Monday, December 26, 2005


There are few things that I'm good at in this world and most of them wouldn't get me payed one red, commie cent. However, if they did pay, I'm pretty sure that I could make a living off of writing friendster testimonials. See below.

Smarmie walks like giraffe, which is to say she walks tall. She's the only italian-speaking, bass-playing, Dawson's Creek-loving friend I have. I wouldn't trade that in for a pack of lies. I mean, that would be a really bad trade.

Brian is the kind of guy who would steal a large flat rock and make it into a coffee table. He's also the kind of guy who would then turn that coffee table into a nuclear submarine, complete with a pirate captain and pirate crew. The pirate nuclear sub, made out of rock, would then wreak havoc on the seven seas raping and pillaging and generally being a nuissance. Not only that, but it would bring all it's booty back to Brian. Brian is resourceful like that.

Beware, Claire. You should stop eating your hair lest you get attacked by a bare bear. You might try and run away, but you won't be able to run fast enough because all the hair in your stomach is weighing you down. Plus, bears are really fast. And the bare bear will kill you, Claire, because of this. But if you do eat your hair, at least you'll die with flair, because flair is an innate quality of Claire. Then the bare bear will drag Claire back to her lair (the bare bear's lair, not Claire's) and feed Claire to her bare bear cubs because the bare bear cares for her bare bear cubs. It's a sad affair that Claire might die at the paws of the bare bear and her bare bear cubs. All of this could be avoided if Claire heed my warning. Beware, there may be a bare bear around who needs your hair. So don't eat your hair, Claire. You should wear your hair. Wear your hair on your head not in your stomach. So, please Claire, swear that you'll beware and not eat your hair lest there's bare bear.

There's one word that describes Diego and that word is "stoned." But seriously, Diego has more charisma than Bill Clinton, and fewer sexual harassment charges. If you meet him, you'll like him. And you'll likely want to sleep with him. At least, while at Vassar, every man, woman, and child on campus wanted to sleep with him. And they probably still do.

If Erin were a part of insect anatomy, she'd be the bee's knees. I mean, the thorax is pretty cool and all, but its no knees.

Carl was once impaled by a really sharp stick. In the head. But you know what? He didn't cry. Because Carl is manly. I think we've all learned something here.

Bridget is a person one might describe as being perpetually like a bat out of hell--shrieking and aflame. I, however,am not one of those people. She may be--quite literally--the firstcold-blooded human alive, matching the air temperature with her body temperature, much to her detriment in the winter, when one can often see her broiling herself in the oven to keep warm. In the summer months, her body temperature can range from the mid-to-low eightes up to one hundred and two degrees Fahrenheit. Though the humidity can make her feel like she's well over one hundred and twenty degrees. During these months, she likes riding horses backwards whilst yodeling and eating waffles that are slathered with mayonnaise. Inexcusable behavior in most places, but completely reasonable and, in fact, encouraged in Scotland. Spring and Autumn are a wash--the air temperature off-set by the massive amounts of warm pie she consumes.

And a couple from the indomitable cat, Mr. Gussypants Finknottle:

I will fit you into a box, Bridget. And you'll like it. Why? Because boxes are fun. They are always new and exciting even when they're old and worn. And sometimes, if you're very lucky you'll find a box wherein no one can see you and then you can do things in privacy, even though you're in public. It seems this testimonial is more about me than you. But, I think in this case it's okay, because I am important and you are not. And why do I have this clear advantage? Because I am a cute, loveable, and furry cat and you are not. Your friend (until your inevitable demise by my iron paws of doom), Mr. Gussypants

Claire, my little nymph, after many months you have finally welcomed me into your bed. You have accepted my love and I have shed on you and your belongings. Is there nothing more beautiful than such an exchange? We will have a beautiful future together with many a feline-human hybrid child. And we shall name them Pookie, Horace, Lefty, Biff, Gogo, and Porky (the inevitable fat one), and they shall prance and attack Smackymouse, and hide in the-magic-box-where-no-one-can-see-them, all except for Porky, who will be too fat-and-lazy and sleep, not for the recommended 16 hours a day, but for 18, and who shall expand like unto a weather balloon until we are forced to put him on diet food, which he will eat unhappily until he is of reasonable dimensions. We have a bright future ahead of us Claire, all thanks to cocaine and peeps.

1 comment:

fishbaine said...

i almost peed in my pants over the kitty postings. just so you know.