Date Archives December 2009

Feed the world, let them know it’s Christmastime

On Christmas morn, I struggled out of bed toward my phone, which had been buzzing nonstop for about an hour with ‘MERRY CHRISTMAS OMG’ text messages and at some point, my conscious mind recognized that screeching “BAH HUMBUG, MOTHERFUCKERS” in its general direction wasn’t going to actually make it stop.

…I am not a morning person.

But struggle out of bed I did, and after I fed Napoleon and swigged about a gallon of coffee, I was ready to face the day. First things first–I responded to the wave of texts, and then I was completely and totally free to play with the toys SantaShadowstitch had brought me.

Not just any toys. A battle unicorn, for one. A super uber metal battle unicorn, and when it transforms, the spine is used as a flail for ultimate badassery.

I haven’t yet figured out the teleport mode but once I do, the battle unicorn and I will be zapping all over the damn place.

He also brought me a highly-poseable Castlevania Dracula figure. This figure is currently scaling my giant Elvira, and I can appreciate that sort of mojo.

My mom got me some books and a set of super-sharp knives, because when people see something and think of me, somehow it’s almost always knives of some sort. I’m starting to get a complex.

One of the books was Flim-Flam! Psychics, ESP, Unicorns, and Other Delusions by James Randi. I have begun reading this book, and Randi is pissed that men of science are backing up con artists who claim psychic abilities. The word ‘charlatan’ is used in the first chapter no less than twenty times. I love it. I think that if James Randi ever met Mr. “I consider those who are interested in the occult to be the scientists of the future” Konstantinos, he would slap him across the face. Repeatedly.

I then settled in with Napoleon on the couch and read him ‘The Pirates! In an Adventure with Napoleon’. His favorite part wasn’t even about Napoleon, it was about the Pirate King:

The Pirate King paused for a moment to pull a great white shark from behind his throne and punch it in half with a fist. A fair amount of shark guts went over the tables at the front, but none of the audience minded at all.

Napoleon, you see, is strongly anti-shark ever since he saw that segment on Shark Week with footage of a shark attacking a dog very similar to himself. It reminded him of his own dog mortality, and he does not like that one bit. He is almost as anti-shark as he is anti-midget.

After storytime, we took a nap. Then, I looked at the kitchen, which had turned into a nightmare zone with all of the baking I’d been doing, and just looking at it made me feel like I needed yet another nap.

Eventually, Anne came to pick me up for Christmas dinner at her place with her sister. My official capacity was to keep them from rumbling under the Christmas tree, but I am a terrible person to pick for that function as I almost always encourage fights.

After dinner, things got a bit silly. I had only had one glass of wine, I think Anne’s sister had two, and Anne herself didn’t have any, so I can’t really explain WHY we all got slapstick-y at once. Maybe Trader Joe’s is injecting interesting chemicals into their food.

All I know is that after we listened to Ultraman Ukelele (which you should also pause and watch, right this very moment):

we began to play a game called ‘Bananagrams’ which is a bit like Scrabble in that you are building interconnected words from tiles drawn from a central pile, but instead of taking turns on a board, everyone works independently, and the first person to use all their tiles when the pool is down to less than the total amount of players wins.

You see, I got caught up while playing. In an effort to finish the word ‘quaalude’, I drew far too many tiles using the method where one dumps a letter back in the pool and draws three in exchange and ended up with a hot mess of letters, far too many to attempt to win the game. My brain locked up. I lumped everything together and smiled winningly.


You should know that ‘juggaaalo’ is a totally acceptable spelling of the word if you say it like you’re screaming in horror at the mere idea of seeing a live one, which is how everyone should say it, anyway.

But ‘Hottenfoyzingoux’–there was no way I was getting away with that one.

One by one, it struck us funny. We began to make up definitions, etymology, and laugh more and more hysterically. We decided that Hottenfoyzingoux was semi-Swedish, and would be the name of something sold at IKEA.


Then it happened: We made Anne laugh so hard she vomited. I’ve never seen anything like it in my life before. One minute, she was laughing hysterically, the next minute, she was running for the bathroom and her placemat and carpet were stained–victims in a game of war they weren’t even playing.

Uh, Merry Christmas?

…If I’m giving people the gift of vomit, no wonder they think of me when they see knives.

Family Home Evening

I spent Christmas Eve with Aisling’s family–I’ve been there often enough that I’ve pretty well been embraced as part of the family, like inbred cousin Cletus who just shows up on the doorstep, and you feed him because you don’t want him to eat roadkill or starve but ultimately it’s a mistake because he just keeps coming back. I’m that guy.

Like a couple of years ago, we again played the name game. We didn’t pull any magically hilarious names out of the ether like Sir Charles Titswamp this time, but I must admit to being delighted when someone pulled one of my contributions to the box, didn’t recognize the character, and had to do mental gymnastics to get someone to guess it. Especially when the reward was finding out she’d been focusing on a talking piece of Christmas poo.

After the name game, this year we had a white elephant so that we might all share love and joy and the worst gifts ever conceived. You might ask how it is that I ALWAYS have something at home to bring to a white elephant, and I might ask you to shut up, embarrassed that I live such a tacky life.

I walked away with this gem:




This DVD contains the sixteen greatest minutes of footage ever committed to film. It’s so good, they had to copyright it twice. It’s so good, it makes sixteen minutes feel like an hour. It’s so good, it’s not embarrassed about using the same footage a few times over the course of said sixteen minutes. Not only has it taught me everything about building the world’s best family, it’s also taught me that the world is a cruel place and the only place you are actually safe is WITH your awesome family. Additionally, it has taught me the importance of fun activities and enjoying refreshments. One thing that can be constituted as a fun activity is jumping on a trampoline in a circle, holding hands with your family. This is why I am deadly, seriously, honest-to-god-no-lie proposing an outing to Sky High Sports with as many people as I can convince to come with me, with delicious refreshments before or after depending on how people feel about eating and bouncing. I will build a family with you people whether you like it or not. How does Saturday, January 16th look for everyone? Here is a hint: It had better look good. Family members who do not participate in family outings are subject to vicious beatings. That’s the way my family works.

Adventures in Tukwila

On Saturday, Aisling picked me up to do some last-minute christmas shopping for her family and do a bit of selfish shopping as well. I keep maybe one awesome pair of walking shoes around at a time, and over the course of the last month, I’ve put enough miles on them that I’ve worn the soles completely through. When shoes begin to leak water, it is time to replace them or face the gross consequences, so replacing them was high on my list of priorities.

We started our afternoon at Starbucks, where we used a grand total of four cards to pay for two coffees because we are awesome. I had been carrying around two gift cards worth about three bucks total for the last year or so, Aisling had her gold card, and then we put the rest of the balance on a card because neither of us carry cash. We are the douchebag twins.

I wasn’t able to find any light-up shoes with dinosaurs on them…this time, but I am fully confident by the time I need another pair of shoes, at least one shoe company will have a product out taking my special needs into consideration.

All of the mall employees we encountered were ultra-mega surly, and I don’t blame them one bit–working retail around the holidays is no treat, even when you take special steps to entertain yourself. Aisling and I took it in stride, and decided one of our day’s activities should be to find our sleep number. The sleep number store was full of beds and no employees. We looked at each other, looked around, shrugged, and picked out a bed. Just as we started taking photographic evidence, an employee came out and growled, “What do you want?”

“Um, uh, we wanted to find our sleep number.”

“Go nuts.”





After we settled in and started fiddling with the remotes, the employee came back with a special remote that adjusted both the head and the foot of the bed and also turned on a vibrate mode. I couldn’t help exclaiming, “Oh my god, it’s like being in a cheap motel only at home!” and I believe this is when the employee decided we were not assholes and began to make surly jokes WITH us.


Aisling and I have decided that we both need vibrating sleep number beds in our lives, and both of our sleep numbers are the same: 35. We must have spent an hour in the sleep number store, and while neither of us actually slept, we both left feeling rested, and not just in the ‘hey, I’ve been on my ass for an hour’ sense.

We then proceeded to try on fuzzy hats, annoy more clerks, have a dressing room fashion show, and find magic jeans. Bonus: all of this walking coupled with my reluctance to trudge up the hill to buy groceries has caused me to go down a full pants size and then some. Negative: I now must wear belts, wash and dry on hot, or face inevitable humiliation. No one needs to know I wear spongebob underpants.

…aww, crap.

After our shopping shenanigans, we decided to go eat dinner in an exotic locale that can be accessed without a passport–the Rainforest Cafe. Neither one of us had been there since we were little kids (or annoying tweens, whatever), and we’re both big enough people to admit that we’d like to enjoy some animatronic animals with dinner.


We thrilled and clapped like children at the robot animals, the giant tanks of fish, the copious amounts of neon signage, and the contrived thunderstorm.


The servers at the Rainforest Cafe were no exception to the ‘surly employees’ rule, shuffling off to grab our shared appetizer and almost grumbling at the idea that we were going to split the appetizer, skip dinner, and split dessert. However, if you were in our position, you would’ve done the same thing. There’s no way we would have had room for both dinner AND a brownie with a sparkler crammed in it, and whenever I have the rare opportunity to order something with a sparkler crammed in it, I am going to take it, come hell or high water or grumbling servers.


Plus it DARES me to eat it, right on the goddamn advertisement, by implying I am a weenie if I don’t brave the volcano. I don’t like being called a weenie. Not one bit.

As with all things, it was good until it wasn’t. Toward the end of the appetizer, one of us (I won’t say name names, but it’s the person who ALWAYS has this sort of thing happen and then blogs about it as if she’s befuddled) scooped up some dip with a chip and then pulled a terrible, terrible face as she picked a kinky hair that belonged to neither party at the table out of her mouth. The server came back and when we pointed out the hair, she huffed and said she’d get the manager, but not before she asked if we wanted our dessert. Sorry, the hair sort of killed it for us. Not even the presence of a sparkler could bring back the carefree attitude of five minutes prior.

A not insignificant amount of time passes. All the while, the unnamed party can still feel the offending hair in her mouth, even without its physical presence.

The manager eventually wandered over to our table. “Hello ladies, I hear we’ve had some difficulty with a foreign object in our food this evening.” The hair on the plate is again pointed out. He then asks if we’d like a fresh appetizer. “No. No, thank you.” “Oh, ok.” He grabs the plate and leaves. Aisling and I shared a confused look. Is the situation resolved? Maaaaybe?

After another long period, the server stalked back to our table and slapped down our bill. OH. The situation HAD been resolved. Look, lady, even though the meal has been removed from the bill, I still intended to tip you as if it were there…but when you treat me like shit, it makes it more difficult for me to do the right thing.

I think this should be the Rainforest Cafe’s new motto: Fun Until It Isn’t.

I want the job of the guy who writes on the screen with the yellow pen.

Yesterday, Jim and Anne picked me up to go watch the Packers-Steelers game. Before the game, I suited myself in shame:


I should probably have a jersey or a team shirt or something other than this child-size Judas jersey for watching games in public. Brett Favre, you continue to complicate my life!

Anne is a big Steeler fan and we wondered if we could watch the game without it ending in a shirt-tearing sexy mud-wrestling match.


I’m proud to announce that we both remained adults throughout the course of the very close game, unlike one Bar Douchebag who clearly felt that the players could hear his shouts of “MOVE IT,FATASS!”

4205070707_8383e7e765 Overserious chinless douchebag is overserious. I asked the waitress if I could buy him either an instant vomit shot or something that would knock him out and shut him up, and she was disinclined to grant my request, but told me if I thought he was loud NOW, I should wait and see him when he’s got a pitcher in front of him. 😐

Other than prairie fire shots, I HAVE SO MUCH TO GIVE. Like this, the job I am completely and totally qualified for:

Mike Wallace, Josh Bell

After the game (sniff), we went to Laughs for their cookie exchange/white elephant/christmas party. Jim covered me, cookie-wise (everyone was supposed to bring two dozen, and I was otherwise indisposed on Saturday) and that’s good since even though the idea was people were supposed to go home with about the same number of cookies they came with, a couple of people practically Hoovered up the tables and I would be POd if I had invested baking time for zero returns. Not that I need two dozen cookies hanging around Casa Dildarian, I’m really just standing on principle and shouting “MOVE IT, FATASS!”

For my white elephant gift, I decided that it was time to pass on my magic presidential plate investment as it had appreciated just about as much as it was going to in my safe-deposit closet, and something as gold as this was meant to be treasured by more than one person. The little girl who opened it clearly realized it was a magic plate and spent the remainder of the evening with it clasped to her chest in a ferocious hug. In exchange for the magic plate, I got some cocoa, which means there’s one less item I have to drag home from the grocery store. Everyone wins!

Improbable Movie Trading Cards

Recently, Automatic Lifestyle Dispenser made a series of Improbable Movie Trading Cards for ‘The Room’. I had an ‘aha’ moment when I saw these, as I wanted a gag element in my gift to Tristan this year but wasn’t about to shell out seventy bucks for a promo poster for ‘The Room’ signed by Tommy Wiseau. My love of gag gifts stretches far, but perhaps not quite THAT far.

I decided to take The Cowboy‘s idea and run with it and make a LOT more and print them out on sticker paper. 100% of the credit for everything goes to him, I am just a copy-pasta girl.






















Gaylord Comes With A Bone Of His Own

The usual gang of suspects got together to watch Rifftrax Live: Christmas Shorts edition. To make things more festive, we dressed up…but more on that later. The JOURNEY is also important.

You see, I had to run an errand before meeting everyone at Shindig for the happiest hour of the day, so even though Emily kindly offered to come pick me up, I decided to take the bus so I could make a stop along the way. This was mistake number one.

After I ran my errand and waited and waited and waited at the bus stop, I was joined by a man in his late twenties/early thirties who seemed agitated when he asked if he could smoke in the bus shelter. I am not one to further provoke the agitated unless they REALLY deserve it, so I indicated I didn’t mind, and he sat down and started to smoke. Have you already guessed my second mistake? You are correct, oh clever friends, not bringing headphones to discourage conversation from strangers WOULD be my second mistake. He started to huff and kicked the inside of the shelter, and then told me that some kids had grabbed his laptop and run off the bus, and that he was so pissed, man, just so pissed off, man, he can’t believe how pissed off he is. He then proceeded to grab a 40 out of his pocket and chug it down, interspersed with ejaculations of “just so pissed, man, can’t believe it, what time does the bus come, so pissed off”. Out of his other pocket came a bag of pepperoni, and while he was stuffing these down his face, he again indicated that he was just so pissed off, man. Always Helpful Mellzah inquired if he’d filed a police report because then if the kids who stole it tried to pawn it, he could get it back, and no, Pepperoni Boy’s plan was to ride the bus line back and forth until he found these kids and beat the shit out of them. Yes, surely, this seems like a wise, rational plan.

When the bus FINALLY arrived, of course Pepperoni Boy chose to sit next to me, while continuing to stuff pepperoni in his face hole and surreptitiously swigging from his (another?) 40. I was enveloped in a greasy fog of spiced meats. Pepperoni Boy then asked if he could use my phone. Always Helpful Mellzah…hesitated. And went to hand it over. Pepperoni Boy realized his hands were greasy and instead asked if I could send a text message to someone, the message body consisting of “Never mind, he doesn’t have it anymore.” When I inquired as to who the message was from, it was answered with “They’ll know*.” To me, that read as vaguely ominious and I did not like it one bit. Furthermore, who are these people that they just expect calls and texts from random phone numbers and magically know who it’s from?

Thirty seconds later, with no response to the text, Pepperoni Boy rubbed his hands on his jeans and asked if he could use the phone to call the recipient of the ominous message. Always Helpful Mellzah handed him the phone. After that display of human kindness, obviously Pepperoni Boy felt I was hot for his bones, and tried hitting on me, explaining that he normally is too shy to talk to girls but he’s just so pissed off that he can today. Oh boy Oberto!

When he FINALLY left and the air started to clear, I breathed a sigh of relief and rode in silence the rest of the way to Shindig, where our holiday festivities began.

Emily wrapped a tree skirt around Jim and he came decked out as the King of Christmas:


Anne wore a festive holiday sweater with trivia questions on the back. The answers have been lost, so the answer key to any we did not know was changed to ‘your mom’. And to those we did know as well, let’s be honest, because I’m about twelve mentally and ‘your mom’ is always a funny answer to me.


Emily wore her fab-u-lous holiday sweater with glowing lights and a tinsel moustache.


I copped out and just wore my Santa hat, as full-regalia Santa On The Bus once was enough for me.

When we eventually made our way over to the theater, preshow we were treated to some Rifftrax trivia.


This outing was a little less heavy on hoopla than the last one; the guys came out, wished everyone a merry christmas, happy festivus, great feast of cthulhu (YES! Increased penetration for my alternative holiday), and then got to business, riffing on creepy old christmas specials, incredibly homoerotic advertisements for children’s toys, and a segment on…swimming? Also, for as much as they advertised the inclusion of Weird Al, he only came out for one short and spoke maybe five lines, total. How about ‘Fleeting appearance by Weird Al’? Or ‘Blink And You’ll Miss Him–here comes Weird Al!’? Or ‘Even though he’s totally known for his music and you would expect him to sing or be more involved as our special guest, he’s really only here for five minutes and is mostly a name to sell tickets and will not be performing so let’s all welcome Weird Al!’? It’s like those DVDs that boast amazing special features and then when you crack it open and watch, you realize the only special feature included is the trailer and the knowledge that you’re a sucker for marketing.

*Apparently they did NOT know as I received a text back an hour later that read (I am not making this up) “Who dis?”. DELETE.

…Festivus pole?

I’m running a few days behind on stuff I’d meant to post and put off, so let’s start The Postingest Day On Earth with a pole defaced by what has to be the Angriest Person Alive:




Clearly all written by the same person, evidently on different days. Contender for Angriest Person Alive? Dangerously unstable? Both? Only the pole knows for sure, and it’s not talking.

One thing is likely: this person is out there riding the bus. Yippee!

Ever make it with a fat guy with a whip and a giant sack?

Here comes a Santa Claus There goes a Santa Claus Right down Denny Way! Many are weaving Some are heaving That one’s missing teeth! Amidst the red-suited whirlwind One flashed my girlfriend That just doesn’t seem right. But as they say It’ll be OK ‘Cause Santa Claus came tonight!

On Saturday, I suited-up to join the red menace in Seattle. Other than shortening the sleeves, I didn’t make any significant alterations to my santa suit–there were a couple of things I would have liked to have done, but I was busy mutilating a reindeer.

Yes. Mutilating a reindeer.


Meet Stanley, the emo-deer. If you press his left front hoof, he sways and moans ‘Blue Christmas’. I hate Stanley. Napoleon had strong feelings about him as well, namely concerning Stanley’s throat and Napoleon’s birthright to put his teeth there. While I’m certain Napodog could have done a fine job ripping him a new asshole, I had more diabolical plans for Stanley.

…*I* ripped him a new asshole.


Stanley’s singing was on a whole new level of annoying; it was a true pleasure to cut him open at the bottom and rip his guts out, and slitting his throat was really the final insult. After he was good and dead, I crammed a flask up his ass filled with an uber-delicious gingerbread martini, for the greater good.


Now, in getting ready for this whole Santarchy thing, I made an important discovery: Santa lives at the North Pole for a reason, and that reason is because his choice of outfit is hotter than frigging hell. I reckon that the North Pole is one of the few places you can get around wearing velvet from head to toe, with big fur boots and being hairier than a Cap Hill bear, besides, without sweating to death. I made this discovery because I waited to put on my beard until I was fully-suited, and as it turns out, elastic bands made for the heads of adult males are slightly too big for my head and need to be bobby-pinned in place with no less than thirty pins, and that is antsy, fussy work when one is already sweating.

When my beard was finally pinned into place, I put on my wig and hat, grabbed my sack stuffed with candy canes, booze-filled chocolate, beads with visions of ‘Show Santa your tits’ dancing through my head, and, of course, the Stanley Flask.

As it turns out, being suited up as Santa walking down the street to the bus stop draws a LOT of attention. In the few minutes I was outside, a good twenty people honked and waved happily. Two teenage girls at the bus stop approached and asked if they could have their picture taken with me.

Santa ON the bus was a different story. Almost as soon as I boarded, a kid asked loudly “MOM, what is SANTA doing on the BUS?” Reply: “That’s a lady Santa, you just don’t worry about it.” I drew a lot of strange looks and sideways glances–what is it about riding the bus in a Santa suit that makes me presumed more likely to be a nutbag than walking down the street in a Santa suit? Is it a proximity issue? As soon as I got off the bus, a different little girl was delighted to see me, waving, with her eyes as big as saucers. Especially during moments like those, I was very careful to just smile and wave and not say anything, because I would never want to mess with a magical experience for a kid and the moment would be ruined the second she heard my ‘tampax-y commerial voice’, and aside from my girlish voice and feminine facial features, I think I made a pretty awesome damn Santa. Given that Santa is a fat man, I bet he has a hot rack, too, so I wasn’t too far out of character there.

So, to recap:

On the bus–Look at that crazy fucker in the santa suit, I hope the he-she doesn’t have a gun. Off the bus–Look, it’s Santa! I AM SO HAPPY RIGHT NOW I NEED TO SQUEAL IN DELIGHT.


From Westlake, I hopped another bus up to Capitol Hill, and that’s where I ran into my first two Santa allies. Once Santas are allied, the pressure to be Perfect Santa is off–one lone Santa could be real Santa, but three Santas together and kids know you’re not The One so you don’t need to worry about ruining them for life.

The first stop on the Santarchy tour was the Eylsian Brewery, which I completely missed while doing the antsypants dance at home and pinning my beard in place. The second stop was at the Comet Tavern, and things were already in full swing, music being blasted through bullhorns and pot smoke heavy in the air.



There I am in the lower right, the super-fuzzy santa and the santa with the shoulder bag in front of me are the two I met on the bus.



I gave this Santa some beads with a jingle bell attached, and Santa gave me a nip of tequila. IT HAD BEGUN. Soon, I was openly drinking from Stanley, jumping invisible double-dutch rope, and spanking elves. All too soon, it was time for the Santalympics; when it was time to move location, people started up the chant “Hey hey! Ho ho! Santa’s gotta go!” and it was fairly effective in rounding everyone up. The next location was Cal Anderson park–while we were walking past the basketball court, the tall Santa next to me ran over, grabbed the basketball, and asked “Who wants to see Santa slam-dunk?” We all agreed that would be spectacular, so he ran and completely missed the lay-up. This was immediately followed by heckling: “Santa needs to work on his vertical!” “I told you! Santa can’t jump!”


When we reached the fountain, we found that it had frozen over, and because none of us are particularly wise, we all climbed into the fountain and started ice-skating. Luckily, the ice did not crack under the weight of 100+ Santas AND I managed not to fall on my ass OR break my face. The Santa with the ‘Free Hugs’ sign moved out in to the middle of the fountain and shouted “FREE HUGS…NOW ON ICE!” and I decided to get in on that–we both ran toward one another, slid into the hug, and spun around.



Then Santa Jesus ran out onto the frozen surface and screamed “I’M WALKING ON WATER, EVERYBODY” and I very nearly wept with laughter.

One of the first Santalympics events was racing down the hill, seated on a block of ice. This is trickier than it sounds, getting the ice block in motion without sliding off yourself.


I got my block of ice going pretty quickly down the hill, and then popped off the front and slid for another couple of yards on my ass. It’s a wonder that my pants didn’t get grass stains.



It takes a certain level of trust to allow another deviant-minded Santa to spray a message on your back–everyone who did this was concerned that instead of a holiday message, they were going to end up with a great big cock on their backside.

While watching people get sprayed, I missed the Tug-of-War, but trotted over and was handed four giant candy canes and was told to organize some sort of Santa race. I decided that the most proper event would be a Santa Wheelbarrow Race, with the Santas acting as wheelbarrows holding the giant candy canes in their mouths.


I made them race pretty far, and rewarded the winners with booze-filled chocolate. The Santa on the left below was the winning wheelbarrow.


After the Santalympics Wheelbarrow Race, it was time for the traditional elf tossing. Here’s Santa setting up caution tape so ‘innocent’ Santa bystanders didn’t get cracked in the face with an elf or a reindeer.


I was one of the first to go, and, already a little shit-housed, I chose the unwise method of spinning around with the elf like I was participating in a shot-put event. As I let go of the elf’s hands, I stumbled and fell, the elf flew into the crowd and cracked someone in the face, and I still got an award for distance.


Granted, it wasn’t an EXTRAORDINARY distance, but I did make an effort. And I hurt someone.

I also broke my belt.


I would think that the belt would’ve lasted for more than one use, but I suppose it wasn’t intended for the sort of activities I was putting it through, either. Once a cheap vinyl belt like this has started ripping, there’s really no way to stem the tide. I kept notching it back, and eventually it would rip again, and again, until it got to the point where I could no longer fit it around my body, and then it was abandoned inside a bar.








During the elf-tossing event, I was handing out beads and more liquor-chocolates. I finished off Stanley, drank cider from some guy’s camelbak, some dude grabbed me and kissed me, and this guy showed me his ‘tits’.


I could’ve watched elf-tossing for a while longer, but hey hey, ho ho, Santa had to go.

…To put a great big bag of Dicks in his mouth.




I didn’t know ANY of these people at the start of the day, by the next bar stop, we were all chums. The guy to my right (photo right, in the beard) asked me to text him this photo, and on Sunday morning, he messaged me to make sure I’d gotten home all right. I suppose camaraderie isn’t all that unusual–it takes a certain sort of person to show up to these kinds of events, and having a baseline ‘Oh, hey, you like to dress up in costumes and dance in public and probably REALLY like attention’ isn’t a bad way to start getting to know people.


I think we can all be in agreement that this is the best Santa of them all.


Oh, and hey, here is a giant cock Santa going down on Santa’s giant cock.

At the Hurricane, I ran into strand, who dyed his hair green for the occasion and it looked FABULOUS. Of course, I didn’t get a picture because I fail on every conceivable level.

After we finished up at the Hurricane, it was time for the march across Denny, where we stopped on the overpass, waved at the vehicles on the freeway below, *cough* made out with stranger Santas, and probably committed at least six felonies.

By the time we got to the REI, it was almost time for me to leave–I bumped into Sam, who introduced me to her fiancé. It was nice to see her, but I had to do a ‘hi! bye!’ because I didn’t want to miss my bus. I found the intersection where I was supposed to catch the bus, but there was no actual stop there. I found the bus itself, stopped on the side of the road. There was no one aboard, not even a driver–I knocked on the door with no answer. I walked down the street a little bit to try to find the actual stop, my mouth full of the taste of Santa and booze, when I realized I really, really, really had to pee. Really badly. Oh, hello, random port-a-potty! Oh, hello, lock on port-a-potty door! FUUUUUDGE. I looked at the bus. I looked at the otherwise empty street. I looked at the brush under the overpass. I did the potty dance. I looked at the bus again. I made my decision, and precisely when I pulled my pants down, the bus started up and drove past me. FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDGE. NOW how was I supposed to get to Bothell for Shannon’s Ugly Sweater and Elf party? I attempted to high-tail it to the transfer location, figuring that missing one bus wouldn’t necessarily mean I’d miss the other if I moved quickly enough, and then I realized that of all the things I am skilled at, moving quickly is not one of them, and no matter how quickly I shuffled, I wasn’t going to make it. I resolved to meet back up with the Santas and figure out another game plan. I don’t think I have Shannon’s phone number, so I sent a text message to Emily letting her know I’d missed the bus and would be unable to make it to Bothell.

Outside the something something bar (here is where things start to get a little fuzzy), I met xaotica for the first time, who is cute as a button. We decided to leave a little early to get the jump on the Santas for the next bar, so we could get a seat inside, and grab a hot dog and a beer. This was a wise decision–the amount of Santas in the group grew exponentially, and no one had bothered to let the bars on the route know they were on the route, so we were greeted by a solitary frazzled bartender. We each got a dog and a beer and as we ate, Santas flooded into the doors like a red tide. It was around this time that I noticed I’d missed a call from Emily, who said she’d come get me; when I called her back, I got Julia on the phone and we completely miscommunicated, because I would’ve been happy to accept a ride, and she thought I was blowing them off to continue partying, so I figured I would stay with the Santas and see if I couldn’t crash at Kim’s place for the night. For some reason, the bartender bought Kimberley and I our second round, and after we finished that (I had to cut myself off at a few sips because I knew I was rapidly approaching the Danger Zone, so I passed the drink along to another thirsty Santa), we went across the street to get some coffee, away from the drunken craziness for a bit.

It was around then that Jim called and offered to come get me; he was almost at Shannon’s, but was willing to drop in there for a minute to say hi and then turn around to come and pick me up. Twenty-odd minutes later, I said goodbye to Kim, hopped in Jim’s car, and rode across the water to Shannon’s place, not alltogether too much later than the bus would have gotten me there anyway. Emily got me some food, I told people a bit about my night, Shannon started the movie, and I promptly fell asleep on her couch. Apparently, (and while I don’t doubt that it’s true, I wish that it wasn’t) I started snoringsnoozing (cuter word) loudly enough that Shannon’s dog, Sophie, thought I was challenging her, and she started growling at me intently while I slept on the couch.

Without a doubt, I am the best party guest ever.

You’d better watch out Get out if you can! A red-suited menace is sweeping the land Cause Santa Clauses are coming to town.

Get out of the way of our fake black boots We’re flooding the city with our cheap red suits Santa Clauses are coming to town!

We know what you’ve been up to, you’ve made the naughty list. So cut us in for our fair share, you don’t want these Santas pissed


SOOOOO get out of the way of our red-suited wave Is this any way For St. Nick to behave? Santa Clauses have come to town!

Pronounced Stoo-pid

Helpful sign is helpful. I’d like to see more pronunciations as part of standard signage.

You know that whomever owns this studio put this sign up after being driven nuts listening to people call it pie-lay-tees all day. This is the product of focused irritation.

Some people get their eyes poked out by birds

I know, I know, I just keep posting about the birds. One day I will stop taking blurry pictures and posting OMG BIRDS posts, but that day is not today.

I’ve never seen so many in flight at once, it was actually really beautiful, and although it’s totally cliched to say it’s like the sky was full of grace, I just said it anyway.