The little blue men who have been stealing the hair from my shower drain to build their nests in the walls have promised to stop making so much noise while I’m trying to sleep as long as I promise to shower more often so they can continue gathering hair.
Video surveillance proves the stuffed animal gorilla wearing a sign which reads “I’m ape over you” given to me last Valentine’s Day does indeed come to life at night to fling stuffed animal feces at me as I sleep.
It seems after months of sitting in a pile in the back of the closet, washing those clothes only made them angry.
Experiments to determine why snot is odorless have as yet been unsuccessful.
Boutros Boutros Ghali refuses to return my calls and letters asking whether he was named twice on purpose or if his mom had a stutter. He also refuses to give me a direct answer on whether or not he’d mind if I named my new punk band “Boutros Boutros and the Ghali-tones”.
More updates as they become available and as we hear from our other correspondants…
(psst… this last part is an invitation for people to chime in with their own news bullitens.)
Scientists today finally solved the mystery of where socks go when they disappear from the dryer when they discovered Jimmy Hoffa under the bed of an 11 year old boy in Missouri, hugging armloads of socks to his chest and madly cackling, “Mine! All mine!”
A recent examination of the dried and wilted leaves of many of my house plants has revealed numerous floral suicide notes. As it turns out, I am not killing them - they’re doing it themselves.
I’ve gathered together all of the bits and clumps of hair that my dog has been shedding all over my house. I’ve arranged them in a dog-shaped pile, and when I get a few more specimens to complete the left hind leg, I shall attempt to animate the entire mass, thereby cloning without use of test tubes or petri dishes.
I painted my bathroom yesterday, except for the window sill. I forgot to do the window sill. As I look at it, sill doesn’t look like a proper word. However, I shall paint it today after I put up the border that we bought 2 years ago. Some things just get better with age.
On the lighter side, I had leftover pizza for breakfast, but I heated it first. No cold pizza for this FairyChatMom.
Police psychologists have arrived on the scene of FairyChatMom’s home, trying to determine the source of a strange clustering of plant suicides at that location. They are trying to find out why these particular plants would rather end it all than go on with life.
In other news, it has been determined that juicing several pomegranates is a lot harder and messier than it sounds. This correspondent has learned to eye Martha Stewart’s recipes far more warily in the future.
After a two week standoff, which she appears to be winning, Swiddles decides maybe she’ll break and actually do some dishes today. This is not because she is horrified by the specticle of filth that is her sink, but because she really needs a fork.
My face is really soft today. I think I’ll keep using this face cream, despite the fact that when I put it on (at night) it is the consistancy of butter, and that’s gross.
In other news, I am counting the days until my important meeting with Pauly Shore and my boyfriend. This will occur in 4 days. (96 hours, or 5760 minutes, or 345,600 seconds. Can you tell I can’t wait to be in Baltimore?)
There’s a new way to get a fat cat to lose weight. Set him loose in the living room at night with the other cat, throw a tinfoil ball in the middle of the floor, and wear earplugs to bed.
And a short update, Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead.
The kitchen elves have been neglecting their duty in my apartment. Upon further investigation, I found a small picket line in front of my refrigerator. It appears they desire safer working conditions, less exposure to toxic substances within the fridge and large amounts of lotion to deal with the perpetual wrinkles from constant dishwashing.
I think I’m going to fire them all and make do with ogres. They may break the plates, but there’s none of this “social consciousnes”
In a stunning turnaround, American immigration officials have denied an entrance visa to Anahita Du France, citing as their reason, “She has too much junk, and we can’t allow her in the country until she agrees to leave more of it behind in France.”
French officials deny having any more room for Ms. Du France’s junk, insisting, “She must throw some of it away.”