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Been Caught Stealing

February 21, 2007

Hi, y'all! So, here is something that I find enormously funny, and also, a testament to the lengths to which I will go in order to avoid washing the slipcovers. That is pretty much all the explanation I can provide for my actions, which are both crafty and criminal. But, even though I can't give you an explanation, I can give you some backstory. Which I will begin...now!

So, Monday was our managing partner's birthday. He's awesome, so everyone in the firm was circulating cards, and sneaking cake into the conference room for a surprise party, and generally telling the partner how cool he is for not replacing all of us with robots.

And, amid all this excitement, I thought: you know, I should do something. Sure, I signed the group card, but I've known the managing partner since I was nine! A group card is not enough for someone you've known for twenty years. I needed to do something more to show my appreciation, affection, and similar fuzzy emotions.

I figured I'd go downstairs and buy a card from the little convenience store in our building. So down in the elevator I rode, and into the convenience store I went, and many, many hideous cards did I see. Cards with...teddy bears. And butterflies. And Jack Handey-style Deep Thoughts along the lines of, "You are special to me. Also amazing. Being with you is an amazing experience. Also special." Each card was like the transcription of a reality makeover show (Journey! Transformation! AMAZING!), and none of that really screamed me, and it certainly didn't scream "Appropriate card to give to the managing partner of your law firm who, let us not forget, could replace you with a robot. Or a well-trained monkey."

I rode back up in the elevator. Around floor 14, I thought, "You know, if only I had the gift of foresight, I would have made him a card yesterday, and then I would not be in this predicament."

And then around floor 19, I thought, "Well, maybe I could make him a card now! Like, with scissors, and tape."

And then, as the elevator dinged onto my floor, it was like a lightbulb went off over my head, and I realized the solution to the problem. And that solution was: office supplies. Jackpot!

Twenty minutes of unbillable time later, and after forcing my poor assistant to go on a mad hunt for a glue stick, and then allowing her to help with the assembly because, as she correctly observed, "That looks like more fun than doing work," my masterpiece was finished.

And let me tell you: my office supply card was pretty awesome, if I may say so myself. First, I doodled a picture onto white paper. Then, to maximize the amount of trouble involved, I scanned the picture and emailed it to myself as a jpeg. Which I then opened in Word, and added text, and then printed, and then -- using my trusty glue stick (THANKS, MRS. P!) -- attached to some heavy red paper. Which I folded, and decorated quite prettily with those little white hole reinforcer thingies for "interest." And then, my masterpiece was complete.

Unreasonably proud of myself, I bounced down the hall to the managing partner's office, and knocked on the door. And, as soon as it opened, I did not say, "Happy birthday!" or, "Hey, is this a bad time?" or "Are you on a conference call right now?"

Instead, what I said was:


And then, after a pause, I said, "BUT DON'T TAKE THAT THE WRONG WAY." Because it was at that exact moment when it occurred to me that: oh. Yeah, giving your boss a card made, on company time, from pilfered office goods, is maaaaaaaybe the sort of communication I didn't exactly intend. Specifically, it is a communication that says, "There is no way on heaven or earth that I am spending $2.99 on you. And to emphasize my point, I shall now squander your resources. Happy birthday, dickhead!"

Fortunately for me, mister partner did not get that message at all, and was very touched by my Card Of Master Thievery. He even said it was his best card. (So, you know; top that, Hallmark. "Amazing," my ass.)

For the rest of the day, I remained mildly pleased with myself for my quick thinking. But, I also kept on coming up with other things I should have done; like, ooo! I should have used post-its to make a scalloped border! Or, you know, a highlighter would have added so much. Oh, sad, wasted opportunity!

The more ideas I had, the more entertained I became. And it occurred to me that many people do not like their bosses very much. And maybe, my unintentional message of, "I care about you only in a way that costs you money" was one that other people would like to intentionally convey. Like, on purpose, even.

So, I did what any self-respecting person would do: I stole more office supplies. (Only, not very many, cool bosses! Only a very few office supplies! Nothing significant like a copier or those little triple-A batteries we keep in the downstairs supply room for an unknown reason.)

Here were my materials:

Listen, mister parole officer, I am pretty sure this does not count as actual stealing. Can we stick with "pilfering"? It sounds so much more ladylike!

(Oh, and not pictured: a few inches worth of those white reinforcement thingies. Assume that they are like vampires and cannot be photographed, and not that I just left them in the other room.)

So tonight, when I should have been doing about sixteen thousand other things, I used those materials -- plus scissors, glue (THANKS AGAIN, MRS. P!), a marker, and wine -- and I created the following cards. All of which you, too, can make at your own office if you find yourself in a crunch, and all of which will send the message of; "Hey, boss. I stole from you, to give to you. It's complicated. Happy birthday, though!"

Y'all, don't you think I should be given my own show on a do-it-yourself network? Or possibly the prison channel? Yes.

Card One: The Hangman Cometh



Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; staples (and, actually, they were my own staples. I suck at stealing).

I learned something when I made this card! I learned that it is hard to put staples in a straight line. I also learned that 75% of the letters in "BOSS" are BS. This is funny to me.

Card Two: Fat Ass + Skinny Legs = What We Have Here





Pilfered office supplies used: 2 sheets heavy paper in white and red; rubber bands for legs; round dot things for ugly shirt-making; 2 post-it notes for shorts.

I am strongly in favor of casual Friday. I am not, however, in favor of looking at scary boss knees. Go away, scary boss knees! It is possible that I was once traumatized by this in a previous workplace, but I will not go into the knobby, hairy details of all that I have endured.

Card Three: Cutesy Is Nauseating





Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; post-its for petals; file folder for the center; paper clip for the stem; green page-flags for the leaves; white reinforcer stickers for eyeballs.

I am not really a fan of cute adorableness and things that announce that someone is someone else's sunshine, as it is not my particular cup of tea. Toss in a peptic ulcer, though, and I hop right on board. I'm fickle.

Card Four: Okay, This One Is Actually Kind Of Nice, My Bad.





Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; two paperclips; green page-flags.

Apparently, I can make a dachshund out of anything. I am a woman obsessed. I am also a woman who could not come up with anything snippy for the inside of this card. But, that is okay! Because instead, I am providing an option that is not very evil. Sure, it's still stealing, but it's the happy kind.

Card Five: When You Are Stealing Office Supplies Because You Have A Little Something To Say About Your Paycheck





Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; file folder for branch; post-it for bird's body; yellow page-flag for tail; white reinforcement sticker for eyeball; white copy paper for talk bubble.

I know the cheep! joke is not exactly new, but I am all about reinventing one's self over here, in the manner of John Travolta. Only with less Scientology.

Card Six: The One You May End Up Having To Use If You Follow My Ill-Advised Lead





Pilfered office supplies used: 1 sheet heavy paper; white-out for body; paper clips for arms; yellow flag for nose; correction tape for ground; binder clip for hat.

Yeah. Sorry, boss! Clearly I have learned my lesson!

So, that is it! This is what I do with my time. But everyone please ignore the fact that I am a freak; instead, enjoy my freakishness! And of course, feel free to try any of these at home.

But, if you get caught trying to shove a Xerox machine down your trousers, don't go saying you got the idea from me; blame it on a robot instead.

Posted by doxie in Times I Fell Down | permalink | Comments (124)

Who Died And Made It Wednesday?

February 13, 2007

(The title of this entry was way funnier when I wrote it yesterday. Which was Tuesday. But now it is 12:51, and it's not funny anymore. And, I guess I could fix it, but...wait, are those druids on tv right now? GOTTA GO.)

Hi, y'all! So, hey, remember that time I did Bad Limerick Wednesday, and waxed poeticish about choosing to spend the night with four wiener dogs, and how that did not exactly turn out well? And remember also how when I did that, I apologized profusely and said y'all could come to my house and steal all my liquor?

Maybe? Or has everyone blocked it from their collective consciousness? Because, I would not blame you.

But, um. Guess what anyway! I am about to assault you all anew, with even more bad poetry about the dogs. Because, this is what happens when I am stuck in traffic for too long: I start to rhyme. I do not really know why, exactly. I think it has something to do with rocking to the rhythm of crazy, which I have also discussed here on a previous occasion.

(Which, now that I think about it...you guys? Please do not tell anyone what I put on this website. Turns out, I am maybe a little bit crazypants. Shh!)

So, anyway. Rhyming! And all about an evening we had not too long ago. Don't y'all shoot me too much.

Also, be warned that this poem is kind of gross, but apparently, I can't just come out and embrace scatological humor; I have to rhyme it. And, y'all, that probably has a deep meaning. Possibly even deeper than, "If I rhyme, maybe my mom will not notice that this poem is kind of about poop."

Why I Will Not Spend The Night Out Ever Again
Or: Medieval Times, You Are On The LIST.

One evening not too long ago,
My friends all decided to go
A very long way
So that we could pay
To see a ridiculous show.

But Dukay and I are not bright.
Because, on this ill-fated night,
We left wieners alone
In my once-pleasant home,
As if that could turn out all right.

But we put down food for the boys,
Plus water and blankets and toys,
And three little beds
For their three evil heads.
(We even played music for noise!)

And just before leaving them all,
We lay piddle pads down, wall to wall.
(A crucial precaution,
Because just one dachshund
Can piss like a tropical squall.)

But as I was closing the door,
I saw Bo staring up from the floor;
And his eyes said to me,
"If you leave, it shall be
A clear declaration of war."

The voice that lives inside my head.
But I chose to ignore,
And so I closed the door,
While inside, Bo thought, ""Oh, she's dead."

But I put that thought out of my mind,
And then, with my friends, tried to find
The famed destination
With our reservation
For drama and dinner, combined.

Maybe you already know,
But in Georgia, not too long ago,
Something opened which we
Had discovered with glee:
The Medieval Times Dinner Show.

And though we were all rather vague
About what might occur on the stage,
We all said, hell yes,
It'd be a success
If we didn't catch head lice or plague.

While certainly, back in our youth,
We learned things "medieval," in truth,
Now, all we know
Is, "It was long ago,
In castle somewhere in...Duluth."

And so, we drove halfway to Gaul,
To this place that was sure to enthrall;
When at last, it appears!
Tucked next to a Sears.
That "castle" is part of a mall.

We were met by a wench once inside,
Who pointed towards doors on one side;
She said, with a yawn,
"Yeah, the horse show is on."
"Horses?" we asked, horrified.

We went through the doors, most unsure
And though it may seem immature,
We all recoiled and cried
Upon walking inside:
That whole place smelled just like manure.

For, dressed in medieval costume,
The horses performed 'round the room,
Pausing just to emit
A great mountain of shit
And then the horse show would resume.

Spam looked at us all, quite pale faced;
and said, "Maybe it's personal taste,
But I do deeply feel
That one should eat his meal
Some distance from animal waste."

But the show was about to begin,
So we sighed and we all settled in;.
And I think it is best,
If I sum up the rest,
By saying we won't go again.

(I will say we wondered out loud
Why no forks or knives are allowed,
And yet they brought me
a "Ye Olde Daiquiri"
That would make a historian proud.)

(And also, y'all? Jousting is boring
When there's not going to be any goring.
Which made me say the words,
"It's like wrestling, for nerds!"
Over the sounds of our snoring.)

Finally, it was all done
And we left to find actual fun.
As we scavenged for food,
I remembered my brood,
And wondered what all Bo had done.

After many more hours had passed,
We went home to the doggies at last.
We thought they'd be sleeping,
So we went in creeping,
But that plan was given up fast.

'Cause I'd had all the poop I was able.
I'd eaten with turds in a stable.
So I was not of the mind
To come home an find
Bo shitting on my coffee table.

But sure enough, it was adorned,
With Boris, Most Wrongfully Scorned,
Who finished his work,
And jumped down with a smirk,
That clearly said, "Bitch, you were warned."

Then he sauntered right out of the den,
Across piddle pads laid end to end;
For all my protection,
He'd found an exception
And now he was rubbing it in.

And I stood there, shocked and unstable,
When I suddenly thought of a fable:
While I've heard it told,
"It's a dish best served cold,"
Bo served his revenge at the table.

As I later sat scrubbing the den,
I mused on the wages of sin;
Between befouled stables
And pooped-upon tables,
Y'all go out -- I'm staying in.


Hee. Yay! And, in case you wanted the short, non-stanza version of that story: Bo pooped on the coffee table one time. Then I had a conniption fit. The end.

P.S.: Medieval Times smells like horse poop.

In other, non-rhyming news, tomorrow is Valentine's Day! Which is one of my favorite holidays, for no particular reason whatsoever. It just is.

Although, now that I think about it, Valentine's Day probably should make me all bitter, and should remind me of the countless February 14ths spent in middle or high school. Every year, the school set up booths where the boys bought carnations for a dollar, and the money would go to a good cause, such as "buying more glitter pens for homecoming." When a boy bought a carnation, he would write down a girl's name, and the carnation would be secretly affixed to her locker while we were all in class.

So, at the end of every class period, I'd be filled with a secret, burning hope that maybe, maybe THIS year, there would be a carnation on my locker! And I would hold my breath as I walked down the hall, heart pounding, hoping hoping hoping, until I'd finally turn the corner, and see...

Nothing. No carnation; just a shiny, blank locker, reflecting my fizzling disappointment, and reminding me that, ONCE AGAIN, NOBODY LOVES ME.

NOT THAT I AM BITTER. But honestly, do y'all know that in all my many years, nobody ever put one of those fucking carnations on my locker? Not one! Even when I had boyfriends, the little degenerates didn't get me any carnations. And, hello! This is some kind of travesty! A travesty which apparently I forgot about for the last twelve years, but now that I remember it? Dude! That carnation thing sucked! We should start a petition!

But, you know. Despite all that crushing disappointment and heartbreak, I still turned into a grown-up person with a job, who can operate some machinery with a minimum of death. And also, I ended up with a very cute boyfriend who brings me flowers that are much nicer than wilted old carnations. HA.

So, hey! Kids out there who are sad about not getting carnations? Listen to me! I am about to go all after-school-special on you, and say, buck up, little camper! Do not lose hope! Because, things will get better. And also, I heard somewhere that carnations give you genital warts, so...whew! Well done, escaping from that.

...I think I am done talking about carnations now.

Now, uh, because this entry has apparently turned into an experiment in how many words I can actually type in one sitting, I am going to stop writing now, before we get into the horror of middle school dances, which would be the logical progression from my last rant, an then I might start hating Valentine's Day, and we don't want that. No! Especially because, I have got something for you!

So, I just redesigned my entire shop, and added a whole bunch of new stuff, including a lot of original paintings (fancy!); however, because I've been so busy lately, I never managed to order the Valentine's cards I'd been designing. So I thought, hey! I can make it so you can download them! And then y'all can print them out yourselves, and have free Valentines! That is called sharing.

You can get the cards by following the "Free Valentines!" link from the homepage, or you can go straight to the new free downloads page. Print them out on letter size paper (use cardstock if you want them to be all card-like, but I bet you'd figured that out) and give them to someone adorable. It may not be a carnation, but it's a hell of a lot better than shitting on their coffee table.

Happy Valentine's Day, y'all! Everybody have a good one!

Oh, but look -- one last thing, because I just checked my email, and there was this from Dukay, with the subject line, BO SAY HI. And, so he does:

Bo got some teeths! Maybe he poop on table later.

And I would also like to mention that I am a generous and saintly person, because I cropped Cookie out of this picture, the reason being that she is clutching a glass of wine in one hand, and a large bottle of Rebel Yell in the other, and this picture was taken before lunchtime, and I care about her reputation.

Even though she's a big old drunk. Happy Valentine's to you!

Posted by doxie in The Dogs (Or, Poop) | permalink | Comments (60)

While I Am At It, I Also Recommend The Chicken!

February 07, 2007

Around this time of year, I am always approached by people who want me to write letters of recommendation for them. Why anyone thinks that I am important enough to write a letter of recommendation sort of defies all understanding, but I am guessing that those unfortunate people who do approach me with this request are, at that point, desperate, and have whittled their requirements down accordingly. So, instead of, "I would like a letter of recommendation from a well-respected scholar or legal professional" (and I am not a member of that group), they have now settled on, "I will happily accept a letter of recommendation from anyone with a pulse, and who is not addicted to heroin, please God." Now, this second group -- Group Two -- this is the category I fall into. As do kangaroos, Bo, and probably most contestants on Deal or No Deal. This does not say very much for Group 2.

(Also, now that I think about it, maybe it is getting harder to find people who can write you letters of recommendation and do so in complete words and sentences, rather than filling the recommendation form with a dissertation composed in the perplexing language of myspace text-speak, i.e., "Jane v. smart & u shd let hr in yr skool 4 law." Although, now that I have actually typed that out and sort of half-assedly finished the thought, it occurs to me that, wouldn't that...kind of rock? Seriously, wouldn't it be kind of awesome to get a recommendation letter written in textspeak? If I were in charge of the world (see: evil master plan), I would admit the person as a matter of principle. But, I kind of imagine that this is not what the recommendees are hoping for, so I guess I am going to have to restrain myself. And it is hard. And I am, shockingly, totally off my original point, which I shall now attempt to remember.)

But, anyway. So, Spam, who is the man who is married to Cookie, and who is also the man who came up with the Viking Funeral idea, has decided to go to law school, where he will gleefully set his opposing counsel on fire and toss them in a cooler out on Lake Lanier. Because at least some of that sentence is true, he needs some letters of recommendation, and he asked me to write one. And that is no problem, because I like Spam, and Spam is smart, and it is not difficult to write a recommendation for people who (a) I actually know, (b) I actually like, and (c) are actually smart. Those recommendations are easy pants! On those recommendations, I can actually think of things to say other than "His tee-shirt collection is both extensive in number and unparalleled in variety," or "I am pleased to report that recently, this candidate has apparently been showering more frequently."

But, I got to thinking when I started writing Spam's letter, and I started to wonder how, exactly, one could compose a letter or recommendation that actually served to un-recommend someone, but which did so in a way that made it kind of hard to tell, on first glance, that the writer kind of thinks that the person is a twit. Anybody can write a letter that says, "DUDE, Bob SUCKS, his work SUCKS, he smells like a TIRE that has mated with a wet DOG, and he spreads a pestilence of evil wherever he GOES." It takes something more, I thought, to write one where the twit reader says, "Huh...okay, good, I guess!" but anyone with at least a mild IQ is laughing uncontrollably, and thinking, "Dude, that guy must be a total fucking asshole. I am going to burn his application as an offering to the gods."

Anyway, I was sort of inspired by this thought, but I was ten times more inspired by the thought that, hey! I spy an opportunity to fuck with my friend Spam! Because, seeing as he is not an idiot, he will read the letter and know it is not nice, but he will also wonder if I have actually sent it off and now he is stuck with a recommendation that makes people want to shower after reading it, and HA that is funny to me, particularly when it is really, really late at night. Which it was, when this idea was conceived. ( Which I know comes as a total shock to everyone, seeing as I have apparently given up sleep for the duration. Hi!)

So, as soon as the actual, glowing, compliment and accomplishment-filled letter was actually written and mailed, I sat myself down and wrote a second letter. And then I printed that letter on professional letterhead, made a copy of it for Spam, and sent it home with his wife, along with the message that I am always happy to help a friend in need, because I don't know if he knows this or not, but evidently, I am some kind of saint.

Now, I have to say -- I liked my fake recommendation letter. I liked it kind of a lot, and so I got to thinking (again, with the "got to thinking" crap! What is with me today? Either I'm stuck on writing in legal mode, or I'm talking like I don't wear me any shoes) that there were probably other people in this world who have faced the predicament of being the non-recommendy letter writer, and maybe they need my help, and hey, MAYBE that is the thing I was put on this earth to do, is help those people by giving them an example of a professional-sounding, but wholly meaningless, recommendation letter. And because I am not someone who likes to fuck with Life's True Purpose (although, did I ever tell y'all that one time I decided that my Life's True Purpose was to get a tattoo of Johnny Cash on my backside, only I would get the tattoo of a young Johnny Cash, and then as I wrinkled, he would wrinkle, and we would grow old together in harmony? For about sixteen minutes in 1999, this seemed like the best idea ever had by anyone at any time, even better than the wheel or Oreo cookies, and thus, I concluded it must be my Life's True Purpose, but then I called my dad to inform him of the path God and Johnny had chosen for me, only he threatened to have me written out of the will, so instead I went to law school, the end), I hereby share this letter with y'all, the people who join me, kangaroos, and Bo in the illustrious Group 2, and who just can't find a professional way to communicate the fact that the guy you're writing about has the IQ of a spatula. You are my people, and this is for you, so allow me to present:

(Names changed to protect innocent people who set babies on fire for fun)


Members of Some Fancy Ass Committee
More address
City, State
Code of Zip

RE: Letter of Recommendation for Spam Babyburner

To the Members of the Fancy Ass Committee:

I am writing this letter at the request of Spam Babyburner, who has applied for admission to your law school. I hope the following proves helpful as you undertake the difficult admissions process.

I have known Spam for some amount of time, and I can honestly state that, if you are looking for a student like Spam Babyburner to attend your school, then Spam Babyburner is your man. He will absolutely meet your expectations for someone with his qualifications. Furthermore, the abilities and skills he possess will satisfy any requirements you may have for those particular skills and abilities. In addition to everything else, Spam has both interests and hobbies, which he enjoys on some occasions. And, in some limited ways, those interests and hobbies could potentially help Spam to increase in both skill and ability, thereby enriching him as a person.

Spam has numerous accomplishments, including some attendance at both educational establishments and in the professional world. In both places, Spam was continually well known for his various attributes, and clearly met even the lowest expectations for success. I don't think anyone expected less of Spam!

To conclude, having known Spam for an amount of time, I can tell you that there are few people like Spam in this world. As such, Spam is a unique individual, and a far cry from other people who are not precisely the same. I am sure that his uniqueness will make quite a difference at your school.

For the above reasons, I again offer you this letter of recommendation, and I thank you for your time.

Miss Doxie

P.S.: Spam sets babies on fire.


(If you did not guess, the P.S. is both optional and awesome, and absolutely present on Spam's letter. Probably it will not be so applicable to the rest of y'all, unless there is something very, very bothersome that you have not been telling me.)

So, in sum: this may only be funny to me, but the next time someone asks you for a letter of recommendation? You just might thank me then. Or maybe, you will still not think this is funny, in which case, please blame it all on exhaustion and we will just forget that any of this ever happened.

Except, of course, for Spam, who is not likely to forget that he now owes me Reprisals. So, tune in soon, Tokyo, so we can all find out whether Spam set me on fire in a styrofoam cooler. And until then, everyone have a good day! GRP 2 4EVR!

Posted by doxie in General Whining | permalink | Comments (47)

It's Friday Night! Do you know where your Viking Baby is?

February 01, 2007

So, what I was going to do, was that I was going to write a long entry about our New Year's Eve celebration. I was going to explain, in significant detail, how we ended up inadvertently littering, and how we failed to give a hoot on that occasion, and how we proceeded to break (a) laws, (b) moral codes, and (c) our mothers' hearts, all in the course of approximately six minutes, and how that pretty much rocked in a very rocking fashion. And I was also going to describe all of the people present, and I was going to tell backstories, and I was going to do these things in an attempt to make some SENSE of why nine fully grown adults decided to spend their New Year's Eve staging a Viking Funeral for a small, pink babydoll. I was going to try to explain all of that, but know what? I am beginning to think that I should just let the video speak for itself. And, using my magical powers, I have even added captions to the video. So now, in addition to speaking for itself, the video practically reads to you! Like Mom does!

Anyway. In case you are still stuck up there in paragraph one, sounding out the part where I mention the phrase "Viking Funeral" in conjunction with "small pink babydoll", let me tell you now: I know. Listen, I cannot help you make sense of this. The best I can tell you is that our lovely friend Spam -- who is the same person who set up the Trap For Vermin last year -- decided that this year, we would say goodbye to 2006 in a nontraditional manner, namely, by:

1. Purchasing a little pink babydoll;

2. Writing "2006" all over the little pink babydoll in colorful marker;

3. Packing babydoll in a styrofoam cooler;

4. Placing an atlas in the cooler with the babydoll ("It represents the weight of the world," Spam explained to us, clearly exasperated by our lack of vision);

5. Duct-taping beer bottles to the side of the cooler for buoyancy (who among us guessed that this was Dukay's idea? Yes);

6. Packing the entire cooler with explosives;

7. Dousing the cooler with LIGHTER FLUID;

8. Releasing little 2006 off the end of my parents' dock, while simultaneously setting her aflame; and

9. Watching 2006 blow the HELL up, and float, burning, into the night. Like our Viking forefathers probably did NOT do, but we are not here to pick apart history, people. That is what National Geographic does. We just blow shit up sometimes.

In case you need some clarification of the items described above, allow me to illustrate my points by showing you:

1. Babydoll (Doomed)

2. Shit Blowing Up

3. What Bo's Ears Were Up To Before The Explosion

4. What Bo's Ears Did When The Explosion Happened

So! Now that you have a sufficient background, and because today is a truly disgusting, nasty, gray day here in Atlanta, and because I am in no fucking mood to spend one more second doing any of the ten trillion things I need to be doing, I hereby share with you our New Year's Eve video. But, wait, I am lying, because first! Please bear in mind two things before you view it, which are INCREDIBLY SUPER DUPER IMPORTANT DISCLAIMERS:

1. People, this video is NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Not because we are all running around all buckassed naked (possibly we are!), but rather, because there is a lot of profanity involved. That profanity is screamy. Seriously, you need sound to appreciate this video, but you will appreciate yourself all the way down to the unemployment line if you try watching it in a typical office, so do so where you can turn up the volume and truly embrace the fascination that was Viking Funeral.

2. It's a windows media file, because that is just about all I am capable of in my life. Any other type of conversion will make me whimper, and this is not what you want, I do not think. If you cannot see it, I guess you will have to just hit me with something heavy. Like a Viking.

So! All that being said, please enjoy:

Viking Funeral, 2006: BURN, VIKING BABY, BURN!

...and its drunk cousin, the Flickr Photoset.

Y'all have a good day, and try not to set anything on fire. Especially if it is a Viking.

Posted by doxie in Times I Fell Down | permalink | Comments (71)