. “I hate this fucking gerbil,” I say, “It bites, it stinks, and it makes a mess. I wouldn’t care if it died tomorrow.” Then I went to get the gerbil to put it back in the cage.

The gerbil was having seizures.

So I’m standing there like WTF and Ben starts laughing. “You killed it with your mind, Amanda,” he says, “Two weeks ago, did you say, ‘I hate that Ben Thomas, I wouldn’t care if he breaks his ankle tomorrow?!?!?”

No, Ben, I didn’t. But the gerbil died the next day. Oops.

Some weeks later I am telling this to my friend, Lila. “Oooh,” Lila says, “would you kill my mother’s cat?”

Wait. What?

It turns out that her mother is a crazy cat person. She has an ancient 20+ year old cat who can’t walk or drink or do anything. It lies around peeing on itself all day. But the mother won’t get it put down. She leaves her  job 4 times a day to give IV fluids to this cat. Anyway, the mother is moving to Atlanta, and wants Lila to come to New York and drive her down to Georgia so that she can hold the cat on her lap the whole time. Lila has four kids and a full time job, and she is not excited about spending her weekend this way. “Please,” Lila says, “It’s a mercy killing.”

Okay, fine.

I hum and make weird movements with my hands. I chant “I wouldn’t care if the cat died tomorrow” a couple of times and call it good.

The cat died the next day.

I am not a superstitious person, generally, but I have gotten in the habit of humming and wiggling my fingers at roaches. It seems to be working. No noticeable effect on ants, but there are so many of them, who could tell?

*Note: Yes, we are serious about the maxi pad thing. No, I’m not going to tell you about it yet. If I did, I’d have to kill you with my *powers.*