So I just got a call from a guy we’re helping wanting to know if the director they’re working with was in. I said that he was, but was helping another family and asked if they wanted to leave a message.
“No,” he said, “I just wanted to confirm he was in the office today because we’re going to bring their payment and some photos by for him.”
“Well,” I said, “he is in the office today, but he’s meeting with some other families, so I don’t know if he’ll be available when you come in. But if you’re just dropping off payment and photos, we can certainly get it to him.”
“Well, honey,” says this guy, “We’re talking cash, so I don’t feel comfortable giving it to you. I’d rather give it to him directly.”
“Fine,” I said, after pausing for a moment so I wouldn’t lose my shit. “I will have him call you when he’s available.”
“Well, I guess we could give it to you,” he decides. “As long as we get a receipt.”
Dear Indiana Jones,
I’ve always loved you since I was a little girl.
Actually, I did go through a phase where I wasn’t that into you, but that’s because my brother was going through a phase where he wore khakis and a fedora, carried a whip, and wanted to be an archeologist, and it just felt wrong to love you then.
But other than that, I have always, always loved you.
(About as much as I love Han Solo.)
Which is why I think we should get married.
Now, don’t get me wrong. I think Marion Ravenwood is, like, the perfect girl for you. Hell, I think Marion Ravenwood is, like, the perfect girl, full stop. She’s brave, beautiful, can handle alcohol well, and she just seems really like a lot of fun to be around.
There’s only one problem with Marion Ravenwood, Indiana. When you procreate with her, you create a Shia LeBeouf.
And that’s terrible. That’s just terrible.
Now I, on the other hand, have a beautiful, talented, non-plagiarizing daughter, so you wouldn’t have to worry about that sort of thing.
So, let’s get married.
Just you, me and your whip.
I know I shouldn’t, but I keep reading the opinion page of the local newspaper and discovering that 1) a lot of my fellow townspeople LOVE Trump; 2) a lot of them hate women; and 3) a lot of them really dislike people who aren’t white, and it’s probably their fault that the police shot them to death when they were unarmed, and maybe people should just stop complaining about how police never get prosecuted for straight-up murdering people, and also Obama is secretly a Muslim.
Seriously, in the last two days’ paper, we had a guy who thought Hillary Clinton should be satisfied just being a grandmother, and not try to run for president. (Like he’d say THAT to a man of her age.)
We had another guy who said if you argue with the police, it’s your fault you get shot, and at least it decreases the surplus population. (Paraphrasing; his was actually more like: “Darwinism, yo!”) (Which doesn’t explain Philando Castile, but, hey, whatever, right?)
And we had a woman who blames Obama for not running as a black man, not a biracial man, because if he had run as a biracial man, then the last eight years would have been years of “inclusion rather than exclusion.”
WHAT THE HELL DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
Luckily, there was a letter to the editor from a guy that was basically: “Bigotry = Stupidity,” so not everyone in my town is jerks.
On the new Ghostbusters, I’m torn.
I want to see it so all those misogynists who are like “Ewww, women will ruin the movie!” can go suck.
But I don’t want to see it because it doesn’t look that funny.
Lately, on the way home from work, I’ve been stuck behind a truck with a Trump bumper sticker. Which is fine and all, as everyone is welcome to their own stupid opinion, but STOP GOING FIVE MILES UNDER THE SPEED LIMIT THE WHOLE TIME, GUY!
My obsession with American Ninja Warrior continues unabated! And last night, I cheered for the awesome Jessie Graff, who does stuntwork for this one show I can’t stop watching.
Anyway, Jessie Graff is beautiful and awesome (you already said that!) and outperformed all but one of the other contestants on a brutal obstacle course.
My daughter, however, was unimpressed.
“You won’t say that when I marry her,” I said.
But then I realized I had nothing to offer Jessie Graff, being older, less awesome and poor. “I can’t even be her sugar momma,” I said, sadly.
“You can be her Splenda momma,” my mother offered.
Guys, this isn’t funny anymore.
There is a THIRD Purge movie. I really don’t understand how this is a successful franchise. Are the movies that good? That cathartic?
Anyway, two years ago I blamed everybody for the sequel, and now I’m blaming them for the … wait, what the hell do you call the third entry in a franchise?
The third Purge movie looks just like the first two: Night of mayhem, crime is legal, everybody wears stupid masks.
Enjoy it if you go, I guess.
And if there’s a fourth, I will never forgive you.
Right. So, the first thing about this new Tarzan movie is that I’ve been reading about feral children lately, and most of them can’t speak. So every time I see an ad for this new Tarzan flick and he’s speaking perfect English, I’m like: “Pfft! Like he’d be able to talk at all!”
The second thing about the new Tarzan flick is boy do those apes look fake.
The third thing is does Samuel L. Jackson have to take every role he’s offered? Is it some sort of “deal with the devil” scenario?
The last thing is there’s only one true Tarzan, and that Tarzan is Johnny Weissmuller.
You guys, this is bad.
This is really bad.
This is, like, the worst.
So I went outside, right? I was going to get the mail at work, and the sun was right in my eyes, so I wasn’t really paying attention to what was going on around me, just kind of, you know, shading my eyes and walking forward.
And I kicked something.
“Huh,” I thought. “This feels softer than a rock.”
And then it flew away.
Lately, I’d been feeling down because I got FOUR STORIES REJECTED IN FIVE DAYS.
But then I discovered that Saturday, Sunday and Monday actually equals three, so then I felt worse.