You know how sometimes you get a nickname, and it sticks, but secretly you hate it? For me, it’s Beelzebub. I HATEHATEHATE it when people call me Beelzebub. It sounds like a squishy new cartoon character, or a fat homeless man with a limp, or a brand of biscuit.
I’m afraid that in a few decades when I’m dating Ann Coulter, she’s going to turn it into some kind of pet name, like Beelzebubbles, or Beelzeboopsie. Ugh.
Earlier today I went and got a haircut, and Beck was playing. OoOOooOOooOOooh.
So, Yahtzee. There’s a game of skill and chance, unless you’re me, in which case you always roll three 6’s. Every. Single. Time. It totally ruins the game, because maybe I don’t want three 6’s. I get a Full House right off the bat, and then I’m forced to fill in Chance too early, and long story short I constantly lose to Pol Pot. No disrespect to the Pot, of course – he’s one of the biggest (and sadly, most underappreciated) bad-asses I’ve ever mentored. But every time he wins, he says “The student becomes the teacher!” He’s kidding, of course, but it still makes me feel small.
The other day, Boots spit up a soulball all over my sulphurbed. He was acting all weird coughing, choking, etc. and I figured he hadn't chewed his souls enough. Next thing I know, he hacks up this tangled, bloody, stank-ass ball of limbs, hair and sin. I dare you, DARE you to try and get that smell out of the house. I was so mad I picked up Boots and tore him in half and threw his carcass to the rapists I've been starving for the past few hundred years. But I totes forgot that Boots cannot be killed, so when he regenerated I felt so bad.
Blah of the Day: I’m tired of plagues always being deadly diseases. What if instead it was like, inconvenience on a grand scale – something not exactly “bad,” but weird enough to distract the human race for a while. Maybe the entire continent of Asia could get an itch at the same time. No, no, maybe it could start raining tomato soup – that’s hard to get out of your clothes. But then in the middle of it, I could have like 15 people’s brains spontaneously combust inside their skulls. I bet the news wouldn’t even cover it, with all the tomato rain. This might be one of those ideas where I look at it tomorrow and go, “Tard.”
Hold the phone. I just found out that Beelzebub means “Lord of the Flies,” and that changes everything, because it’s my fave book. Little children murdering each other left and right. Beelzeboopsie it is! Meh, now I’m all impatient waiting for Ann to die.