Oh, hi!

I didn’t see you there.

My view was obstructed by this enormous koala mascot costume. He represents a local lacrosse team, the Raging Marsupials, and boy if he isn’t affective at getting people up on their feet and shouting.

Because if you saw this thing barreling toward you, flapping its arms, I bet you fifteen American dollars that you’d get up and scream, too.

So, let’s talk about mascots!

It is critical that you realize that I have stumbled onto a website that sells mascot costumes, and I am NOT just posting photos of my friends from Supper Club. And now that you know that, I’ll tell you this:

They have a whole section dedicated exclusively to Wolves and Coyotes. Here is an offering called “New Wolf.”

In the world of mascotry, the word “new” is synonymous with “super drunk.” Plus, to be convinced to wear something like that, you’d have to be about six scotches in. This is the sporting event equivalent of putting a lampshade on your head. “Hey! Ted’s wildly housed! See if he’ll put on the New Wolf suit and do that dance again!”

Drinking games aside, mascots were invented as a way to get people excited, amped up, ready to support their team. The mascot’s job is to make the crowd feel like their side is the invincible side and that the other team will be cowering in fear at the mere sight of them.

Which is why, when you click on “Mean Wolf,” you expect to find something fearsome and awe-inspiring. But, you know, you get this:

A) This looks more like a bear. B) A really friendly bear. C) What is happening with his tail? It looks like a piece of drift wood.

In fact, “Pro Wolf” looks meaner than “Mean Wolf.”

“Pro Wolf” also looks like Paul Sorvino with Beau Bridges’ eyebrows, if you ask me. And I would like to draw your attention, please, to Pro Wolf’s alarmingly tiny hand. But still, more ominous than Mean Wolf.

A thing that I do not understand about this tastefully rendered Native American costume is why there must be a false head. According to my history teachers, Native Americans are human beings. And, with the exception of a couple of dogs, most of the life forms who don mascot costumes are also human. So it would stand to reason that the wearer of this costume would have at least a reasonably human-looking head. And yet, here we are, staring at this… thing.

But somehow FRUIT doesn’t require any additional facial covering.

Nope, it’s fine if Mr. Apple (bodysuit not included) shows his Brawny Paper Towel Guy face at every event. He gets to go squinting around dressed as something humans EAT. But the HUMAN mascots have to cover their faces.

Oh, wait. I get it. It’s to protect the identity of the poor jerk who has to wear something like this at his senior homecoming game:

Did anyone else have to stifle a scream and/or fountain of vomit when they saw this astonishing pilgrim suit?

Okay, okay. I’m sorry. Look, facial covering controversy aside, you just COULD NOT have a sporting event (amateur OR professional) without a team mascot. They are essential to the overall mood of the arena.

And I get the sense that trained professional mascots understand the power they wield. And that power transfers to them, and soon, they cannot be without the suit for very many hours at a time or they spiral into a deep depression.

What evidence do I have of this? See below:

The man behind this “scorpion” suit was so desperate to get back into it, that it was the FIRST THING he unpacked on moving day. Behind him are dozens of boxes containing things that a normal person would consider more important than this. You know, bath towels, clean underwear, Nutella. But no, Phil “The Stinger” Jameson needed to put his suit back on the second his wife went to return the U-Haul.

Similarly, this guy put the tiger suit on before he moved any furniture into his apartment.

He doesn’t have a couch or a TV or a dining room table, but that’s okay, because he can’t see out of those eyes, and he doesn’t want to sit down, because last week he “messed” himself in the suit, and, what with the move and everything, hasn’t had a chance to take it to the dry cleaners.

Okay. I’m sorry. I’ve insulted mascots, which is unfair. It is important to remember that deep down, in their furry little hearts, they are people too. They serve an important purpose: To pump up sports fans everywhere, to get them excited about their team, to make everyone in the stands feel like the game they are watching is the most riveting sporting event in the world!

Even if that sport is Skee-Ball.

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I don’t really do New Year’s Resolutions. They always make me feel like a failure, mainly because I’m always failing at them. Lose weight? Nope. Learn a language? I did not. Make the bed every day? HAHAHAHA!

So I assure you it is a simple coincidence that my attempt to go gluten-free for a month happened to begin on January 1st.

I felt it best to wait until after the holidays to attempt to alter my eating habits so drastically. And boy, did I have a last hurrah. I went to my favorite bakery and purchased a chocolate tart AND a miniature apple pie. THAT was my New Years Eve.

Anyway, here I am. Gluten free for over EIGHTY SEVEN HOURS. Suck it, naysayers.

I promise not to turn this site into My Tortured Life Without Flour: The Blog. But for the next 31 days, it’s going to be a big part of who I am, so you can bet it will be mentioned. I vow to make it fun. Or at least really, really pathetic and woeful.

Some things that have happened in the last couple of days are:

I have eaten SO MUCH popcorn that you would probably gasp in horror.

I have been much clumsier, prompting me to believe that wheat holds the key to my physical stability.

I have begun to listen to a lot more Notorious B.I.G. (probably unrelated).

AND, today, with the help of my pal David, I went to an all gluten-free store near work. It’s called “Pam MacD’s Gluten Free Market” and it’s excellent. I bought these cookies that are better than regular cookies. They also have these discs of crispy cheese, which I would have made purchase of if not for the fact that my boss had spilled 38 metric tons of very fragrant Parmesan cheese on his office carpet not 20 minutes beforehand.

That was not fun, let me tell you.

All we had in the office was a vacuum that looked like it was from 1965. It also smelled like it still contained dust from 1965. When it was turned on, it blew cheese all over the place. Eventually, it got up most of the cheese, but by that point the inside of it had become very hot and had begun burning the dust AND cheese, creating a thick, horrible stench that lingered for hours. In order to fix the problem, ammonia-based cleaner was sprayed, a vanilla-scented candle was lit, a bag of fresh-ground coffee was purchased and opened, and actual toast was made in the office. It was a Smell Circus.

So I didn’t buy the crispy cheese rounds at the gluten-free store.

But I did buy cookies, sweet potato crackers, some protein bars and chocolate covered dried fruit.

They say gluten-free is good for your health, but by god if I’m not going to try to contradict that.

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There is nothing I love more than giving gifts on Christmas. Apparently this holiday has a few religious aspects to it (something about an infant and a super nova?) but for me it’s all about watching your parents open up lavish gifts you spent your rent money on. This year, the holidays have snuck up on me and, since I don’t have time to park at the mall, let alone shop in it, I have been trolling the internet for Yuletide Bounty. This has led to even greater discoveries.

Discoveries such as the name of this shoe:

I know a couple of dudes who have “Lady Warmth” on their Christmas lists every single year. I didn’t know Converse sold it for 77 bucks!

I mean, really. WHO would NAME a product LADY WARMTH? If your mind doesn’t go directly to the gutter, it certainly goes to the scene in The Empire Strikes Back where Han Solo guts a Tauntaun to keep Luke warm on the frozen planet of Hoth. No? It doesn’t do that? Okay, fine.

Then I guess we’ll move on to this little gem:

“Hello. I am Greg-5, the Detroit Lions Intergalactic Ambassador. Please, won’t you sit down and have a deviled egg?”

It’s important to note that, in order to get this picture, there was a photo shoot, during which dozens and dozen of photos were taken.

AND THIS WAS THE BEST ONE.

This was the photograph that they all saw and went, “Yep. That’s the one. That’s the one that’s going to move product.”

Look. I don’t know much about sports, so maybe I’m way out of line, but how is this photograph going to get you to buy… whatever the hell they are selling here? It’s either a Detroit Lions snuggie, or a pillow. Or that man. Personally, I feel inspired to purchase a security system, but then I’ve never been much of a football fan.

Finally, and this is my personal favorite, there was this:

Yes! You heard right! December is 19th Century US Land Deal History Month and to celebrate, this website is selling the entire state of Michigan for NINE DOLLARS. This is a bargain if ever I’ve seen one.

But act now! Because I’ve heard supplies of Michigans are very low this year.

Happy Shopping friends. May your days be filled with low prices and hilarious typos.

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Yeah. I don’t really have those anymore.

As you can see, they have been relocated to my front door by the Santa Ana winds.

A couple of nights ago, we had a real doozy of a wind storm. My apartment was actually SHAKING with each gust of wind, and every so often, there would be a lovely crashing sound that would jolt me out of my almost-sleep. Plus: have you ever seen a transformer blow up? It’s really cool.

The next morning, after a night of listening to the police scanner and fretting about Uncle Jeff the lemon tree while I waited for the roof to come clean off the bedroom, I emerged from the apartment to this:

And check out the sidewalk outside!

If I were to write out everything I saw as a result of this wind storm, we would be here all week. So how about you all just take a gander at the Santa Ana Winds Bingo Card I filled out:

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… begin weeping.

As some of you maybe remember, last year’s Thanksgiving didn’t go so well. I locked my raw turkey in the oven and then launched a full scale, Lifetime Original Movie-style freakout at every appliance in my house.

But this year is going to be better! I’m going to follow all of my borderline psychotic lists to the SECOND, and everything is going to be on the table in a timely fashion. AND BY GOD EVERYONE WILL BE SMILING. Nothing can harm me this year.

Or so I thought.

Last night when I arrived home, there was an inch of… “waste matter” sitting in the bottom of the downstairs shower. Also, the toilet was full of water, which was BUBBLING. Like a swamp in one of those Neverending Story movies. To make things extra super, I had 90 minutes until Paul’s brother arrived for the week.

This story turns out fine. Jose from the 24-hour plumbers, who is my new hero, got all his tools out and rescued my apartment. The HOA is going to pay for everything. And I got it all cleaned up before Paul and his brother got home.

But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little shaken. I mean, last year’s Thanksgiving started out with a simple broken dishwasher and turned into a screaming match between me and GE’s entire catalog. This year’s has begun with a whole bunch of scat. Call me crazy, but I feel like poop is worse than a broken dishwasher. So, what is going to happen this year? For some reason, all I can think of is a horde of assorted snakes falling through the roof of my apartment right as I’m taking the pie out of the oven.

I guess the point I am trying to make is: Please send good vibes my way. If you’re into voodoo, get out the chicken blood and rat heads. I need all the good luck I can get this year.

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The only way I can get through a cardio workout at the gym is by reading while I do it. And by “reading” I mean “reading women’s magazines.” Because it’s a lot easier to process “5 Minutes To A Smoky Eye” than Billy Budd when you’re bobbing up and down on the elliptical.

So I read a LOT of women’s magazines. Often I come across something helpful (“What To Do If You Wake Up Looking Like You Drank A Liter Of Popov The Night Before”) or inspiring (“How I Conquered My Fear Of Pearl Onions!”). But then there are the times I turn to the page to discover utter nonsense, such as the article I read recently that was a list of things you did as a kid that you should still be doing. I’ve collected some of the more incorrect ones here:

Celebrating Hump Day: Did anyone actually do that? Because when I think of a celebration, there is cake. And if we’d had cake every time it was Wednesday, I’d have died at age 13.

Going to an all night diner and ordering a bunch of pancakes and stuff: Did anyone ever STOP doing that? Hell, you could wake me up at three in the morning and suggest we go do that and I’d be dressed in under 40 seconds.

Running around naked just because: I refuse to acknowledge this as an activity. There is no “just because” about being naked. Ever.

Sleepovers: I couldn’t do them then, and I certainly can’t do them now.

Going by the trendy name you wish your parents had given you: Do not do this ever. You will lose your job and all of your friends and you will have to pose for a sub-par gentleman’s magazine to make your rent money.

Keeping a list of every boy you’ve ever fooled around with: Yeah, you go right ahead, Lil’ Miss Trashy.

Watching TV while snuggling with your fluffy husband pillow: **SPIT TAKE** WHAT?? What in god’s name is a “fluffy husband pillow?” Why would you snuggle with it? And what are you watching on TV that is doing such a poor job of keeping you interested that you’d rather snuggle with an inanimate object? Look. If you EVER did this when you were a kid, you are probably doing something WAY worse now. Like snuggling with a pillow made out of your husband.

I don’t know what kind of youth you had, but if there was a thing I liked doing, I’m probably still doing it (playing Super Mario Bros. 3). And if I’m not still doing it, it’s because it was insane (eating ants). I don’t need a nationally-published magazine to tell me how to be nostalgic. But I do need someone to explain fluffy husband pillows to me.

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Despite what you’d think if you ever heard me belch, I am a lady. And as a lady, I like to indulge in the odd spa treatment. But a choosing a spa can be difficult. You don’t want to accidentally go someplace too fancy where they lull you into a suggestive state with hot stones and then sell you additional, more expensive services while you are too weak to turn them down. You also don’t want to pick a bargain place that’ll send you home with peeling, angry skin and an exciting new foot fungus.

Yes, internet research is crucial and, aside from the annoyingly officious Yelp reviews, a spa’s website provides great insight into what kind of experience you’re going to have. It also gives you a chance to check out what services they may have to treat problems you didn’t even know you had:

If you ask me, $25 to reduce “creepiness” under your eyes is an excellent deal.

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As I groggily made my way through the parking lot at work a few mornings ago, I noticed a car covered in Braggy Parent Stickers. You know: “My child is a good citizen at Richards Elementary!” or “Proud parents of the Grover Cleveland Middle School annual Science Fair winner!” or sometimes just “Parent of an Honor Student!” The general idea of these stickers, I gather, is to make the parent appear to have done a fantastic job raising their child.

This particular vehicle had none of the typical stickers, but rather a line of about eight of the same sticker which read, “My Child Has Perfect Attendance at Somethingorother Elementary School!”

Instead of making this parent look like a success, this sticker, unfortunately, just makes the parent seem like a raging attendance tyrant. “Mom, I’m barfing a lot, and I have this gaping head wound.” “Too bad, Janet! You’re going to learn FRACTIONS. Now get in the mini-van before I hit you with this roux whisk!”

I don’t have a way to end this, except to ask: Why aren’t there any really good stickers? You know, ones that say, “My daughter ate 6 quarts of 5-Alarm Chili at the 11th Annual Wilson High Chili Cook-Off!”

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As a person who lives in a multi-family dwelling, I’m no stranger to the strongly-worded laundry room note. In apartment buildings, there is always someone who wants to announce their discontent with a written statement. Those people are always 100% MORE unnecessarily upset than someone who expresses themselves in person, which means I find them 100% more hilarious. I am sorry, but if you’re going to leave a note in ALL CAPS with 86 exclamation points about cleaning the lint trap, I’m going to laugh at you.

It’s a rare treat when you find a note that is neither angry nor rude, but somehow still hilarious. Those notes almost always fall under the “insane” category. Case in point:

Okay, first, let’s clear this up: Paul checked. “Fruit Rats” are an actual thing, even though their name would suggest that they are nothing more than a leftover figment from Number Six’s lysergic acid days. I have met Number Six, and she strikes me as the kind of person who may have dropped a bunch of acid and invented new kinds of rats, so you can understand why I didn’t believe her at first.

I think she is an English teacher, which explains her fabulous word choice. The use of the word “invaded” makes me think of a bunch of Acid Rats riding on vehicles made of fruit, advancing toward our complex, brandishing tiny weapons. However, the syntax is unclear. Who is Number Six addressing? There isn’t a manager at our building, really, and the note doesn’t specify what kind of help. It’s just a plea for general assistance, and then a story about a rodent problem.

And then there is the issue of proof. How does she know the sound she’s hearing in her walls (unconfirmed) isn’t some other kind of rat? Or the guy I keep in the closet under my stairs scratching tally marks into the plaster? Answer: She doesn’t. So don’t everyone freak out.

Still, just to be on the safe side, I’m going to get rid of all the fruit in my apartment, and just eat chocolate and bacon.

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The other day, my Extraordinary Pal David Malloy (NOT pictured above)  showed me a bunch of issues of Genii magazine from the 1950s. For the three of you who DON’T know, Genii is the conjuror’s magazine, and was published for magicians, both professional and amateur, all over the country. It chronicled new tricks, awards ceremonies and noted performers in what I’m sure were probably interesting and well-researched articles. They were also very long, so I didn’t read any of them.

The ads were more my speed.

And who can blame me?

Are people envious of ventriloquists? Can anyone really “entertain” with ventriloquism? These ads are fantastic! (Please note that they carry hand-carved figures that are fully clothed. NO NAKED DUMMIES FOR SALE, you perverts.)

I also like this one, because it starts off as a warning:

You IDIOT. How could you possibly function in your sad, sad life without ABRACADABRA? You just cannot afford it. Oh, wait. It’s just a magazine about card tricks and card trick-related news. Never mind then.

Plus, since it was the 50s, people didn’t have to worry about unintentional sexual innuendo and they could do things like this:

He doesn’t want neckties. He wants magic, you prude. Give the man who married you (and not your more attractive sister) a “Happy Christmas.” Dear Editor of Genii, The heading of that ad, “WHAT EVERY WIFE SHOULD KNOW,” makes every other term below seem dirty. Even the [ahem] “tricks” seem like depraved bedroom acts. “ShimmeRing?” “Minor Miracle?” And if “Bill Paul’s Lying Saucers” doesn’t have to do with testicles, I don’t know what does.

I’d like to pause now and apologize for this post so far. Starting out with a jolly (horrifying) clown at the top of this post must have been very misleading. And I’m sorry about that. I know most of you are delicate, gentle creatures, who don’t normally talk about sexual maneuvers and ball sacks.

But I’m not, so put on your seatbelts and shut up.

[Hi, Mom!]

So! How about the Chinese Egg Bag, which sounds like a tremendously weird euphemism for male genitalia?

I mean, for god’s sake, it talks about “solid wood” and a “super climax.” COME ON, 1950s. You didn’t see how any of that was maybe a little yucky?

[Hi, Mom!]

Moving away from the realm of nut hammocks and the like, let me ask you this: Who decided this was a good idea for a Christmas show?

Bring your kids on down, dress ‘em up in their little velvet Christmas suits. Shove grandpa in the car! We’re chopping off the heads of spectators in honor of the birth of Christ! It’s a must-see holiday extravaganza!

Man, people will be FLOCKING to see that. Your friendly neighborhood magician will make his $18.75 back in no time at all!

Okay, so just to review: Ventriloquist envy, aggressive magazine sales, sexual innuendo, yuletide beheadings, and now…

Talk about value! One dollar for a perfect-looking replica of something that has rabies that you will always carry with you! AND it’s GREAT AT PARTIES: “Say! It appears someone is causing screams of laughter over by the punch bowl!” “Why, it’s Dale– what’s he got in his hand?” “I believe that’s a baby skunk, Suzy!” “Golly, just look at it’s life-like antics!” “I’ll be he didn’t even have to pay postage!” “Ha Ha! It is provoking mirth from me!”

I would totally go to that party.

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