Now on the California pavement, we struggled to maintain consciousness. As if fueled by our ruin, the partying intensified. We observed as near nuclear tanning spells erupted, accompanied by fierce freaking and what seemed like an endless session of putting hands up. We heard the obstructed bellow of the queen as she released her horrible, unmentionable shrieking: “Aoaoaoao oh aoaoaoao!”
More anthropological field analysis of the California Gurl, here.
A day late, for a good reason – the weekend in verse:
In the early morning hour,
just before dawn, the two lovers wake
and sip from the leftover Franzia box wine.
She asks, “Do you love me or yourself more?
Please, tell the absolute truth.”
He says, “Me.
But only because I have no clue who you are.”
More debaucherous quatrains here.
The following is a beach house listing on CraigsList:
$1,000 wk/8BR — Come enjoy beautiful East Hampton this summer! Awesome beach house just steps from ocean, with fabulous views throughout. New Weber grill. Plenty of rooms to sob in. Totally did not just rent this and hope I could find seven other people to spend the summer with me. Tennis nearby.
Interested renters inquire here.
For the bloggin’ community – the titles of great novels, SEO’d:
8 Surprising Ways West Egg Is Exemplary Of The Hollowness Of The American Dream
Animal Farm, Catcher in the Rye, and more, here.
Know your housesittee before your housesit:
A few things to be mindful of during your stay:
• There isn’t much “food” food, but there are plenty of vitamins, though many of the “vitamins” are “special vitamins,” which you’ll have to pay for. Uppers are $15. Downers are $5.
• All of the light bulbs in the basement burnt out right before I left, so definitely don’t go down there no matter what. It’s pretty much just concrete and chains and stained pillowcases and lengths of rubber hose, anyway.
Man, that long weekend was fun, huh? Now, get to work:
Before you remove us from this frame and replace us with a picture of yourselves, I want you to take a nice, long look at us. We’re gorgeous. What are the chances that your family is as happy and aesthetically pleasing as us? I’d have to say four percent, tops.
That is a message from the family in the photo that came with your new picture frame. The rest of the message is here.
A recently uncovered rejection letter sent to Anne Frank:
Thank you for your submission of your memoir to us, as delivered by your literary agent from a cardboard box unearthed in a dusty Amsterdam attic. Unfortunately, we receive so many Holocaust teenage diaries composed in European attics that it is impossible to accept each one. We are passing on your diary with regrets, but would like to offer various suggestions for revision.
Those suggestions can be found here.
My apologies for getting this to you a day late, but here’s a selection from Sigmund Freud’s checklist for celebrating Mother’s Day:
9. Make sure father is still tied up and gagged in soundproof location.
You get the idea.
For those looking for summer love, beware this cautionary tale about a winter romance:
I met a hot guy just chillin’ in my neighbor’s front yard. He’s got to be a musician: vintage top hat, deathly sexy pale skin, and a self-destructive streak that isn’t cliché—he smokes a pipe… and it’s corncob. He’s a little chubby, but what really got me were his intense, coal-black eyes and the way he looked at me: unblinking.
This doesn’t end well.