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The Minutes: Fucking Bundt Cake Edition

The Minutes; February 11, 2016:

Preface: Today I needed to leave ten minutes early to put air in my tires. I didn’t get much sleep last night because my neighbor was playing a tribute to the genius of Yanni on his recorder and performing a self-choreographed ballet interpretation of this easy-listening classic, re-imagined for the Renaissance festival circuit.

My mood is unpleasant.

4:58 am: Midas alerts me that the alarm clock is about to go off. Thanks, Midas.
5:00 am: alarm goes off. Midas feels vindicated.
5:05 am: Midas emitting some sort of high-pitched buzzing noise in my ear. Fling off covers and announce angrily that I am up. He seems relieved.
5:09 am: Midas, bursting with excitement for the glory that is today. Oh look! You’re up! Are you hungry?! I’m kind of hungry. Let’s make a pot roast. Listen whilst I yodel anxiously in barely audible tones, watching you urinate, sans-blinking.
5:11 am: call for Maya to come get breakfast.
5:13 am: go see what the problem is to find she is waiting patiently at the end of the bed for me to carry her porky ass into the kitchen.
5:15 am: slop the hogs; attempt to ready myself for yet another day of toil in my quest to become independently wealthy.
6:08 am: take dogs outside.
6:22 am: Still outside. I need to leave two minutes ago. Maya still hasn’t done anything but sniff some twigs and stand there looking glazed over like a fucking bundt cake. I move them to some new grass on the other side of the property but someone is smoking a brisket and that is distracting to all. Move back. Rage level rising. Because why wouldn’t a smoking hunk of meat be swaddled in a steam cocoon in my apartment parking lot at 6:22 am on a Thursday.
6:27 am: hallelujah Maya finally pees. I drag them back upstairs, take off their double leash, Maya poops on the floor.
7:10 am: stop at gas station to get air. Air costs $3.00. In quarters. I brought a quarter. Who in the hell has three dollars in quarters on them? Oh, let me just grab my sock of change on the way to work?! I hate you, gas station. So much hate.
7:38 am: late to work. No air in tires. Wishing I was the kind of person who could slip their neighbor’s brisket into her purse because #hangry.

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Ghostbusters Lunchbox Dick Treasure Chest

I know a guy.

He writes down everything. I mean, I’m no friend to trees, but this guy fills even more notebooks than I do, with literally every detail of every interaction between every person he’s ever encountered.

Then, one day I noticed he was scribbling away during a meeting that hadn’t started yet. There wasn’t anything to take notes about…

The question was posed: What could he possibly be writing in there?

Then, someone said it.

“Dude. He’s probably drawing like… a shit ton of dick pics.”

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And to our left we have the tragically famous, but perennially significant Renaissance piece, “A Bushel and a Pecker” whose subtle use of languid color in the mid-tones is often overshadowed by the artist’s* sordid political history of trolling virginal maidens without the presence of a mid-wife.

Never one to simply chuckle and move on at something inappropriate, I found myself, even a day later, ruminating on the hilarity of this poor guy churning out a two-dimensional assembly line of ink-work genitalia. He is the kind of person who would never so much as smirk at a well-placed one-eyed one-liner. Studious, meticulous, upstanding, he is quite literally the last person on Earth that could be suspected of harboring a secret stash of racy rods. So, naturally, I couldn’t stop laughing.

Until the dicks turned on me.

Actually, the whole thing reminded me of that scene from Super Bad where Jonah Hill explains to Michael Cera his childhood dick drawing affliction. I decided to look it up and rewatch that scene on youtube. Because priorities.

A good laugh was had by me.

I decided it was time to get on with my day and that meant stopping to get gas. As I pulled my credit card out of my phone case (which also doubles as a wallet because carrying two things is just crazy) my phone flipped out of my hand and, using some sort of science wizardry, slid under my car, just out of my reach… where it immediately came to life and began blasting Jonah Hill’s amazing dick art story to the entire gas station, which included a none-to-pleased middle aged woman with a little girl, and a guy that looked like he would beat up a guy he found drawing dick pics, but then go home and draw a shit-ton of dick pics.

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I try to act cool and start to fill the car with some quality unleaded, but ol’ Jonah is down there somewhere shouting “I just kind of sit around all day and draw pictures of dicks.”

In my head, I was screaming “No, no, no! No more dicks! Stop talking about dicks!”

But I tried to play it off like someone else was talking loudly about dick art and I was a big enough person to ignore it.

“I couldn’t touch the pen to a sheet of paper without it drawing the shape of a penis!” Hill shouted.

Okay, the non-dick drawing dick-drawer guy was now peering at me over the hood of his F-350 that clearly indicates why he probably secretly draws a lot of dicks. The lady ushered the little girl into the passenger side of her sweet Astro van and scuttled off without making eye contact with me. Which is fine. I mean, clearly I’m not the one shouting about cock cartoons.

But it’s totally me that’s causing the cock-tastrophy. Oh my god, if I had balls, they would be sweating right now.

As the words: “veiny, triumphant bastard” blared from underneath my car, I threw myself to the ground and stretched my fingers toward my unbelievably loud phone. I can’t hear 90% of the shit that anyone is saying to me during a phone call, but for an unsolicited dick monologue, Samsung steps up its game.

“Need a hand?” Tiny-penis, big truck asks?

This is the point in the video where the little girl screams bloody murder. For a second, I thought it may have actually been me.

“Uhhhh,” I said, articulately.

He bent down and easily reached my phone as Jonah Hill continued to lament about the discovery of his ghostbuster lunchbox dick treasure chest.

Quickly, I began mashing buttons, trying to make it stop.

“Do you know how many foods are shaped like dicks?” Hill blasted. “The best kinds!”

Meanwhile, the truck guy just stared at me like he was waiting for a tip. This whole situation being about dicks, the tips are staying in the pants. Mmmk. I mean, thank you, but move along.

I tried to smile, but I’m pretty sure I just made a face like I needed to, or possibly was, pooping. “Thanks,” I said.

“Dicks,” he replied.

I nodded.

“Dicks.”

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*The art depicted in this blog was, in fact, a lovely rendering of a bucket o’ eggplants and, in all likelihood not a metaphor for a bag of dicks. The artist is probably a lovely person with immense impressionistic talent for vegetables.

 

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