pervert_porch

just to make it clear - I DIDN'T DO IT. well, at least not this time.

why is the front room devoid of, um, ANYTHING?

j: i hate front 242
s: YEAH, FUCK 'EM.
j: right in the face. seriously.
s: TWICE!
...
s: second time would probably be kinda squishy.
j: that's ok.
s: no it's not, I don't like squishy things.
j: that's fine, I'll take care of it, then.



oh, the things that pass for reasonable conversation around here.

resurrecting p_p long enough to announce that Jay has announced his intent to learn first to crochet and then, shortly thereafter, to learn to knit.

he is well aware that should he pursue such occupation, he will need to sit in the living room knitting sweaters and talking about boys, and is in accordance with this requirement.

I'm pretty sure his birthday list is going to constist solely of requesting a fancy new vagina.

a few days ago i went to my parents' old house and picked up all my he man toys. or most of them. skeletor lives on the teevee set now. my parents are bringing by my old transformers tomorrow on their way back home to pseudoportland. so if the pervert porch explodes in a giant fireball of awesome soonish, you know why.

Dear, DEAR neighbours,

I would like to bring your attention to a simple fact of urban existance that perhaps you might need a bit of explanation for: when you sing, your neighbours can hear you.

Shocking, I know, when one is predisposed to imagine ones home as castle, inviolate and absolutely private, but the fact remains that we can even hear a substantial amount of your conversations, too. The talking, however, rarely catches the undivided and inalienable attention that your singing does.

Ms. Upstairs-and-one-building-over, I'm truly glad that your life seems to be going in a more positive and upbeat direction - at least, that is what I must assume based on the fact that you've abandoned your usual Portishead and Depeche Mode sing-along cds in favour of Kelly Clarkson. Really, I'm glad that you're crawling out of whatever pit of man-induced misery you've been wallowing in for the past three years; it's simply thrilling. The thing is, though - and dear, I hate to be harsh, but honesty has a price - you can't sing. Not worth beans. That basket you found on your doorstep some time ago? I bought that for you in the hopes that you could carry a tune in it; clearly, my optimism was misplaced.

And most recently, Ms. Directly-Overhead - in theory, I have nothing against shower-based warbling, really I don't. My idea of a good time doesn't exactly involve soap, water and amateur acoustic renditions of Sarah McLaughlin songs, but if that's what floats your rubber duckie, I'm provisionally all for it. The problem is that you felt the need to indulge your inner sudsy soprano at 6am. AM = IN THE MORNING. I would have thought that it never need be stated that 6am is NOT an appropriate time to be inadvertently serenading your poor, bedraggled, sleep-deprived and caffeine-free neighbour downstairs. Once again, my assumptions were wildly off-base.

Ladies, to both of you I make the following suggestions: the inexplicable human urge to sing really, really badly is why god invented automobiles and karaoke bars. Look into it.

Hugs, bunny kisses and etc.,
the residents of pervert porch

once again we are three.

all is right with the universe, at least in happy-housing pervert-porch land. :)

beer locusts!

bottle of kmart-brand champagne bought for a nye party 5 years ago: $5

gallon jug of generic-ass gin from bev mo: $8

watching your new roommate, who had apparently had liberal servings of each of the above, inform his kitten and Fatfat that they totally need to make out: priceless.

sloppy drunks rule.

girls in the bathroom talking about "having asses of comparable magnitude" and wearing cocksucker red lipstick. i am stuck in an episode of sex and the city. halp.

where's bon jovi?!

trader joe's truffle brownie mix does NOT MAKE GOOD COOKIES, no matter what the box would seem to suggest.

silly wafer-like floppy brownie-flavoured cookie-esque testaments to culinary failure. thank god they're at least vaguely chocolat-ish.

shannon: if you think i'm gonna sit around and wait for something to happen, you're high. on. smack. i'm gonna go watch yoda blow shit up.

the coffee maker is gonna eternally smell like fucking waffles. almost wanna spend fifty bucks for a new one.

WE LOVE OUR GENDER STEREOTYPING:

Shannon: (paying bills, balancing checkbook, etc.) I'm going to buy shoes today! I figure if I get RID of 4 old pairs of shoes, I can justify anywhere between 2 and 5 NEW pairs of shoes!

Jay: (flipping through the best buy catalog that just arrived in today's mail) SHUT UP. TEEVEES.

To do before leaving:

- take out trash werd to the jones
- empty sink
- de-creepify pantry more jones. rad.
- pack edit: cannot pack, obviously, as am at work, but have made THE WORLD'S MOST DETAILED LIST EVER. if I forget anything at all, it will simply prove that I am, as I have stated for years, completely fucking retarded.</b>
EDIT: - shower, OMG
- leave instr. for Steve typed and ready to be pinned to my door.
- leave Steve's contact info for Margot typed and ready to be pinned to HER door, assuming she's at work when I get home. lord knows I didn't tell her anything she doesn't already know, but leaving the house for more than a few hours at a time makes me freak out. I leave for work paranoid, and that's 9 hours 1.2 miles away. 3.5 days and 500 miles away? pants-crapping could ensue at any moment.
edit: - make sure Jay changes the damned link to the soul thinger already werd, now make us (e-)dollars, dammit!


Things we've/I've already done:

- clean out car (scary)
- get directions. all of 'em, ever. hotel, d'land, canter's, local Wells and Wamu locations. I'm a geek.
- also, got phone numbers for every place I KNOW we'll be going. again, geek.
- made the world's most comprehensive and ridiculous play list. 12 hours of driving, 11 days worth edit: 19 days, 16 hours of music. IT'S JUST NOT ENOUGH.


To do on the road:
- Target (band-aids and travel ipod thinger)
- gas. duhr.
- bank
edit: - Jeebus Burger. "on the road" is apparently code word for "in Daly City."


undoubtedly to be updated as I remember new and exciting things to add to the list, and HOPEFULLY as things actually get done. feh.

go here and make an account to make shannon and i richer than jesus.

oh yes, it's beer-thirty up in the perv porch.

i'd say "up in this humpy bumpy," but neither me or shannon want to think about ANYTHING involving hump at the moment.

I went to the middle of nowhere for the weekend, and I left my car at work while I did so. Coerced Jay into driving me back there (couldn't make myself walk 'cause dude, the whisky and the FAR).

as he was dropping me off in my pajamas in front of the strip club across the street from my work, he of course waited until the car door was open and I was half way out of it before he hollered "BYE BYE HAVE FUN WATCHING THE PORN!"

it woulda been embarassing, except it was too funny. oh, and the whisky.

mental note: shannon drinks when she gets an email from her ex. must spoof email address and send her one that she will get at 6:30am before she goes to work.

FUCKING DISCO PUNK!?!!?!11 i could crap.

SHANNON.

i just used some ice out of one of the fagasmic heart ice cube trays.

know what's in one of the ice cubes? a seed from the corned beef from corned beef and cabbage night.

even our ice is impoverished. if it could talk, i'll bet you a dollar it has a vulgar, impossible to understand (without subtitles!) accent. i don't think we could possibly get any more white.

shannon. any dirty mick dinner stuff i should prep for? i mean, other than beating my wife. done and done!