Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, January 10, 2012
Poop Monster at YOUR School? No...
Not in the mood for imagery? Deal with it. I, slowly consuming an unhiemal ice cream sundae, sit on the couch in front of a ping pong table in the dark. An obese tabby rests at my side, safely sedated by a heaping serving of boiled mushrooms. What? She likes those. Unlike some people. The only light in the dark cave is the backlit surface of a lone iPad. I am clothed tastefully in PJ bottoms hitched well above the average ostrich, penguin, (abnormal mammal here) waistline, let alone the normal human's. Barely visible beneath my pants is a SCHRUTE FARMS BEETS T-shirt, belted at the waist and covered with the button-up top that matches my bottoms. An ensemble worthy of th most sophisticated abnormal mammal.
This state is my creative fertilizer. Now, with aformentioned image in mind, I begin your story. The story of a celestial friendship between Wooden Backscratcher (WB) and Him (PM).
One day, three vertically-challenged friendsies (Eoz, Seabass, and D) were shopping at AutoZone for bow-ties, taxidermied wedding-cake hats, and paper plates, all of which were going to furnish the trio's annual M.I.S.S.S.U.Z.I.E, or, Maybe Identifiable Sleezy Supper Shindig Under Zombie Influence Entertainer. This yearly bash reenacts every. Little. Thing. That ever happened to the three friends' mother group, The Elite Eighth, or simply The Eighth Grade. This faction of friendly families is forever free from froof, formalities, and formerly fusty floundering feet. (Even I will admit... Not my best alliteration ever.) Moreover, these nine uniquelings (Eoz, Sebass, D, Larkinator, Super Stephen, Meredith Browns, Jake the Player [Ms. Boyles, Miss Suzie?], Skylark, and AAM97) hold said party to inhale the warm, fuzzy, nostalgic memories of Gee, I Wish There Was A Perfect World In Which We Would Not Be Separated By Metaphorical Walls Of Society. With a zombie theme.
Back to the three friendsies. They were at AutoZone shoppi-- Wait... I somehow strayed from the Wooden Backscratcher Road. Allow me to imbibe in a personal moment lasting approximately 24 hours. In this moment, my thoughts shall reconvene into an entertaining tale of truth and triumph in the tough town of Terror. Also, a sickly alliteration.
This state is my creative fertilizer. Now, with aformentioned image in mind, I begin your story. The story of a celestial friendship between Wooden Backscratcher (WB) and Him (PM).
One day, three vertically-challenged friendsies (Eoz, Seabass, and D) were shopping at AutoZone for bow-ties, taxidermied wedding-cake hats, and paper plates, all of which were going to furnish the trio's annual M.I.S.S.S.U.Z.I.E, or, Maybe Identifiable Sleezy Supper Shindig Under Zombie Influence Entertainer. This yearly bash reenacts every. Little. Thing. That ever happened to the three friends' mother group, The Elite Eighth, or simply The Eighth Grade. This faction of friendly families is forever free from froof, formalities, and formerly fusty floundering feet. (Even I will admit... Not my best alliteration ever.) Moreover, these nine uniquelings (Eoz, Sebass, D, Larkinator, Super Stephen, Meredith Browns, Jake the Player [Ms. Boyles, Miss Suzie?], Skylark, and AAM97) hold said party to inhale the warm, fuzzy, nostalgic memories of Gee, I Wish There Was A Perfect World In Which We Would Not Be Separated By Metaphorical Walls Of Society. With a zombie theme.
Back to the three friendsies. They were at AutoZone shoppi-- Wait... I somehow strayed from the Wooden Backscratcher Road. Allow me to imbibe in a personal moment lasting approximately 24 hours. In this moment, my thoughts shall reconvene into an entertaining tale of truth and triumph in the tough town of Terror. Also, a sickly alliteration.
Sunday, January 08, 2012
The Problem with Cats
All of my pets are certifiably insane. Rosco, Tibby, Swayze: these are the members of the nationally aclaimed Schramm's Ward for Emotionally Vulnerable Mammals. Although all three are complete basket cases, today we focus our psychoanalysis upon Rosco.
Enjoying life on a hippy farm commune, Rosco was a kale-loving feline who often could often be found purring over some contraband catnip. His human subjects housed Rosco in a rickety barn loft with his siblings, meowing of peace and love and harmony until the cows literally came home. Then it all ended. I infiltrated the Woodstocky hollar to capture their beloved Rosco, and I offered him the chance to be the king of my urban shanty. Rosco, offended by my suggestions of mainstream hierarchy, lashed his spider-like legs and cried his petulant moans until the the curves of the broken Southern roads lulled him to sleep.
Weeks later, I still refused to fathom that I had commandeered such an immature, frustrating creature for my own. Rosco's aloof personality agreed with the city, but his heart remained with the gravel and chickens of down yonder. The backyard and beyond was his kingdom, and he came inside only for the drab yet mandatory meetings with the Purina bowl. Although our feud had reached a stalemate, Rosco knew that he had a clear advantage from the beginning. Only then did he realize that his personal situation was not going to improve unless he himself intervened.
Days passed, yet a solution had not been reached between girl and cat. I petted him, picked him up, fed him, only to be ignored or even scratched. Tibby, the reigning Schramm feline, was perfectly friendly with Rosco; the question was, "Why can't I?" That answer was locked within the impenetrable walls of Rosco's dysfunctional mind. I began to believe that our relationship was a lost cause, a burnt fuse put out by ignorance and disconnection. After all, were these traits not what humans are burned by in the real world without the help of cats?
Rosco and I are friends now. I came to understand that Rosco is Rosco and Larkin is Larkin, and they will get along if they truly want to. My other option was to become a lofty, catnip-smoking feline, but not everything is possible in this world.
Enjoying life on a hippy farm commune, Rosco was a kale-loving feline who often could often be found purring over some contraband catnip. His human subjects housed Rosco in a rickety barn loft with his siblings, meowing of peace and love and harmony until the cows literally came home. Then it all ended. I infiltrated the Woodstocky hollar to capture their beloved Rosco, and I offered him the chance to be the king of my urban shanty. Rosco, offended by my suggestions of mainstream hierarchy, lashed his spider-like legs and cried his petulant moans until the the curves of the broken Southern roads lulled him to sleep.
Weeks later, I still refused to fathom that I had commandeered such an immature, frustrating creature for my own. Rosco's aloof personality agreed with the city, but his heart remained with the gravel and chickens of down yonder. The backyard and beyond was his kingdom, and he came inside only for the drab yet mandatory meetings with the Purina bowl. Although our feud had reached a stalemate, Rosco knew that he had a clear advantage from the beginning. Only then did he realize that his personal situation was not going to improve unless he himself intervened.
Days passed, yet a solution had not been reached between girl and cat. I petted him, picked him up, fed him, only to be ignored or even scratched. Tibby, the reigning Schramm feline, was perfectly friendly with Rosco; the question was, "Why can't I?" That answer was locked within the impenetrable walls of Rosco's dysfunctional mind. I began to believe that our relationship was a lost cause, a burnt fuse put out by ignorance and disconnection. After all, were these traits not what humans are burned by in the real world without the help of cats?
Rosco and I are friends now. I came to understand that Rosco is Rosco and Larkin is Larkin, and they will get along if they truly want to. My other option was to become a lofty, catnip-smoking feline, but not everything is possible in this world.
Wednesday, November 02, 2011
RESUMATION STATION!!
Yes, minimal followers and subjects, RESUMATION is a word! It's definition is as follows: "the act of resuming work on a blog, specifically a blog based from Larkin's household. Commonly used by people of the genus Awesomenus Peoplas."
There ya go, folks. Resumation. I am resuming posting prodigious posts prior to playing ping-pong with a petite paddle. This blog will run solely as a personal creative outlet for myself, even if no one reads it but me, myself, or I. Your loss.
Since I enrolled in ------- High School, I feel that literally tons of stress has been placed upon any and every humorous bone in my body,including my humourus. (See what I mean? That is the highest joke caliber I've reached in a long time.) No, it's not stress, it is more of neglect. People at HHS have no use for my sort of funny, so the humor bone has shriveled and gone all floppy-like, somewhat like Miss Susie's facial skin-- the part around the, what do you call them, jowels.
So that explains the errant emails you have received, which detail everything from Madison-era anecdotes to pictures of "Don't Mess With Texas" bumper stickers. Please disregard these communications and accept that they are part of my strategy to regain my normal humor-bone functions. From now on, those emails will be posted here instead of clogging your mailbox with ludicrous megabytes of brain drool.
You know what this means, right? Am I mistaken? PREPARE YOUR MEASLEY SELVES FOR MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND FURTHER MORE AND MORE OVER AND MORE AND MORE BRAIN DROOL!!!!!!! Hopefully, said fluid will be delicately articulated and at best, somewhat entertaining.
Thank you,
L
There ya go, folks. Resumation. I am resuming posting prodigious posts prior to playing ping-pong with a petite paddle. This blog will run solely as a personal creative outlet for myself, even if no one reads it but me, myself, or I. Your loss.
Since I enrolled in ------- High School, I feel that literally tons of stress has been placed upon any and every humorous bone in my body,including my humourus. (See what I mean? That is the highest joke caliber I've reached in a long time.) No, it's not stress, it is more of neglect. People at HHS have no use for my sort of funny, so the humor bone has shriveled and gone all floppy-like, somewhat like Miss Susie's facial skin-- the part around the, what do you call them, jowels.
So that explains the errant emails you have received, which detail everything from Madison-era anecdotes to pictures of "Don't Mess With Texas" bumper stickers. Please disregard these communications and accept that they are part of my strategy to regain my normal humor-bone functions. From now on, those emails will be posted here instead of clogging your mailbox with ludicrous megabytes of brain drool.
You know what this means, right? Am I mistaken? PREPARE YOUR MEASLEY SELVES FOR MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND MORE AND FURTHER MORE AND MORE OVER AND MORE AND MORE BRAIN DROOL!!!!!!! Hopefully, said fluid will be delicately articulated and at best, somewhat entertaining.
Thank you,
L
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Sorry, Sorry...
I am sorry, but I have been on a sort of break from blogging. I suppose the Poop Monster has gotten the best of me, from the Elusive Spring Performance to The Yearbook of Death.
I guess that these are all excuse for being lazy and procrastinating. Unusual.
Apologies,
Blog Proprietor
I guess that these are all excuse for being lazy and procrastinating. Unusual.
Apologies,
Blog Proprietor
Saturday, April 23, 2011
An Interim Installment
Between Sally's tragic story of community college-theme Snuggies in Santa's Land and the hallowed Easter Post, there is the thoroughly less holy "Interim Post." This year's is about (drum roll, please, it is a big surprise)... POOP!! So go ahead, indulge yourself by clicking on the Popular Science link below and learn to your heart's content about The Future of Poop.
THE POPULAR POOP LINK (YOU CLICK THIS)
THE POPULAR POOP LINK (YOU CLICK THIS)
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