I understand that some people, from time to time, indulge in alcoholic beverages - like me, for example. I will usually indulge in one or two of those fruity malt-beverages that come in bottles on those rare occasions that I do go out, which is maybe three or four times a year. I am a firm believer in the concept of moderation, as I believe are most people who drink. You know who doesn't understand moderation? Erasersaurus.
I am reminded of an incident that occurred three or four years ago, when Erasersaurus won two tickets to see Peter Cetera and Richard Marx double-headline the VFW. When Erasersaurus asked me if I wanted to go, I was initially very impressed with his generosity, until I remembered that he is banned from public transportation and thus needed me to give him a ride. Even though I knew what his motive was in asking me along, I accepted because I was thrilled at the prospect of seeing these two legends live. I knew I would have a wonderful, magical evening. I couldn't have been more wrong.
Arriving at Erasersaurus' doorstep that night, I was appalled to find that he didn't have any pants on. Now, he doesn't have legs or feet, but he usually has a napkin or paper towel wrapped around the base of his stick, for modesty's sake. Not tonight, however. Asking him what on earth he was doing without any kind of covering was pointless: he simply snickered and said "you know how many ladies a Cetera/Marx jam is going to draw? And I'm not going to show off what I've got?" Bear in mind that Erasersaurus has no job, no car, no money, is frequently late, forgets to flush, and can't cook, and you'll see why this is such a ridiculous notion on his part. Also he's a disembodied plastic dinosaur head on a stick who both eats and wears miniature novelty erasers - not exactly eHarmony material, know what I mean?
After this initial crisis was resolved by using apathy, we set off. The VFW was, simply, packed. There had to be five hundred people there, all clamoring for a taste of these two icons of adult contemporary radio and certain shopping mall restrooms. At the back of the large ballroom was a bar, staffed by old men with short-sleeved button-down shirts and tinted eyeglasses and blue slacks and terrible post-traumatic-stress-disorder: vets! Erasersaurus suddenly hopped toward the bar, leaving me standing by myself near the stage. I didn't care; the less I saw of him and his creepy naked stick the better.
First up was Richard Marx. After rockin' through "Don't Mean Nothin'" and "Satisfied," he brought all us gals to tears with "Right Here Waiting." He left the stage after forty minutes of pure magic and pure "sax" appeal, if you know what I mean! I mean there was a saxophone player in the band.
After a brief intermission, during which I met some of my fellow concert goers (all secretaries named Cathy with boyfriends named Irving living next door to cats named Garfield, oddly enough), Peter Cetera took the stage and ripped up "Along Comes a Wooo-mun" and the Cathies and me were feeling pretty good, when suddenly Erasersaurus appeared next to me, swaying and reeking of booze. "Ugh, Erasersaurus," I shouted over the opening strains of "Next Time I Fall" - one of my favorites - "what have you been drinking?"
"I make pepmint snaps," Erasersaurus mumbled, plastic eyes half-lidded. Shaking my head at him, I turned my attention back to the music. Erasersaurus seemed to somehow get drunker as the show went on, drooling a little and occasionally belching loudly. Cetera's incredible set had nearly reached the end when suddenly, to my utter horror, Erasersaurus began shouting up to him from our place at the front of the stage.
"Play 'Glory of Love'! PLAY IT!" he bellowed. "Play the shit out of that Karate Kid song! It's my birthday, wooo!" People stared at us - Cetera had already wowed us with an amazing extended "Glory of Love" jam, and Erasersaurus was incredibly loud. As the band started in on "After All," Erasersaurus did the unthinkable: he hopped onstage and charged Peter Cetera. Cetera's security team scrambled into action, but not before Erasersaurus managed to yell "I am a man who will fight for your honor" into the microphone. It was awful. Security took him down and dragged him backstage. Instead of getting to watch the amazing finale of the Cetera/Marx show - in which they actually DUETED on "Twenty Five or Six to Four" - I was forced to sit in the parking lot, waiting for Erasersaurus to be thrown out once the show was over. That's right: I was kicked out of the Peter Cetera/Richard Marx concert at the VFW thanks to having been spotted walking in with my "friend" Erasersaurus.
When he finally staggered out and got in the car, I was too angry to speak to him. On the way to his place, he vomited three times and defecated once. The next day, as I hosed out the interior of my car, my cell phone rang - it was Erasersaurus. He wanted to tell me that I was welcome for the free ticket.
Unreal. Simply unreal.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Erasersaurus is a Terrible Pet Sitter
It is not often that I find the time or the resources to take a holiday; however, last week, I found myself in just such a position. An opportunity arose for me to go camping with two friends at a large state park, and I happily took it. Camping is a relatively cheap way to have fun, once the initial expense of camping gear has been taken into account. Since the economy took a nosedive a year or two ago, camping has become an appealing way for many people to get out of the house and do something "special" for a few days. As I prepared to set off for some outdoorsy fun, I realized that I needed someone to watch my two fish for me while I was away. My children would not be able to do it, as they were away helping build a second internet to lay eighteen inches to the left of the existing internet. This second internet will be free of porn and Facebook quizzes. I'm terribly proud of their involvement. Since they are minors, my husband had accompanied them on their trip (the segment of second internet my children were helping to construct is located in rural Manitoba, Canada). What, then, to do with my two precious fish, Madonna and Madonna II? Here is where I made my biggest blunder: I decided to ask my "friend," Erasersaurus.
Since he has no job, I thought that he would make a perfect candidate for pet sitter: plenty of free time to feed my fish and administer their daily steroid shots (I'm trying to create a breed of super strong fish which can be trained to save drowning swimmers), and just desperate enough to accept the eight dollars I was offering in payment. Erasersaurus practically jumped at the offer - or hopped with a quiet tapping noise, since he is a disembodied dinosaur head on a wooden stick - and agreed to the job immediately. As I packed my rucksack, a growing sense of unease came over me: Erasersaurus was known for flaky behavior, would Madonna (or "Madge" as the British tabloids call her) and Madonna II be okay? Would Erasersaurus drop the ball on this task and endanger my precious muscular fish? I decided that I was simply having an anxiety attack (after all, I do take medication to avoid those episodes), and put all of my worries out of my mind. What a terrible mistake that turned out to be.
Erasersaurus showed up two hours later than planned on the Friday I was to leave for my camping trip, citing "car trouble" as his excuse. This is plainly false, since he lacks either the funds to purchase and maintain a car, or the arms or hands to steer with. With a sigh, I decided to ignore his obvious lie and instead focused on giving him specific instructions for the care of my fish:
1) Feed them 1/16th of a pinch of their special protein-rich fish oil-enhanced food every 2.5 hours;
2) Read to them the positive affirmations posted on the wall behind their bowl twice a day;
3) Carefully administer their steroid shots every morning (you will find the pre-filled syringes of fish steroids in the bathroom cabinet directly next to the box marked "syringes full of life-saving epinephrine to be administered in the event of our child's horrific allergic reaction to cotton." The box containing the fish steroids bears the same inscription because I am reusing an old epinephrine box for this purpose because I am frugal.)
4) Don't forget to smile.
This simple four-step list was all that Erasersaurus was supposed to do while caring for my fish in my home. Frankly, I don't know an easier way to make a quick eight dollars, so I felt I was doing Erasersaurus a real favor here. He nodded, seemed to listen, and when I gave him this list in written form, seemed to study it carefully. Feeling reasonably confident at his trustworthiness for this task, I set off to camp in the great campingwoods of Iowa.
The trip turned out fine. Although our camp was attacked by a group on insulting raccoons (one of them called me "fat," which I think was entirely unnecessary), we had a generally fun time and made lots of s'mores and s'maybes and s'meats. I called Erasersaurus only once during my weekend-long trip - trying to show him that I felt he was up to the task and didn't need constant monitoring - and he assured me that everything was "fine" and that Madonna and Madonna II were "happy as clams in a clambowl full of water." All was well it seemed, and on Sunday I set off for home thinking I would find things just as I had left them. Of course, I was wrong.
When I came in the door, Erasersaurus was sleeping on my couch, a bag of chips and a container of french onion dip open on the coffee table. From the looks of it, the food had been sitting there all night. Immediately I was annoyed; I did not give Erasersaurus permission to eat our food, and I had been dreaming of a relaxing post-camping chip n' dip-a-thon upon my arrival back home. Clearly, the dip was ruined, and all that was left of the chips were greasy little chipshards (or sherds, if you are an archaeologist) in the bottom of the bag. He awoke with a start when I slammed the door. "Oh, you're back already," he mumbled. "Yes of course I am," I replied, annoyed; "it's four o' clock on Sunday." I glanced meaningfully at the chip/dip remains on the table and gave a little shake of my head to passive-aggressively convey my disappointment. Erasersaurus just stared back, mouth agape and pointy plastic teeth covered in congealed dairy product.
Walking into the kitchen where my fish lived, I was still dealing with the grief of the chip debacle when the cold grip of panic coldly gripped my throat in its cold, cold grasp. My fish bowl was empty. "Erasersaurus," I called, my voice flutey with panic, "where are Madonna and Madonna II?"
"They're in there, aren't they?" came his blase reply.
"Uh, no, they aren't," - the fish bowl was clearly devoid of any life save the microscopic kind - "where are they?" My words walked trembling out of my mouth, as I struggled to contain my growing anxiety.
"Oh, well they were there last night, so I don't know then. Maybe robbers came in. In fact, I think I'm missing my new 3G phone, come to think of it. Well, I have to jet. I'll get that eight-spot from you tomorrow." And with that, he hopped out the door.
I looked everywhere. Every container of any kind of liquid I poured out into a plastic colander, hoping that Erasersaurus had somehow simply misplaced my beloved fish. Milk, beer, Diet Pepsi, a particularly runny jar of old strawberry jelly all went down my kitchen sink drain as I desperately searched. Finally, exhausted, I gave up thirteen hours later, collapsing on the couch in defeat. It was then I realized that the dip, now sour, was still on the coffee table in front of me and was beginning to smell. Rising with a sigh, I picked up the plastic tub and began carrying it to the garbage can. Something inside my very soul - I can only imagine it was God or the Bible or Angels - told me to look into the smeared dip still in the tub; once I did, I realized the horrible truth: it was not french onion, but rather party dip, which I don't actually care for. Also, Madonna II's quirky flat eyes stared back at me from under a glob of slimy white goo. Suddenly, I knew what had happened: Erasersaurus had held a party and my fish had been invited. Not realizing that they couldn't breathe in dip, my fish jumped inside to have a little fun. It was this desire for fun that condemned their muscular little bodies to death.
I never found Madonna (Madge); I can only imagine that her remains were also somewhere in that dip. I wouldn't know, since I was hospitalized for The Shakes and The Lady Screeches shortly after my terrible discovery. Erasersaurus has never admitted throwing this party. I know that he invited my fish, and I know that they got in over their heads. For this reason (and because he got my dog pregnant), I am never asking Erasaersaurus to pet sit again.
He sickens me.
Since he has no job, I thought that he would make a perfect candidate for pet sitter: plenty of free time to feed my fish and administer their daily steroid shots (I'm trying to create a breed of super strong fish which can be trained to save drowning swimmers), and just desperate enough to accept the eight dollars I was offering in payment. Erasersaurus practically jumped at the offer - or hopped with a quiet tapping noise, since he is a disembodied dinosaur head on a wooden stick - and agreed to the job immediately. As I packed my rucksack, a growing sense of unease came over me: Erasersaurus was known for flaky behavior, would Madonna (or "Madge" as the British tabloids call her) and Madonna II be okay? Would Erasersaurus drop the ball on this task and endanger my precious muscular fish? I decided that I was simply having an anxiety attack (after all, I do take medication to avoid those episodes), and put all of my worries out of my mind. What a terrible mistake that turned out to be.
Erasersaurus showed up two hours later than planned on the Friday I was to leave for my camping trip, citing "car trouble" as his excuse. This is plainly false, since he lacks either the funds to purchase and maintain a car, or the arms or hands to steer with. With a sigh, I decided to ignore his obvious lie and instead focused on giving him specific instructions for the care of my fish:
1) Feed them 1/16th of a pinch of their special protein-rich fish oil-enhanced food every 2.5 hours;
2) Read to them the positive affirmations posted on the wall behind their bowl twice a day;
3) Carefully administer their steroid shots every morning (you will find the pre-filled syringes of fish steroids in the bathroom cabinet directly next to the box marked "syringes full of life-saving epinephrine to be administered in the event of our child's horrific allergic reaction to cotton." The box containing the fish steroids bears the same inscription because I am reusing an old epinephrine box for this purpose because I am frugal.)
4) Don't forget to smile.
This simple four-step list was all that Erasersaurus was supposed to do while caring for my fish in my home. Frankly, I don't know an easier way to make a quick eight dollars, so I felt I was doing Erasersaurus a real favor here. He nodded, seemed to listen, and when I gave him this list in written form, seemed to study it carefully. Feeling reasonably confident at his trustworthiness for this task, I set off to camp in the great campingwoods of Iowa.
The trip turned out fine. Although our camp was attacked by a group on insulting raccoons (one of them called me "fat," which I think was entirely unnecessary), we had a generally fun time and made lots of s'mores and s'maybes and s'meats. I called Erasersaurus only once during my weekend-long trip - trying to show him that I felt he was up to the task and didn't need constant monitoring - and he assured me that everything was "fine" and that Madonna and Madonna II were "happy as clams in a clambowl full of water." All was well it seemed, and on Sunday I set off for home thinking I would find things just as I had left them. Of course, I was wrong.
When I came in the door, Erasersaurus was sleeping on my couch, a bag of chips and a container of french onion dip open on the coffee table. From the looks of it, the food had been sitting there all night. Immediately I was annoyed; I did not give Erasersaurus permission to eat our food, and I had been dreaming of a relaxing post-camping chip n' dip-a-thon upon my arrival back home. Clearly, the dip was ruined, and all that was left of the chips were greasy little chipshards (or sherds, if you are an archaeologist) in the bottom of the bag. He awoke with a start when I slammed the door. "Oh, you're back already," he mumbled. "Yes of course I am," I replied, annoyed; "it's four o' clock on Sunday." I glanced meaningfully at the chip/dip remains on the table and gave a little shake of my head to passive-aggressively convey my disappointment. Erasersaurus just stared back, mouth agape and pointy plastic teeth covered in congealed dairy product.
Walking into the kitchen where my fish lived, I was still dealing with the grief of the chip debacle when the cold grip of panic coldly gripped my throat in its cold, cold grasp. My fish bowl was empty. "Erasersaurus," I called, my voice flutey with panic, "where are Madonna and Madonna II?"
"They're in there, aren't they?" came his blase reply.
"Uh, no, they aren't," - the fish bowl was clearly devoid of any life save the microscopic kind - "where are they?" My words walked trembling out of my mouth, as I struggled to contain my growing anxiety.
"Oh, well they were there last night, so I don't know then. Maybe robbers came in. In fact, I think I'm missing my new 3G phone, come to think of it. Well, I have to jet. I'll get that eight-spot from you tomorrow." And with that, he hopped out the door.
I looked everywhere. Every container of any kind of liquid I poured out into a plastic colander, hoping that Erasersaurus had somehow simply misplaced my beloved fish. Milk, beer, Diet Pepsi, a particularly runny jar of old strawberry jelly all went down my kitchen sink drain as I desperately searched. Finally, exhausted, I gave up thirteen hours later, collapsing on the couch in defeat. It was then I realized that the dip, now sour, was still on the coffee table in front of me and was beginning to smell. Rising with a sigh, I picked up the plastic tub and began carrying it to the garbage can. Something inside my very soul - I can only imagine it was God or the Bible or Angels - told me to look into the smeared dip still in the tub; once I did, I realized the horrible truth: it was not french onion, but rather party dip, which I don't actually care for. Also, Madonna II's quirky flat eyes stared back at me from under a glob of slimy white goo. Suddenly, I knew what had happened: Erasersaurus had held a party and my fish had been invited. Not realizing that they couldn't breathe in dip, my fish jumped inside to have a little fun. It was this desire for fun that condemned their muscular little bodies to death.
I never found Madonna (Madge); I can only imagine that her remains were also somewhere in that dip. I wouldn't know, since I was hospitalized for The Shakes and The Lady Screeches shortly after my terrible discovery. Erasersaurus has never admitted throwing this party. I know that he invited my fish, and I know that they got in over their heads. For this reason (and because he got my dog pregnant), I am never asking Erasaersaurus to pet sit again.
He sickens me.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Erasersaurus Dines and Dashes
It is difficult enough to be friends with a disembodied dinosaur head on a stick that both wears and eats miniature novelty erasers, but when he is blatantly disingenuous, it becomes downright aggravating. Case in point: today we went to a small restaurant run by a four-year-old girl (full disclosure: she's my daughter). The menu included steak, invisible fruit snacks, pink, yellow, and white milk, and, fortunately, erasers. Every item on the menu was only one dollar. Talk about affordable, right? Well, you'd think, anyway.
After commenting about the reasonableness of the prices at the Hello Kitty Bitty Food Restaurant, Erasersaurus went on a long and tedious whining rant about how he can't get a job ("no one will hire me; I don't have arms and people are prejudiced"), can't seem to afford even the most basic living expenses, and is constantly having to scrape in order to buy even the cheapest erasers to eat or wear. I've heard this spiel before, and it has gotten no less grating with the passage of time. What Erasersaurus fails to mention is that he considers himself "too good" for certain work, as he has an associate of arts degree in hotel/restaurant management. Why isn't he running a hotel, you might ask? Well DON'T ask, because you will simply be subjected to another recitation of the "prejudice" speech detailed above.
Our food was delivered and consumed, and when it was time to leave, I settled up with the waitress. When I returned to our table, Erasersaurus, who had praised the food and the service repeatedly, was no where to be found. To my utter humiliation I realized he had hopped out the door, pulling what is known as a "dine and dash" on the Hello Kitty Bitty Food Restaurant. To say I was mortified would be an understatement. To make matters even more distressing, he was actually caught by the child waitress, dragged back inside, and ordered to wash dishes - which he did, but only very begrudgingly. Waiting for him to finish was one of the most unpleasant and awkward experiences of my life.
I just don't know if I can continue our friendship. Especially after he pulled out a very expensive 3G phone the moment we finally left the restaurant after the dine n' dash debacle. "What?" he retored after I gaped at him, utterly gobsmacked. "I need it to look for jobs."
Unbelievable.
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