A Compilation of the 15 Greatest Text Messages I've Ever Sent / Received

Yesterday I upgraded my phone to iOS 6. As usual, it taunted me and pretended to get rid of a bunch of my stuff until I was able to get icloud to make it rain or whatever it is that clouds do to make your stuff magically reappear. Also as usual, this sent me into a dead panic thinking I'd lost some important stuff. Like my text history. 

Once upon a time I used to think of texting only as a means to tell someone I was running late or in a meeting with my boss so stop freaking calling me. But somewhere along the way, texts between my friends and me devolved into the same ridiculousness that the rest of my life is. And thus, some little conversational gems were born. They're beautiful and, much like Rose with Jack, I'll never let go of them. So just in case the day comes when I really do lose my text history, I'm memorializing them here. Enjoy. 

• "Yes. Exactly. I ordered them from his home. He's delivering them personally. In an ice cream truck. Called Dre Treats. Ba-duhn-chiii."


• "Get in the TARDIS now, Gladys!"


• "Last night I decided I need one of those beer hats for when I crochet."


• "I may have just littered a giant rotten carrot on the sidewalk. Because, you know, that's normal and something that people do. Host an intervention?"


• "OMG! Let's get 'em. And then go back that place with the sunken cop car and ride around in our floating Obamas."


• "We'll be late. We were sabotaged in the elevator by Maurice Moss."


• "Geez, free beer?! I just turned around and was face to face with an obscene watermelon. Similar." 


• "Someone just threw a friggin' chicken leg at me. Seriously?! Bitch, do I look like a voodoo priestess? No. Keep yo' chicken bones to yourself." 


• "Oh! Baaaaaaadass (said like a goat... I guess)."


• "Sweet! So can I get some high fives for luck? Or Jews for Jesus?"


• "F*ck yes! And then I'll phone some one and ride a bicycle over the moon. Boom."


• "That place has the BEST selection of dead babies."


• "I really don't understand why Jewish males aren't called Judes."


• "Maybe it's not a girl. Sometimes it looks like a potato."


• "I'm at a place where there are 12 different home brews brewing. And the bathroom is clean! And there are three dogs!! What a wonderful world. I hope you're getting raped by a lizard or something."

Your Tax Dollars At Work, Or: Prosecution is Serious Business

Watch out, boys.

Once upon a time I was a prosecutor. Prosecuting had been my dream job since I was a child. I'd always dreamt of pursuing justice and making the bad guys pay. I thought it would feel very Wonder Woman. The reality, however, was not very Justice League. Sure, sometimes I did big deal stuff like put pedophiles on the sex offender registry for the rest of their lives  and imprison crackheads who beat up elderly men with a shovel. Mostly, though, I did not. Mostly, I just spent my days helping no-one, trapped in a haze of craziness that made me question if I had accidentally eaten LSD for breakfast and that made me want to jump out the window... in front of an oncoming bus... during a blitzkrieg. Most days were like these:



It is a quiet Friday morning.  I'm in my office pulling warrant duty, which means that anyone who comes to the office to take out a criminal complaint must go through me.  I'm playing Call of Duty on my iPhone diligently working on important business. Suddenly a very redneck, straight out of a TLC special, woman bursts in all crazy eyed. I am sore afraid. I drop my iPhone business papers and immediately get killed by a nazi zombie mess up my, um, important business. I am displeased before this encounter even properly begins.

Woman: I need to get a warrant.
Me: What's the situation?
Woman: Well, see, I let my neighbor use my warshing machine on account of he don't have one.
Me: That was very neighborly of you.
Woman: *snorts* Yeah. But I'll be damned if he didn't steal my painties (if the inclusion of the "i" didn't make it clear, panties here is said with a long a)
Me: He stole your underwear?
Woman: Yeah. Stole it right out the warsher. See he's one of them transvites (NB: not a typo, she actually said transvites)
Me: So you want a warrant because your undergarments were stolen?
Woman: Oh naw. That ain't it.
Me: Ok, then what is it?
Woman: Well see then this weekend we was down to the trailer park at a party. Well, I saw him. I couldn't help myself. So I yelled, "Ay, you f#@kin painty theivin' transvite, give me my damn painties back." Well he didn't do nuthin' but flip me right off.  And then when I came outta the party all my tires was slashed. I knowed it was that transvite bastard that did it. I want you to arrest him.


_______________

I'm in the courtroom on a Thursday morning. It is child support day. I am prosecuting deadbeat mothers and fathers. I am superbly busy and overwhelmed. My paralegal and I must meet with 114 people in a span of two hours and determine who has simply fallen upon hard times but is doing the best they can and who's just a dickbag who doesn't care if their child eats. Most everyone we encounter smells like a grain-alcohol, marijuana, body-odor cocktail. But then, as the long morning is about to come to an end, my paralegal calls out for the next person. A dapper young gentlemen enters. He does not stink. He is not wearing pajamas. It is an anomaly.

Him: Hey gurrrrls. I'm John Doe of Louisville. How you doin'?
Me: Great. First, do not call us "girls." You may call me by name or you may call me ma'am, but you will not refer to me as "hey gurl." Second, you haven't paid your child support in a very long time.
Him: Yep.
Me: That's unacceptable. Are you working?
Him: I gots my own company. I'm a producer. You may of heard of me. John Doe of Louisville.
Me: Yeah, I got that the first time around. Producer of what? And does your business have any income?
Him: Videos. Different types. *pregnant pause* You know, maybe you oughts to just be in one of my videos.
Me: That's all sorts of inappropriate and it's not going to happen. Now, back to my question. Do you have any income?
Him (gesturing to my paralegal): Well then mayhaps the help wantsta star in my videos.
Me: You will not refer to her as the help. She is a paralegal. She has a name. It is _________. Neither ______ nor I will be performing in your videos. Now answer my question.
Him: Well that's fine then. But you should check 'em out anyway. I just released a new one. Music video. It's good. *hands me a card with his youtube channel's url*
Me: Do you have any income or not? Why aren't you paying your child support?
Him: I mean, some. I don't make a lot producing. But, yeah I gots income.
Me: Then why aren't you making any payments?
Him: I gots bills. Things to pay. I hadsta get me a car.
Me: You thought getting a new vehicle was more important than making sure your sons had food on the table and shoes to wear?
Him: Nah, you ain't understand Miss Rachel. It ain't like that. It's rough. I hadsta ride the TARC to get groceries. You hear me? The TARC bus!
Me: Fine. So now you've got a vehicle and you can drive yourself to Walmart. I expect to see a payment next month or you'll be looking at time.
Him: Well, now I can't do that. My car's got a hole in the floorboard. I gotsta get that fixed! It's dangerous! You don't want me to get hurt, do you, Miss Rachel?

______________



It is a Tuesday afternoon. I'm back on warrant duty. I've just opened a delicious container of blueberry Skyr when my door opens and a well-groomed, conservative-looking, middle-aged couple walks in. After the barrage of crack addicts and baby mama drama I've dealt with all morning, seeing some normal looking people is refreshing. In fact, it's encouraging. Here, I think, is my chance to be Wonder Woman. Here is my chance to pursue justice, peace, truth, and right.  Wrong.

Me: Hi. What can I help you with?
Them: We need to get a warrant.
Me: What's the situation? 

Them: Well, you see, there's this girl we've done volunteer work with. Real nice little gal. But we need to get a warrant on her.
Me: Well, why? What did she do?
Them: You see, she invited us over for dinner. We thought it was nice that this young girl was going to make dinner for us. Only it wasn't really. See, it turns out she's into that S&M.

Me: Um, ok. 

Them: Yeah. She showed us pictures. Right there at the dinner table. Pictures of her. And then she offered to mentor us in all that S&M stuff. So we want a warrant.

Me: Well, I understand you're offended, but that's not really a crime.

Them (in absolute horror): Ma'am! I don't think you understand! We saw a photograph of her spanking a gentleman with a cutting board! That type of thing just can't be unseen.

And that's what being a prosecutor is like, kids. Thanks for inviting me to speak at your career day.

Memories, Pressed Between The Pages of My Mind

I was driving home the other day through awful traffic listening to the ridiculous retro nostalgic playlist that I made for my 26th birthday, when a particular nostalgic gem began to play. I had a memory. And now I'm treating you to it. Enjoy.

The year is 1988. My school is having its first ever Valentine's dance. We are not allowed to wear shoes, for fear that we will soil the ultra-nice 70 year old gymnasium floor. I know this in advance and get my mother to purchase me some brand new neon pink socks, which I wear scrunched down, like so. I am stylin' and profilin' as I enter the gymnasium for a night of fun. Turns out, I guess, that school dances aren't that hip to kindergartners - only 5 kids from my class have shown up for this monumental event. One of them pisses his pants and tries to pass it off as Mountain Dew on a regular basis. One of them is the total stud who sits across the table from me. To give you an indication of his studliness, I will tell you that I am only child, yet I willingly shared my chunky crayons with him. Everyday.  

Anyway, I spend most of the evening standing awkwardly against the back wall of the gymnasium with the object of my affection and the other kids from my class, trying our best to ignore Stinky McPisspants and the trail of Mountain Dew (the Trail of Mountain Dew is akin to the Trail of Tears, but stinkier and with fewer deaths and dislocations). Suddenly, a beautifully romantic song comes on and I decide to seize the moment. Perhaps inspired by Angus Young's sultry crooning about being shaken all night long, I grabbed Mr. Stud and insisted we dance. He accepts. This is probably one of the happiest moments in my young life, as I won't be treated to cake with Mickey Mouse at Disneyworld until later that summer. Mr. Stud and I are really throwin' down. Now, since it is the 80s and no one can dance and we are 5 & 6 and realllly can't dance, this means we are failing about like two midget chimpanzees. Caught up in the throes of my dancing bliss I fail to notice that things are about to turn tragic. I'm doing this flailing back and forth move that looks less like anything close to dancing and more like a holy roller church service. So naturally this means at various points in my Flailing-Pentacostal on Sunday Morning Dance™ I lean in toward Mr. Stud.  On one such occurrence Mr. Stud begins to do the cabbage patch (you know what I'm talking about). The combination of our two dance moves results in him punching me square in the nose. I bleed all over my white and pink glitter paint sweat shirt. Stinky McPisspants laughs at us. Mr. Stud starts crying. Unable to handle this combination of emotional stress, the ruination of my stylish outfit, and my aching nose I run in tears through a crowd of 8th graders to my chaperon-mother. And thus ended my first Valentine's dance. I never again shared my chunky crayons with Mr. Stud.

Unanswered Questions After (Sort of) Watching My First Super Bowl

Testify.

Last night, the Super Bowl was on the television in my house. I watched approximately 33 minutes of it (which is roughly equal to 10 seconds on the game clock) when it didn't interfere with more important business like Cards Against Humanity. I guess it was a rite of passage of sorts, watching this event of huge cultural signifigance for the first time. I thought maybe after watching it I'd understand some things, like why it's such a big hullabaloo. But as it turns out there's no sense to be made of the Super Bowl. No logic to be found anywhere. Watching it only makes things worse. There's a reason why people are typically intoxicated when they watch this thing, I guess. And that reason is probably to avoid getting bogged down in a slurry of unanswered questions, like these:


Why is it called a "flag on the play"?

Seriously. I know my geography. And that ain't no flag. That doesn't even pass as a flag from one of those tiny insignificant countries. More like a rag on the play. Throw down a hankie, Hairball's bitten someone and run off onto the field doing Gangnam Style!

What's with this bus full of showgirls being chased by dudes on camels?

And why do I get to decide their fate? And if I get to decide their fate, why is there no option for one of the camel guys to offer them an ether rag to wipe the desert dust off their faces? I mean, if we're gonna have dudes on camels chasing showgirls, let's do it up right. 

Do those coaches have the same name? And is that name Hairball?

It sounds like hairball. I tried repeatedly to make it sound like something legit, but it just sounds like hairball. Is that a nickname? And if so, who on earth would allow someone to call him hairball? And if not, who the hell names their kid hairball?  Come meet my little bundle of joy. His name is hairball. We just love him so much it chokes us. 

Does Dodge think they give out Oscars for Super Bowl Commercials? 

Was this some Dodge Exec's kid's film school project? It kept sapping on for so long that I actually tried to figure out how to key in "tl;dr" into my television remote.

Why does Ray Lewis wear blackface? 

No really. It's kind of mind blowing.  Think about it.  1. I'm pretty sure blackface stopped being acceptable sometime early on in the Civil Rights Movement some fiftyodd years ago. And 2. He's already black. I would think maybe he's trying to make some sort of political statement, but I've heard the man speak. He's had far too many head injuries to be that clever. 

Why is there a koi singing "No Diggity" to a beer?

Is that a thing now? Fish seducing beers with R&B songs from 17 years ago? I feel so inspired. Can I teach my dog to mac up on a bottle of vodka by singing "Purple Rain"? 

Why even have a time clock in this game at all?

As best I can tell, they get to stop it every 3 seconds to have a nap, or ponder their existance, or slap each other on the ass. And apparently the rule is they get to completely ignore when the time runs out at the end and play 'til they're done. So why do we even have a time clock? Seriously, boys, just do what you want. Kick the ball for a while. Take a nap. Eat a sandwich. Run a little bit. Call it quits whenever you feel like it. No one cares. 

Is Benedict Cumberbatch supposed to be Khan? 

Well, is he?

Is the halftime show audience made up of regular Super Bowl goers or do those people have seperate tickets and spend the entire game cuddled around the halftime show stage?

Seems like you'd just let the regular crowd partake in the halftime enjoyment, since I'm pretty sure they all had to mortgage their homes and sell their children and kidneys to get a ticket to be there, but that area is pretty full and it doesn't seem like there was time for an exodus down to the halftime stage. So do you have to buy a seperate ticket for that? How many organs does that cost?

Why did we need to stop the game for the power / lights outage?

It's not like they're out there reading a book or threading a needle. How much light do you really need to run headfirst into someone? 

Does anyone actually kiss that loudly?

Please let me know if so, so I can be sure to never get anywhere near them. Vom.

Do the 49ers always look like Iron Man or is that because they premeired the Iron Man trailer?

I prefer to think it's the latter. Actually, I think they should have ditched their cheerleaders entirely this year and just had RDJ as their mascot. Boom, Beyonce, top that. You can't.

Does the fact that people are calling the Oreo commercial "The Whisper Commercial" make anyone else think of that Ying Yang Twins song? 

No, just me? Okay then.  

What in the hell is a safety?

I'll admit it. I got all excited at that point near the end of the game when someone exclaimed one or the other of the teams was going to "use the safety" thinking maybe the players would bound onto the field and perform the Safety Dance. But no. Apparently someone just gets two extra points for no discernible reason. Rubbish.