I remember the first time I read M.'s blog, Web of Evil (then called Just Another Blog From L.A.); I was immediately taken by its proprietary tone of smart, world weary vitriol, and utterly flabbergasted that its author was homeless and composing these thoughtful dispatches from the public library. Happily, M. is ensconced in his own bat cave now, but I try to remember his example whenever I notice I've let a week go by without writing a post because my back hurts, boo hoo.
Speaking of which, the handmaiden of lumbar-specific suffering is insomnia, and one of the things I do in the middle of the night when I should be blogging is sit in my recliner and fill out online surveys. This usually produces one of two results: either a series of brief, boredom-induced naps, or a gift card to Pizza Hut.
Most of the subjects are so intensely dull and oft repeated (car insurance, sports talk radio) that when a new topic is introduced I've actually heard myself exclaim, with genuine enthusiasm, "Ooh! Pet food survey!" Unfortunately, since Google knows where I live, the survey senders can tell I'm an American, and therefore naturally assume that I'm horribly unhealthy; so a lot of these surveys have to do with what a mess my body is and how fast it's falling apart, and just how many of my friends and family are also quickly liquifying like the Nazis at the end of Raiders.
Now I don't mean to imply anything here, merely that I know M. is one of our senior Crappers, and is presumably also subject to the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to. So let's do one of these surveys together, shall we? And perhaps by pooling our efforts, we can earn enough to get one of those pizzas with the hot dog stuffed crust.
What sort of weekly care could I possibly be giving to someone with impotence? Am I supposed to play a pungi and charm his crotch cobra out of his basket? I thought this caregiver business would involve holding the hand of a delicate ingenue as she languishes from a vague but photogenic disease.
Okay, this one actually makes sense, except here I'm much more likely to receive care than give it.
It's never Lupus.
I don't think the same person who cares for Irritable Bowel Syndrome should have to care for Overactive Bladder. At least not on the same day. We need to share the wealth here.
I finally decide to volunteer at the hospice, and this is the shift I draw.
Actually, I have been spending a lot of time lately injecting arsenic and mercury into the urethras of sailors, but it's really more recreational.
I'm afraid I'm not selfless enough to minister to the victims of a communicable and potentially fatal disease -- because I don't want Chris Christie to make me live in a tent -- but I'm not a complete monster, so I'll meet you halfway and agree to watch Camille.
Would I give care for this condition? Depends.
M. asked me to go easy on him this year, by which I assume he means "don't post pictures of disgusting food and then yammer on about it for five paragraphs." Fair enough. So let's skip the entree and head straight to the Dessert Buffet. Today's pastry selection comes to us courtesy of the October Revolution and Bolshevik Betty Crocker:
While our cheesecake comes courtesy of blacklisted activist Lena Horne:
And just to seal the deal, a pensive rhinoceros iguana will serve as our traditional...
Sexy Birthday Lizard!
Please join me in wishing M. Bouffant a very happy birthday. And feel free to supply your own survey answers below -- I'm confident there'll be plenty of hot dog stuffed pizza crust left over.