I owe this post to Janna Sikdar, the talented author of high-pitched ideals and the official denial of the Holy Spirit in the critically acclaimed (by critic I mean yours truly, and by acclaimed I mean it sure gets the juices aflowin') blog: The Indalian Job. She recently had a brush with comical death as a result of the Republicans' poisonous saturation of the media. I felt compelled to provide a few words of solace to this woman, as she is a true writer- one who paints excitement into the most mundane of affairs. My words of comfort began:
"Janna, if Gosh kills your funny, it’s like He is violently hewing into my chest cavity with a rusty, infected tomahawk once used to scalp white babies in the fifteenth century, and slowly plucking out bits of absolutely integral arterial veins from my gushing heart."
OK, maybe that's not the most consoling choice of words... next example.
"When I was 13 I thought all hope was gone upon mentally grasping my fate: I would be a professionally trained paroxysmal sot. After all, I had endured intensive training since birth to uphold the Murphy family name with a baby bottle of Guinness here and a tablespoon of Jameson there. Not kidding. My moment of epiphany came when I witnessed my mother first-hand in all her piss-drunken glory... literally."
Gather 'round, children, for I have a great story to share with you. It was about a week after I thought someone had shot me in the vagina. Blurry-eyed and anxiety-ridden, I shrieked for my mother. In a state of joyous inebriation, she began to sob for her only daughter's crossing of the pubescent threshold. In between convulsive weeps, she slurred, "Now my baby can have babies."
Fast-forward one week and there we were, mother and still-bleeding daughter, arm in arm, enjoying the wondrous moon in the 3 AM sky. Lacking the bladder control to withstand the 200 feet stretch to the front door, my mother stumbled towards a street parking sign in search of balance while she relieved herself unto herself. I watched in complete awe as the stream rushed down her thunderous thighs from under her XXL shorts and into her Payless sneakers. It was then that I accepted that if I were blessed with her heavy ovarian flow, I would surely inherit her love for the bottle.
At first I didn’t think anything was funny or happy or good about the situation. Then a few days later I had a real taste of my future and Gosh, darn it , made everything giggitty giggitty. What has come of me since? I've realized my destiny to the fullest: I enjoy my MaCallan up with a splash of water and older than me, and I pour the best Manhattans in Manhattan. And the only thing to stop me from perpetually living the dream will probably be an alcohol-induced liver disease. Slainte!
So, again, Janna, for the sake of all your avid readers and loved ones, keep the faith. Because where else am I gonna go next time I run out of hard liquor?!
