Today's typo for the ... long stretch of time ... I got an Ebay message that said "Tit will be for Spawn booms."
I had to stare at it for about thirty seconds to realize that they were trying to communicate that they'd sent me money and "It will be for Spawn books." which is a totally logical and accurate statement.
But I'm thinking of ending all conversations now with "Tit will be for Spawn booms. McFarlane be with you."
All it takes is one person, colloquially, uttering the phrase "At the end of the day..." and the entire soundtrack of Les Mis plays out in your head for the rest of the day.
Last night, around 2:30, I awoke to the sexiest thing I have ever seen. Comrade, with the squirt bottle in his hand, hiding behind the bedroom door, waiting for yeowling Selina to come into view, at which point, he got a direct hit, right in her loud, meowing face.
Selina, ran full speed out of the room, and did not return until daylight, where she quietly sat down between us and went to sleep.
The app that I use to buy stoner groceries has started carrying "adult health care items" such as The Eggplant Emojibater: a vibrating Eggplant dildo that comes in a box that says "Go Fuck Yourself, Literally."
Customers who bought the emojibater also bought A Dozen Eggs, KY Liquid Lubricant, Ben and Jerry's Half Baked Ice Cream, Gushers, and coat hangers.
That sounds like somebody had an amazing weekend.
,It turns out that two months of quarantine doesn't magically make the tone deaf wannabe musicians upstairs any more talented. One of them is still banging around on the piano while the other alternated between playing the recorder or singing, two skills they have never possessed and never will never possess.
Apart from a possible career recording shred videos for Youtube in 2012, I can't imagine what benefit their continued abuse of instruments does. It doesn't even seem to relax them or assist them in having a good time. They seem to be as frustrated by their incompetence as everyone else in the building. But that won't stop them from singing the same four note progression, or continuing to flatly exhale to the rhythm of Hot Crossed Buns.
For revenge purposes, I've been looking at bagpipes online but they are prohibitively expensive. As they should be.
I have a writing project I need to work on, but first Comrade and I will have a late breakfast.
Ok, the water has boiled over slightly, dampening one burner, and this has, somehow rendered all the burners useless, while not impacting the oven. No problem, I'll just use some matches to ....
There are no matches or lighters in the house.
Is Comrade the first person I've dated for more than a month that doesn't smoke?
Comrade and I decide to have some cereal for breakfast and watch some Brooklyn 99.
About three minutes into the episode, a wasp and a bumblebee find their way into the apartment. Selina is delighted. Motherfucker doesn't pay attention. Comrade and I briefly try and figure out a way to open the window without interacting with wasp and bumblebee before leaving the house to go buy a lighter for the stove and Raid for the flying pests. Not to be mixed.
Bread is purchased. Provolone is purchased. Milk is purchased. A grill lighter is purchased. Wasp, Yellowjacket & Hornet Killer is purchased.
An Ignorance of Bros hang out by the corner of the store, less than two feet apart not wearing masks. I consider spraying them with Raid.
I read the packaging on the Raid and realize it will be super unhelpful as it is an outdoor spray and would be dangerous even to incredibly intelligent cats. Selina would be doomed.
Knowing my feeling on wasps and hornets, Comrade volunteers to go in to try and "Rambo those bastards. Oops, is that hate speech?" (This is a Dr. Bobby joke that has somehow crossed over to Comrade, even though the two have never met, or even talked to each other.)
I sit in the hallway, looking at my phone while I hear sporadic noises from the apartment. Soon, Comrade comes out of the apartment in goggles, his facemask, and oven gloves, holding a balled up paper towel, which he carries outside. Thus is the bumblebee reintroduced to the wild.
Comrade pulls of his facemask when he comes back in. "Selina is useless. The wasp was having trouble flying when I went in, and she was just looking at it real close. Not even trying to paw it, just watching it hover and fall. I whacked it with the paper towel roll, but it escaped into the shades for a few seconds before reemerging. Then I whacked it to death with the paper towel roll. Want to see it?"
It has now been about two hours since I set out to get some writing done. The cereal is, of course, ruined, even if I didn't suspect it had been massively tampered with by the sting bros. But I have a lighter, and, lo, I manage to reignite the stove.
First, however, I have to pick up the kitchen since someone (and Comrade swears it was Selina, while we were out) has destroyed the kitchen by first knocking over the trash can, and then distributing the trash to the previously garbage deficient portions of the kitchen.
By the time the kitchen is cleaned, and the now late lunch is prepared, the writing is no longer on the schedule. The wasp's descendents will be hearing from my lawyers re: lost wages.
Oh shit. The wasp's descendents are my lawyers?
This seems weirdly famliar.
I have lightly ribbed my father over his embrace of Pandemic Socialism (he gets his food from the local high school. instead of buying his own groceries). But, for the most part we don't discuss his politics because they've decayed to terrible in recent years.
Today, he called, telling me about how his friends and neighbors hadn't received their stimulus checks, and he hadn't received his, and how he didn't understand what was taking so long. And, lo, last Friday a stimulus check arrived in his PO box, and he bragged to all of his more liberal neighbors about how Fecalface Sucksatgolf was making sure the people who supported him got their stimulus checks first (as if he could somehow now).
You, Dear Reader, may have figured out that it was Not his stimulus check, but was in fact, My finger-on-nose, Clinton-voting stimulus check that arrived because that was the address I filed my 2018 taxes from last year.
A few of his neighbors have since received theirs. His has not yet arrived.