This post is so awesome, God just called and asked me to go steady

By nature, I'm very literal. Sarcasm eludes me most of the time, although I'm putting forth a lot of effort to learn how to better interpret as well as dole out sarcasm. Like, for example, if someone says something that may or may not be sarcastic, like "Nice work, you totally housed that pizza, I wasn't really in the mood for dinner anyhow," I will ask, "Was that sarcasm?" and they will either say "Yes" and I will feel like a Nobel Prize winning linguist, or they will say "No" and I will then ask, "Was that a sarcastic no?" and on it goes. But I always get my man eventually. And by "my man" I mean "my answer regarding sarcasm". Hey, was that sarcasm what I just said? I meant one thing but said another, so I nailed it, right?

A flashback, if you will...

Come with me for a moment, back to high school...

Becky closes her locker and walks down the hall, as one by one, books and assorted items begin to tumble from her backpack.

Mean girl: HAHAHA!! Nice work, Becky. Oh, real nice work!! HAHAHA!!! 

Becky: (picking up her things) Actually, that wasn't nice work at all. I must not have been paying attention when I zipped up my backpack. That's pretty much the opposite of nice work, if you ask me! It's careless is what it is!

...aaaand we're back. See what I mean? Literal. 

This inability to grasp the nuances of the language makes blogging a little more difficult. Like for instance, the first time anyone ever LOL'ed in my comments section...

Becky: Oh my God. Wow. This is fantastic. I made someone laugh, audibly even. They laughed so hard they laughed out loud, for all the world to hear! And they have, in turn, gifted me with this LOL, so that I may know that I earned the highest of all responses: The laugh that will not be contained. I've never been more proud.

Eventually I had to look up the meaning of "ROFLMFAO", and...

Becky: Whoa. Rolling? On the floor? Hold on now. That seems a little extreme. I've never in my life rolled from laughter. Now, this sounds like it might be hyperbole. 

One of my facebook friends consistently writes at the end of her status updates, "LOLOLOLOL!!!!" and I'm left to wonder...is it possible to laugh out loud out loud out loud? It must be a Zen thing. My brain hurts just thinking about it.

So I get it now. People aren't destroying their monitors with spit-up coffee, nobody falls to the floor and rolls around their office unless of course they're on fire (Stop, Drop, and ROFSHSIBIB*) and they even write LOL without cracking a smile, which seems like the biggest lie I've ever heard of. The discrepancy between what is typed and what I imagine might actually be going on makes me feel uneasy sometimes.  

But okay, I'll go with it. LOL. See? That was practice. I was flipping channels while I typed that. ROFL!! I typed that one while I was scratching my boob and thinking about burritos. How does it feel? Not good, right? Right. So let's do something about this, here and now.

I propose that in lieu of LOL and other such insincerities that only a master linguist specializing in the art of colloquialisms or maybe just someone not located at around indigo on the Aspberger's Spectrum could decode, comments should go one of two ways:

OPTION ONE: Complete sincerity.

Like this...While reading the second paragraph of this post, I exhaled sharply through my nose three times in succession, which I believe qualifies as a "snort". I felt amused in that moment. I didn't read the rest of it though because I had to pee really badly, so after I established your intended tone in paragraph 3, I felt I could comment appropriately enough to make you think I read all the way through. 

Or this...I thought the part about the cat and the balloon and the turkey sandwich was funny. I didn't laugh audibly, but a pleasant feeling originated in my stomach and resulted in a smile. I have written similar posts, yet I have far fewer followers. This confuses me.

Or... I, too, dislike bad drivers. This was not laugh out loud humorous, although I did emit a soft "Heh" sound when in an ironic twist, the bad driver was you. I have had a similar experience. I can relate. 

OR...

OPTION TWO: If you're gonna lie, go big. 

As in...I just laughed so hard I spit up coffee on my computer, which triggered my gag reflex, and then I yacked everywhere. I'm so overcome by laughter-induced hysteria that I'm making festive hand-print turkeys on the walls with my own excrement. My husband and children have passed out from shock. What a morning! Thanks for the laugh to start off my day! 

Or...I just laughed so hard that I bent over and blew out the windows of my office with a high-powered shit missile. Funny stuff!

Or perhaps...Oh my God, I laughed so hard I'm peeing right now. I can't stop, seriously. It's like a fire hose. I'm going to have to cut this comment short because the pee level in my apartment is rising quickly and I have to locate my scuba gear and get the pets to higher ground. Kids!! Run!! Run to Aunt Linda's house before it's too...*gurgle* 

Lastly...After reading this post, all my organs failed at once. I am dead. My ghost has instructed my cat to finish this comment. Meow. It was THAT funny. PS: I have an award for you over at my site!:-) 

Don't get me started on those bullshit liar emoticons. 

*Rolling On The Floor Saying Holy Shit It Burns It Burns

***

PS: I just discovered that there is a new LOL, called RL LOL. It means "Real Life Laugh Out Loud". Finally, the two-faced LOL is revealed for what he is: A liar, a scoundrel, and a confuser of Me's. This new RL LOL will change everything. Now I will know when you guys are laughing out loud, for real, in real life. Now I will have peace.

Nobody puts Nana in the corner, unless we're real busy and her wheelchair is getting in the way. **NOW UPDATED WITH MORE ASSHOLE!**

Look Nana,

I'm worried about you. I can tell you're feeling blue. What's the matter? Is it turning 102 that's got you down in the dumps? I think that must be it. You think I'm not paying attention, but I am. I can hear you from the living room, contemplating the meaning of it all, asking yourself all the big questions in life, like "Who am I?", "Where am I?", "Who are you people?" and "Why won't you let me die?" Those are all important questions for someone your age. Such an inquisitive spirit!

This is a magical time in your life, Nana. Every girl dreams of her 102nd birthday in much the same way she dreams of her wedding day. Life is good! Every day is an adventure, and you never know who you're going to meet.

                                 

What? That's not why you're feeling down? What is it then?

I think I know why. It must be that MyHeritage.com Celebrity Look-Alike game thing, huh? Yeah, I thought so. You've seemed a little down in the dumps since you uploaded your face and received the list of celebrities you most resemble. Well, it can't be that bad. Who'd you get, Nana? I could see maybe...hmmm...Shirley McLaine? Orrrr....Dame Judy Dench? No? Who, then?

You're not gonna tell me? Aw, Nana. Let me see. Come on. Let me see. I won't laugh. I won't tell anyone. Promise.

Promise. I won't laugh. Promise. I would never. Look at my face, Nana. I would NEVER be so insensitive as to laugh at something that is obviously affecting your self-esteem so deeply. 

Good. Ok, let's see what we've got here....

AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAA!!! Oh, NANA!! AHAHAHAHAHA!!! Oh, I'm sorry, Nana! AHAHAHAHAHAHA!! No, no I'm not laughing at you. I was just thinking about something else...something comedic in my memory from long ago that I just remembered...HAHAHA!!! Oh, that Gallagher, smashing those watermelons everywhere what a mess HAHA! Not laughing at you at all Nana! 

Aheehee. *deep breaths*

Yes. Settling down now. Okay. Well. Ahem. Ok then, what do we have here, Nana. I see. William S. Burr...Hey you know what, let's skip that one. And Leslie Neilson of Naked Gun and Airplane fame. Mmm hmm, interesting. And Mick Fleetwood, yes okay, I can see that, he's got your beard soulful eyes. And HEY! Look at that! David Duchovny! Reow! Sexy Nana, am I right? Up top, Nana? No?....No?....

Okay, Nana. It's pretty bad, I can't lie, but it's just a game. I know, I know, My Little Becky's matches were pretty accurate, I agree. She got Katherine Heigl, Brooke Shields, Nicole Kidman, a couple international supermodels, blah blah blah. She's young, you know? She's a pretty girl! Her jowls haven't even grown in yet for God's sake! My Little Becky only WISHES she got someone as cool as retired magician and debunker of paranormal claims, James Randi, or Hungarian composer of Hitler's favorite operettas, Franz Lehar! 

You know what you need, Nana? A makeover. A makeover would boost your self-esteem, make you feel like the vixen you are. Maybe a little powder on your nose...

Maybe a little blush here and here...

Maybe some more hair on your head...

A little more lip...

A little less neck...

A couple eyebrows....

And VOILA! *gasp!* Nana, you take my breath away. Just gorgeous.

What a delicate beauty.

Alright, let's see what MyHeritage.com has to say about this foxeh laydeh, you ready? 

*uploads*

Aw, look, you're smiling. You feel better now, Nana? Good.

Does this make up for when I called you a dick? No? Fair enough.

UPDATED:

Dear MyHeritage.com,

I can't quit you. Kurt's asshole wants a go.



Maybe I'll just go ahead and add a little of this and a little of that...



...and...Jesus, do you know your assholes or what. You are made of magic.



You understand the human condition in a way that is so brutally honest and insightful. Does this work with dogs too? Be right back...

UPDATED AGAIN!! 

Bad girl Zooey wants her celebrity matches. See into her soul, MyHeritage.com! 

Yes, I agree. Perhaps she needs a little help as well...

No matches were found?? It must have been the glasses. Yeah, definitely the glasses messed everything up.

Oh what, like you never put a wig on your dog before. You just shut it, you.

Interrogation room. 9pm. 

A single flickering bulb hangs by a cord from the ceiling, casting ominous shadows across the grey walls. The room is bare, save for a small metal table and two chairs. Becky paces back and forth across the cell, a cigarette dangling from her lips. She runs her fingers through her hair and glares at her suspect through squinted eyes. She's been through this before, and is unfazed by the silence. Becky's got questions, and she always gets her answers.

Her suspect sits across from her, panting in the stale night air. She wears a black fur coat, and her unwavering gaze shows no sign of repentance. 

Becky peels the white paper from around her cigarette and pops the pink cylinder of gum into her mouth. This might take a while.

Becky: Alright dog. I'll cut right to the chase. Where were you tonight between the hours of 5 and 8pm?

Zooey: I was sleeping in the bedroom, that's all, just sleeping.

Becky: Sleeping. Alright. Well let me ask you this, dog. If you was sleeping, who pooped on the floor?

Zooey: Well I never....I'm sure I have no idea what you're talking about. Poop on the floor!! Really!! Whoever heard of such a thing. Am I free to go?

Becky tosses a photo across the table at Zooey, who glances at the photo and tosses it back.

Zooey: Okay. I think...I think what happened was that a pony flew through the window and pooped on the floor.

Becky: Really. A pony. That's a real interesting theory you got there. A flying pony. That's just great.

Becky walks around the table and leans down into Zooey's face. 

Becky: Let me ask you this, Zooey. Why do they call you "The Bad Dog" around these parts? In fact...I believe your nicknames include such terms of endearment as (pulls out notepad, flips open the cover and reads)..."That Asshole Dog", "Bad Bad Zooey Brown", "The Stain", "Black Devil", "Dog Herpes", and of course your Native American name, "Leaks From Anus". 

Zooey: No. I have never heard any of those names. People call me Good Dog Zooey. I'm just a cute pup. Watch this! Hey, who turned out the lights?? AHAHAHALOLZ!!!

Becky: Who pooped on the floor, Zooey?

Zooey: Not I! Look, I will distract you with my cuteness! I can haz treat now? 

Becky: Listen, dog. I'm a busy woman. I don't have time for these games.

Zooey: Look at me now! I'm a hot Swedish nerd! Gaflooven flooven!

Becky: I've had just about enough of these hijinks...

Zooey: Oooh lala! I eez not speak English, Madame! Voulez vous baguette? 

Becky: Hey you know what? Maybe its time I called the vet and made an appointment for your forever nap. Whatdya say? Time for the sleepy shot in the arm? 

Zooey: NO! I ...*sob*... I don't know, lady. Maybe a mouse came through the vent and pooped on the floor.

Becky: Really. A mouse. I find that hard to believe. You need to see that photo again? It looks like someone fucking vaporized Webster in there.

Zooey: Yes. It is impressive. A very large mouse indeed. But certainly not me, because I'm a humble babushka, just waiting in line for bread!

Becky: Cut out the funny business, dog. Who pooped on the floor, Zooey? WHO POOPED ON THE FLOOR???

Zooey: A fat goat!

Becky: NO!

Zooey: A dirty troll!!

Becky: NO ZOOEY!! 

Zooey: A very large man! Santa Claus perhaps! Or Dr. Phil!!

Becky: LIES, ZOOEY!! Out with it, God dammit! You know who pooped on the floor and you listen here and you listen good, or you will never see another braided dehydrated bull-penis chewy treat for as long as you live, see?!! Out with it!

Zooey: Iz did it. Iz made big poopeez.

Becky: Excuse me??

Zooey: *Sigh* I crapped on the floor. I was angry, and I took a crap. There's some over on your bed too. I folded the duvet over it, as a surprise. Merry early Christmas, bitch.

Becky: You know what this means, Zooey. 

Zooey: Yeah. It means nothing. It means leave me alone for too long and I'll do it again. Maybe I'll poop on your head while you sleep. Maybe I'll paint the walls, if I'm feeling artistic. Sky's the limit, really. 

Becky: You'll regret this, dog. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon, and for the rest of your...

Zooey: *Drips anal gland and scoots out the door, leaving an oily ass-track*  

Becky: *sigh*

Connecting with your blog readers. Alt title: How Flashdance made me foot-rape my dad.

Have you ever had one of those moments of clarity when all of a sudden you see or hear something that suddenly explains for you something that had, until that moment, confused or eluded you for years, maybe even decades prior to that moment?

No?

Damn. I read somewhere that I'm supposed to begin every post by trying to connect with the reader on a personal level, but perhaps I was too vague. OK, more specifically...

Have you ever watched a movie that you hadn't seen since you were a kid, and all of a sudden some memory or experience from your childhood suddenly makes sense?

Kinda? No??

Crap. Alright how 'bout...

Have you ever watched Flashdance this past weekend and remembered the time you were 7 years old and eating spaghetti with butter and wiped it all over your face to look more sexy like Jennifer Beals when she was eating lobster all sensual and messy-like on her date with that guy, and then pulled the neck of your sweater down on one side to reveal your shoulder because Jennifer Beals did that in the movie and she looked super pretty, and then took your foot under the dinner table and pressed it against your dad's balls because Jennifer Beals' date really liked that in the movie?

Yeah? Great. I knew you'd come around.

So I'm watching Flashdance this past weekend and I'm getting a little pissed, you know? Because all of a sudden some pieces of the puzzle that is me are falling into place. Like, thanks to Jennifer Beals, I can't strip worth shit. I mean, the movie DID teach a 7 year old me that stripping did NOT mean tearing your clothes off in neat vertical strips, and thank God for that because that kind of stripping is more time consuming than you'd imagine, especially since you have to prep your shirt with discreet little starter incisions around the neck. But come on, Jennifer Beals running around under a strobe light in a red business suit with her face painted white like a mime is NOT sexy. Such a bad role model for the kids.

Then there's the scene where they're working out at the gym and the one black dancer says to the other white girls, "I'm glad I ain't no honky bitch!" and suddenly the mystery of how my favorite white stuffed animal cat from childhood came to be named Honky Cracker. (Much thanks to Richard Pryor for the inspiration behind the surname.)

Then, alright, there's a scene where she's out to dinner with her date, and her face is all lobstery and buttery, and she takes off her shoe and stretches her foot out under the table and tickles her date's crotch. He's like Whoa! with surprise and pleasure and I remember thinking AHA! Boys must have an extra tickle spot, like an armpit between their legs! I gotta try that trick someday! and about a week later I violated my dad's balls with my foot under the dinner table and he looked at me exactly like you would imagine a man would look at his daughter who had just tickled his nuts. A very very bad face.

So in order to prevent any of you who were thinking of attempting the same trick after watching the liar bullshit movie Flashdance, here are some tips so that you may learn from my mistakes and never experience the horror that is knowing what your dad's scrotum feels like through his jeans:

Step 1) Choose a man who is not your dad. This is the key to a successful sub-table foot jay. Remember that. Don't Tickle Your Dad's Balls. DTYDB. If you think you might not remember that, do what I do when I have to remember something important, which is to create a mnemonic device, like "Dizzy Tits Yowza Diggety Booya." That should help.

Step 2) Some foods are sexy-looking when dripping out of one's mouth. Lobster with butter? Sexy. Peanut Butter Sandwich chewed into a puree and oozing out of one's mouth and off one's chin and onto the table. Not sexy. See how that works?

Strawberries? Yes. Fish sticks? No.

Step 3) Once you've got your non-related nut-ticklee and your sexy food items all set up, it's go time! I never actually got this far on account of my dad's angry iron fist pinning my foot down to the seat cushion and then flinging it aside with the GAH!!! heard round the world, but I imagine that gentle toe coochie-coos probably work better than playful thwak thwak thwaks of the pad of your foot against his crotch. Again though, just speculation. I never even got to first foot base. My dad was such a prude, and frankly kind of anti practically everything, like incestuous patriphilia and reverse molestation, but that's the older generation for you. HAHAHA!!! Sigh. Bless their hearts.

The third rule of cookies is I didn't even notice any cookies. That's how much I don't care about cookies.

On hot summer days when I was a kid, I'd head over to my friend Nicki's house because she had

1) a pool

2) a sweet ghettoblaster

and 3) cookies.

First we would swim in the pool while I plotted the best way to get to her cookies, and then we would listen to tapes on her ghettoblaster while I continued to plot the best way to get her cookies.

It was really all about the cookies. I was a cookie playa. (Hate the game, baby. Hate the game.)

It was like:

Nicki: Hey Becky, watch me do a handstand in the pool! Ready? Are you watching? Ok, here I go!

Me: WOW!! I give that handstand a 10 out of 10. Hey, you know what goes good with handstands? Chips Ahoy!

or

Nicki: Hey Becky, want me to stick a blank tape in my ghettoblaster and dub my new Duran Duran tape for you?

Me: Yes, totally!! That would be radical! Hey, did you know that Simon LeBon's favorite snacktime treat is Oreos? And guess who's hungry like the wolf right now? Last one to the kitchen has to marry the ugly one from Tears for Fears!!

We had cookies at our house too, but they didn't count because our cookies had fruit and fiber in them while hers had a delicious sugary-lard filling, and even though her mom usually hid them before I came over because I was fat and hungry, I'd usually find them because didn't you hear what I just said? Fat and hungry!! Fat and Hungry are bastards. Fat will kneel down on his hands and knees behind you and Hungry will push you backwards and you'll go toppling over and then Fat and Hungry will steal one of your shoes and grab your tuna sandwich and run. Fat and Hungry are an unstoppable duo, like Horny and Drunk. It's just gonna happen, is what I'm saying. There's nothing you can do to stop it. Do you hear me, Nicki's mom? So you can just tie your box of Oreos to one end of a shoelace and your Pudding Pops to the other and throw them over a power line and I will duct tape a steak knife to an orange picker and have those motherfuckers down before you can say "I called your mom to come pick you up."

But hold on. A fat hungry kid can't just go barreling into the kitchen and grab whatever she wants. There are rules. There is an art to this.

The first rule of cookies is Be Prepared, which meant reconnaissance missions to the kitchen beforehand, because things I would do for an Oreo might not necessarily have been the kinds of things I would do for, say, a Mother's Circus Animal. It was all about making sure the effort was proportional to the reward.

And the second rule of cookies is Be Cool. Nobody's gonna give any cookies to an overeager fat kid. People get scared, you know? Understandably so.

Be Coooool.

(House lights dim, spotlight on a young blonde girl entering from pantry left, graceful as a cat)

Like Bob Fosse cool....snap....snap....snap....Black Danskin unitard and bongo drums and long stretch-outy legs cool....snap...snap....snap....

(Blonde girl encounters Nicki's mom sitting at the table clipping coupons. Nicki's mom flinches, then settles down.)

Like be cooool, Nicki's mom. I'm just checking out your pad, dig?

(An eerie silence settles over the room as the spotlight reflects off the sharp blade of her scissors.)

...slow step...slow step...kitty cat hands, high knees prancey prancey over to the cupboards...

Just seeing what you've got goin on in your shelvesssss...snap...snap...I'm not lookin' for your cookies, Mommy-o, I just wanna see what you got goin' on in here. Bandaids, vitamins, (HOLY SHIT CIRCUS ANIMALS! FUCKING PINK AND WHITE CIRCUS ANIMALS!! OK, cool it down, Becky. Cooooool.) ...crackers, chicken noodle soup...way cool...snap...snap

(Blonde girl exits dining room left, slowly walking backwards, kitty cat hands up so as not to arouse suspicion, never breaking eye contact with Nicki's mom.)

snap...snap...snap

FIN.

Bob Fosse recon complete, I was finally able to coax Nicki into the kitchen...

Nicki: Do you want an orange? We've got these dried pineapples and some...

Me: Whoa! What's in this bag? It says here on this label...(eyes squinty concentratey reading) Mother's Brand? Circus? Animal? Cookies? Hmm, I'm not sure I've ever seen these before. What the heck? Pink and white with sprinkles?! That's crazy!!

Nicki: Okay. If you want, we could...

Me: Well sure, I guess, I mean...if YOU want a few, then sure, open up the bag. I'm not much of a "cookie" person, per se, I usually opt for the healthier snack option of apple or carrot sticks, but what the heck?

See, Nicki's mom, the thing is (I would explain later for the millionth time) The thing is there's so much air in those bags of cookies that it LOOKS like there's a ton of cookies in there. I get that you would think that. It even says, "Family Size" right on the bag. But you know, Nicki's mom, you know the sad state of today's family. Most of the kids WE know (sad, regretful head shake) live in broken homes. "Family size" isn't what it used to be, Nicki's mom. "Family" means two people, at most. And me and Nicki are the two people who ate all those cookies. Oh, Nicki's been in the pool this whole time? That's weird. Did I mention my mom's away on work a lot? If she were around more, she'd be super grateful for feeding me cookies. Lord knows, I need all the love, I mean mommy, I mean cookies, I can get. *wipes away fake tear*

aaand kitty cat hands, prancey prancey away...

Make them POP! Because nothing says sexy like Thyroid Disorder Eyes.

First, there were the manicures for the bridal party.

Manicure lady: You want them rounded or squared?

Me: My nails? Oh, I don't know. Whatever you like.

ML: Which do you like?

Me: You pick one.

ML: What's this green stuff under your fingernail? 

Me: Food coloring.

ML: It's not coming off.

Me: Yeah. It's the good stuff.

*file, file, file. Soak, soak.*

ML: OH LORD! BECKY! What. Did. You. Do. To. Your. Feet.

Me: What? Maybe I shaved my toes a litt...

ML: No, the nails. Girl, you need to leave a little nail there when you trim.

Me: I clipped them for the wedding. I like them short.

ML: I can see that. This one's bleeding.

Me: Yeah. So they don't snag my socks.

ML: (Shakes head. Big sigh) Settle in. We have work to do.

Then, there was the makeup lady. 

Me: Just so you know. I hate getting my makeup done. I look ridiculous with makeup. Can you do, like, the bare minimum?

Makeup lady: Of course. I keep it really light. I want you to look natural.

Me: That's good. Especially my mouth though? 

ML: Yes, you have full lips, I won't need to do much there.

Me: What I mean is, could you stay inside the lines with the pencil stuff?

ML: You'll love it, don't worry. Your eyelids are kind of puffy, so I'm going to make your eyes just POP! using eyeliner. Do you like blush?

Me: I guess, in modera...

ML: Hold still.

*Blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush, blush...*

(stands back, assesses her work)

*Blush, blush, blush, blush, blush.*

*Guess what? Blush.*

*aaanddd hey look here's some blush.*

*PS? Blush.*

Groomsman wandering by: Oh hey! You look...you...you look like...you're almost there it looks like! (awkward smile)

ML: You ready for the mirror? Your eyes just POP! You look incredible.

Me: (*excited clap!!*)

ML: Here you go. What do you think?? Amazing, no??

(awkward beat)

Me: yes.

ML: Riiight?

Me: yes.

ML: Amazing!!

Me: yes.

The hair guy was so patient.

Me: My hair doesn't hold any kind of curl.

Hair guy: Oh, don't worry. We'll spray it.

Me: Yes, but even with spray.

HG: Oh we'll see.

(30 minutes later)

HG: Look at those beautiful curls!!

Me: I feel like a princess!! (Skipping away)

(20 minutes later)

HG: Becky? Did we do your hair?

Me: Yes.

HG: C'mere. Let me touch that up for you.

(10 minutes later)

HG: Becky? Maybe a touch up before you go down the aisle?

(5 minutes later)

HG: (concerned face, hushed conference with hair assistant) Becky, c'mere a second. We're gonna touch up your hair a bit.

Bride: (whispering) Becky, I know someone who can tone down your face a bit if you want. Fix your mouth and soften your eyes a bit.

Aunt of the bride: Did you not have time to take out your dress a little, dear?? Can you breathe?

Bridesmaid: I can totally see your bra. 

Groomsman: Are you okay? Your eyes look enormous! Like, popping out of your head big.

The letter to Hitler I composed in my dream at 5:30 this morning after a restless night's sleep

Dear Fuhrer,

Please tell my physical therapist I'm not going to make our appointment this morning, because I'm just so super cozy. Snuggley buggley. Here, get in. 

Also, I am stuck in a tree sitting with a branch between my ass cheeks. Now I am wearing a thong made of rope. Now I'm sitting on the bar of my bicycle. Wait, at least one of these things has to be a dream.

Oh. It's just the pant leg of my pajamas that has ridden up and is bunched up in my ass. How did that happen? Did you do that? Silly Fuhrer!

In conclusion, the physical therapy lady is old and she makes me do old lady exercises. Stop licking your vagina, Hitler, it's shaking the bed. Wait, that was probably the dog. I meant the dog. Not you.

Is this a dream? Aren't you dead, Hitler? This letter will never make it from death to physical therapy on time. I should just call and cancel. Will you call for me? My arm will get cold if I reach for the phone. The number is 1-800-petmeds. No. That can't be right. 1-800-95Jenny. 

Friends forever.

Love, 

Becky