swag et cetera
I am reading a Holocaust memoir and it smells terrible. I am actually considering taking this stinky copy back to the library and buying it on Kindle instead, although I don’t actually own a Kindle. A crazy part of me feels that it would be undignified to read a Holocaust memoir on the Kindle iPhone app. Suffering writ small, or something.
I cannot decide exactly what the library book smells like—it smells musty, and kind of moldy, and sort of like a pet store or a cat shelter—not strictly an animal-urine smell, but definitely a fur/bad breath/stress hormones/cat food smell, with possible undertones of urine to boot.*The book has been home from the library and in my house for several days but it was in a stack of other books, which I guess were keeping the terrible smell from escaping. Then I started reading it and wow. So far I am soldiering on, because if Gerda can survive death camps I can surely survive a smelly old book (or so goes my demented thought process), but I don’t know how long I can last.
*(Urine To Boot! A small Cape Cod boutique selling…well I don’t know exactly! Previously peed-upon galoshes for a specific kinky population?)
POTENTIAL SMELL
Yesterday, when I went downstairs at my usual crack-of-dawn time, the backyard motion-activated security light was on. But when I looked out the window, expecting to see the shadowy Garage Killer from the last entry, I only saw an enormous skunk, rooting and snurfling around the lawn. It was too dark to get a good picture, especially through the window, and I did not want to open the back door and startle it for obvious reasons, but I got to watch the skunk dig little holes all over my grass. Looking for worms, treasure, something. Best of luck to you, skunk.
MY PRANKS ARE LOFTY
Idea: infiltrate a major men’s underwear maker and change all the pattern specs to make the fly opening a lot smaller. It could even be a gradual thing—with every other manufacturing run, the opening gets a few centimeters smaller, until eventually it is only big enough to get a pencil through. Men all over the world will be struggling, and no one will really want to return an opened package of boxers to Target with the explanation, “I can’t get my dick through the fly. It’s too small.” Oh yes, of course it is sir. Or perhaps your wiener is too large, am I right?
It would take a while for Hanes or Jockey or whoever to amass enough complaints to investigate, figure out what had gone wrong, visit the foreign factories, correct the problem, etc. And the full-page apology in the New York Times would be epic.
Or wait, maybe the product is inspected for fly dimensions right at the factory and the pencil-dick pants would never make it to consumers. That is less fun but would still fuck things up immensely. I do not have any vendettas against underwear companies, but those of you who do are welcome to appropriate this scheme for yourself.
MARRY ME
This is my kind of lady.
IT’S A SERVICE THEY PROVIDE
—mimi smartypants got the bottle, you got the cup.