Oh No He Didn't!
I woke up this morning with a boulder on my chest. This boulder seems to weigh at least eighty pounds and it crushed my chest like a flat pancake (also known as a crepe). I began looking at it and the sight was shocking. I could barely wrap my arms around it, it was as if I was trying to hug Akebono, the 1997 sumo champion of Japan. The boulder was grey in color, like the color of Mount Rushmore. The texture was like touching a cat’s tongue after licking granite. Enough with descriptions, why is there an eighty pound boulder on my chest?
I began eliminating the possibilities. My father was most likely asleep or getting ready for work, so no time to roll in a boulder into my room. My sister is eight years old and if she happened to lift this boulder onto my chest? Well, let’s just say we would have something to worry about. My mother is probably making my lunch or wondering why on earth I’m not getting ready for school. She does enough as it is and placing a boulder on my chest is not on her priority list. There are only two other organisms left in my house. The bird hates me, he laughs at me when I’m on the computer and hisses when I get too close. As enormous as his hate for me is, I don’t think his little wings can do much lifting. The rabbit eats, hops, and lies down. This rabbit is more laid back than the audience at Woodstock ‘69.
Maybe there is a new spree of burglars. You know, the kind that break into houses and place boulders on sleeping young lads. Maybe it was a hate crime, the kind where people decide to do something against someone else that has nothing to do with anything. Or maybe it was an amateur terrorist act, the kind where the terrorist is too inexperience to attack any political buildings so he places boulders on unsuspecting, sleeping boys.
After deciding I was a victim of a terrorist attack, I began brainstorming on how I could get the boulder off. I could reach over to my cell phone, call the White House, and ask to speak with the President. Once the President says hello, I’ll ask him how his day is going. He’ll tell me that he hates his job and I’ll cheer him up with a few jokes. I’ll tell him that I just found weapons of mass destruction in my closet and I need back up. The President will send over 10,000 troops to my bedroom and once they arrive, they’ll be confused when no weapons are found. I’ll smirk and say, “False alarm guys, but there are puddles of oil under a pile of dirty clothes. Help yourself. While you are here, can you remove this boulder from my chest?”
Next idea. I’ll somehow manage to text every college student in Virginia with the following message: “Beer. Girls. In my room. Word? Bring friends.” Once traffic calms down from the congested highways filled of SUVs blasting the lasting hip-hop sing-a-long about nothing, they will arrive at my casa. I’ll tell my mother to decorate the downstairs with trash and ask the neighbors to pass out in my yard, giving it that authentic atmosphere. I’ll get the rabbit to poop up the stairs, leaving a nice trail for the students to follow into party heaven. Once they open the door, I’ll tell them the beer is in the boulder. They’ll remove it and run out of my house like a pack of male wolves seeing a female for the first time in months.
Next genius plan. I’ll call the producers of such shows as The O.C. or Laguna Beach and offer them some cash. After accepting my generous bribe, they’ll go through the plan as I mapped out for them. A new episode of The O.C. (and/or Laguna Beach) airs across the nation. Millions of pampered, doll faced girls are watching. The stud on the show is holding a lovely young lady while they watch the waves crashing against the shore. He looks into her eyes while flipping his hair in the summer wind. Key the acoustic, indie musician in the background. The stud says with a deep, almost enchanting voice, “You know what I would love more than anything girl?” The girl blinks her eyes a couple of times, as if prince charming was knocking on her door. “What would you love, big boy?” Go to commercial and build up the suspense. The stud is lying down on the beach with a boulder on his chest. The girl is on her knees next to his body. “Remove this boulder from my chest and I will love you forever.” The girl begins crying and she wraps her arms around the boulder, but she cannot move it. She grabs her purse that is filled with a curling iron, make up, tanning machine, bagel bites, eyeliner, and two saltine crackers. She smacks the boulder with the purse and it rolls off gracefully. Every girl in the country will be dying to push boulders off the chests of males. I will begin accepting “thank you” cards from Hallmark next week.
Breaking news. According to my Facebook Mobile news feed, the very boulder on my chest requested to be my friend last night. I accept the boulder, thinking I would see my name under the “Favorite Quotes” or even “About Me“. Nothing. I’m trembling and feeling rather ill. There is a photo album that I manage to click on by ‘accident‘. That son of a boulder. The pictures are of the boulder lying on top of other people. Not just young lads, but young ladies too. I’m outraged and disgusted. I thought we had a bond that was special; you know, the kind where you tell all your comrades that you met this new friend that is way better than they will ever be.
We were close and we are sharing this morning together, when obviously tomorrow night the boulder will be with someone else, drinking martinis and chatting about the latest Croc fashions. That’s it, I’m putting my foot down and standing up for myself. I’m going to delete the boulder from my friends on Facebook and Myspace. I’m going to spread rumors about the boulder and tell everyone how the boulder that pretended to be friendly is actually an alcoholic ball of rock that is good for nothing. I’ll give the boulder away to a blind amateur sculptor. The sculptor will turn it into something horrendous, something no one will ever look at. If the boulder were a contestant on American Idol, everyone would vote for Sanjaya before they vote for the baldheaded boulder. Now to decide how the hell I’m going to actually get this boulder of my chest.
I began eliminating the possibilities. My father was most likely asleep or getting ready for work, so no time to roll in a boulder into my room. My sister is eight years old and if she happened to lift this boulder onto my chest? Well, let’s just say we would have something to worry about. My mother is probably making my lunch or wondering why on earth I’m not getting ready for school. She does enough as it is and placing a boulder on my chest is not on her priority list. There are only two other organisms left in my house. The bird hates me, he laughs at me when I’m on the computer and hisses when I get too close. As enormous as his hate for me is, I don’t think his little wings can do much lifting. The rabbit eats, hops, and lies down. This rabbit is more laid back than the audience at Woodstock ‘69.
Maybe there is a new spree of burglars. You know, the kind that break into houses and place boulders on sleeping young lads. Maybe it was a hate crime, the kind where people decide to do something against someone else that has nothing to do with anything. Or maybe it was an amateur terrorist act, the kind where the terrorist is too inexperience to attack any political buildings so he places boulders on unsuspecting, sleeping boys.
After deciding I was a victim of a terrorist attack, I began brainstorming on how I could get the boulder off. I could reach over to my cell phone, call the White House, and ask to speak with the President. Once the President says hello, I’ll ask him how his day is going. He’ll tell me that he hates his job and I’ll cheer him up with a few jokes. I’ll tell him that I just found weapons of mass destruction in my closet and I need back up. The President will send over 10,000 troops to my bedroom and once they arrive, they’ll be confused when no weapons are found. I’ll smirk and say, “False alarm guys, but there are puddles of oil under a pile of dirty clothes. Help yourself. While you are here, can you remove this boulder from my chest?”
Next idea. I’ll somehow manage to text every college student in Virginia with the following message: “Beer. Girls. In my room. Word? Bring friends.” Once traffic calms down from the congested highways filled of SUVs blasting the lasting hip-hop sing-a-long about nothing, they will arrive at my casa. I’ll tell my mother to decorate the downstairs with trash and ask the neighbors to pass out in my yard, giving it that authentic atmosphere. I’ll get the rabbit to poop up the stairs, leaving a nice trail for the students to follow into party heaven. Once they open the door, I’ll tell them the beer is in the boulder. They’ll remove it and run out of my house like a pack of male wolves seeing a female for the first time in months.
Next genius plan. I’ll call the producers of such shows as The O.C. or Laguna Beach and offer them some cash. After accepting my generous bribe, they’ll go through the plan as I mapped out for them. A new episode of The O.C. (and/or Laguna Beach) airs across the nation. Millions of pampered, doll faced girls are watching. The stud on the show is holding a lovely young lady while they watch the waves crashing against the shore. He looks into her eyes while flipping his hair in the summer wind. Key the acoustic, indie musician in the background. The stud says with a deep, almost enchanting voice, “You know what I would love more than anything girl?” The girl blinks her eyes a couple of times, as if prince charming was knocking on her door. “What would you love, big boy?” Go to commercial and build up the suspense. The stud is lying down on the beach with a boulder on his chest. The girl is on her knees next to his body. “Remove this boulder from my chest and I will love you forever.” The girl begins crying and she wraps her arms around the boulder, but she cannot move it. She grabs her purse that is filled with a curling iron, make up, tanning machine, bagel bites, eyeliner, and two saltine crackers. She smacks the boulder with the purse and it rolls off gracefully. Every girl in the country will be dying to push boulders off the chests of males. I will begin accepting “thank you” cards from Hallmark next week.
Breaking news. According to my Facebook Mobile news feed, the very boulder on my chest requested to be my friend last night. I accept the boulder, thinking I would see my name under the “Favorite Quotes” or even “About Me“. Nothing. I’m trembling and feeling rather ill. There is a photo album that I manage to click on by ‘accident‘. That son of a boulder. The pictures are of the boulder lying on top of other people. Not just young lads, but young ladies too. I’m outraged and disgusted. I thought we had a bond that was special; you know, the kind where you tell all your comrades that you met this new friend that is way better than they will ever be.
We were close and we are sharing this morning together, when obviously tomorrow night the boulder will be with someone else, drinking martinis and chatting about the latest Croc fashions. That’s it, I’m putting my foot down and standing up for myself. I’m going to delete the boulder from my friends on Facebook and Myspace. I’m going to spread rumors about the boulder and tell everyone how the boulder that pretended to be friendly is actually an alcoholic ball of rock that is good for nothing. I’ll give the boulder away to a blind amateur sculptor. The sculptor will turn it into something horrendous, something no one will ever look at. If the boulder were a contestant on American Idol, everyone would vote for Sanjaya before they vote for the baldheaded boulder. Now to decide how the hell I’m going to actually get this boulder of my chest.
posted by EmbraceTheVultures | 7:04 PM
1 Comments:
Good words.
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