Minus the Flying Unicorn Farts

I was just getting ready to think about how I was going to get my tired ass off of the couch, shut down the computer, turn off lights, let Greta in and out, give her a cookie, and go to bed last night when I was too tired to do any of it and knew that I was actually drunken stupor stupid and not really tired, when my friend saved me from hours of lying in bed awake singing The Itsy Bitsy Spider while Greta tried to magically flee through the wall to get away from me. Best run on sentence ever. You can’t deny it.

But before I get into the lolling debauchery of this, let me just tell you that I find myself super disappointed today, because I totally thought I was going to have a week’s worth of blog material when today was over. Today was supposed to be full of Aunt Bev, cute kitties, food, and WalMart. I was gleeful. I couldn’t wait for all the ridiculousness that was bound to take place. Then my body turned against me. Let’s put this mildly and say that from seven am until well after four, I spent more time in the bathroom than in any other room in my house combined. Yep, it just wasn’t my day for fun and blog material. Sorry I let you all down, guys. Blame my body. I do.

But moving on, said friend I was talking about in my run on sentence is the same Australian friend that I end up talking Criminal Minds with, and then we dote about how we have sad little lives and can stay single forever like it’s a challenge, not a right. Yes, because we totally have men knocking down our doors...hoping we’re on the other side and they crush us with it so they don’t have to put up with us. Obviously you can see where this is going. If you can’t, I’ll just give you a little clue.

Nowhere good.

The conversation started out innocently enough. My friend shared her story about the dream she had in which we convinced Mandy Patinkin and Matthew Gray Gubler to sing the Elmo theme song together. Then, when they were finished, we couldn’t stop laughing at Matthew, who agreed he sucked but didn’t think we should laugh that hard, and then we literally hugged and made up. Totally innocent and normal for us, you guys.

Things got odd from there.

Okay, it got odd before there. Here’s some quotes from when she was telling me about her dream. These are all from me. She used the proper amount of maturity and constraint, considering the subject. This is all referring to the Elmo theme song, by the way.

* I would pay to have MGG sing that.
* No, I would not pay.
* I would have sex with him if he’d sing that.
* Wait, no.
* I would pay him.
* I’m not a whore.
* I think MGG could sing that song just fine.
* It’s not like Elmo could sing.

Smooth save, no?

Apparently, I have issues making a decision, because it took me eight IMs to express that I totally sounded like a whore and then apologize for it because I didn’t really mean it. I’m not a whore. I wouldn’t have sex with anyone to make them sing something. I promise, Mom and Aunt Bev. If I was like that, I wouldn’t be hopelessly single. I’d be as popular as the dimwitted cheerleader who always miraculously made grade.

I also asked her if MGG was as bad as we thought he was. (Yes) And if we broke his heart by laughing. (Yes, until we hugged and made up.) I also said I was sure we made him feel loved. Of course I was joking. Laughing at people usually does the opposite, especially when you’re okay with letting them know you’re laughing at them.

Here are some other highlights from that conversation with some explanations, even though it’s funnier if I don’t explain.

* I am so tired I am going to needlessly over analyze people I don’t know until I sound like an obsessive freak, when I really don’t give a flying unicorn fart. This is what my brain does when it’s tired.

I don’t have any unicorn farts to give out, so even if I did give a flying unicorn fart, I technically couldn’t. Technicalities ruin everything.

This is where my friend called me a Dag. Being American, I had no idea what that meant, so I went on an epic search for the answer. This is what came of it.

I looked Dag up, because we don’t use that term here. The first thing I saw was that it was the matted wool poop on a sheep’s tail. I actually understood how you could come to that conclusion about me. It made sense. Then I saw that it actually meant people who are quite informal. I personally liked the first one best.

Give me a minute, you guys. Just give me a minute. I’ll find the right explanation to correlate with what she was going for.

* OMG! Or...or it’s a term of endearment for an unfashionable person that tells a corny joke! THAT’S ME! THAT’S ME!

Wait for it.

* And to prove my fashion sense, I will have you know I am wearing pink cupcake pajamas, Betty Boop slippers, and a blue robe with stars and moons.

There it is! At least she knows how to properly respond to me.

* I was going to put dork, but then I thought dag was better :P. And see, I totally know you :P but that’s cute. You should have seen me in my mismatched pjs last night/this morning. I had on a white Nightmare Before Christmas singlet and blue/rainbow pj shorts. The NBC singlet goes with a pair of long black pj pants.

And this is why we are friends. One Parliament and a Presidential Office are all sighing in relief that we live in different countries. We’d have the tackiest Parliament and President ever if we didn’t have a pond between us. Let me cement that thought for you.

* I think we match just fine.
* In fact, I think we should go places dressed this way and see what happens.
* Have you seen how Johnny Depp dresses? We might not match, but at least we don’t have millions of dollars and look homeless.

Post the agreement of my friend, it was followed by:

* I mean, I get the casual look. There’s hundreds of people who have millions of dollars that do casual fine. For the love of flying chicken poop, Pete Wentz dresses like he got dressed in the dark EVERY.SINGLE.MORNING but he still doesn't look homeless.

In his case, tacky is expensive. And apparently not just American, as told by my friend.

* You should see some of the crazy ways people dress here. It’s like, did you not look in the mirror before you walked out of the house?
* A couple of weeks ago my mum and I were out shopping and this middle-aged woman and what looked to be her son walked past us. Anyway, this woman was wearing a white dress and i”m pretty sure polka dot underwear and no bra.

Yikes, but we still have a secret weapon to bad dressing here in America.

* I’m going to direct you to a website that sums up America. PeopleofWalmart.com
I know you’re totally jealous you don’t have this kind of redneck nostalgia there.

You would think I won this battle, but I did not. I ate crow on this one.

* We get those pictures sent to us in emails.

I am jealous. Jealous. Thanks to WalMart, even Australians know we’re horrible dressers who would make the corpses of long dead designers with actual fashion sense roll in their graves.

Other gems from our conversation that have nothing to do with anything and we didn’t stick on the topic long enough to matter.

* Wait, why would you give your kid to Ludicrous?

Not worth an explanation. It’s mildly funny with one, but head scratching funny without one.

* I have a random fact. ME! ME!
* Oh God, I’m getting to that point.
* The point of no return to intelligence.
* All systems are not go.
* The Enterprise has left the building.
* Anywhomaburger
* You know how Shemar Moore is ten hundred kinds of chocolate yummy?

There has to be medication for this, right? That was less than a minute's worth of straight typing and prematurely hitting send.

No? There’s no help for that? How about this?

* Look, I love MGG, but in no planet is that right.

No? What is that you say? I need medication for half ass explaining things and leaving you all in the dark as to where my mind was going with any of this. Don’t feel bad. My mind is still in the dark itself. It can’t provide you with any light, and it doesn’t apologize.

And last I give you:

* What, did they use him so the other models had someone to run over if they were bored?

And my friend brings a picture and a few last words of her own.

* That just put an image of Shemar walking over Matthew in my head.

By the way, I do think it’s fair to explain that we’re talking about how they were both models and Matthew did better than Shemar as far as jobs and ranks in the modeling world. Yeah, we’re confused, too. That just seems so awkward. How does that work? In what world does a pipe cleaner-with-eyes-pasty-white-kid-with-gorgeous-facial-structure do better than the beefy hot steaming cup of chocolate lovin'? This isn’t a world I’m okay living in.

Maybe it’s because he’s tall.

Shut up and amuse me. My brain has to make sense of this.