Impossible. I just can't believe how good your work is.*
Because I have been gone so long, working on a monster brief that is finally, FINALLY filed, I am now going to make it up to you. Because it is Tuesday, and we are all back at work (except for those of you who had to work on Monday, and those of you who actually are not at work at all today or who do not have jobs, and really, it is a small world and there are a lot of different kinds of people and it is bad for me to generalize, and it isn't like we all live in the U.S. even, but you get my point and ANYWAY): I hereby give you The Best. Seriously! Total Bestness.
Okay, maybe that is hyperbole, and also, not all of these are my own best, and actually a lot of The Best below came from other people, but I have collected them for you anyway, because I am just remarkably giving in that way. They should probably name a holiday after me, and I think we should all take it right now, no matter where we live and whether or not we like John Denver, I think we should look past our little differences and just take a nap.
So, anyway, here they are! And, maybe you had to be there for, oh...all of these, I guess, but y'all -- some of them have made me laugh so hard that I have honestly had to lay down so I would not die. I hope you enjoy.
BEST COMMENTS OF ALL TIME, NOT NECESSARILY DUE TO INHERENT COMEDY, BUT BECAUSE OF CONTEXT WHICH MAKES THEM MORE AWESOME THAN ANYTHING IN THE WORLD, ALMOST INCLUDING DIET COKE
"We're going to swim."
-- Best straight-faced response to the question "How are you going to get to the party tonight?" when asked by annoying person who is always trying to bum rides on account of being too lazy to drive own car. Said by Ziz, who is not going to take any of your shit whatsoever.
"I think you are really not giving Bob Saget the chance he so rightly deserves."
-- Best response to my Proclamation that Full House will never be watched on any television set I own. Extra points for complete sincerity, and also for recognizing greatness that is Bob Saget.
"Can't Get Off!"
-- Best wrongly-remembered movie title. Suggested by my mother, who would have liked to go to a matinee of Failure To Launch, but once she'd offered us the choice of that or "Can't Get Off," we became far more interested in finding the latter movie instead. There are not enough romantic comedies about impotence! Let's work together to change that.
"I'm soliciting. Need a date?"
-- Best worst thing to ask the cops in Nowhere, Georgia, in response to the question "What are you doing out here?" and this is a stupid question, because you are sitting on the trunk of your car as thick, white smoke pours out from under the open hood like you're enjoying a radiator barbecue, and you also happen to be wearing a fucking EVENING gown at this particular time, and Jesus. What do you THINK I am doing, officer? Robbing a bank? COME HELP ME.
(Anyway, they totally did not think that was funny at all.)
"The pilgrims did not have Briefs, Leigh."
-- Best justification for why I should stop working already. Provided by the always-brilliant Robyn, who is completely right. The pilgrims did NOT have briefs, and yet, they lived very full lives before dying of cholera! Or old age, at 31.
“He thinks I’m really erotic.”
-- Best miscommunication ever passed on by an eleven year-old Doxie to her now hysterical mother, in relating what my English teacher thought about my writing. The actual word was “erratic.” Ultimately, the mistake was discovered before the school district became involved, but I damn sure never mixed up “erratic” and “erotic” again.
“Mom told Dad you won’t look like that after you squeeze out some babies.”
-- Best statement ever made by a kid I used to babysit for when I was in high school, who shared this slice of brilliance at a time when I was standing in the kitchen with his mother. She died of shame, but I thought it was the funniest thing I’d ever heard in my life.
"A diamond canoe filled with solid gold dental floss."
-- Best suggestion made in competition to name most "Completely Pointless, But Ridiculously Extravagant" thing the Enron guys should have spent the company's funds on; other notable entries included "firelogs made of actual money" and "Paris Hilton."
"YOU NEVER EVEN CALLED ME BY MY NAME."
-- Best spontaneous singing ever performed by my neighborhood liquor store owner, who learned the majority of his English by listening to the country music station; made awesome by the fact that he was responding to a conversation I was having with another customer, for whom I had held open the door; the customer smarmied on up to me, getting very close to my neck, and whispered, "You didn't have to do that, darlin," and I jumped away and snotted back, "Well, you don't have to call me 'darlin'', darlin'," and that was when Mr. Chu knew that his moment had come, and it was really just one of those things that I cannot explain, but the whole world just came together at that second, and I laughed so hard I almost broke something internal.
“Smooth move, Ex-Lax.”
-- Best thing to say to an actual box of Ex-Lax, which has spontaneously fallen off the shelf of the grocery store and landed on the ground in front of your oncoming cart. Although, pretty much the best thing to say to an actual box of Ex-Lax in any situation.
"Please come get your black chicken off of my front porch, because it is really, really disgusting and I just can't take it anymore."
-- Best note to find taped on your front door by your neighbor, in response to the fact that your one-eyed rooster, Earl, has taken to wandering over to her porch and shitting all over her doormat. Addressed to our friend Bob Dylan, who has since had the note professionally matted and framed.
"Son, you have GOT to be on drugs."
-- Best completely correct conclusion reached by father of Bob Dylan, upon pulling police report of Bob Dylan, and uttered immediately after said father noted that, "Son, you have not one, not two, not three, but FOUR CITATIONS for having FARM ANIMALS within the CITY LIMITS." Equally excellent comment made by father of Bob Dylan in same conversation: "Since when do you have a GODDAMN GOAT?"
Also, as long as we are talking drugs (talking! Not taking! The team here at www.missdoxie.com strongly advises all kids to Just Say No!, but www.missdoxie.com also admits that the use of substances sometimes leads to some pretty entertaining stories, like this one):
"Obviously, you're not a golfer."
-- Best thing to say to your furious mother who has just discovered your bong, and is holding it out to you and waiting for some kind of explanation, young man. Uttered by our friend Newlywed Guy's younger brother. Really, REALLY did not work with respect to the mother, but infinity points for total brilliance anyway.
Allright. So, you guys, to me, these are some of the best comments ever. And maybe this is just my own twisted little sense of humor, but everything here just killed me. But, you know. Several things: firstly, I know there are lots more comments that I am not remembering right now, because of course the second I had the idea for this entry, I forgot every funny thing I had ever heard in my life. That is just how that works. And, secondly, just because these are funny to ME, does not mean that they are funny to YOU. In fact, they are probably not. You probably hate me now. You are like, "Best shmest. This entry sucks that aforementioned goat's balls."
So, what I am going to do, is I am going to continue updating this list in the comments to this entry as I think of more things. And I am hoping that y'all will add your own Best Of comments as well, and then we will have a huge list of almost-as-awesome-as-Diet-Coke statements that made us laugh, for whatever reason strikes our collective fancy. So, add away, and I will, too, and THEN we'll go take that nap.
* And let us not forget the title to this entry, coming in as Best Spam Comment Ever On This Site, as it gives the reader no indication that when clicked, its link will happily direct you to a site about spanking. But not just regular spanking: Asian spanking. Because American spanking is just so fucking boring.
Oh, and P.S.: Bo says Memorial Day sucked.
BO HATE HAT.
Probably The Sort Of Thing That Gave Alfred Hitchcock That Whole Idea
This was going to be an entry about redecorating, and how sometimes I make proclamations that land me in trouble, or worse, that force me to do work, but, people! Listen, things have changed dramatically in the last six minutes! Now, it is going to be an entry that is about proclamations and redecorating, but which is also about the feathered spawn of Satan currently taking over my backyard, because, you guys? I was just physically attacked. By birds. Small ones. What the HELL?
Seriously! I...birds! They're actually trying to get in through the screens right now. I am not exaggerating. Here are the basic facts, which I will lay out for you:
(1) There are birds.
(2) They want to kill me.
(3) They are everywhere.
I am...actually, okay, yes, I am kind of freaking out. Maybe someone needs to call 911? If you happen to mention pterodactyls somewhere in the conversation, that would be fine.
But, so, attacking birds are now on the menu for this evening's entry, but first: proclamations/redecorating/my big ass idea. Okay, short version, so we can talk about these devil birds before they successfully make their way inside and peck out my eyeballs:
Basically, Dukay and I like to proclaim things. We are a proclaiming kind of people. We do not make important proclamations; our proclamations have never emancipated anyone, for example, in the style of Lincoln. The dogs might wish that our proclamations would emancipate them, thereby freeing them from a life in which they are occasionally expected to wear Cabbage Patch Kid Clothes (oh, don't call the ASPCA! It's cute!) and where they are not provided a steady diet of (a) ham (b) kitten and (c) Milky Way Bars, despite their most fervent desires, but that is too bad for them. This is their sad, brown fate.
And, we don't do it often, but when we do make proclamations involving the dogs, it is usually along the lines of "I hereby proclaim that I am going to get these itty bitty pink Cabbage Patch Kid shoes on Pugsley's feet, or die trying!" Usually when the dogs hear a proclamation coming, they flee the premises.
But, anyway. So, our proclamations tend to be kind of boring. I have proclaimed that no episode of Full House will ever be shown on any television set that I own, and Dukay has proclaimed that we will never again order from the Chinese restaurant that serves staple chicken, and so on.
Fortunately, these are not very difficult proclamations to keep. I am not too likely to be overwhelmed with the urge to see the softer side of Uncle Jesse (now with even more acid wash!). I am also not too likely to revisit the establishment that accused Dukay of planting a staple in his entree. So these things work out well for everyone. Occasionally, however, I am an idiot, and I make a proclamation that involves working. Working! LABOR. And, besides being a people who make a lot of proclamations, Dukay and I are also a people who are lazy. We are a people who value the couch, is what I am getting at. Consequently, the "working" kind of proclamations suck very much.
But, unfortuantely, I sometimes forget this. And about a week and a half ago, I was entertaining some friends, and maybe it was the wine (it was probably the wine), but for some reason, I had this moment of clarity, and it dawned on me that my table? My very blue coffee table, which I have described here before? This one, that is almost terrifying in its earnest, passionate blueness?
Holy hell, is that blue!
...that one? I realized that, people! That coffee table really matches nothing in this room. I bet it is lonely! It is alienated. I feel for this coffee table, and also, it occurs to me that I kind of appreciate it when things in one's decor match, and so, for Spring and Summer, I hereby proclaim that I am going to: paint that wall BLUE!
...Well. You can imagine how THAT went over! HA HA!
Um. Or...well, it -- okay, so I said that, I made my Proclamation, only, you know. Nobody cared. At all. Instead, everyone (those who were actually listening, and this does not include Dukay) said, "Huh. Sounds good!" and promptly returned to their cocktails.
But let's ignore that reality, and instead, pretend that all of my guests were immediately shocked, and that people gasped and clutched their chests and stammered, "No! NO! You MUSTN'T!" but I bravely soldiered on, and insisted that once I've made a proclamation, people, I stand by my word! Now, again: did not actually happen, but for purposes of why I ended up being all proud of myself, sometimes we need to embellish. "Embellish", in this case, meaning "lie."
So, there I was, under all that pressure to perform in the face of overwhelming adversity. I bought the paint, and I used a roll of blue tape to mark off the wall, and I got a dropcloth and a bucket (in retrospect, I still haven't figured out what the bucket was for; I did stand on it, briefly, but I kind of doubt that was the intended use), and some brushes and rollers, and off I went to make a wall blue. I figured that, because it was just one wall, and the wall also contained a fireplace (meaning less surface area, according to geometry), the whole job would go quickly. I was thinking somewhere around the ballpark of, oh. Thirteen seconds. Then, wine!
But that is the thing about painting. There is the fantasy of how it is going to change a room, and how easy it will be. And then there is the reality of what actually happens when the forces of paint, four dogs, and Me actually collide in an enclosed space with white wood floors and (I later learned) absolutely no paper towels left in the whole damn house. You can probably already see how fantasy and reality would differ in this scenario, but I will lay it out for you:
I paint for thirteen seconds. The color is lovely and glorious and, actually, I believe I just saw this exact shade in a picture captioned "Most Beautiful Room In The Whole World, According To Strangers Whose Job It is To Tell You What Is Beautiful, And You Believe Them, Too, As They Probably Work For People Magazine." Then, justlikethat, I am done! My crisp white painting clothes are still freshly pressed; maybe I have a cute little blue paint smudge on my cheek, but that's it. Satisfied by my accomplishment, I pour myself a glass of chilled white wine and quietly reflect upon my den. Around this time, all painting paraphenalia vanishes, and the entire room is magically transformed into the cover of Living magazine. Inexplicably, white linen stationery and freshly cut roses appear on the table, and the dogs are all wearing matching ribbons, and Bo is actually playing the harp in the corner, and I have just entered the softly-lit nirvana of understated, but unattainable, interior perfection.
Huh. Okay! Got to open the paint can. Will use...scissors? Knife? How do you open a paint can? You...helllooooo, screwdriver!
Okay, and...holy lord. Oookay, that's blue. Wow, holy shit, is that blue. It's blue blue, just -- hey! That shade reminds me of something! From my childhood! Like, my childhood bedroom, maybe? Or a favorite toy? Or, uh...
HOLD ON. Why am I suddenly thinking about Working Girl? Was it - oh no. No, dear God, NO. DAMMIT, yes, this is the precise color of Cyn's eyeshadow in that scene where she says, "Coffee, tea, or me?" and dear LORD, everybody KNOWS that is not a color found in NATURE, and...hey! AIIIIEEEEEEEE! NO! NO NO NO! BAD DOG! DON'T STEP THERE! THAT IS PAINT! SHIT!
(two hours later)
Coffee, tea, or me? Coffee, tea, or me? Me, tea, or coffee? Tea or coffee, me? Tea or cofAHHHH NOOOOO! NOT AGAIN! BAD DOG BAD DOG! WHY? WHYYYYYY? And, AAHHHHH! FOOTPRINTS! PLEASE! STOP RUNNING! PLEASE!
(two hours later)
Coffee...tea...urgle. Mmph. Why is this paint? Not covering? At all? How many? Coats? (sob).
(two hours later)
Well, okay. (wheeze) That's it. It's (wheeze) really, really blue. I think it might dry to be even (wheeze) bluer. In fact, I can already tell what color it will ultimately be, by looking at the dogs. Who are...yeah. Yep. That's it. Cyn's eyeshadow. Fantastic.
Now. You can see several things here. First, you can see how my "okay, real quick I will tell you this one story and then I will get to the pressing issue, which deals with birds!" has flown out the window, so to speak (ha! I am funny) because actually, the birds seem to have gone away, which means I have long forgotten about them. (I will try to recreate my earlier sense of fear shortly.) But, you know, the other thing you can see is that there is a fundamental disconnect between the fantasy of painting and the reality of painting, and never the two shall meet, and sometimes, you realize you have accidentally not on purpose painted one wall in your house very, very, very blue:
Hey, kids! Four hundred Smurfs are hidden in this picture! Can you find them all?
Now, actually, I have to say. Despite my complaining, I kind of like it, y'all! It's very bright, and it's different, but it does match the table exactly. And, yes, it is extraordinarily blue -- unnaturally so, even -- but that is okay. Living magazine was not planning on coming over for a photoshoot any time soon. And in the meantime, the room is ten times brighter, and also it makes us all look thinner and way more hot. Who can argue with a color that does all that? Not me, baby.
And, just in case it was not painfully evident from the above paragraphs, I would like to again point out that, hey. Who did that? Who painted that room (okay, wall) all by herself, alone, with only the strength of her conviction and the power of her proclamation? Me! All me. I mean, I know it's no huge accomplishment, and actually it is not exactly the first time I have painted walls, but still! Still. I'm a little proud. I prepped the walls, taped the edges, picked out the right paint color, and stayed inside the lines and everything.
I like my wall. And I hereby proclaim it to be awesome.
Oooookay. Awesomeness aside, enough about the wall ("short version" my ASS, you are thinking), and now: birds! Attacking. Let me explain.
Earlier, I decided to write about the wall (life is pretty quiet when you decide to write about a wall), so I got the camera, and was about to take some pictures of the den, when I heard a crazy commotion at the kitchen door. The door leads to the backyard, and it's glass, so I could immediately see that the commotion was being caused by a small, brown bird. He wasn't smacking into the glass or anything; he was just right up against it, squawking at the top of his birdie lungs. And he was looking directly at me.
This was sort of fascinating, because: birdie hissy fit. Unusual! So I watched for a minute, and then I walked away, toward the den. But the bird followed me. He came flapping over to the den windows. And he was still squawking. And still looking at me.
Now, somewhere deep down in my being, there is a small, illogical part of me that kind of believes that every animal has the capacity to Lassie us all out of danger, if the need arises. Like, we could all say, "What is it, girl?" and the next thing you know, a turtle leads us to Timmy in a well, or a beaver shows us to the fire in the barn, or something else involving a combination of peril and small children. And random, helpful animals.
And then, there is another deep down part of me that has always, always wanted to be able to understand animals, Dolittle style (as opposed to Dog Whisperer style, because the Dolittle animals seem to have much more pleasant things to say, and probably do so in British accents, according to the Rex Harrison version). This is a secret desire (well, used to be), and it does not often rear its head except when the dogs are looking at me like that again, and I don't know what their damage is. Usually, this fantasy stays hidden.
It is the dangerous combination of these two impulses, however -- the belief in random, helpful animals, and the peculiar hope that I might suddenly possess the capacity to understand them -- that actually caused my dumb self to go outside to try to figure out what the hell was going on. I took the camera, and tried to catch a picture of the bird. Who, I might add, was still hollering at me. Here he is:
And then, all of a sudden, he was not alone.
Say hello to my leetle freend.
And then, I started looking around. And the birds. They were...everywhere.
On the furniture.
By the windows.
In the trees.
And they were all squawking. ALL of them. And they were all looking at me.
Recognizing an ambush, I immediately turned for the house. This is when one of the little fuckers flew at me. He brushed by the side of my head, and I screamed bloody murder and ran, in a full out sprint, for the back door.
From this point on, all of my bird pictures kind of look like this:
Oh, screen door, you are all that stands between me and certain death!
You are just going to have to trust me that the birds were, at this point, all gathered near the back door, verbally ripping me a new one. This made me very glad that I do not speak Dolittle, because I think they were using a lot of profanity, and I am not sure what I have done to piss off an army of birds, but dude, they are really, really angry at me.
So, there you go. Birds! Attacking! I narrowly escaped with my life. And as you can see, the dogs are just beside themselves with worry:
And also, Bo says hi.
Bo not afraid of stupid bird.
Hope y'all are all doing well out there, and that everyone is having a good week! If you aren't, I am sorry. And I will hereby proclaim that I hope it gets better. And, of course, that it does not involve any birds.