Willie Makit?

Betty Wont

I haven’t been posting lately, which is weird because I am constantly looking for things to do at work. I should be doing my Christmas shopping, but I am super poor and therefore, have to be rather discriminate about my spending this year. I have four loads of clean laundry at home that needs to be put away, but last night, one of my male sims got pregnant by aliens, which I didn’t know could happen. Instead of folding my laundry, walking the dogs, or doing the dishes, I had to get this sim to delivery, so I could see the little alien baby. Her name is Amanda and she was born just two days after her older brother, Andrew. It was an exciting night for all. I have to create new families for my sims, because all my current sims are so inbred, they can’t find anyone to date or marry. It is creepy in my sim town; it is not unlike deliverance.

In other news, the swelling on my arm has finally gone down and it isn’t nearly as sensitive as it has been the last few nights. Monday night, I could hardly sleep. But last night and the night before, I fell asleep with my light on, which is very unusual for me. I have been very tired since the thanksgiving trip.

McSweeney’s weighs heavy on my mind and may be the reason I wasn’t sleeping well. I have submitted a new piece and am waiting to hear back. If this one doesn’t make it in, I think I will quit. It is making writing less fun for me and I find myself trying to be unnaturally interesting when I write. Negative impact!

No more words forming.

Choke on the open net

Shot down again by McSweeneys. I submitted the second piece from the motel in Oklahoma after receiving the first rejection. I decided to climb back on the horse and try try again, or something. I was rewarded by a much faster rejection, coming Friday (the very next day. I have a few more pieces I will try with, but at a certain point, I will have to accept that my impression of what would get me published on McSweeneys does not match my talents.

The trip was alright after the last post. Mostly the family just sat around and talked, told stories. There was eating involved since it was Thanksgiving. My only complaint is that my uses Miracle Whip. I’m a bit of a purist and would have preferred real mayonnaise on my day-after turkey sandwich.

I have to go to work tomorrow and I don’t want to. This post is really hard to write. I don’t really care about content or continuity. To be honest, I’m not in the mood to write. The rejections have got me worried about school and I feel like my writing, as crappy as McSweeneys seems to think it is, may be a finite resource that I should try to preserve.

That said, here is my second rejected piece, called So, You’ve Decided to Become a Freelance Assassin – A Beginner’s Guide.

Congratulations! If you are reading this pamphlet, you have decided to change your life and enter the fast-paced and rewarding field of contract killing (either that, or you have found this pamphlet at your friend’s/lover’s/child’s house, in which case, you should put the pamphlet down immediately, stay calm, and wait until you can safely leave. Once you are alone, you can consider the viability of this relationship and decide if this will be an unsupportable strain of your moral compass. For help, please see our pamphlet- Living the Lie: How to Cope with the Dishonesty and Uncertainty of a Relationship with a Freelance Assassin or Traveling Brush Salesman).

Whether this is the start of a brand new career or a return to the mercenary arts, welcome! While this pamphlet is by no means an exhaustive reference, we hope the tips below will provide you with good information, help you avoid some of those rookie mistakes, and give you an advantage in this highly competitive and possibly dangerous field.

1. Don’t use personal checks to cover expenses- Aside from creating a dangerous paper trail, a personal check can provide information more valuable than just your address. If your personal check reveals your affinity for a certain sports team, Garfield, bible passage, or personal motto, you’ve just armed competing assassins for a brutal and highly personal assault. The best way to fund your new “home business” is with wire transfers to an offshore financial institution in a country with lax banking regulations and forgiving policies on extradition. This practice, however, requires an outlay of capital upfront and an accountant who shares your rather unique sensibility of right and wrong. If you won’t have access to a shell account, stick to cash and small business credit cards.

2. Don’t tell anyone what you do for a living- It may seem like a good idea, when you are feeling particularly close to a person, or desperately trying to keep them close to you, to divulge some little secret. Telling someone you’re a hired killer may seem like the perfect secret - not only does it establish a deep level of trust with the other party, but it also reminds them that you kill people for a living – but really, you probably won’t respect someone who can rationalize your line of work. And you will always wonder if they are there because they love you, or because they are afraid of being garroted in a dark alley and thrown in a river.

3. When you choose your cover story, don’t be from New York- There is a tendency with new assassins to make their cover stories overly elaborate and self-congratulatory. Avoid this mistake! Don’t pretend to have a fascinating career, interesting family, or unique hobbies. Above all, don’t be from New York. New York may seem like the perfect large, anonymous city for your cover story, but it can be a real detriment. Suppose you tell an innkeeper in Altoona that you are visiting from New York. One of two things will happen: either the innkeeper has been to New York and wants to talk to you for hours about the neat little bistro in Soho that she ate at, or she hasn’t been to New York, but wants to go and would like your recommendation for a neat little bistro in Soho that she can visit. With this one conversation, you’ve just made yourself too memorable. New York ranks just below Paris as the most conspicuous place you can be from. Just say you are from Des Moines. Before you finish the sentence, everyone will already have forgotten.

Be safe and good luck!

Master Ralph Parker

Since I submitted my first piece to McSweeney's, I have been checking my email everyday, religiously, to see if I got something. Today, after Thanksgiving dinner, I came back to the hotel and checked my email as an afterthought (hooray for free wifi)and, of course, since I hadn't been looking for the response when I checked my email, I got a response.

This piece will not be published. It's funny, I thought it wasn't up to snuff, but to read someone else passing on it still hurt my feelings. I had already written a second piece to submit and considered, for a few minutes, throwing it away and giving up. Giving up is something I have done my whole life, so I have lots of practice on it. Because I am already a master at giving up, I decided it would be more beneficial to try again. So I am going to.

Speaking of giving up, I just barely registered for classes today. I got all flustered when I found out I still had core to do, in addition to the credits I transferred over from my Associates degree. I was, again, just going to give up, but thanks to some guidance from Villi, I got it all sorted out. Phew.

Today was thanksgiving with my family. Because we had an actual factual reunion, we had to rent out a party house with space for all of us. The dinner was delicious and aside from being jealous of the kids, who got a moon bounce to play on all day, it was a good time. After I clean up, I will be heading back over to their house.

I will leave you with my first mcsweeney's rejection - Moonroof and Sunroof go to Chilis.

Sunroof: Sorry I’m late; I was just –
Moonroof: You were just sitting in your car deciding whether to come in?
Sunroof: No, uh, I was finishing up a phone call.
Moonroof: Ok, well, I ordered you a Corona.
Sunroof: You know I hate beer.
Moonroof: Since when? Alright, we will get you something else and I will drink your beer. Did you want to get some appetizers? The Southwest Eggrolls are great. Where is the waitress?
Sunroof: No, I can’t stay long. I have to pick up my dry cleaning and stop by the post office before I go get Beth from Yoga. What did you want to, uh, talk about?
Moonroof: Us.
Sunroof: What about us?
Moonroof: Well, since the funeral, there hasn’t really been an US and I wanted to talk about that.
Sunroof: I don’t know what you mean.
Moonroof: Oh really? How come you haven’t been over to play pool on Saturdays like you promised? Or come over to see the baby?
Sunroof: I told you; I hurt my shoulder at work and shouldn’t play pool.
Moonroof: Christ, this isn’t about playing pool. It’s about us spending time together, as brothers.
Sunroof: That’s easy for you to say.
Moonroof: What do you mean?
Sunroof: Excuse me, miss. It’s like she’s ignoring us.
Moonroof: Forget the waitress. I want to know what you mean.
Sunroof: Don’t be stupid. Because I was the oldest, I was just a stupid panel made of metal. Dad always thought I was ugly.
Moonroof: Did dad ever say that?
Sunroof: Well, no, but what did you get for your 16th birthday?
Moonroof: I see where you are going and this-
Sunroof: Just answer the question.
Moonroof: I got a car.
Sunroof: Exactly, and what did I get? A trip to fat camp. I know I shouldn’t blame you, but you have your tinted glass and your tilt and Meg-
Moonroof: What? Wait, is this still about Meghan Rufer? Are you still mad that I took her to the prom?
Sunroof: No. Not really.
Moonroof: Well, what then?
Sunroof: It’s just everything came so easy for you. And when dad died, even that seemed easier for you. You knew how to grieve and I just felt out of place and angry. I didn’t want to be angry with him, but I was. And, I felt like everyone knew and that they were judging me. I mean, you’re the one made of glass, but I actually feel transparent.

(Sunroof embraces Moonroof and sobs uncontrollably on his shoulder. Moonroof also cries. The waitress comes over and discreetly deposits extra napkins with a knowing smile)

END SCENE

Happy Thanksgiving Everyone!

I organize my CDs by distance from the sun.

I'm addicted to reading the McSweeney's page, all day, every day. It has consumed me, infecting every aspect of my being, as I find myself randomly trying to come up with articles to write. At red robin, on saturday night, as my sister sweetened her tea, I thought about an piece called "Things My 16 Year Old Daughter is Ideologically Opposed To," with sweetened tea being number 1. Then, while watching Encino Man and playing Sims, I thought of writing a piece called "Caveman's Attempts at Getting Published in McSweeney's." Right now, I am working on a piece that was inspired by a momentary remeberance of the Clint Eastwood movie, "In the Line of Fire."

Today's title was from a very funny piece on McSweeney's. The full text is here.

I haven't wanted anything this badly since I intended to meet NSync in Vegas in 1999, and I wanted that pretty damn bad. I hope I will survive the rejection. Since we got a new router, I haven't configured remote desktop correctly, and cannot, therefore, see my email. This means I can't see my rejection letter. I hope I survive.

I'll kill your friends, your family, and that bitch you took to the prom

My new goal in life is to be published in McSweeney’s . So far, I have written and submitted one piece, a play in one act, called “Moonroof and Sunroof Go to Chilis.” I haven’t heard back on this yet and I am afraid it is not up to snuff. I was going to write another piece today, but it has been busy at work and I can’t find time to create a proper piece.

Last night, when I got home, the dogs were in their bandanas. My god, they are so cute when they are in their bandanas. I want to call them Tex and Daisy when they are all dressed up. I realize I am now one of those people that treat their pets like their children. The desktop on my phone? My dogs. It’s a little sad, but then they do something cute and I just want to film them for hours on end and show it to all my friends, wasting their Saturday nights and forcing them to stop answering my phone calls. Pretty soon, I’ll be dressing them up in full costume and riding them around the neighborhood in a wagon, calling them Mr. and Mrs. Squiggles, and putting saffron and truffle oil in their food, because they just like it better.

The future looks bleak.

They are all laser guided and I get crazy if you touch them

Saturday night, while playing my favorite party game – Scatagories, I invented a new strain of super chicken. Meet the whycken. The whycken is a teenaged hen who practices Wicca and/or lesbianism. The whycken writes bad poetry about life in a cage. She also takes offense to being told when to lay eggs and believes that all chickens should be free range. It was either invent the whycken or find another farm animal that starts with a W, so whycken it is. I was going to try to be cute and do an MSPaint of the whycken – replete with homemade carry-all, book of angry, feminist prose, and a little satchel of herbs around her neck. However, when I searched for chicken images on Google, I found an image labeled “chicken knickers” and it was a picture of someone standing in underwear with a raw chicken attached to the groin. I was very much traumatized and couldn’t look at another chicken picture.

In other news, and I have been meaning to write about this for some time, what makes Crocs (the hideous shoes) so god-damned special? Why are they granted diplomatic immunity from good fashion sense? I can’t count all of the times I have seen someone dressed in one color and wearing a completely different color of Crocs. People seem to treat all Crocs like they are denim or black. They abuse this belief by matching pink with green or blue with black and white; it is hideous. I’m biased because I dislike Crocs altogether, but the blatant disregard for matching, or even partial coordinating, makes me hate them violently. I really hate it when people wear the back strap up and over the top of their foot, instead of back around their heel. People who wear their crocs like this make me want to punch them in their faces. Bastards!

Nothing much else to update from the weekend. We went over to Yella and Alaska’s house on Saturday to help them decorate their tree. I love Christmas. We will probably setup our tree this weekend and help ChinaCharlie do his in the very near future. Then, the lights will stay up till some time in early February when I finally get tired of seeing the Christmas lights. In order to prepare for this, I had to move the keyboard and the overstuffed chair out of the front room and back into my office. The chair is about 1.3 the size of the whole room and I feel very strange and almost regal when I sit on it, like a queen on her throne. 2-4-6-8 Gooooooooo Christmas.

When it absolutely has to be there overnight...

Normally, I don't like posting what other people say, because it makes me look dumb. Similarly, I don't like posting my thoughts and feelings about the Britney/Kevin divorce because it also makes me look dumb. However, I am willing to put all that aside today because something I read on The Superficial that made me spit water through my nose.

It is about the fact that Kevin Federline filing for sole custody of his children because he concerned for their money safety.

If this thing goes to court the judge is gonna take a long hard look at Kevin and Britney and just hand custody over to a pair of raccoons he saw at the park. And sure they might have rabies, but that just means they're only slightly more qualified than either of these two.

America's Playground is closed

I started writing this post in my head, while I was getting dressed. I was running late and it was one of those mornings where I was late because I couldn’t fully talk myself into calling in sick. I was getting dressed and I knew I was going to wear brown gaucho pants and brown sandals. Because I was late, I thought “I shouldn’t take the time to switch out my purse,” which would mean I would be carrying my black Coach bag with a brown-centric outfit and I started writing the post in my head as a plea for people not to rush to judgment. I hate when people wear all brown clothing and shoes and carry a black purse, and I was about to become this person. The post was going to be full of self-loathing and sadness that I was reduced to carrying the black bag.

In the end, my words were so effective and my self-esteem so shattered, I took the extra 3 minutes and swapped out my purse, opting for my brown Kenneth Cole. I am a vain and wicked person.

It would appear that the groups’ attempt at spontaneity was squashed by the high price of Vegas travel. As the group as a whole starts to earn more money, we have all become conspicuous consumers. Our love for high end consumer goods has made us all less liquid than we should be. So, no trip. Sigh. I will just have to settle for Oklahoma.

P.S. When I was 10 years old, I actually thought I came up with the Lost Wages slogan. I probably read it on a fanny pack, internalized it and then tried to claim it as my own. My father had to let me down real gentle like.

This cocktail is bound for those showgirls

I just wanted everyone to know, well mostly Villi, that Gina Gershon was one of the backup dancers in the Patti Labelle video for New Attitude.



She is resplendent with her “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” ultra 80s haircut. I love Gina Gershon and love when she pops up in the most obscure places, like VH1 classic.

So jury duty is finally over. We finished deliberation today and turned in our decision. About 5 of my fellow jurors complimented me on both my ability to articulate and ability to remember details. In fact, it was the suggestion of 3 of the jurors that I go to law school, for which I demurely thanked them. While I was thinking how totally fucking awesome I am.

On Tuesday, I was ready to come home and say all sorts of nasty things about the jury process, but now, I am happy that I did it and I even forgive some of the faults of the other jurors, as I assume they had to do with me as well.

And, on the plus side, I only have to work one day this week.