Bill Paxton Is My Pimp

I wrote the following message to Bill Paxton.

 

Dear Mr. Paxton,

 

You are trustworthy, reliable, serious and devilishly handsome. These are all qualities that make an excellent husband. Please marry me. I want to cook for you. I think you look hungry. Actually, if I’m being honest, all of Hollywood looks like that, however I only want to feed you.

 

Not feed as in lie in bed and put pieces of cupcake in each other’s mouths, more like feed as in make you soup. Because that’s true love- banana bread and lentils.

 

Let me know your answer, I’m ready to move in and start having your attractive babies whenever you give the word.

 

Much love,

 

The Great Unwashed

English: Bill Paxton at the Dallas Internation...

When I see this face I want to stuff it with egg salad sandwiches. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

In a marriage it’s always important to be honest. Hence why last night I decided to tell Roscoe about my card to Bill Paxton. Although I would concede that in the grand scheme of things it’s unlikely that Bill Paxton would ever A) receive my letter and B) consider it even if my lentil recipe is the talk of the town. It’s kind of like a matrimonial version of the lottery- you buy a ticket but don’t expect to win. Even still I like Roscoe to be aware of everything that goes on in my life.

 

The Great Unwashed while taking out her earrings and getting ready for bed – “So I wrote to Bill Paxton today saying I wanted to be his wife and cook for him.”

 

Roscoe shocked and bordering on enraged- “You DID WHAT?”

 

The Great Unwashed taken aback by the magnitude of Roscoe’s anger, turns around to face him- “I said I asked Bill Paxton to marry me and wrote that I want to cook for him.”

 

Roscoe relaxes, visibly relieved –“I heard “h” not “c”, I was worried there.”

 

 

 

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Abuse Of Innocent Young People In The Name Of Blogging Glory

So blogging regularly about things that I thought were important like homeless arsonists and my Grandpa’s underpants weren’t really working for me in terms of getting followers and people to read my blog. I decided to take matter into my own hands.

While returning home the other night on a bus packed full of students I sat down next to a girl with her iPhone out.

“Hey have you heard of Unwashed_Tweets?” I asked her upon seeing that she had Twitter pulled up on her handheld computer. “No” she answered in the way that everyone outside of those related to me do.

“Well it’s awesome and super funny. You should really follow it.”

She dutifully pulled my twitter feed up on her screen, then scrolled through my tweets unimpressed.

“I’m much funnier in long form.” I said by way of explanation.

This unfortunate soul was stuck on the inside seat and for ten minutes I told her how wonderful and humourous The Great Unwashed was. However in return I had to listen to ten minutes of how awesome Pintrest is.  Apparently on Pintrest you can learn how to make daffodil cakes and it lists eighteen different ways to use a tea cosy.

After all of that and repeating at length just how soul crushingly cool my website is the student still didn’t follow me. Where are all of the impressionable youth that everyone talks about?

NaBloWriMo Ready

Way back yonder in November 2012 before I began The Great Unwashed, I heard rumblings of a writing contest. My Facebook feed was filled with comments about writer’s angst and being behind or creating something one was proud of. And it got me thinking that perhaps I should start putting my writing out into the world.

So I did.

And it was good.

I quite enjoy it.

I especially enjoy all of you, my Unwashed public.

Hence to challenge myself I shall engage in my own NaNoWriMo which is short for National Novel Writing Month. Essentially for the month of November participants must write 50,000 words or 1,667 words per day.

That’s a lot of words. It’s the kind of task that could kill a frat boy. Or at the very least severely cut into their drinking time.

Regrettably I am not able to fully participate in NaNoWriMo because I do not write fiction. I have written fiction and certainly my family members would like to argue that some of my stories contain such hyperbole that the words might as well be fiction but when push comes to dewey decimal classifying shove, I’m a non-fiction humourist.

Please note that all stories about my mother are 100% TRUE. I wouldn’t ever exaggerate her strength. It’s just too dangerous to do something like that to a woman who I caught bicep curling mini coopers last weekend.

I digress.

So I shall be participating in an extreme writing contest of my invention- NaBloWriMo or National Blog Writing Month because the products of my work shall go up on my site to be perused by you, my lovely Unwashed readers rather than being transformed into a fiction draft. Obviously I shall not be posting everyday and I may in fact hold back many of the works that I create because I hold my posts to a certain standard. So collectively we may very well be celebrating NaBloWriMo together for quite awhile. Think of it like an Unwashed Thanksgiving only instead of having to eat turkey every day for two weeks afterwards you’ll just be reading posts that I created in November for months.

Wish me luck!

Ingredients For Seasonal Cheer: Jesus and Zebras in Party Hats

Last week I was confused for an eight year old. This happens on occasion. And by on occasion I mean a lot. Almost daily people ask me what I want to do after high school. My go to move of replying in a squeaky, high pitched voice “I’m a grown up DAMMIT!” is less effective than one might think.

So I’ve decided to do the most grown up thing I can think of. And to answer your question – no I’m not having a baby. Teenagers do that all the time consequently the act has lost it’s grown up status. No I’m going to do the other thing- next year I’m buying a house.

Nothing makes you sound more grown up (and boring!) than talking about interest rates. Adults are very, very interested in interest rates. They talk about them all the time while doing mature things like commuting. Ergo I’m going to start peppering my conversations with words like “prime” and “five year fixed term” so instead of being confused for a precocious teeny bopper, people shall recognize me for what I am; a small, irresponsible adult who has no idea what she is talking about

Buying a house means that one has to save and cut costs wherever possible. Last weekend was Canadian Thanksgiving which means that along with budgeting, I need to start writing Christmas cards. To save money, instead of buying and sending out traditional Christmas cards, I’ve decided to use my preexisting supply of stationary.

I feel this would work better if I hadn’t spent the past two years collecting the strangest card sets I could find in the Michael’s 90% off clearance bin.

Last year I inadvertently confused the conservative parents of a friend by sending them a Christmas card about midget slave labour. So I’m not sure how they’re going to react to the zebra birthday invitations I’m sending out in December this year.

img004

To : People who see me once a year and possibly think I should be institutionalized.

Date: December 25th 2013

Time : The whole day!

Location : Your choice.

Hosted by : Jesus! It’s his birthday and he wants you to bring gifts for everyone except him. He’s a seriously generous guy.

Merry Christmas and or Happy Birthday

Much love,

The Great Unwashed

 

I’m thinking that I may send these kinds of cards out every year for Christmas; I like that they practically write themselves. It would cut down on the amount of time I spend debating if writing about juggling dogs is appropriate to use with a seasonal greeting.

Please Type Your Password

My TV habits sometimes come up in conversation because for the most part I don’t watch any.

There are many reasons for this embargo on popular media. The primary being that the Netflix does not work for me. The internet and I have a standing agreement that I won’t complain when it is slow and in return the internet will work 98% of the time.

Unfortunately the Netflix and I have no such agreement. So here is how an Unwashed attempt at television watching goes.

The Great Unwashed sits down on the couch with the intent of consuming popular culture through the television.

The television turns on.

The Great Unwashed says “Hurray!” This doesn’t always happen, things like the vacuum cleaner bumping the television cord and unplugging it without The Great Unwashed noticing often impedes this step.

The Playstation turns on resulting in another “Hurray” from the Great Unwashed.

Next The Great Unwashed follows the series of steps outlined by Roscoe when he taught her how to use the Netflix.

The Netflix does not work.

It asks for things that The Great Unwashed doesn’t know like passwords or to update hard drives or whatever the Netflix runs on. Following a traumatizing kitchen renovation at her parent’s house The Great Unwashed refrains from updating anything, especially technology. As evidenced by her phone.

You wish your phone was this sexy and advanced. It even has T9 texting.

You wish your phone was this sexy and advanced. It even has T9 texting. (Photo Credit : dexigner.com)

The Great Unwashed turns the television and Playstation off and begins the Netflix process outlined by Roscoe again, only to be faced with the same screen. In an act of self preservation The Great Unwashed unplugs all of the electronics in the room just in case the lamp was colluding with the Playstation to prevent her from watching Extreme Couponing and heads outside for a walk because her shoelaces never tell her “Error Please Restart”.

To Avoid Decapitation By Prehistoric Lizards Keep Appropriate Urine Cups Next To The Bed At All Times

A seven hundred pound alligator trapped me in my bedroom last night. Through the door I could hear intermittent huffs and loud slithers whenever it moved lazily across my living room floor.

I suffer from night terrors. One in ten children have them. One in a hundred adults get them. Essentially it’s a bad dream that makes you scream yourself awake. Unfortunately you scream everyone else in the house awake too. My mother had night terrors a lot when I was growing up so I figured all adults had them and that my Dad was just absurdly well adjusted or a really quiet screamer.

Last night I dreamed that instead of people having dogs as house pets they had alligators. So after being bitten on the leg and on the torso, finally an alligator went for my head. Predictably I shrieked bloody murder until my shrill soprano voice was so loud that I woke myself up.

Normally when this happens Roscoe will roll over, rub my back and say “I promise there isn’t a herd of goats in the bedroom trampling you.” or “Coelacanths are extinct, and have no teeth. Go back to sleep.” Which is not true- coelacanths turn up everywhere in fact there’s probably one knocking on your door as I type this. However Roscoe is completing a surgery elective in Windsor this week and so I was all alone in the bed.

This is where the voice of reason comes in. Your voice of reason is a rather important one, it keeps you from making bad decisions. For example;

Voice of Crazy – “We should snort meth! Or inject it! Or eat it. Actually I have no idea how one goes about ingesting meth but we should still totally do it.”

Voice of Reason– “What are you talking about that is a TERRIBLE idea. No!”

See how quickly the nutty concepts were shut down? That’s what the Voice of Reason is for.

Tragically I have no Voice of Reason. It took a vacation with my common sense a couple of years back and has been AWOL ever since. I have only the Voice of Crazy and the Voice of Slightly Less Crazy.

So this is how last night went.

(Photo Credit : Candy*)

CAPTION Clearly this whole incident is my fault, who leaves their under garments strewn all over the couch for blood thirsty predators to find?(Photo Credit : Candy*)

Voice of Crazy – “We narrowly escaped being decapitated by an alligator. But I can hear it outside the door. It’s sitting in the living room next to the clothes horse.”

Voice of Slightly Less Crazy– “Is it?”

Voice of Crazy– “Yes and now we’re going to have to pee into a cup because there’s no way we can leave the bedroom without being eaten alive.”

Voice of Slightly Less Crazy – “I’m not sure if urinating into a container is a good idea, besides there are no cups in here.”

Voice of Crazy– “That means only one thing. We’ll have to use Roscoe’s hat.”

Thankfully I have a bladder of steel so I was able to wait three hours until it was light out because light makes alligators evaporate. Although I did spend a good hour frozen in terror convinced that if I set one foot on the floor there would be a smaller alligator under my bed that would bite my foot off.

To lift with your knees when carrying a 700 lb predator? (Photo Credit : theblaze.com and Dustin Bockman Facebook)

Or maybe I’m supposed to remember to lift with my legs when carrying a 700 lb predator? (Photo Credit : theblaze.com and Dustin Bockman Facebook)

Here is a picture of the gator that inspired this whole event. I clipped it’s photo from the Globe and Mail a couple of weeks back to remind myself that…

Actually I have no idea what I wanted to remind myself of. To dream big? That there’s always a giant prehistoric monster lurking in rivers? To carry a harpoon gun everywhere?

The moral of the story is don’t pee into your spouse’s headwear. Or maybe it’s to not clip pictures from newspapers and use them as bookmarks.

I have no idea.

*Though my brain was able to create this image my dear cousin Candy** was responsible for photoshopping the picture of the alligator into my living room. She did this at a moment’s notice because she lives up to the stereotype of having a stripper name and a heart of gold.

** Names of photo shopping geniuses have been changed in the interest of protecting my sweet sweet and free connection to tech-y people who want to put their work on this blog.

Merry New Car,You Slept With a Celebrity and Then Got a Frozen Treat Day

I would make terrible greeting cards. First off they’d be way too specific. I mean just look at that title. How many times a year do you have a friend buy a vehicle and then knock boots with stardom? Two, three times max. And often one only phones on such occasions.

Secondly I have very bizarre taste and not a lot of tact. The “Grieving and Other Life Events That Are Not Fun” section in my greeting card store would really struggle because I’d put a giant ostrich on the front of the card with a speech bubble saying “Wanna come live with me?”

The Ostrich Struthio camelus is now farmed, pr...

This ostrich looks friendly and like it enjoys giving piggy back rides. Oh wait that’s how we lost your Great Aunt Sue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Then the inside would read “Grandma took up the ostrich’s offer. She’s gone to a big emu farm in the sky. Sorry.”

Even though I buy my Christmas cards somehow they never end up being the standard holiday greetings most people send out. Here is a message I sent to a dear friend of mine who duels with poltergeists in his spare time.

Dear Gordy*,

Merry Christmas. I discovered a stack of Christmas cards that I either failed to write or failed to send.

I am a very responsible adult. I should probably be made president. I thought the front of this card said “nice” as in the Fonz style “nice”. But then I saw a stack of cards next to it that said “naughty” in bold letters and I was bummed.

So we’ll pretend you got a new car and I’m congratulating you- nice.

Congrats on hitting that?

Congrats on hitting that? (Photo credit : billboard.com)

Or slept with Miley Cyrus- nice. Wait. I don’t know about that one.

Come to think of it getting a new car is kind of expensive. Let’s go with something simpler. We’re going to make believe you got a cookies and cream ice cream cone and I’m writing a card rather than texting or saying “Good call. Cookies and cream, always a winner.” like a normal person.

Nice.

So back to the initial purpose of the card. Merry Christmas. Or Happy Belated Arbor Day. Either way enjoy the pretend ice cream.

The Great Unwashed

Having finished all of the half written cards I’m now terrified to open up the prewritten, sealed and addressed envelopes. The majority of the time upon rereading words that I’ve penned to loved ones and friends I question who the weird person was who wrote said piece of mail. Tragically it’s always me. We’ll see if I get up the courage to open the envelopes in which cases they’ll appear next week for a Travesty Tuesday post or whether I’ll just send them out and figure out whether the contents were wildly inappropriate based on whether or not the recipients speak to me again.

*Names have been changed to protect the identities of friends who receive nine months late Christmas cards from me that aren’t really Christmas cards.

You Caught Me; I Also Have A Peg Leg

My postcard writing campaign was an unparalleled success. Only because it didn’t start. And by didn’t start I mean NO ONE sent me their addresses. I’ve chosen to classify the endeavor as an unparalleled success rather than a crashing failure. Apparently my writing sounds like that of a 250 lb ex convict with a hook for a hand. I will admit it has saved me the trouble of buying a can opener.

 

Cousin-scary-Scan063

The image that my writing calls to mind. (Photo credit: Ravages)

 

I digress. So I sent the last post out to my family and friends requesting that they forward it and share it. Everyone agreed whole heartedly to do so prior to reading the post. Invariably I received a message or an email a day later with the words “I thought it was a joke.”

 

Ladies and gentleman, nothing with a stamp on it is a joke. Unless of course you’re talking about the content of my correspondence, in which case I am joking about running for president of the universe. But only because that position doesn’t exist.

 

Hence for whatever reason, not a single soul sent me their address. No amount of assurances that I’m a small blonde woman whose only legal transgression has been failing to change the address on her driver’s license (the irony is too much isn’t it?) could change their minds.

What I actually look like. My hobbies do not include eating kittens. I do get trapped in trees though.

What I actually look like. My hobbies do not include eating kittens. I do get trapped in trees though.

 

Thus I’ll just have to fill my address book with the mailing addresses for obscure celebrities. It will be like when I was sixteen and in lieu of entering in friend’s digits into my phone book, I wrote down the customer service lines for Nabisco and 1-800-TALL-MEN.

 

I spent many a lazy afternoon telephoning the last number asking Michael Jordan if he would come over and retrieve the good crackers from their hiding place on the top shelf.

 

If you’ll excuse me, I have to find Michael Jordan’s address now. I’m sure the former athletic super star will love my Louvre postcard asking him to come over and look in the high up crawl space in my closet to see whether I shoved a plate warmer in there.

 

The Great Unwashed Wants YOU as a Pen Pal Because Who Doesn’t Love Manatees With Facial Hair?

Recently while searching for my lost passport I found a stack of blank postcards.

And I thought what many people think in this same situation “I want to write awkward messages to distant acquaintances.” Hence I approached my Dad who works with a lot of people, some who have met me, some who have only heard of me.

The Great Unwashed “I want to write to your clients. I’m sure Camilla Parker Bowles would love a postcard of a manatee with a moustache.”

Dad “First off I don’t think you understand what I do- I don’t work with Camilla Parker Bowles and secondly I’m not giving you my clients’ addresses.”

C'mon who doesn't want this in their mailbox?

Even the queen Mum would want this postcard.

Next I went to my sister Diana.

The Great Unwashed “Lend me your address book, I want to send postcards to all of your friends.”

Diana “I don’t have an address book and please stop sending valentines to my roommates. It’s really weird to receive hearts with goofy smiles from strangers in September.”

Stacey's Bad Word. Can Canada Post ever top this?

Stacey’s Bad Word. A new way to express my affection for Diana’s friends.

I was at a loss. Short of distributing postcards to all of Roscoe’s patients which he claimed “Would be a violation of ethics and their privacy” I had no one new to send mail to.

And for a moment I despaired. What would become of Travesty Tuesdays? My beloved series of posts which sometimes appear on the second day of the work week that feature odd correspondence sent to those I know and love. But much like the act of riding an armadillo to work, after a while receiving poorly drawn stick figures and descriptions of falling in the shower becomes the norm over time. My family simply does not appreciate receiving Easter cards about attempting to hog tie raccoons the way they used to. I needed a new audience to send my ramblings to.

Uncle-Sam-Wants-You

(Photo Credit : doingitdt.areavoices.com)

Thus I am calling on my Unwashed public. If you would love nothing more than a vintage Babysitter’s Club postcard about the bus ride I took with a recently paroled drug dealer who is about to become a baby daddy please send me your contact information.

Fair readers, if you choose to help me tackle this pile of postcards I promise not to share your personal information with anyone. I also pledge to only send you one postcard. Unless you are one of Diana’s roommates in which case I popped yet another valentine proclaiming my undying love in the mail just this morning. I also promise that I’m not a 350 lb women’s prison guard. At best I hover around a third of that size and am occasionally mistaken for an eighth grader.

In the interest of protecting everyone’s privacy please send your mailing address to sarahwritescreativethingshere@gmail.com * rather placing it in the comments below.

Alternatively you can private message me on Facebook by “Liking” The Great Unwashed. Or if you are feeling a little mischievous you could send the address of your arch nemesis.

*My email seems narcissistic until you realize that it’s meant to be a reminder. I also have a post it with the words “Put Food Here!” on my fridge because it’s just awkward to store leeks in your sock drawer.

Based on the sheer number of these kinds of postcards that I found I can only assume I meant to create some sort of miniature paper city of  monuments for a tiny Godzilla to destroy. Only possible conclusion.

Based on the sheer number of these kinds of postcards I can only assume I meant to create some sort of miniature paper city of monuments for a tiny Godzilla to destroy. Only possible conclusion.