Littlest Pet Shop
I was driving past the fairgrounds recently and noticed the “Gun Show Today” billing on the marquis. The hundreds of mudded up trucks in the parking lot affirmed that it was, indeed, today and I wondered if any random 30-year-old lady could just go in and purcha
se a gun. Maybe there were other weapons in there if a gun today wasn’t an option. Knives? Throwing stars? Although, killing myself wasn’t going to be easy with throwing stars. A nice knife, though. Yes. I’ll gouge the peepers out so as to never witness this sexy kitten atrocity ever, ever again. Everyone wins!
Strawberry Shortcake’s Berry Bitty Adventures
I was in the middle of a rough family vacation. The kind where a kid is sick and the hotel is way out of your budget, and the town you’re in has no fresh vegetables. None. But wait, what’s that on the horizon?? At home Starbucks is almost unthinkable but on this vacation from hell, where I might have had actual barf splatter on my shirt, Starbucks was the pearly gates and I was due a round morsel of cake on a stick and a freaking coffee! I shut the kids in the car and sat in the parking lot where I could see but not hear them and drank a coffee in silence. In peace. Then, behind a quarter wall I spied a giant black raven hopping around something obscured by the bricks. Cautiously I moved to see. The huge bird had half of a cracked open watermelon and was GOING TO TOWN! The thing was eating it, taking a bath in it, molding it into watermelon snowmen and biting their heads off. It was fantastic. I watched for a good 10 minutes. And like the deer in Stand By Me, I didn’t mention it when I got back in the car. I mentioned it once later to someone else and he called me a racist. I got it, the black bird, the watermelon, he missed the point completely. That story was better than anything having to do with Strawberry Shortcake, maybe. You tell me in a letter to the editor.
My Little Pony, Friendship is Magic
My best friend had a very beastly, very German foreign exchange student who was a phenomenal volleyball player. As I remember, her thigh muscles were each the size of my torso. I would tag along with my friend’s family to take their German to volleyball championships in LA, Seattle, and once in Las Vegas where my American friend and I snuck out of the never ending games, found some guys, drank beer in their hotel room, ate their neighbors desert leftovers from the hall, made a gravity bong in the sink and puked guts all the way home while the German covered her ribbons so we couldn’t soil them with our “regular teenness”. The puke was colored from the hall desert and resembled this picture of these stupid ponies. That girl went to the Olympics. I edit this stupid magazine.