My being a total retard for Under The Wagon a year ago resulted in an me having an article in The National Lampoon.
This the the coolest shit ever!
Bring on the coke and hookers!
So I’m famous now, right?
Jay couldn’t believe his luck. His friends couldn’t believe his luck.
“She’s really gonna go for it?” “Dude! How’d you set that up?”
Jay demurred with the modestly smug grin of a man who is suddenly the coffee room Alpha male. When pressed though, he had to admit he was just as surprised as the rest of them.
“Well, I really can’t even remember how it came up. I mean, I know I’ve always thought about it and shit…Who hasn’t? But when we started talking about it I remembered all that shit that they always tell you to say to a girl in that situation . You know, that shit in Maxim and stuff. Be all intrigued and curious and everything, but if you act too interested it’ll creep her out.
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I recently found someone who makes me a little gushy in the girl panties. However, said someone lives a jazillion miles away from said panties. Which is frustrating.
Love letters tenderly inscribed on high quality, heavyweight stationary (perhaps with those tiny wildflowers pressed into it) would make great reading material in my old age, when I could press them tight against the sagging flesh of my time-ravaged bosom. But what about the now? When I need some hard core dirty fuckin’?
Two options remained to my beau and me: Break up. Or start a rigorous routine of cybersex. Hello, my name is Karla, I’m fingering myself on the internet, and I’m GOOD at it.
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To the makers of Campbell’s “Soup at Hand”
Dear Sirs:
Holy shit. Are you kidding me?
I have seen your commercials presenting your product as an ideal choice for “Lunchers on the go.” Construction workers and commuters alike are shown enjoying the easy portability of this sippable soup. While I’m rarely “on the go,” and I own neither car nor backhoe, I was excited about trying your “Creamy Tomato” soup while at work today (I don’t own a microwave either).
Turns out I could have used a backhoe. To deal with the huge pile of disappointment.
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Item: A single bell pepper
Item: Full jar of garlic-dill pickle spears, prominently labeled with co-worker’s name in metallic pen (three spears later unrepentantly consumed by author)
Item: Two pound bag of very tiny limes (contents of fridge scoured for presence of something that would necessitate limes, i.e., gin, vodka, or similar to no avail.)
Item: 214 packets of Hellman’s mayonnaise
Item: 5 bottles of pancake syrup
Item: Ziplock bag of diced tomatoes
Item: Two bunches of celery (per their sharpie scribbled initials, celery and tomatoes did not belong to the same co-worker, eliminating author’s original theories of “salad making”)
Item: One and one half juice bottles stripped of their original labels (and minus any other identifying marks), containing something “brown”
Item: One unopened jar cocktail olives (Author scours fridge for possible cocktails…Turns up nothing. Checks to see if olives are pimento stuffed. They aren’t. Author eats entire damn bottle anyway.)
“I don’t get it,” She starts “I mean, I don’t know why I’m never even considered.”
They’re at the tiny Mexican restaurant he likes (veggie burrito for him, 2 taco dinner for her, he’ll finish her rice and beans later when she gets full), and she’s finally broached one of the reasons she suggested dinner tonight.
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