humans are funny

Author: laurenne

  • Animals are funny too.

    I went to the zoo!
    Is it weird that I just want to be tickled by an elephant’s trunk? Next birthday, I would please like one elephant tickling. Unless this is a weird fetish I haven’t heard of and it requires I wear crotchless panties and mauve body paint. Then forget it.

    Elephant butts are funny too. This guy has a spot of poo on his butt. He doesn’t seem to care. I want to be just like elephants. You can learn a lot from their nonchalance.

    Haha! Turtles are such exhibitionists. Hey wait… do you smell something? Oh, that’s poo on my butt. Being just like elephants is not working out.

    I learned that gibbons and cranes are monogamous. This made me wonder if gibbons and cranes also argue over when to have sex and complain about their in-laws.

    Aw shit. Glen wants to have sex. What should I tell him? Shitshitshit. Um… Glen, I ‘ve got too much on my mind…and I’m not feeling sexy at all…didn’t shave.

    If Leonard’s mother comments on my feathers one more time, I’m walking out.
    (alt: I’m flying out. Not sure if cranes fly. I should look that up.)

    I wish we all had skin like giraffes so that nobody would be either black or white. But then we’d all be the same, so that would be boring. Forget I said anything.

  • Beware of the love caused by sweater terriers.

    It was a time when love mattered most: Addison, Illinois. 1990. Me. A Latin Lover with hair gelled to look like a bird’s nest. A freckly fresh-faced boy aggressive with his lips. A love triangle.

    The echoed hallways of Fullerton Elementary.
    As I debated with the Latin Lover over whether Brandon Walsh should really go for Andrea Zuckerman, Freckle Face interrupted.

    “All right, Laurenne,” he said. “You have to choose.”

    I threw him a look of despair. “Choose?”
    I began to sweat and could feel the tears about to plunge from my eyes. “Choose? That’s like asking me to choose between air [dramatic pause]… and water.”

    The Latin Lover, perplexed, ruffled his bird’s nest hair. “You mean you’re in love with both of us?”

    There was a long silence. “Yes,” I said. “Yes. My fourth-grade heart beats for you both.”

    Upon hearing the truth, my saddened lovers retreated to their classrooms. I fell to the floor, my heart screaming. It yelled to me that it burned for them both equally. But something… some unearthly element enveloped my soul and said, ‘Freckles. Freckles!’ So, I listened. Not to my heart but to my guiding light, the light that said, ‘You must invite Freckles to your New Kids on the Block party this weekend.’

    And that I did. It was a decision I would regret for eternity.

    A nightmare ensued that night. As I embraced the screen to see if I could feel Jordan Knight’s fluffy locks through the nineties pay-per-view technology, a hardened jealousy overtook my fresh-faced lover and his aggression reared. He stormed out, never to be seen again.

    But it was too late. The Latin Lover wouldn’t take me back. And he, too, stormed out of my life.

    Both true loves were gone. Gone! My air and my water had vanished. Without a trace. (try repeating that really dramatically) Without a trace.

    Until 2010.

    That’s right. They’ve both reappeared, and I can finally breathe again. Breathe again. Yes, I can finally breathe again.

    And I owe it all… to Facebook. I have to say that I haven’t been quite a fan of Facebook up until now. I like it and all, but I have calculated that it has stolen 4,561 hours of my time since its invention. I would have been an astronaut and have 12 best-sellers by now if Facebook had never come to town. Do I really care that a coworker from 4 jobs ago is drinking a PBR on the beach? Or how awesome your wedding was even though I haven’t spoken to you since kindergarten? Yes, I guess I do. Because there I go looking at your pictures. In fact, Facebook has distracted me away from so many thi–

    But I’ve put that all aside because I now see the reason Facebook was invented: to finally reunite me with the true passion of my fourth-grade love. Freckles lives in Buffalo and the Latin Lover sells phones not far from my hometown. Both have girlfriends and don’t seem at all interested in talking with me about whether or not Brandon Walsh should have ended up with Andrea Zuckerman. I thought you were supposed to look back at life in hindsight and share the true knowledge that twenty years can bring.

    Sigh.

    At least I have my closure. I have been waiting all these years, putting off marriage and relationships and love in the case that these lovers reappear. And now that they’re back, I can finally move on. Thanks, Facebook. Thank you.

    Adrian and Jesse: If either of you want to watch a NKOTB concert, I’m here. I’ll always be here. With a VHS.

    Of course I was caught in a love triangle! Amazing hat, hair to match, and terriers on my sweater.

    I got too cool for diaries by the time of the triangle, but this illustrates what a romantic I was: Thanksgiving 1987. Weather: sunny I Love and Like Robbie he looks at me all thru school oooo I love him. But he Dosen’t no it. I think he likes me to. (smiley face) he’s kind of cute Robbie always plays football after lunch outside. I love you Robbie Amy likes you to but she moved Cari like’s you but she to young I’m just Right [Incidentally, Robbie never reciprocated my beautiful love. Burn.]

  • If you buy culottes at noon on a Tuesday, I will hex you.


    I’m unemployed again.
    Yay!
    I was able to hold a job for three weeks.
    This time, I didn’t technically get fired like I did here. But my job ‘ended early,’ as they say. Actually they don’t say, but whatever. The point is that I’m back to sitting in cafes and eavesdropping.

    Some great quotes so far:

    “This song is Timbaland with Elton John! Elton John is getting good.”
    “If I take off my fairy costume, the magic is over.” (you must imagine the silky pastel dress that accompanied this comment.)
    “Should we get a breakfast burrito and roll the bootie dice?”

    Bootie Dice? Gross.

    Yesterday I decided not to head into a coffeehouse because I realized that spending ten bucks for hipster coffee from Papua New Guinea every day is really stupid when I’m on an unemployment budget. Plus, I know those guys in Papua New Guinea and they would never charge me 10 bucks a day for a couple coffees. Actually, they would ask me for 10 bucks a day and I would artfully whittle them down to at least 8.50.

    Instead, I took myself to Border’s in the mall. And man all mighty, the mall parking lot was full. FULL. At 11:30am on a Tuesday. Packed cafes and crowded malls: What is it that I’m not getting? There’s a secret society of the self-employed in LA and none will let me in. What is the fucking secret? How do these people earn livings and never have to walk into a cubicle?

    I saw a gaggle of women excitedly exiting Nordstrom Rack, and I yelled to them, ‘Hey ladies! How do you make money? How do you live in this city and pay your bills and your damn student loans and still laugh your morning away in Nordstrom Rack looking for deals on Laura Ashley culottes? How do you do it?’
    They ran away from me.
    But I put a hex on them, yes I did. Who’s smiling now, middle aged shoppers? Who?

    Then I made some guesses:

    1. These people have no shame in acquiring sugar daddies or mommas. If this is the case, I have very much no future in being a woman of leisure. I can’t do it. I feel guilty when my mom pays for me. There’s no way I could actually let a man say, ‘Baby, don’t work anymore. I’ll pay for everything.’ Gross. I would feel like I owed this man something– that I had to give him blow jobs on command. I would hate that. Sometimes I’m tired after work and I just don’t want to. Oh, wait. I wouldn’t be working. Option #1 now open for possibility.

    2. These people are involved in a pyramid scheme and/or they sell knives door-to-door and make their own hours. Not doing that.

    3.These people are on unemployment and/or welfare, which they are spending at Nordstrom Rack. No matter the dire circumstances of your finances, you gotta have nice throw pillows and a discounted designer pump. I get it. But I don’t qualify for either.

    4.These people have answered those ‘work from home’ ads on the internet that claim ‘total financial independence from your living room.’ Those ads weren’t a scam? Fuck. I could have been stuffing envelopes for years at my own leisure. Will look into this.

    5.These people don’t have any student loans or bills because their parents have paid for everything for them. That’s not an accomplishment, assholes.

    6.These people are bartenders, actors, and models who work at night or don’t work at all and have only a couch from Goodwill and a bag of Cheetos in the apartment they share with 3 other people. Not into it. I need my couch from Macy’s.

    7.These people have very successful blogs which they write every morning really early. And they’re funny and they have tons and tons of visitors who send their link to their friends and get even more traffic. And they make great big salaries based on ad revenue and writing opportunities, and all they have to do is write an entry every single day that makes people peel over in laughter, as evidenced by this woman. Oh, I can’t even think about these people because my skin begins to boil from hot jealousy.

    One day I will figure it out. One day. For now, I will head back to the cafe. Maybe if I eavesdrop for long enough, someone from the secret society will accidentally spill the 10-dollar beans.

  • Yeah, rice. Get fluffy already.


    Don’t homeless people actually seem like they really have it all?

    Why won’t rice just hurry up?

    Why don’t people call TV ‘the boob tube’ so much anymore? I wish they did.

    If my last name was ‘Case,’ would I be hilarious or horrible for naming my son ‘Justin?’

    Do hand models get to skip the line at dance clubs like real models do?

    What is the point of iceberg lettuce?

    Why the constant need to think of something new? Can’t we just stick to Ford Escorts and step aerobics?

    Are blind people really good at hide-and-seek?

    I wonder if humans seem to dogs what giraffes seem to humans…? You know, because of the height and the angle.

    Is it really necessary to count threads?

    When will Whoopi Goldberg age?

    Why do they say not to talk with food in our mouths, but every time we want to talk about stuff, we meet for lunch or dinner?

    Isn’t it crazy how, for the same amount of money, we can send a box across the country overnight, buy a gourmet chocolate, or feed a baby in Liberia for a week?

    Does the guy who caught me shoplifting at JC Penney that one time still think of me as much as I think of him?

    Why don’t animals like me as much as I like them?

    Why does so much hair come out in the shower?

    Do snakes ever get bored with eating? Swallowing stuff whole must take a long time.

    Why do people so often say ‘by the way’ when introducing themselves? I don’t want to know that you know how to say ‘by the way.’ I just want to know your name.

    If I put asparagus down the garbage disposal, will the water smell weird?

  • I’m naked.

    Yeah. It’s true. I’m writing this naked. I’m telling you this not in an aw-yeah-baby-I’m-naked kinda way, but in more of a yippee-I’m-untethered-by-clothes kinda way. More than that, I’m also poolside, eating a monstrous slice of melting red velvet cake, and reading a gossip magazine under the fluttering hummingbirds and spotlight sun of serene Palm Springs.

    This is what turning 30 is all about: A birthday suit in a private yard. No one can see me. And nobody knows that my ass is red not only from the sun but from 10-12 high-intensity cannon balls (Incidentally, I did not actually wake up in a cannon; I simply performed skilled cannon-like jumps into the deep end.).

    I deserve this because this is where I spent my birthday last year: asleep on a cement bed under a mosquito net, not even allowed to be naked in the shower (monks can be such a drag sometimes). But now I’m balls out. And that’s what life is all about. Hey! Finally I’m making a contribution to quote boards throughout the internet: ‘Balls out. It’s what life is all about.’ Spread the word. Please.

    What life is not about is whining. And I must apologize for being so whiney about entering this 4th decade of life. I hate those girls I occasionally meet in bars who say, ‘Oh my Gawd! I’m totally turning 21 tonight! I’m so old.’ And now I see I’ve been doing the same. So, I apologize. But not really. Because turning 30 is a big friggin deal and deserves nudity and cake. Balls out, baby. Balls out.


    Note: I was not Nudey McNudle when my friends were here. That would have been awkward.

    Please note: ‘Balls out’ is merely an expression. I do not actually have balls.

    Also note: Meredith Buzas shot this amazing promo photo for Fox’s newest show, ‘I want to get naked in front of my friends but it might be awkward because we’re really comfortable with each other but mainly boob comfortable and not vagina comfortable yet.’