Oh, God, It's Only Tuesday

It’s brutally blustery today. I went out to the parking lot a little while ago and nearly got blown away. It’s ungodly (and unseasonably) cold, too. As absurd as it seems (since it’s only mid-October), it’s snowing to the west of here. I have a feeling it’s going to be a cold, cold winter. It’s already plenty cold for me. I’m sure my Northern buddies are laughing and calling me a wimp. And my tropical buddies are no doubt also laughing, glad it’s not them.

I went to squirt a little hairspray on my head this morning, with my eyes closed. One doesn’t, after all, want to get it in one’s eyes. One might also wish to rethink squirting with eyes shut, which seems to throw one’s aim off. It went straight to my left eye and it took a couple of minutes to “unblind” myself when I opened it. Duh. One should also never use hairspray while smoking. I won’t tell you how I know that. Duh.

So, anyway, I'm just taking a quick break here and then I have to get back to Interrogatory hell. Ugh.

Today, we’re doing Storytime With Twisted Linguistics again.

Our dramatis personae drafted into service by Roxan and me:

mometous
seveties
suicede
befire
suberbs
familuar
sheleved
the scarry one
surpize
up comming
it is out their
inagery


THE BARE WITCH PROJECT

Once upon a time, there came the mometous occasion of the Suberbs Moms’ camping trip. The moms, city girls all, were, like, totally not familuar with the great outdoors. They were in for a huge surpize, for one of the moms was bringing an excess of pies for anyone who survived the up comming weekend in the woods.

Arriving at the campsite deep in a dense, dark forest, Mom #1, whom we’ll call Muffy, cried out in horror as she caught sight of Mom #2, whom we’ll call Buffy.

“Buffy! Where did you get that hideous off-the-shoulder sweatshirt?”

“I don't remember,” said Buffy.

“Looks like Sears,” Muffy said with a sniff. “It is so out their – so— so seveties!”

“Ladies,” said Mom #3, whom we’ll call Tuffy. “Forget about fashion crime for now and let’s set up camp before nightfall.”

“Okay," said Muffy, "but that shirt ought to be hunted down and shot. Say, is it true what they say, that there’s a witch living in these woods?”

“Oh, puh-leeze,” said Mom #4, whom we’ll call Fluffy. “There’s no such thing as witches. That’s just some inagery they use to keep the kids out of the woods.”

“I hope so,” said Mom #5, whom we’ll call Puffy because she was just coming off a chocolate bender, “because I’m not in a geriatric age but I scar easily.”

“Chop-chop,” said Buffy. “It’s getting dark. Who knows how to make fire?”

“I do, I do!” Fluffy claimed.

“Then get to it,” Muffy demanded, whereupon Fluffy sat down on the ground and began to chant “Befire! Befire!” as she rubbed two sticks together.

And there was no fire, no smoke, no smallest spark. Which only made it all the more terrifying when a naked near-female form with scarred skin and flat hair ran past their darkening camp site, shrieking “Surpize! Surpize!” Her familuar, a fat black cat, seemed almost to laugh as it hissed “Benofire in the berbs!”

“Aiiieeee!” screamed Puffy. “It’s the scarry one! The Witch of the Woods! Somebody save the pize!”

“Nobody said she’d be bare,” Tuffy said. “All that cellulite is scaring me!”

“If my butt looked like that, I wouldn’t run around bare,” Muffy declared.

“Me neither,” said Fluffy. “I’d rather commit suicede and leave town.”

“Let’s get her!” yelled Buffy.

“Yeah!” Muffy chimed in.

“We’ll give her a makeover and take her to The Gap!” Fluffy said.

The witch, hearing those chilling words, stopped dead in her tracks.

And then sheleved out of there like a bat out of hell along with her familuar (who preferred Banana Republic).