Let's go to the movies!

Bernard, or as I call him, Bew-NAHD, feels sorry for me. Maybe because he and my Mom are alcoholics and it was his idea to make perfect Manhattans to keep them nice and loose during their Christmas movie marathon? He keeps bringing me food and stuff, like a harissa turkey sandwich from Greeno's Deli (it was fucking great - I will just give a quiet "Thanks" without making eye contact and without encouraging further discourse, as I find this is the best way to continue getting gifts).

By the way, here is the actual Christmas movie marathon list (I swear to Moroni) with commentary:

Christmas Shoes

Retarded movie starring Rob Lowe about a retarded boy who thinks his retarded mother who is dying of cancer needs new Christmas shoes in case she dies and meets Jesus. Oh my fucking God, do you believe this shit!!! Then some retarded good Samaritan buys the fucking shoes for the kid. Here's the twist though - the Mom dies in the end, not because of the cancer, but because she trips over the shoes and has a heart attack (this last part is just a guess)!

Other dumb-ass movies

I cannot do this anymore. Let's just say my Mother has already died inside.

More proof...

...that Jesus hates me. On November 19th, I slipped on a Maraschino cherry in the kitchen and shattered my ankle. I have been horribly depressed. I haven't felt like sharing lately. Sorry to all of my faithful acolytes.

One free guess where the offending accoutrement came from. "Oops," right Mom?

Brother, you are history

If my house is the Franco-Prussian War (or the War of 1870), then I am the French ambassador and Oliver is the Prussian king and pizza toppings are the Hohenzollern candidate for the Spanish throne and my favorite pint glass is Alsace-Lorraine and I want my fucking glass back !!!! And stop putting pepperoni on everything!!!! And stop stealing, I mean "borrowing", my history books about the Franco-Prussian War, or as the French call it, the War of 18 fucking 70!!!!

I don't know who Napolean III is - the pizza boy? Send your answer today!

Oh yeah, and Mother is Germany (she eggs us on, especially after a full day of drinking White Prussians).

Star light, star bright...

Mum and "Bernard" took me out to a "2 star" restaurant to "cheer me up" last night. The waiter was a smug jerk-off who had this look on his face that said, "I'm just doing this to get through graduate school and you don't even register enough on my radar screen to warrant contempt." He did say, "Very good" whenever any of us asked for anything, including a new water glass that had the remnants of somebody's ultra-red lip gloss. Then when I ordered a cappuccino to go with dessert and awkward conversation, "Shawn" (yes, Shawn with a 'w' and with an 'sh' and with 'a' and 'n') said, "Is this a special occasion?" For those of you unacquainted with fine dining, this is the question smug waiters ask to feel superior because the subtext of this question is crystal clear: "You clearly don't belong here so you must be celebrating your correspondence course certificate." "Yes", I answered. "I have a metal hand now. Hooray!" He made a face and the service was much less chatty thereafter. What a dick head.

Siobhan, Siobhan

I met Siobhan for coffee today. She didn't see me though.

Give me back my pint glass, dickhead!

Oliver wore diapers at night until he was 8.

Oliver's secrets!

My brother, Oliver, has been out of my blog (as some of my astute readers have noticed) because he's been a bit of an ass lately. Well, silence hasn't smoked him out (he "borrowed" my hairbrush this morning) so I've decided that every time he fucks me over, I will reveal one of his secrets that I know he doesn't want anyone to know. Here's the hairbrush secret:

Oliver was born in an elevator.