I've been holding out on you guys.
While I’ve mentioned the fact that I have tremendous friends, I’ve been pretty bad at showing you just how awesome they are.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate their eccentricities; it’s that it is nearly impossible to know where to begin.
Every time I get together with my awesomesauce pals, I find myself reaching for my phone, while in a fit of laughter, trying to capture even a morsel of hilarity for future reference. As a result, I end up with the strangest assortment of “Notes” in my Blackberry. To give you an idea, here are some of the note titles found in my phone:
- Ass Coming Out
- Cute…with a Wagon
- Dead Inside
- Fuckslut
- Gas
- Organs
- Penis as a Hat
- Pigeons
- Rain? What the fuck.
- Skank on the Subway
- Taxidermied Raccoons
While I can’t assure you that all of these notes are comprehensive, I can promise that they are all extremely amusing.
Earlier this fall, I was lucky enough to meet a friend of a friend. Let’s call her Sharon. I knew practically immediately that I would love her to the bone. Within minutes of meeting, I was being shown mostly-nude pictures of a drinking extravaganza gone awry.
She called me a fuckslut and the deal was sealed.
Sharon and I share a lot of similar qualities. We have been known to send each other morning text messages, summarizing the assortment of food items found beside the bed upon waking up, hazy and dry-mouthed. I’d like to think our joint sense of disgrace makes the binge eating less shameful…
I’ve been encouraging Sharon to write a blog, so we can all bask in the glory of her humour, but her plate has been pretty full lately. (Food reference intentional.) In the meantime, I’ve decided that I’ll share some of her stories. There isn’t going to be a “Sharon Sundays” segment on this blog, because as I’m sure you’ve noticed, my ability to write on a schedule is pretty near non-existent. However, I’m sure she’ll be making some appearances… And if I know her, they’ll likely involve nudity and a whole lot of Rye.
The Story of Sasha The Cat
One evening, a few of us were sitting around in Sharon’s apartment, mocking the concept of sobriety and gigglesnorting to our hearts’ content. After an extensive discussion about showing your ass in public, the topic of female cats came up and somehow everyone had some input on the subject. (I never said our conversations were riveting or intellectual.) Sharon pipes up:
“When I was a kid, we had a cat named Sasha. She was such a bitch.
She loved being outside, but she was in the sun too much and so she got cancer. We had to cut her ears off.
She looked like she was always wearing a helmet.
Oh, Sasha. She was such a bitch.*
We got another cat and named him Skid. We called him that because he used to rub his ass on the kitchen floor and leave skid marks.”
Sadly, Sharon no longer has Skid. I’ve been looking for a good kitchen-floor-ass-bandit for awhile… Please apply within.
*Please don’t send me angry comments about how sad it is that the cat had its ears cut off and that we should be more sympathetic. If Sharon says Sasha was a bitch, she probs was, y’all.
