Fievel Goes West: Substitute Fievel For Blunt

Posted on September 30, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

[written whilst in the middle of the desert]

Well. If it wasn’t confirmed by my first trip to New Mexico four years ago, it is definitely a fact that I am allergic to the Southwest. My body has rejected it in every possible way. Not in the same way it rejects mayonnaise, but in the way that it rejects the voice of Neil Diamond, where essentially everything shuts down and stages a protest. I’m sorry if I make so many Neil Diamond references, but it’s the quickest way I know how to convey feelings of hatred, loathing, and utter disappointment.

As I’m writing this in my composition notebook [obviously, cus I’m a total notebook snob], I am staring at the vast expanse of orangish rocks and dried up bushes that is the New Mexican landscape, while trying to ignore this altitude sickness and the fact that my nose is so dry that it refuses to breathe. Even transportation via car is miserable, considering the bumpy, mountainous roads and my propensity for motion sickness. My hair is currently in a braid, but not in the figurative sense that you’ve come to expect. Quite literally, my hair is in braids. Why? Well, what I can tell you with absolute certainty that it has nothing to do with my desire to appease or fit in with Native American culture, rather it has everything to do with the fact that my $150 straightener was broken in half during transit.

P.S. Have you ever seen my dad’s hair? Well, let’s just say that I have inherited more from him than just his sensitive stomach, lack of coordination, and irresistible charm. It’s quite the package.

new-mexico

[TMI: there was a point and time when I was wearing everything in the airport gift shop, including the T-shirt covered in chili peppers that said “Juan in a million,” while I was riding that Navajo horse in the background]

And while we’re on the subject of trips, have we discussed flying yet? Oh, we haven’t? That’s probably because I love it as much as I loved getting peed on after that jellyfish attack. Not saying that necessarily happened, but I’m pretty sure it doesn’t have to in order for me to know that I didn’t like it.

On the flight back to my beloved Midwest, it was a bumpy ride. Thatswhatshesaid. There were high winds and turbulence the whole way. I was busy writing, when I heard an announcement over the loudspeaker. Immediately assuming that they are informing us of impending death or that we’ve been hijacked, I rip my iPod from my ears so I can prepare myself properly. Preparing myself properly, of course, would involve nothing but alot of crying, praying/pleading, sweating, and grabbing the neighboring passenger’s leg.

I hear the Stewardess [except it was a dude, so Stewarder?] say the following:

Stewarder: Please draw your attention to the large circular formations on the ground below us.

Me: [thinking] Great. Alien formations? I KNEW there was something to that Donahue episode I watched in 1988. Terrorist camps? Missile launching sites? Or is this just the plot of soft land we’re supposed to aim for when we are thrust out of the burning plane?

Stewarder: Those are pizza farms. [obligatory laughter from any coherent passengers]

Me: Are you fricken serious right now?

I’m gonna go ahead and take this opportunity to grab the loudspeaker and make an announcement of my own: NOTHING is funny when I’m suspended 40,000 feet in the air. Especially not from you, creepy flight attendant guy who handed me very questionable peanuts. Cus really, from the looks of things, I wouldn’t be surprised if you turned out to be the one who hijacks us later.

That’s enough about that. Adios!

Commitment: The Fire Breathing Dragon That Eludes Me

Posted on September 22, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

It’s fall.

If you reside in an area of the country [I like to refer to it as God’s favorite] where you experience the change of seasons, then you understand the sheer elation I’m feeling at this very moment as I put on an extremely worn-in hoody [the kind that barely keeps you warm anymore cus there are so many holes], eat a caramel apple [but only the kind I make myself], and drink a hot beverage [preferably a pumpkin spice latte] while staring at the crispy orange leaves outside my window. Wow, don’t tell my 6th grade English teacher about that sentence, cus it definitely violated a few grammatical laws of nature. If you can’t experience fall, then my heart aches for you.

Something about the fall just makes me think of new relationships. Why? Well, because it’s absolutely impossible to resist falling in love with someone during this time of year. In fact, I believe almost all of my relationships have started in the fall. In fact, I believe anything good that has come out of my life has started in the fall. Wait, but none of those relationships were good. Stop confusing me.

So why am I talking about fally wonderfulness when this blog is about commitment issues? Well, you should know better then to ask me questions about why I do the things I do. Here’s my thought process: crisp weather —> I’m cold —> hoody —> wow, I need a pedicure —> fall —> unrequited love for Jon Stamos —> new relationships —> WHAT? I’m all out of pasta? —> commitment.

All of you know that I suffer from a very serious condition that we might call: issues. Particularly, of the commitment genre. I can’t commit to and entire box of one type of cereal, thus, my cupboards overflow with mini-boxes, which lead visitors to the general conclusion that I am either a foster parent to a surplus of midgets, or that I run my own daycare. That being what it is, if we’re talking about way more important issues such as: weekend plans, underwear colors, or hair dye you can expect hives and/or cold sweats at some point. And if we’re talking about anything that will monopolize 6 months to a year of my time, I lose feeling in my forearms.

This was the exact feeling I experienced when I closed on my condo, followed by nausea and hyperventilation. Needless to say, it presented quite a challenge when I had to sign all that paperwork with a numb arm.

While trying to psychoanalyze myself, I’ve come up with a number of scapegoats on which to place blame for this senseless paranoia. The first, of course, being my mother. I have no idea why, but it just seems like a logical conclusion to just about everything. The second, being my string of bad luck with overly possessive boyfriends. The third, being the changing of the tides or humidity levels of the rainforest. All of which make more sense than the actual truth, which is, I’m nuttier than that box of assorted off-brand Valentines Day chocolates still rotting on the bottom shelf of your fridge. Guys, seriously, what did I tell you about Valentine’s Day gifts?

When I come back, I not only promise that I will be extremely parched, dehydrated, and tan – but that we will return to your regularly scheduled blog programming and I will have an announcement for you that you may or may not be excited about. I’d like to say it is an announcement so big that it might blow your socks off, but then I remembered that I hate when people say that. I mean, is that even possible? Come on, people.

Get real.

I miss you already!

Open Letter: Dear Liar Liar, Your Pants Are Burnt To A Crisp

Posted on August 28, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

My life began in a unicorn-filled meadow, where I was fed cinnamon rolls for dinner and had sweet dreams of hot pink, glitter-filled balloons. The only thing I remember getting in trouble for was not finishing a satisfying amount of cinnamon rolls by my mother’s standard-a burden which nearly broke me. But it was my unlikely cross to bear. Each night, I painted the neighborhood red on my Strawberry Shortcake banana-seated bicycle, of which the training wheels never quite made it off. I blame what I can only describe as a non-existence of driving skills and an inability to adhere to traffic laws, on my father’s failure to remove said wheels. And the fact that I was born in a trailer park, cus why not?

Up until the day I started college, and perhaps a small significant amount of time afterward, I’d of given up my weaved plastic bike basket to a homeless alcoholic, in a split second, had he asked nicely enough. Back in the innocence of my youth, my Can-I-Trust-You-Gauge consisted of the following checklist:

1. Are you alive? If yes, please skip to question 2.

2. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange-striped jumpsuit and shackles?

If no, I can now entrust you with the deepest secrets of my existence.

I like to refer to this fool-proof analyzation process as: my first big mistake. During the time span between frolicking with unicorns and an undisclosed year occurring somewhere in the range of 2003-2007, I continued to acquire a significant amount of unwanted lovechildren in the form of prematurely trusted “friends.”

Trusting people has now become an activity that I rarely participate in, and based on my life experiences, my checklist has undergone some minor adjustments since my days in the meadow:

1. Are you alive?

2. Are you on more than three major prescription meds that should not be taken in conjunction with one another?

3. Have you or do you ever plan on dating me and then consequentially holding a minimum of two years of my life hostage, while you discover that you, in fact, will never sort out your secret drug addiction or self-destructive tendencies?

4. If presented with the opportunity, would you steal something very valuable from me, like, let’s say, my copy of He’s Just Not That Into You or perhaps a custom designed engagement ring?

5. After I devote several years to our friendship and max out my credit card on wedding showers, baby showers, post-breakup-don’t-kill-yourself-presents, and housewarming gifts will you terminate our friendship for no apparent reason?

6. Are you unshaven and wearing an orange -striped jumpsuit and shackles?

And now I’ll present you with another charmed memory from my dusty archives. This letter was illegally passed to me in class circa 9th grade. It was the first note I had received at the new school I started Freshman year. I had never met this guy, but for some reason the phrase: “you can tell me, cus I won’t tell no one” was all I needed as a vow of solidarity between me and a complete stranger.

love-letter

Brittany,

Hey girl! Sup? Not a lot here. You probably have no idea to who I am. Well my names Mark. I was wondering if you liked anyone and who it was. You can tell me cuz I won’t tell no one.

Love, Mark W/B

Big. Big. Mistake.

Someone Alert The Environmentalists

Posted on August 21, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

THERE HAS BEEN A MAJOR OIL SPILL.

But first, a note from our sponsors.

Dear Everyone Who Reads This Blog Whether You Like It Or Not,

As of late, I realize that my online presence has been replaced with tumbleweeds and probably a surplus of tears. To attempt to explain exactly what has been going on, which has kept me from you like an unjust prison sentence, would require more space than the internet can provide. I can only beg for your forgiveness in this matter, and instruct you to refer to my book. That I will write. Someday. As soon as I can figure out what will be in it. But the past two weeks, you can be assured, will be in it.

Patience is a virtue,

Houdini.

As I was running out of the house with my arms full, I realized that I just absolutely could not survive the next 4 hours without a box of Rice Krispie treats. I stumbled into the kitchen, reached up into the cupboard, and that was the last moment of life as I knew it. Had I met my soul mate? My maker? Did I experience an epiphany that somehow pieced together every bit of my crazy life into a beautiful puzzle of clarity?

Not quite. As I was staring at my kitchen floor/cupboards/rug/fridge covered in olive oil and shards of glass, I shouted every bit of language I’d remember from my French class. Which, unfortunately, was nothing since I took Spanish. An entire 48 oz bottle of olive oil (extra virgin, of course, cus what am I a cheap bastard?) had been knocked off my counter by my extemely oversize (but tragically attractive) purse. And. Holy. Crapballs. It was a freaking mess. Have you ever tried to clean up oil? OH wait, you haven’t…cus it’s IMPOSSIBLE.

OF COURSE, I was already 20 mins late. OF COURSE, I had no paper towels. BUT OF COURSE, I’m a neat freak and couldn’t handle leaving a mess of this magnitude so my immediate reaction was to reach down and pick up pieces of glass. WHICH OF COURSE, resulted in about 6, 3459 cuts on my hands, which isn’t even possible. AND OF COURSE, when I went to change the clothes I tracked olive oil onto my carpets that were just cleaned.

Finally, I said screw this and I put bathroom towels over my entire floor and took off.

But of course, I’m not the only one in my family who’s been doing permanent damage to the environment lately.

You should know that here in the Midwest we’ve experience an extremely unlikely, cold, and damp summer. So the other night, I went over to my parents house for a “bonfire.” I walk out in the field and I quietly assume that this is what my dad was referring to:

bonfire

Have you met my dad lately?

That’s what I thought. Apparently, nor have I.

huge-bonfire

And as we quickly ran to escape the nearly 100 ft flame scolding our faces and the atmosphere, we all took a second to rethink Heaven and Hell.

fire

And we started stripping off layers of clothing due to the surmounting heat, my father stood back and watched like a giddy Boy Scout.

Me: Well, I guess our town might as well stop recycling for about a year, cus we’ve probably just reversed any progress they’ve made.

Dad: [laughing in a way that makes it impossible not to love him] Tell Al Gore I’m sick of this cold summer, would ya?

Mom chimes in: I think the only place Global Warming is happening these days, is inside Al’s mouth.

Ah. This is the heart of America, folks.

dad2

Open Letter: Rejection At Its Finest

Posted on August 14, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

As a young and awkward child, I was painfully shy and introverted. Maybe it was my jacked up teeth. Perhaps it was the acne. Or my untameable, frizzy hair before I discovered straighteners or anything other than Pert Plus. It could have been tragic the ankle-length skirts and turtlenecks enforced by my private school dress code. There’s no way of knowing.

For years and years, the worst torture I could possibly imagine was having my teacher force me to answer a question OUT LOUD, where I’d have to use my real-life voice. However, sometime after middle school, something went terribly awry. There was a glitch in the matrix and I became the most outgoing, uninhibited (and by all manners of speaking) freak ever to walk the planet, of whom it is impossible to embarrass. My father, however, has made it his life’s ambition to disprove this statement.

I say all this to say that I didn’t really date in school. At all, actually. I would just harbor hidden crushes on boys while outwardly ignoring them until I grew so frustrated that I considered batting for the other team. I didn’t though. Not metaphorically or literally, cus I am the most non-athletic, non-lesbian person you will ever meet. Except for my mad girl crush on Rachel McAdams. And Megan Fox. But we don’t have time to get into that.

Needless to say, I was quite shocked when my mother dropped off 6 boxes of assorted love letters/ snobby girl notes from my childhood. I don’t remember half of these people, nor do I have any clue why these letters were saved. I would say that I did it all for you, but that would be lie that even Satan would be ashamed of.

In other words, I’m starting a new category here titled OPEN LETTERS. Why? Because as I was reading these, I not only thought they were hilarious, but it also brought me back to a simpler time, where every problem in the world could be solved by having your “friend” give someone a note for you. Let’s reminisce shall we? This letter was circa 7th grade.

love-letter3

In case you can’t translate this ridiculous attempt at penmanship/ the English language:

Britteny,

Justin wants to know if you will go out with him tonight on a date. If so, will you go out with him (as a girlfriend) because he really likes you. And he thought that since I didn’t get you (as a girlfriend) then he thinks you will go out with him.

Love,

Mike

Um, am I the only one who feels a bit sorry for Mike in this scenario? Not only did I apparently reject him, but now his friend is making him ask me out for him? That’s harsh.

Also check out:

Open Letter: Liar, Liar, Your Pants Are Burnt To A Crisp

Open Letter: How Can We Break Up Without Me Telling You?

Naked Barbie Chillin On Some Cookies?

Posted on August 8, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

[I’m laying on the floor photographing the above picture, when my dad walks in the room]

Dad: [said like he is trying to piece together the mystery of life] Barbie. Naked. Laying on a pile of mom’s chocolate chip cookies. [laughs hysterically and then pauses for two minutes.] I don’t get it.

Well, sonofagun. Maybe I don’t either.

But my mom makes some ridiculously large and delicious chocolate chip cookies, which are clearly bigger than a pretend, unrealistically proportioned person. And she handed me 5 batches as she walked in, also carrying a blueberry pie and 10 bags of groceries. Immediately following this, she grabbed a paper towel and some Ajax and got to work on my shower, again proving to me why remaining in the Midwest was the sensible choice.

So while the parents were over, I decided I’d get caught up on some laundry today. .

laundry

Huh. Well what’s that crap? A crumpled dryer sheet? No, pffft, I don’t splurge on dryer sheets. And plus, these came out of the washer. A napkin, perhaps? Naw… Why would I have napkins – who’s coming over the Queen? Bob Hope? OH…. A Kleenex. It’s totally a Kleenex. Must have left it in a pocket or something. Blessed Respite!

However, that was a merely child’s play compared to what I would soon discover.

paper-towels

Wait… Wha? Okay, I’m no scientist, in fact, I didn’t even finish the 6 various colleges and trade schools that I started – but that IS WAY more stuff than could be produced by a Kleenex. And now that I think about it, I’m also too cheap to buy Kleenex. And you know what Judgy McThinkYou’reBetterThanMe? Once you have your own place, you will be too. AND you’ll remember to turn off the lights when you leave the room, dangit. So you just relax.

After I’d noticed that every single garment was coated in tiny pieces of white stuff, I knew there was something terribly awry. There was so much of it. Finally, as I reached into the washer and grabbed the last pieces of clothing, I discovered Exhibit C:

You’ve. Got. To. Be. Kidding.

How the? What the? Ugh.

*No Barbies were harmed or humiliated during this documentary. This is because, contrary to popular belief, they enjoy not being dressed in ridiculous outfits.

Dear Haters, Why Do You Love Me So Much?

Posted on August 5, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

It comes as absolutely zero surprise to me that my most popular post continues to be Why I Hate Women: Let Me Count The Ways. In fact, I still even get comments on it here and there. Why is this? Because everyone hates women. And in their desperation, they have found a safe place where that ideal will not only be accepted, but encouraged.

As I’ve stated before, I’ve come to expect that women won’t like me. It has become my certain destiny, much in the same way I will end up eating tacos on every day that starts with a “T” and my mom will call me at 10:30 pm each night to ensure I’m alive. There’s something in my genetic makeup. Maybe it’s the way I walk. Perhaps they can smell my self-confidence from across the room. It’s certainly not the way I talk, because they hate me waaay before that. Who knows. Farbeit for me to try to unlock the mystery behind centuries of bizarre, unwarranted behavior.

And now, because controversy makes the world go ’round, I’m going to take this opportunity to single out one of the most ridiculous of all ridiculous comments. Because if you’ve been around here for more than a minute, you’ll know that anything and everything you say could be turned into a public mockery at any moment. And now, I present to you Crazy-Uptight-Overly-Offended-For-No-Reason-Feminazi [ a.k.a “Leroy Brown”]:

It’s funny how small-minded people love revering to misogyny and sexism for kicks. Then again, I guess it’s all you folk have left–racism not being cool anymore. Too bad you have to live now and not fifty years ago. Then you coulda been sexist AND racist.

Now, what if you’d had the kind of luck where most of the Jewish people you’d ever met had in some way been unpleasant individuals? Would you be jew-haters? Would you be writing an anti-Semitic blog post?

Specimens of both genders exhibit undesirable characteristics. HUMANS exhibit undesirable characteristics. Just so you know, your blog makes you sound like an idiot. Now according to your logic, I should assume that you are an idiot because you are a woman. According to my own logic, you are an idiot because you aren’t very good at thinking things through. I hope you improve.

i-hate-women

My poignant and restrained response:

hahaah. oh “leroy.” that was hilarious. thank you for the laugh.

I mean, she was joking right? Of course, I could have made her feel like the stupidest person alive, thus addressing each one of her completely insane and off-base remarks, but if someone is SO STUPID to not even realize that everything on this blog is for entertainment value and they are SUCH A PRUDE that they can’t even laugh at how unbelievably retarded their own gender acts at times, well then, I’ve got much better things to do. And more importantly, doesn’t she?

Speaking of haters, I’ve gotten a lot of emails / comments lately from women I haven’t talked to in literally, YEARS. Possibly decades. Mainly, because they hated me because of something to do with a boy. Or their friends didn’t like me, so they had to hate me out of obligation. The comments express upset about how I recalled a particular story in my life or assuming that a blog was about them, when really I hadn’t even remembered what ethnicity they were.

After much pondering, I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s because the haters secretly love me. There is NO OTHER possible explanation as to why they would hunt me down in such a way AND take the time to read this precious blog AND take the time to comment on it. So shucks, I’ll take it as a compliment.

Awwwww… you guyyyys.

Chances Are, I’m A Pervert

Posted on August 1, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

Today, while at a routine stop at the Goodwill, I put these three items on the counter. They were exactly what I was looking for. We don’t have the time nor resources to get into the logistics of exactly why I needed this combination of items, but one could assume that I’m a third degree pervert who is planning on using exhibits A & B to lure a small child into my presence in order to lock them inside of exhibit C.

Based on the death glare I got from the Cashier, that’s definitely my plan. [as if she’s one to judge]

But that’s not why we’re here. Wait, why are we here? No, really, I was hoping you’d have the answer cus….

Listen. I know, I know. I don’t write a blog for, like, decades and all the sudden here I am with the one-two punch. But see, that’s how it works around here. This isn’t a “real” blog, this is more of an update. Housekeeping, if you will. I have been a bit MIA around the blogosphere lately, and it’s not because you’re getting on my every last nerve. Although…

As some of you may know, I lost my job last fall. No, there’s no blog that I can refer you to so that you can read about this seemingly dreadful but actually wonderful experience; however, that is definitely something I’ll add to my list. Cus Holy Crapballs, that was messed up. If you’ve lost your job recently, and there’s a good chance that you have – especially if you live in my dumpster of a state – you’ll understand what I’m about to say.

Losing your job can mean all sorts of things: a chance to reinvent yourself, an opportunity to do something you really love, a new start, or a spiraling depression that leaves you wallowing in self pity. For me, it meant all of the above. This brings me to my point, and yes, I have one this time. After I ate every morsel of hidden [but apparently not very well] holiday candy, watched every unfortunate chick flick that I owned – twice, and spent the better half of two months unshowered and locked away in darkness, I slowly managed to yank myself out impending doom and decided to pursue writing. It is, after all, the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do – even though I tried almost every other option. That process has been the most tragically-unfortunate-and-frightening-experience-turned-wonderful-surprise of my life. And I’m determined to make it work. Because well, if you have even the smallest chance of being able to do what you love – you should. Enough with the fear. Enough with the procrastination. Enough with the negativity. With that being said, go make yourself happy already – even though it might mean you’re broke for awhile about a year. ***Also, in the midst of this pursuit, combined with an excess of time on my hands, I’ve also discovered another passion I’m quite siked about, but one thing at a time here.

So my point is.. crap. Hold on.

I had to check my notes. My point is…. that I’ve been busy lately working on “business stuff.” And that would be a major understatement. So, remember how I used to have that freelance writing website that was really super duper ghetto? Psssh. Guess who ain’t ghetto no mo? That was just a temporary site [ come ON, a little credit please? ] and I’ve been slaving away on a dashing new web presence, among about fifty other pressing matters.

You can check it out on my freelance writing website, wordsbybrit.com.

Kenny Chronicles: “Officer, What Do You Take Me For?”

Posted on July 30, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

STOP THE PRESSES! If you keep reading, you will be lost and wandering through the woods like Bambi after he got ravaged by a wolf. This is part II of a series, first you must read the Kenny Chronicles: Risky Doesn’t Begin To Describe This Business. No really, get out of here.

This is quite long, it really should have been 3 parts… but who has patience for that? Okay, where were we? Oh yes. Circa 2006. I was going to house sit for Slumdog Millionaire [heroin addict ex-boyfriend] while he was in London “sorting himself out.” So being the responsible house sitter, I was in full party planning mode with Kenny [metrosexual BFF] for our Top Secret Risky Business-themed-birthday bash, scheduled for the weekend after Slumdog departed. My old London roommate was flying out from the Big Apple. The DJ was booked. Ray Bans and five thousand glow in the dark beads were ordered. Approximately 300 invitations were accidentally sent out.

Brief history of “the house” in question: I don’t think you understand. This house was in the NICEST neighborhood in my entire city. Quiet little families. Doctors and Lawyers. Maple trees, Unicorns, and rainbows EVERYWHERE. The only parties thrown in this neighborhood were, like, Mary Kay related. This knowledge will come in handy later on.

And now, courtesy of the recent archaeological dig in my Myspace Museum, I present to you an exact replica of the invitation to the “Kenny & Brit Risky Business B-day Bash of 06.” [My observations have been made in pink]

Dear those who like Tom Cruise and those who don’t,

I’m about 99% sure one of these things is currently true: 1. Your panties are now officially in a bundle. 2. Your mom still cooks a mean casserole. 3. Making out is my favorite past-time. Wait, sorry! We’re not talking about me.

Well, fear not, for the clouds have cleared and I can see the party of your life shining through – as if it were some golden ray of sunlight after a cold, dark & lonely winter void of human interaction and … wait, what? So break out the Velcro shoulder pads, the stars are aligned and its the Age of Aquarius. [clearly, my schizophrenic writing style and tendency to digress have not matured over time]

THE OFFICIAL DAY THAT YOU’RE GONNA LOVE YOUR LIFE: FRIDAY, AUGUST 4th @ 9pm-? We have condensed the guest list considerably [from what, 1000?] because this cannot get out of hand!! WARNING: Hey, Conan and the rest of you barbarians! You will be kicked out faster than Michael Jackson in a daycare if you do any of the following: [this was the second, ahem, slightly over-sized and out of control get together that we threw in Slumdog’s house]

*smoke inside the house (cuz you did last time)
*punch holes thru the walls or rip off the thermostat (cuz you did last time)
*spill stuff all over the place like you’ve got cerebral palsy (cuz you did last time)

[INSERT CRISIS] Four days before the party, Slumdog informs me that he’s not flying home.

Me: Um. [ losing my last fricken’ marble on the inside] I thought you were going to sort yourself out and get better? Don’t you want to get BETTER? Don’t you care about me? And your mom. What about your mom? You haven’t seen your mom in like a year?! What kind of son ARE YOU?

Needless to say, guilt trips don’t work very well on people who are on drugs to escape reality and feelings -thus, he missed his flight. Kenny and I went into full fledged Mission Impossible crisis mode. I had to do something drastic. I bought him a new ticket and if I had to sell my soul to make sure he went, I was ready. But the only ticket I could get was for the day AFTER our party.

Me [to Slumdog]: So I’ve bought you a new ticket for this weekend. You leave on Sunday, but I’ve arranged for ___ to pick you up on Friday and you’re going to stay in Chicago for the weekend and hang out on a yacht. It’ll be good for you. Have fun.

Night before the party I receive this email from Kenny:

From: Chad-a-licious

To: Neil, I still hate you.
Date: Aug 3, 2006 7:43 PM
Subject: Oh, by the way…

…let’s see. Could I be anymore frickin’ nervous??!!
[[exhale]] oh, boy… :S

and is that receptionist from the laser place still comin’???

Typical. When Slumdog arrived in Chicago, Kenny and I were an hour away moving all the furniture out of his house, taping black garbage bags to all the windows, installing ambient lighting, and sweating bullets. It was a hot mess. And so were we cus I got a call from Slumdog every 5 minutes saying he wanted to come home. [For a moment I’d like to flash back to my college days and have Miss Brooks switch that “B” to an “A” cus, wow, this was a persuasive speech the likes of which you’ve never seen.]

So the DJ was set up in the main living room. Yea, the one with a big giant window that you’d usually drive by and see a Christmas tree in. By about 10 pm, the entire neighborhood was lined with cars and people I’d never seen before were wandering through people’s yards in pursuit of the party. The back deck was filled with rowdy smokers. This party was anything but down low.

By the third time the cops came, I mistakenly thought he said I would be arrested, and I burst out into tears. Kenny, as usual, took over.

[standing in the front doorway] Officer: Do you realize this is a neighborhood where people have children?

Kenny: Yes, sir. I know, we had no idea it was so loud. [lies. lies from the depths of hell!] We will keep it down.

Officer: I’ve been getting alot of complaints. [peeking his head in at all the destruction] There wouldn’t happen to be any minors here would there?

Kenny: Officer. [putting his hand on his heart] Officer, what do you take me for? I am 25 years old. Do you really think a guy like me would allow something like that – in a neighborhood like this? In a house like this? Sir, rest assured, I have dotted every “i” and crossed every “t.”

And at that very moment, you could hear the sound of every Abercrombie & Fitch employee running out the back door and taking shelter in neighbors’ various swing sets and tube slides.

Kenny Chronicles: Risky Doesn’t Begin To Describe This Business

Posted on July 24, 2009 by Blunt Delivery

[This is part I of a two part series, inspired by the fact that I was deleting my Myspace account. I realized that they had saved every email correspondence from the past 6 years… it was like discovering the Pompeii of my social life. There they were, all my shennanigans. Pefectly and horrifically preserved.]

PREFACE: To be a successful person in life and also to understand this blog, you should have some familiarity with the Kenny Chronicles . But for those of you who won’t because you’re too lazy (and God love you for that) I will give you a brief background. Whilst attending college in London, I met a charming, British Indian lad who was stricken by yours truly. Several months later, he moved to my blue-collar, closed-minded Midwestern town to “study abroad,” but I fear all of that was just a really pathetic excuse for said illegal immigrant to be with yours truly. But can you blame the chap? Shortly thereafter, I discovered charming lad had more money than God and a very hopeless addiction to heroin. Two traits that I don’t generally seek out. In the rolodex of past relationships, I now affectionately refer to him as My Slumdog Millionaire. Oh, and Kenny. He is basically the male version of me, otherwise known as my metrosexual best friend.

The moment Slumdog moved here, it was blatently obvious that he didn’t belong. Everyone here is exactly the same. He was British. He was Indian. He was 26. He wore Versace Couture and got regular facials. He had no occupation, yet immediately paid cash for a home in my city’s most expensive neighborhood, where he parked a Porsche Carerra 911 and two Mercedes in the driveway. He was surrounded on all sides by maple trees and white doctors with young families. To say that he stuck out, would be to say that my mother is paranoid of life, or that my dad hates Al Gore, or that I have a mild distaste for mayonnaise and commitment.

study-abroad-london Among the many positive benefits that heroin has to offer, my favorite is paranoia. It only took about two days on American soil for Slumdog to decide that our unexplainable chemistry meant that Kenny and I were having a secret, steamy love affair. I laid down the law that Kenny wasn’t going anywhere. Long ago, Kenny and I came to the conclusion that when we finally meet “the one” they will understand our relationship. It seems that since then we’ve both dated quite a few “not-the-ones.” During the three years of hell that followed, Kenny was the only person who knew. He helped me hang on to any small shred of sanity I had left, when he wasn’t pissing me off, of course. We crafted many a sneaky maneuver to carefully hide the addiction from everyone, including friends, neighbors, family, my employees… and the cops. As someone who hadn’t had any experience with drug addicts [so sue me], I didn’t want everyone to judge him on the off chance that he might someday overcome his addiction. Chalk that up to naivete and Nice Midwestern Girl Syndrome – both traits of which I’m glad to be free.

In a last ditch effort to gain me back for the 100th time, Slumdog planned a trip to see his London doctor and “sort himself out.” As usual, I was left to tend to all of his bills, the ginormous house, 3 cats, 300 gallon salt water SHARK TANK [for which I had to dice up raw shrimp and squid to satisfy their ravenous appetites morning, noon, AND NIGHT], and various other duties – all while I was attempting to run my retail store in the mall. Bottle of wine, anyone?

Kenny and I had always thrown combined birthday parties. Well, hey, whaddya know? I’m going to have a big, huge house all to myself… I spose we could just have a small little get together type thingy here, eh? And so we started planning a top secret gathering for the week after Slumdog’s departure. It was especially confidential since Slumdog hated the Kenny. And Slumdog was a freakishly paranoid about his house and/or possessions.

risky-business-tom-cruise

The theme was to be “Risky Business”… cus well, it was. And Kenny has always had a ridiculously unwarranted mild obsession with Tom Cruise [and does bear a slight resemblance to him circa Top Gun. ..or so he says]. We had sent out a few, or 300, invitations via every social networking avenue available. I should also mention that we’re not good at keeping promises, or anything on the “down low.” Thus, we booked a DJ, purchased ambient lighting for the entire house, ordered several hundred glow in the dark beads and Ray Bans, and secured people to help us move out all the furniture. My London roommate was also flying out from New York for the, uh, get together. Oh, this is only the beginning.

Things to anticipate in part II:

*An exact replica of the party invitation as has been preserved in the MySpace museum.

*When everything blows up in our big, fat lying faces.

*Slumdog misses his flight to London, which throws Kenny and I into Mission Impossible crisis mode.

*Kenny distracting the cops, as I burst out into tears and tons of minors scatter out the back door and hide inside the rich neighbors’ tube slides.

UPDATE: CLICK HERE FOR PART II

For more of the Kenny Chronicles:

I Hate People Who Smell Like Breakfast

How We Met

How to Talk Yourself Out of Dating Almost Anyone

A Conversation at Starbucks

A Metrosexual in a Yankees hat