Don't get all excited... This post goes nowhere and takes quite a while doing it.
"Where," you may be asking yourself if you are a really really lonely person with nothing to do but sit in the dark staring at this blog on your monitor and pressing the "refresh" button over and over again in the hopes that I may have posted while you were picking your nose, "Where could Wombat possibly be all this time?"
Truth is, I was writing that opening sentence. I mean, look at that thing. To call that a "run-on" sentence just doesn't do it justice. That sentence ran on and is still running. It was last Tuesday when I first sat down here at Wombat World HQ and typed the word "Where." By Friday I had gotten to the part about the refresh button. I hit a snag at the "picking your nose" bit, and that laid me up for a couple of days, trying out various other body parts you could have been picking. I had settled on "that gap between your first and second toe" for two whole days before scrapping the idea.
Anyway, here we are nearly two weeks later, and you can see for yourself the fruits of my extraordinarily laborious... um.. labor. That one, big-ass sentence.
Okay, that's a lie. I didn't spend the last two weeks working on that one sentence. And no, I wasn't curing cancer or completing the complex ritual required to bring Julia Child back from the dead. I just didn't have anything to say.
The more astute readers of this blog may now be thinking "But, you never have anything to say... We don't come here for your biting insight, we come here for poop jokes."
Well, blog-buddies, I have no poop jokes for you tonight. In fact, I have no idea what I sprung blog-ward this evening to say. I just know that Miss Kendra demanded a post, and what Kendra wants, my friends, Kendra gets. This girl took on a car crash to save some kittens. No way am I getting her mad at me.
So, back to the two-week absence, All I can say is that I hit a dry patch. It happens to the best of us. Well, not Karla, who apparently posted 17 entries while I was away. Remember the cop in Terminator 2? The one who was a robot from the future made of liquid metal who could not be stopped? No matter what you did, or how fast you ran, he was always 10 feet behind you, running full-tilt and never slowing, never once looking away from his desire to rip the intestines from your still-warm body? Well, Karla is just like that. Only instead of ripping out your intestines, she flings some funny at you.
Then she rips out your intestines.
Anyway, I'm not Karla, and I just ran out of funny for a little while there. Not in my personal life. I was still plenty funny to the people I dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Believe you me, had you been here, in Wombat World HQ, instead of there, in the pile of empty Fritos bags you call your life, you would have been well entertained. The mouth part of me remained as funny, if not funnier, than it was two weeks ago. It's just the fingers part of me that sort of ran out of juice. It's not like I didn't try. I flung them at the keyboard a couple of times, but to no avail. There was not a drop of funny in them. Well, one time they produced a funny diphthong, but that was it. Otherwise, speaking in terms of keyboard-related shenanigans, it's been a quiet few weeks here on my end, at least until Kendra started with the threats.
And now, at last, I have been shaken awake from my long period of unfunny silence. And as you can see, the result is... um... unfunny wordiness.
Oh well. Be careful what you wish for, Kendra.
I will say two things, before I quit for the evening:
1) Thanks to everyone who pledged money to sponsor me in the upcoming Polar Plunge. I have just about hit my goal, all thanks to you excellent and awesome people. I thank you, the Special Olympics thanks you, and Stacy Keach thanks you. (That's a lie. I do not speak for Stacy Keach. Well... not anymore... But that's a story for another time...) It's one week to the plunge, and anyone that still wants to sponsor me can go here and enter my name, John Baker. There will be a big-old recap of the whole event next week, complete with embarrassing pictures of yours truly in a shameless and honestly unnecessary display of near-nudity. Be sure to tune in.
2) Apropos of nothing, I have to confess here in front of God, the blogging public, and okay not God because I believe he may not exist (or may... or may not... whatever...) That I, Wombat, have some form of Saran Wrap dyslexia.
Yes, you read that right. I have seen you people time and time again with your plastic wrap, pulling a long glossy sheet from out of the box. And I have seen you, with one swift movement, tear that sheet cleanly and neatly from the roll, with no ragged edges or clinging back upon itself. And all the while, you are smiling, as if you're having the time of your life, wrapping this, covering that... I have studied you as you have done this, and I have tried, oh how I've tried, to emulate you.
But no. I seem to be the only person in America, nay, the world, for whom Saran Wrap isn't the high-point in helpful domestic invention, but rather a long thin box of evil mocking laughter, spilling forth in the form of clump after clump of useless, balled up clingy plastic.
I just wanted to get that off my chest. Hey, remember when I wasn't posting? Come on, admit it, it was better that way.
Truth is, I was writing that opening sentence. I mean, look at that thing. To call that a "run-on" sentence just doesn't do it justice. That sentence ran on and is still running. It was last Tuesday when I first sat down here at Wombat World HQ and typed the word "Where." By Friday I had gotten to the part about the refresh button. I hit a snag at the "picking your nose" bit, and that laid me up for a couple of days, trying out various other body parts you could have been picking. I had settled on "that gap between your first and second toe" for two whole days before scrapping the idea.
Anyway, here we are nearly two weeks later, and you can see for yourself the fruits of my extraordinarily laborious... um.. labor. That one, big-ass sentence.
Okay, that's a lie. I didn't spend the last two weeks working on that one sentence. And no, I wasn't curing cancer or completing the complex ritual required to bring Julia Child back from the dead. I just didn't have anything to say.
The more astute readers of this blog may now be thinking "But, you never have anything to say... We don't come here for your biting insight, we come here for poop jokes."
Well, blog-buddies, I have no poop jokes for you tonight. In fact, I have no idea what I sprung blog-ward this evening to say. I just know that Miss Kendra demanded a post, and what Kendra wants, my friends, Kendra gets. This girl took on a car crash to save some kittens. No way am I getting her mad at me.
So, back to the two-week absence, All I can say is that I hit a dry patch. It happens to the best of us. Well, not Karla, who apparently posted 17 entries while I was away. Remember the cop in Terminator 2? The one who was a robot from the future made of liquid metal who could not be stopped? No matter what you did, or how fast you ran, he was always 10 feet behind you, running full-tilt and never slowing, never once looking away from his desire to rip the intestines from your still-warm body? Well, Karla is just like that. Only instead of ripping out your intestines, she flings some funny at you.
Then she rips out your intestines.
Anyway, I'm not Karla, and I just ran out of funny for a little while there. Not in my personal life. I was still plenty funny to the people I dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Believe you me, had you been here, in Wombat World HQ, instead of there, in the pile of empty Fritos bags you call your life, you would have been well entertained. The mouth part of me remained as funny, if not funnier, than it was two weeks ago. It's just the fingers part of me that sort of ran out of juice. It's not like I didn't try. I flung them at the keyboard a couple of times, but to no avail. There was not a drop of funny in them. Well, one time they produced a funny diphthong, but that was it. Otherwise, speaking in terms of keyboard-related shenanigans, it's been a quiet few weeks here on my end, at least until Kendra started with the threats.
And now, at last, I have been shaken awake from my long period of unfunny silence. And as you can see, the result is... um... unfunny wordiness.
Oh well. Be careful what you wish for, Kendra.
I will say two things, before I quit for the evening:
1) Thanks to everyone who pledged money to sponsor me in the upcoming Polar Plunge. I have just about hit my goal, all thanks to you excellent and awesome people. I thank you, the Special Olympics thanks you, and Stacy Keach thanks you. (That's a lie. I do not speak for Stacy Keach. Well... not anymore... But that's a story for another time...) It's one week to the plunge, and anyone that still wants to sponsor me can go here and enter my name, John Baker. There will be a big-old recap of the whole event next week, complete with embarrassing pictures of yours truly in a shameless and honestly unnecessary display of near-nudity. Be sure to tune in.
2) Apropos of nothing, I have to confess here in front of God, the blogging public, and okay not God because I believe he may not exist (or may... or may not... whatever...) That I, Wombat, have some form of Saran Wrap dyslexia.
Yes, you read that right. I have seen you people time and time again with your plastic wrap, pulling a long glossy sheet from out of the box. And I have seen you, with one swift movement, tear that sheet cleanly and neatly from the roll, with no ragged edges or clinging back upon itself. And all the while, you are smiling, as if you're having the time of your life, wrapping this, covering that... I have studied you as you have done this, and I have tried, oh how I've tried, to emulate you.
But no. I seem to be the only person in America, nay, the world, for whom Saran Wrap isn't the high-point in helpful domestic invention, but rather a long thin box of evil mocking laughter, spilling forth in the form of clump after clump of useless, balled up clingy plastic.
I just wanted to get that off my chest. Hey, remember when I wasn't posting? Come on, admit it, it was better that way.
posted by CommonWombat at 12:04 AM
15 Comments:
First off, I'm trying to imagine what you're using Saran Wrap for, and nothing legal comes to mind. I don't see you baking cookies or making flavored coffee and biscotti gift baskets for your aunties, so all I can surmise is that you're trying to preserve the severed heads of the neighborhood boys you've slaughtered and dismembered. I'm glad you occasionally hit at least one small stumbling block as you skip down Depravity Road. I can see you now, blood-soaked and wild-eyed, angrily spinning in circles as you get further tangled in a web of Saran Wrap. No wonder you don't have time to blog.
Second, don't get your readers' hopes up for photos of this 'Plunge To Your Icy Death' event. I'm sure Sally's going to have enough on her hands with the funeral planning (and then quickly getting back into the dating game) to have time to post photos of your dead body floating on the river. Readers, enjoy him while he's here, for the poop joke parade is about to end.
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
I've always hated Saran Wrap, too. Had I known about its worthless earlier, I would have been responsible for far fewer illegitimate children. Give me tin foil every time.
nwas that it?
instead of blogging about poop you give us this word poop? dy-ah-reeeeeeee-ahhhhh?
ok.
I was totally picking my nose when I read the part about nose picking -- finally, someone to replace Miss Cleo.
I'm with you on the whole Saran Wrap dyslexia thing. I was wrapping leftovers at a friend's house the other night, and she had the kind with the little plastic sliding cutter. What sadistic freak thought that one up? Thank God for Ziploc bags!
Ok Jane, now you've gone too far. The plastic sliding cutter thing is the greatest invention ever made, and they've quit making it now because some snotnose kid apparently cut himself on it. So I have to keep the one I've had forever, and continually replace the Saran Wrap inside with regular rolls of Saran Wrap, because the do-gooders of the world have outlawed the genius Saran Wrap cutter thingy. Without it, I would be completely covered in Saran Wrap as we speak. There is NO WAY to cut Saran Wrap without the slide cutter!
Good Christ, I gotta quit reading blogs while I'm loaded. All I've had is one martini and one glass of red wine and I've already corrected 1,467 typos in this one stupid, unfunny comment.
From now on, it's pills only.
Karla is doing better than I am. I'm sober and I posted my comment twice and screwed it up twice. At least your donations aren't in vain, I'm going to get them to buy me a new crash helmet.
They STOPPED making the little slide cutter thing??? Before I even got the chance to try it???
I saw that little cutter device in the store, but never had a chance to get one, due to the fact that we go through Saran Wrap incredibly slooooowwwwwly. Because I avoid Saran Wrap like the plague. (The REAL plague where your skin sloughs off, not the lame-ass plague where you just go blind...) I'll wrap with tin foil before I use Saran Wrap. I'll use wax paper and rubber bands. I'll use wet napkins and chewing gum. I'll bury my leftovers in the ground before I use Saran Wrap... Where was I going with this?
Oh yeah. R.I.P, little plastic cutty-thing.
Not to sound like Martha Stewart or anything, but try Cling-Wrap. It's geared to us retarded people who can't handle the Saran.
Two words, Wombat:
Tin. Foil.
Saran Wrap Sucks.
-Amy
That was five words. But thank you, Amy. I too love our foily friend.
Three words for you:
Hamhocks and beans.
RE: The Title:
A) Misleading as this post went all over the place and all those places were hysterically funny.
And, more importantly...
B)Is there some new requirement to WARN people when your post really IS going nowhere? 'Cuz a lot of us non-hysterical bloggers need to know what the penalties are for non-compliance.
We need to start a Saran-handicapped support group. I can get it cut off in a straight line, but then it sticks to itself. What is that about!!?
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