Travesty Tuesdays- The Wobbly Bits That Are Usually Covered With Leaves Edition

Somehow this batch of postcards came out awkward. More awkward than usual. It wasn’t even my fault for once, I was merely recounting what my great aunt and my mother said to me.2016-08-05 12.24.31

To Birdie*

If you get a magnifying glass, you’ll see that the Golden Boy is actually naked. This was a point that my Great Aunt repeated to me many times during my visit when I was sixteen years old and the Golden Boy was taken down for cleaning and put on display in the local shopping area. I’m not sure whether she thought his nudity would offend my teenage sensibilities or if I seemed so naïve that the Golden Boy would be the height of my visit – “Hot Damn ! Gonna see me some nude statue action!” Regardless either reason further damages my teenage street cred considerably and cements the idea that I was reigning Lord and Emperor of the Nerds given that my sixty year old great aunt felt it necessary to say “This statue is R-rated; don’t be alarmed.”2016-08-05 12.26.29

To Andy and Sandy**

Before boom boxes, young men wandered around with sheep on their shoulders as a way to show how “hip” they were and to attract females. Whether it was the smell of the sheep or the men themselves, this wasn’t an effective courting tactic. They quickly switched to juggling gophers which of course went out of fashion the next year when ferrets became all the rage. Another problem with the sheep on the shoulder system was that the lambs would get stuck on repeat, or at least it seemed that way what with their refusal to produce more than “Bah, Bah, Black Sheep”2016-08-05 12.27.32

To Steve and Sandy**

Welcome! Greetings from the land who invented blisters. We were a pretty miserable bunch until the Band-Aid came along. Don’t believe what the old folks tell you- no amount of intricately carved dolls or ornately decorated wagons can take away the pain of a heel that rubs. We debated making the Band-Aid inventor our king but then Nike came along so we just used our old footwear to bean our enemies. This is why Holland is such a peaceful country- all of our tormentors are thoroughly concussed.

-Unwashed

These poor, innocent friends of my parents are bound to be so bewildered by this card that I felt it necessary to both sign my name AND include the following sentence “ For an explanation see iamthegreatunwashed.com”2016-08-05 12.28.11

To Mrs. Jackson,

My mother ruined whales for me forever while we were coming home from Hawaii three summers ago. During a stopover at an airport , there was a GIANT whale tail made out of recycled ropes from ships as a part of an airport wide exhibit featuring art made from reclaimed objects. Despite it being 4 am my time or some other such nonsense, I was completely engrossed in the show and apparently so was my Mom. She stood motionless in front of the rope whale tail construction. I moved to stand next to her so we could share in our appreciation. “Doesn’t it look like a penis to you? My mother’s question shocked me out of my train of thought which had been about the grandeur of these mammals and how well the artist had executed their vision. “Pardon” I said, somewhat dumbfounded. “See it’s a penis” Mom tried to point out the various parts. I still didn’t see it. “Can’t you see the penis?” My mother asked loudly again in the middle of a busy airport. This was how whales were ruined for me. Suffice to say I’m never taking my mom to the zoo.

 

 

**Names have been changed to protect the identities of my church family who were probably already bewildered to discover my postcard in their mailbox.

 

Travesty Tuesday – Unleashing Myself Upon the World

I’ve decided that this is becoming less of a writing exercise and more of a performance art piece as I gradually morph into a living internet troll.

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This is me, only instead of telling people online that they look funny, I write postcards about python wrestling and don’t sign them. (Photo Credit : shopatnorway.com)

It was an unintentional outcome. I’ve always written lots of letters to family, and on occasion have forgotten to sign my name, leaving my loved ones guessing as to who sent it. But with my sending out more than a hundred postcards to every Tom, Dick and Harry in my address book, this habit of remaining accidentally anonymous has reached a new level. On Facebook, friends who have received multiple postcards are posting “Whoever is sending me mail from Winnipeg thanks for not being a bill”

In addition, I’ve received texts asking “Did you send this?” The funny aspect of writing A LOT is that occasionally, you forget what you’ve written and so the knee jerk reaction is to say “No, that’s some other weirdo” and you hit “send” only to realize that you were that weirdo, and now not only did you forget to sign your name, but you denied it. Oh what a tangled written web I’ve woven, since I haven’t developed any sort of common sense, I’m going to continue sending out cards, here is the latest batch.

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Dear Andrew*

This is the restaurant where at 11 years old, I decided to eat my weight in soda crackers much to my mother’s chagrin. Ostensibly the large basket of delicious, crunchy goods was there for diners to delicately crumble into their seafood chowder. However, my preteen mind took that basket overflowing with individually packaged snacks as a challenge. It was around the 30th packet when my mother looked over from the next table where she and the other adults in our party were sitting and realized what I was doing. She then commanded me to stop. I hold this event responsible each time I devour a box of crackers in one sitting; I’m merely trying to finish what I started.

I didn’t sign this card. The missing moniker had less to do with forgetfulness and more to do with a lack of space. I figured that the recipient would deduce that there are only a few people in his life that would write up, around and back down the sides of a postcard to finish their thought.

This next one was also sent to my friend Andrew, even though I didn’t address him up top, I did sign it. I think I should get bonus points.

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I bought approximately a dozen of these kinds of postcards when my Dad took my sister and me to France. I had great intentions of painstakingly cutting them out and gluing the miniature buildings together so I could film “Godzilla in France: Run! And Don’t Forget the Baguettes” but then that project quickly petered out after I lost my good scissors. It’s just as well, my Godzilla noise sounded a bit like a hamster gargling -not at all terrifying. Whereas a woman who systematically spams everyone she knows with cards from random locations and neglects to sign them, now that’s scary. Or at the very least, a sign that someone should hide my pens. I’ll sign this one to prove how responsible I am.

-Unwashed

2016-08-05 11.44.12The knights are arguing about who can profess the awesomeness of Tom Bricker with more clarity and bravado. The winner will lay claim to the Tom Bricker fan club. You can’t hear it, but they’re shouting “I feel he is awesome and the best for his photographs.” ~Clash, clang~ “Oh yeah? Well I feel his educated but colloquial writing style combined with his photographs, make him the leader and king of awesome.” Ok it might not have gone exactly like that- there were a lot more “doths” and “thous”.

I haven’t actually sent this postcard. Tom Bricker has yet to give me his home address despite my emailing him to request it. I’m chalking this up to his being a busy alien-robot-superhero.

2016-08-05 11.39.13This manatee king is sad because he lost at checkers. Even manatee royalty isn’t impervious to losing. Manatees are notoriously sore losers. It’s one of the reasons there are no tables under the sea; the Gods saw that the manatee’s behavior made the Real Housewives series look tame after a particularly tense game of Parcheesi. Consequently they roam around, convincing the occasional person to play Crazy Eights.

I sent this to a childhood friend and didn’t sign it for kicks. I signed the other one I sent her. It’s like a trust exercise, but instead of catching me when I people surf blind-folded off a table, she has to try and see whether my penmanship has changed since we were friends at the age of eight. It’s possible that I don’t understand trust exercises.

Watch out world, I’m coming to a mailbox near you, until next time.

The Great Unwashed, Coming to a Mailbox Near You -Travesty Tuesdays The Spam Edition

I recently came upon a collection of postcards. The images ran the gamut from Babysitter Club book covers, to remote locations in the US, to beautiful pieces of Italian art. Clearly when one comes upon such a bounty, there’s only one course of action- start inflicting yourself on the world in the form of postcards like you’ve discovered how to make 457 dollars a day and want to share the secret with everyone you know AND  all their friends.

No longer am I asking for volunteers to send cards to (for the record, I received one lone reply last time in response to that request) instead, if we once had a conversation and your address is listed- you’re on the list. I’ve got a lot of postcards and nothing but nonsense to cover them with. All I need are your addresses. Happily, over the years I’ve amassed an equally large collection of contact information that could almost but not quite keep up with my childhood love of 35 cent souvenirs.

Here’s an excerpt from the first batch

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Next to opening up their mailbox to find one of those novelty cheques for a million dollars, it’s everyone’s dream to receive a postcard like this, no?

Dear Iris,

I don’t know you well but I thought you’d enjoy receiving images of random cyclists exiting a tunnel in a place that I don’t remember the name of and that you likely don’t care about. It’s a part of my new campaign to treat the mail like the internet. I’m going to send 300 of my closest friends an offer to enlarge their vagina next.

Socially inappropriately yours,

Unwashed

 

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Don’t these people look hangry to you?

Dear Ben,

This is what it looked like in Ancient Rome when the lunch cart was late- people standing around, their stomachs rumbling and all of them grumbling about how Aelius must have gotten into the wine again and taken a dip in the aquaducts. If they’d had Twitter, they might have tweeted something passive aggressive like “Still hungry #thelionsaretooAelius” But instead after the fourth time this happened, they just fed the tardy man to the beasts. Then regretted it- no one could quite make his beef and fig dish the same way.

Much carnivorous action,

Unwashed

 

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The ghost of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s clothes is even more terrifying if you know that her father was a prison warden during the era of straps and racks in Canadian penitentiaries.

Dear Jared,

People are all “Wow, I can’t believe you write even though you have a baby” what they don’t know is that the mannequin  from this card appears to me in my dreams and threatens to suffocate me with her moth eaten veil that smells of mould if I don’t put pen to paper. It’s like the literary version of “Nightmare on Elm Street” The wallpaper also starts to spin in those dreams. This may be why I prefer paint. Happy Writing!

Sincerely, your friend and the undead spirit of Lucy Maud Montgomery’s clothes

 

My Grandfather is having a love affair with his new car. Incidentally his new car is Tex and my new car. Well, they’re the same make and model, so close enough. I wrote this to him because when Sula informed him one night over dinner that I had bought a car, (Yes, Sula is so lovely I have to share her with my grandparents.) apparently my grandfather’s fork just hovered in the air while he stared at my friend in disbelief with his mouth open. The idea of me doing something normal like buying a car was shocking I guess. I sent this to him to tease him, because trading in our lovely, practical minivan for something absurd would be just the kind of ridiculousness I strive for every day.

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As you can see my ride comes pre-pimped, no need for a reality TV show.

Dear Granddad,

Did you hear the news? We decided to trade in our can for something more practical. Our new car is pictured on the front. After all, how is one supposed to go joy riding in something with side air bags? Where the fun? Where’s the sense of peril? There’s just no point in driving unless you can feel the wind in your hair, the rain puddling at your feet and your childrens’ fingers pinching your side as they cling to you with their nails while trying not to fall out of the car. I’m off to pick up Betty and Archie for the shin dig, Archie’s jalopy broke down again, thank goodness mine is reliable. It’ll be a swell night.

Love, Unwashed

The next card was sent to a man who began as a friend of Tex’s and became a friend of mine, so much so that when I sent him an unsigned postcard, he figured out who had sent it. If sending weird pieces of anonymous mail and then being called on it isn’t a sign of a good friendship, I don’t know what is.

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Hammy’s post petite potatoes diet head shots

Dear Wyatt “Why did I give Tex’s crazy wife my address” Strumpber,

This is Hammy Swine. After spending his childhood working the petting zoo circuit thanks to his momager, Larda, he tried out for the role of “Bebe” hoping to make it big. Obviously he was rejected seeing as the role went to a younger, pinker, thinner pig. Ever the fighter, Hammy was determined and went on a diet of small potatoes when he learned of a Babe related opportunity- “Babe 17: Bringing Bacon Back”. Hammy was elated when his newfound weight loss led to a supporting role. Tragically Justin Timberlake passed on the role of the hiphopping farmer so the project was kiboshed. Now Hammy spends his days sitting on street corners trying to sell future shares in his own pork roasts in exchange for watermelon. It’s a story that reminds us to just let pigs be pigs.

Wow, that got dark and very weird fast. Even for me. I think I’m going to stop there.

Travesty Tuesdays

Some people enjoy watching television, others enjoy playing sports, my beloved hobby is writing weird anecdotes to people. If you are a member of my family, or one of my friends, it is more than likely that you have received this kind of correspondence from me; emails, letters, cards or postcards I send them all.

Roscoe was working on the days when I painstakingly wrote out all the thank you cards from our wedding. Thus my strange may have run a little wild over the paper. I wrote to one dear friend thanking her for the gift of salt and pepper shakers and explained how our previous pepper grinder had met it’s somewhat grisly demise.

On the cream cardstock, I wrote that our old pepper shaker had in a fit of panic, thrown  itself from the top of the spice cabinet to the floor. Roscoe had been cooking a dish with scotch bonnet peppers just below. We think that the little pepper grinder confused the hot fumes coming off of the spicy peppers for a fire and so in an effort to preserve it’s life, flung it’s little shaker  self, grinder and all to the ground. However not only had it misjudged the severity of the situation, it also had misjudged the distance and thus it would season our dishes no more.

These are the types of things my family and friends received in the mail from me. Occasionally I decide not to sign the cards and so they’re left wondering what weirdo is sending them this kind of stuff in the mail.

I debated having mail Mondays, but then I thought some people might get confused when Unwashed followers were like “Yeah! It’s Mail Monday!” So the uninitiated might hear “male” and think that this was a blog where on Mondays we act like men and wear flannel shirts and go chop up bears with axes as manly men are want to do. And I really didn’t want to be responsible for people applying fake beards for no reason because they were trying to support my blog.

Then I thought “Throwback Thursdays” like on Holly Madison’s page. However “throwback” intimates that the material is from some time ago and I’m constantly writing new bizarre stuff and sending it to my family so that wouldn’t work.

But then I remembered a story my Great Aunt had told me when I visited her. She was in an IKEA and there was one of those little Swedish horses that was painted beautifully and it would have looked just like any other Swedish horse if it weren’t for the tattoo of the word “Mom” in a heart on one of it’s flanks. A woman who was also shopping at the IKEA walked by this horse and declared it “a travesty!”

So for the rest of that week my Great Aunt and I proclaimed everything “a travesty”. For those who are very attached to the concept of traditional, polite correspondence my writing could be considered “a travesty”. Thus occasionally on a Tuesday, you might read one of my travesties that I’ve sent out to those I know and love.