2. As we are a working class people, we do not own a self-cleaning toilet. Although I have spent countless hours on eBay searching for the toilet cleaning fairies that non-women are certain exist, I have not been successful.
3. Similarly, if there is a magic toilet paper dispenser that refills itself without any assistance from human hands, our family has yet to purchase such a wonder.
4. "Hey Baby, I just took a shower" is not foreplay.
5. Neither are the words, "I can't sleep," or "There is nothing on TV".
6. In many civilized societies, when one person in a relationship has worked all day, shuffled one child or several here, there & yonder and yet has still found the time to prepare a meal, the other person offers to do the dishes. The absence of a properly typed and notarized request is not license to say, "I didn't know you wanted me to do them".
7. What happens in the bathroom stays in the bathroom.
8. Mastercard is not French for, "Unlimited money forever".
9. Unless Paris Hilton is spotted at a trendy New York nightclub wearing them, laundry detergent, shampoo and paper towels are not luxury items on which women enjoy spending money every chance they get.
10. Barring some recent and grossly under publicized breakthrough in the world of human anatomy, men do not use tampons. The check out girl at Wal-Mart knows they are not for you. Shut up and just do it already.
I was recently discussing mental health issues with someone when something very significant dawned on me.
No matter who you are or where you come from, everyone has at least one crazy (odd, eccentric, unusual) person in their family tree. In my family there are so many, they practically swing from the branches.
When I was a girl, my Maw Maw would throw me in the car and we’d drive over to see my cousin Wayne.
I didn’t like to go see Wayne and I’d try every way in the world to get out of it without actually coming out and saying I didn’t want to go. That’s because I loved my Grandmother more than anything in the world and would have done anything she asked of me. Besides, when she’d tell me how much Wayne loved it when I visited, what was I gonna do? Not make Wayne happy?
I should tell you that my cousin suffered from some sort of malady which I’m sure has an actual real medical name, but which my Southern family never knew or possibly couldn’t pronounce. That’s why my whole young life Cousin Wayne was known as a “water head”.
I have no idea how old he was, but I do know that all you could see in his bed was a regular sized body and a gigantic head. I mean like a huge, big head. It was misshapen and distorted somewhat, so I can see where my family got the idea that his head was filled with water.
So what does a young girl who is terrified of water-heads and a water-headed, bed-bound relative talk about during visits? Well, mostly how I enjoyed being able to walk around while simultaneously turning my head and how it sucked he couldn’t get out of bed or his head would roll off.
Nothing! We talked about nothing! I spent all my time there trying not to look at his giant head.
“Tell Wayne bye, Shurry,” Maw Maw would say.
“Bye Wayne.”
“Tell Wayne you’ll come back to see him soon”.
“I’ll come back to see you soon, Wayne.”
I had only two things on my mind. Getting away from Wayne and making sure I didn’t catch whatever cooties he had. I was also very careful not to drink their water. One never knows how one winds up with a water head.
I had another cousin named Everett. He was very loving and very loud. As a grown man he’d run up to anyone he came across, throw his big arms around them and ask, “Is you my kin folks?”
I did not have the same appreciation for Everett as did the rest of my family. I knew he was a nice man to be sure, but I was compelled by my desire to flee from him and scream at the top of my lungs when he’d make a run for me.
There I’d be screaming for my life and running around the yard waving my arms over my head while a grown man chased me trying to determine if I was indeed his kin folks…even though he saw me all the time. Behind him in this bizarre scene would be other relatives commanding me to stop running because he wasn’t going to hurt me. “He only wants to give you some sugar!”
Like hell he was. I was pretty sure that if either my water-headed cousin or my kin folk cousin gave me sugar, it would be the same as a zombie eating my brain. Next thing you know, I’d be one of them.
Not all the peculiar people in my family were male. I remember one female who was in her early twenties. She was on my Father’s side and for that I was grateful because it meant my maternal Maw Maw couldn’t make me hang out with her. I have no idea what exactly was wrong with this chick or even how I came to be related to her. All I remember is that she was always very concerned that her belly button had disappeared.
As a small obsessive-compulsive girl I found the notion that belly buttons could disappear a life changing chunk of knowledge. After much thought, I determined they did not so much disappear as they fell back into stomachs. It was then that I made the resolution never to lie on my back for too long so that my own personal belly button did not need to be retrieved by some invasive and most certainly painful medical procedure.
I also sort of became one with my belly button so that I was completely in tune with how it was feeling at any given time. If I felt at all like it might be slipping, I would walk around with my stomach pushed out using as much force as I could. I’m happy to report this plan of action resulted in no button slippage whatsoever. It also resulted in making me look like I was always either very hungry or very pregnant.
At seven years old, I’m sure no one thought I was pregnant. You can’t even get married in North Carolina until you are at least ten.
Yesterday I read in our small town paper that a local woman has just experienced the unmitigated bliss of having her book hit the New York Times Bestseller List.
WHAT THE HELL???
Listen, I am not one to threaten people and Lord knows I am a caring, kind person who is genuinely happy when a fellow citizen of the world reaches for their dream and gets it. I’m all about crap like that.
But this town has a grand total of about fifteen people in it and I feel sure the Universe only planned to allow one writer out of the fifteen to actually have a book published. The fact that she made the Times means that now the same Universe has to kill off one of my neighbors to balance it all out.
In the interest of protecting the old man next door, I think I’m going to have to hunt her down and run her over with my economy car.
There she was on the front page of the four page paper in her big city press photo. She was crouched down on one knee as if she was waiting on the rest of the cheerleaders to show up and form a literary pyramid.
Who does that? Everyone knows real writers wear tweed jackets with patches on the elbows and are only photographed with their arms folded and a pipe in their mouth. It’s called being professional.
And what kind of book did she write?
FICTION! Not even real fiction either. There were no heaving bosoms or shirtless, illiterate stable boys on the cover. She wrote a work of fiction for kids!
I know, I know. Kids can’t read and even if they could, they don’t have the necessary credit card to purchase a book on Amazon. How is that profitable for a publisher?
The fact that she made the Bestseller List despite the fact that her target audience can’t read and has no money tells me that A) she only pretended it was for kids when really it’s porn for adults who are too embarrassed to buy porn, or B) she slept her way to the top of the list.
I choose C: All of the above, plus she is the devil.
Listen, if all it takes to get an agent, a publisher, and a spot on That List is to write a book full of made up stuff and then sleep with thousands and thousands of book buyers, I’m there. The fact is I know how to make stuff up. I have a long line of ex-husbands to back me up on this. I am the woman who has repeatedly told potential mates that I will live with them ‘til death do us part.
I am also fine with sleeping with thousands and thousands of people in the name of publishing success so long as I can get my doctor to write my Lunesta prescription for more than thirty pills at a time or I’d get killed in co-pays.
It’s not that I’m not freaking ecstatic for this stupid, pretty, devil woman. It’s not that I’m jealous of her and her shiny, new book either. I just want her to not be successful, that’s all.
I am intelligent enough to know that there are a finite number of successes allowed per city and that number is directly related to the population count. That’s why it’s OK that there are approximately 8 million actors in Los Angeles and almost that same number of writers in New York City. But when you come from a small town like this one, there is only one ticket out and that fiction slut stole mine.
Of course I mean that in the nicest way.
I have two choices. I can either lie down and take this (her porny ways are rubbing off on me already), or I can do something about it.
So here’s my three step plan for becoming the best selling, tweed wearing, author of Wiping the Crazy off My Face for children.
Step one: Write an actual book.
Step two: Find a city with no successful writers in it and move there.
Step three: Hire a private investigator to drug W. Bruce Cameron, pose him in an unflattering way next to a naked hooker named Jello and then blackmail him into forcing his publisher to make me the female him.
That, my friends, is how you become successful. Maybe I'll write a book about that.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ My FAVORITE Stevie Ray Vaughn song ever... and that's saying a lot since I love everything he ever did. Miss him terrible.
I am in search of new friends. Not additional friends as in I'm going to keep the ones I have while I add to that number.
Nope. I mean I am cleaning house and getting some brand spanking new friends and the sooner, the better.
Here's why.
My current friends have never once asked me if I would like to go in halfsies in a Powerball ticket. Evidently they all want to be stupid rich and then have parties where they show slides of me eating out of a trash can.
One of my current friends continually threatens to break up with me. What kind of grown up threatens to break up when things don't go their way? I would never do something like that. When things don't go my way I do the adult thing and start a rumor that said friend confided in me that he has a tiny penis because he was in a freak French poodle accident.
I also need new friends because no friend of mine has ever asked if I would like to go caroling. And I would. I really would. I want to dress up in one of those caroler costumes with a big bonnet and force my religious beliefs on unsuspecting people in the comfort of their own home.
Plus I'd get to sing "God rest ye merry gentlemen". It makes me giggle.
Not one friend has ever started a drive to raise the funds necessary to get me one of those monkeys used in lab experiments. You know. The kind that have had to solve puzzles to get Vienna Sausages dropped through a tube so they're crazy smart.
A real friend should know that a crazy smart Vienna Sausage eating monkey would complete me.
The kind of friends I'm looking for have certain qualities that are terribly important.
First of all, they need to be devoted to me in a way that is just a little creepy. When I drop by their houses, I'd like to see an area... doesn't have to be a large area...with a photo of me and candles burning beneath it in my honor. Nothing elaborate. Just a little makeshift altar.
Second, they need to be available to me. When I can't sleep (like now), I should be able to call them and immediately be sung to sleep. I don't want any of those songs about me being in a cradle in a tree for some damn reason and then falling down either. I want a lullaby that is about me and if they really love me, I'm gonna want it to rhyme and have a happy ending. Maybe something about me being elected President or having eyes that melt even the hardest of hearts.
If you would like to submit your application to my circle, please contact humorwriter@gmail.com with your qualifications. References are optional, but rhyming is not.
I like lists. I like writing things down. Because I'm a caring person and because I suffer under the delusion that you care, I will now share some of my most recent lists with you.
Things I like to find in my office after a friend has dropped by to say hello while I was out.
1. Money. 2. Monkeys. (The trained kind... not the kind that bite off your thumbs.) 3. Naked Firefighters. (The gorgeous kind...not the kind that bite off your thumbs.) 4. Any combination of the above. Naked firefighters holding a wad of cash in one hand and a monkey in the other would be Christmas. Things I do not like to find in my office after a visit from a friend.
1. Untrained monkeys. Although equally as cute as their trained counterparts, untrained monkeys can be messy. 2. Things that resemble brown snot in the seat of my chair. 3. Piles of melted brown and orange candies carefully placed in my desk drawer that would lead me to believe someone did in fact leave an untrained monkey for me and that before escaping back into the wild from whence it came, it experienced a violent bout of diarrhea after having eaten large quantities of Halloween candy.
Things to check before I leave for the office in the morning.
1. My teeth: to be sure I do not have lipstick on them. 2. My zipper: to be sure it's in the full upright position. 3. My iron: doesn't matter that I haven't ironed in four years. Obsessive-compulsives know that irons can spontaneously turn themselves on.
Things I like to find in my email inbox.
1. Dear Sher: I do love you, since you asked. You can wax me anytime. Great stuff....signed, a new avid reader and former southerner. 2. Dear Sher: How did you get to be so damn witty/funny? Life experiences? Do you have a journalism past? (Answer - no journalism past, but definitely a sordid one.) 3. Dear Sher: I have been a long time reader, seldom commenter, and I look forward to seeing what you have to say every day. Things I don't like to find in my email inbox.
1. FW: 2. Increase your pleasure by getting a bigger joy stick. 3. Let's see if you really read your email.
People I like.
1. Santa 2. Elvis 3. That guy who stars in the TV show, "Life".
People I don't like.
1. All people who don't like me first. 2. The woman who was rude to me on the phone yesterday. 3. Mitt Romney... and I don't know why.
Things that I can't figure out no matter how many times I stay in a Holiday Inn Express.
1. Why buildings more than one story don't fall down. 2. How Karl Rove got the word out about Dumbledore so quickly. 3. Marriage.
I am dying to tell someone that I’m pregnant and I want to do it in a really cute, slightly cheesy way. You know… leave a pair of knitting needles with tiny baby socks on them stuck in the cushions of the sofa or maybe “accidentally” put a little baby rattle in with Mr. Man’s rattles.
It’ll all be very I Love Lucy or Family Ties. Mr. Man will freak out for a minute and then he’ll tearfully hug me and rub my belly and I’ll stop eating fried foods and dying my hair because it’s bad for the baby.
I’m thinking maybe I’ll tell him tonight. I’ll probably fix him a martini and when he asks where mine is, I’ll say “babies don’t like martinis”.
There is a little glitch in my plans for this evening that I should probably give some thought to however.
I don’t know how to make a martini, I’m not pregnant and frankly I can’t say with any authority that babies don’t like martinis because as I just told you, I don’t know how to make them so I’ve never offered one to a baby. Maybe they like them very much and in reality they cry all the time because they can’t say “where the hell is my martini, woman”.
Stupid babies. I can’t say phenylpropanolamine and you don’t see me crying all the time.
I realize the fact that I’m not pregnant should probably stop me from telling people that I’m pregnant, but I really, really want to. I’ve been pregnant twice in my life and both times, nobody was especially happy to hear the news. I think at some point in my life I deserve to have someone be thrilled out of their minds to know I’m carrying a little zygote around and puking every three minutes.
I should be honest here and tell you that although I want to tell people I’m pregnant in order to get positive attention, I would rather lick the floor of a truck stop than actually be pregnant. I don’t do pregnant well. For the great majority of my pregnancies I throw up everything but the baby because even moving my eyeballs makes me vomit. And then once I’ve popped the little cuties out, I get to experience the joy that is severe post-partum depression and psychosis.
Its loads of hormonal fun.
Of course, I do have the distinction of being the only woman in the last 100 years or so to have given birth to two perfect children so no matter how much crap I have to go through to bring forth life, I am crazy good at it.
As I’ve said before, my vagina is magic. If I had given birth to George W. Bush, the United States would have flying cars and we’d all know that the cure for cancer is just plain old grass seed.
There is also the little matter of me not really liking babies so even if by the miracle of science and Vodka I were to become pregnant, I’d probably give it to someone very deserving, like Madonna or Angelina Jolie. Before you freak out and start throwing stones at my picture, I think it’s normal not to like babies when you’re forty-three. In fact I think it’s biological. Nobody wants to see an old chick wearing a T-shirt with an arrow pointing south saying anything. Ever.
When I say I don’t like them, it isn’t that I think babies are bad. I just mean that if one is in the room, I like to be in a different room. If a baby is in a restaurant, I like to be in my car driving to another restaurant. If a baby decides to see a movie after they’ve enjoyed a nice dinner out, I like to wait until the movie comes out on DVD.
I could go on and on about how babies are ruining everything from shopping to popcorn shrimp, but I have to go put a plastic baby in the middle of the roast I’m making for Mr. Man’s dinner. I’ve decided that’s how I’m gonna tell him.
I may not be rich. I may not be pretty. I may not know what it’s like to celebrate a ten year wedding anniversary despite the fact that I have been perpetually married since 1983.
But after this weekend, I can say that I am among the elite few to have ever been served a barrel full of fried food… out of a trailer… by a man wearing a beard hair net and a T-shirt that read, “Ass, grass or gas. Nobody rides for free”.
And a vest. A leather vest.
AND I stood in line for nearly a half hour for the privilege.
Feel free to allow the waves of envy wash over you.
Every year the Evil Red-Headed Berta Lou and I go forth in her SUV to a craft fair about an hour or so away from home. It’s a large event held outdoors and a very popular one at that. Women in kitty-cat sweaters come from all across the Midwest in hopes that they might obtain purses made from old jeans or joy of joys, a front porch sitting, four foot wooden Santa Claus holding a sign that says, “I’m not that happy to see you. That really is a candy cane in my pocket”.
While I love a nice quilted ceiling fan blade cozy as much as the next girl, I actually go to the craft fair for two reasons and two reasons only.
1. Food that only smells good at craft fairs and that I would never eat in a million years unless I was at a craft fair and protected by the law that says food cooked outside in autumn is safe for human consumption even when prepared by prison escapees.
2. To feel superior to others.
This year it was raining and cold and packed to the fences with middle-aged women wearing Crocs, fanny packs and appliquéd sweatshirts.
Reasons #1 and #2: check.
Besides the joy that was food and superiority, there was so much cool stuff to see, I could barely take it all in.
One booth featured the work of a talented artist who drew intricate winter scenes on a variety of unusual canvasses. I’m no art critic, but I’m saying if you can perfectly capture a snowman family holding hands under a starry sky like a bunch of Walton snowmen…ON AN OLD TOASTER…you have a very bright future indeed. The world is the oyster of a professional Christmas toaster painter.
Another booth was just some old guy sitting at a table with his stack of paperback books. He was the author. I know that because he’s there every year and always has a hand written sign that says, “Meet the author” on the back of a piece of cardboard beside the yellowed editions. Even though he’s at least 107, I am always overcome with the urge to knock him out cold and take his place. If I do not have a book of my own, I have no problem pretending my name is Nathaniel and I have written a compelling turn of the century tale of cowboy woe.
Woe is woe, as near as I can tell.
While there were innumerable crocheted doll clothes, wooden trash cans with the word TRASH carved down the front of them and countless purses made out of 1998 calendars and duct tape, my award for best item at the craft fair has to go to the guy selling “cheese serving plates”.
Using some magical method, he had taken glass beer bottles of all kinds from the dump, flattened them, and cleverly recognized that nothing says “may I offer you some cheese” like a flat Corona bottle.
I found myself intrigued by his ability to convince the masses to give him nearly twenty bucks for something so utterly redneck, the word redneck doesn’t even describe it. I cannot even imagine a world where anything would ever be served to anyone for any reason in the belly of a flattened out beer bottle.
But maybe that’s just my jealousy talking. The truth is I too would become a cheese serving plate entrepreneur if I knew how to suck the air out of dirty old beer bottles.
On second thought, if I knew how to suck a beer bottle flat, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have to make my millions selling crap at a craft fair.
When I watched the video of Randy Pausch, a 46-year-old computer-science professor at Carnegie Mellon University, delivering his last lecture ever, I was in awe. Here is this man not much older than I am who is quickly dying and yet he’s doing so with such tremendous grace and insight, you only feel sorry for him for about sixty seconds. Before his lecture is over its evident that if you feel any sadness at all, it should be reserved for those he’ll leave behind.
This author suggested we’d all benefit if we took some time to reflect on our own lives by writing One Last Blog Post.
I couldn't agree more.
~~~~~~~
The best moments of my life have been what some might think are the smallest ones.
The feeling of my then four-year-old daughter holding my hand from the back seat of the car has been burned in my brain now for almost twenty-years. It didn’t matter to her that to hold her hand I had to twist uncomfortably around in my front seat belt to do it. All that mattered was that she and I were holding hands. Every time we’d get in the car to go anywhere regardless of the distance, my little girl would reach for me and those sweet little fingers would hold on tight.
I love that memory and I know for sure that no matter how old I get, I can always go back there in my mind and hold my baby girls tiny fingers any time I want.
When my son was born, there were problems at his birth. For a few tense days, we weren’t sure what was going to happen. He was tough even then and before I knew it, we were on our way home. I had brushed his super blonde hair to one side and dressed him in the outfit his Dad had picked out and as we left the hospital, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked like such a little man. I remember thinking that this child was going to be somebody important. I felt like I had given birth to a scientist who would cure something awful or to the one person on Earth who could end world hunger. I really did.
I still feel that way. I tell him all the time he has a special purpose and the best thing is he believes it himself. I feel very lucky to be the woman God chose to bring him here.
There have been plenty of rough roads in my life and for the most part, my mental illness was the gravel. In the same way that people always understand their eyes are blue, I always understood my brain wasn’t normal. For many, many years, I felt like breathing in and out was too hard and many, many times, I tried to stop doing that.
Looking back, I know that I never really wanted to die. I just wanted my brain to be quiet. I wanted people to stop being mean to me. I belly crawled through my life, ears laid back like a whipped dog. If someone told me I wasn’t worth the bullet it would take to kill me, I agreed with them. If someone felt I deserved to be choked or thrown to the floor or back handed, I was like a losing boxer whose only hope was the good sense to stay down.
I have been spit on, laughed at, called names, kicked and used as a sexual crash test dummy and all the while, I never knew I could have made it stop any time I wanted.
I had absolutely no idea that I alone had the power over all of it and that how unhappy I was had nothing to do with my Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder or abusive men. It had to do with how much of my power I was willing to hand over to whomever or whatever demanded it.
I think if I have any wisdom at all to leave behind, it’s that each of us is in control even during those times we feel like someone or something else is calling all the shots. No matter how nasty the situation, no matter how hopeless it seems, no matter how weak we feel, we’re still running our own show. Our ability to make choices is more than powerful. It’s spiritual.
And finally, when my time here is up and I am on to find out whatever comes next, my hope is that a whole lot of people will hear someone say, “She loved you”. When my Grandmother died and I felt like I’d lost the only person on Earth who thought I was something special, countless people said to me again and again, “She sure did love you.” That’s brought me great comfort over the years and I’ve come to think that in the end, how much I loved is how I want to be judged.
I used to hold on tight to those three words (I love you) and other than to my children, I could barely get them out to anyone else. Now I say I love you as often as I feel love, which is a lot. It makes me happy and if it makes someone else uncomfortable, they’ll just have to steer clear of me in Wal-Mart or risk getting hit on the head with my giant “I love you” wand.
So that’s it then. My “One Last Blog Post”. Where’s yours?
Someone I love is struggling with the pain of having to say good-bye to someone she loves. Its hard to see her hurt this way and not have anything clever to say that will make the impending loss of her far too young loved one somehow easier. I have nothing. I am inadequate.
While stumbling, I found this. If you have time, I really recommend you stop and watch it. Very powerful.
In the next few days, check back here for my own One Last Blog Post and I hope some of you who are inspired by this man to do the same will comment here with yours.
If you've been around this blog very long, you know how much I appreciate a good stalker. I realize a lot of people fear stalkers, but I don't get that. In my opinion, nothing says lovin' like having someone obsessed with you in a completely unnatural and absolutely unhealthy way.
Unless they kidnap you, put you in a hole and pay way too much attention to your skin's hydration, that is. Then it just becomes awkward.
Someone once emailed me and ask to be put on my "to be stalked" list. Clearly that person does not read this blog or he/she would know that I personally do not stalk. I'm way too self involved for that. The only exception to that rule of course is Michael Buble and the occasional firefighter. I have no problem hiding in bushes for the hope that I might catch a glimpse of one of the above doing something stalk-worthy.
The official stalker of the OCD Chick is none other that the Toad Suck Guy himself. For information, I bestowed that name upon him when he invited me to some sort of Toad Suck festival in a city and state where Toad Sucking is apparently done on a professional level. I've never met TSG and although I suspect he is in reality in prison somewhere doing life for killing a humor writer, I appreciate his dedication to the fine art of stalking. (He was recently almost fired from the job however because he insinuated I should perhaps do some reciprocal stalking...which I believe we have established I do not do.)
Head on over there and check out his latest blog entry and you'll see why he's slowly, but surely, moving up my potential husband list. He's a very, very funny guy and he uses big words for no good reason which is always a plus with me.
For some time I have searched with no success for someone to teach a CPR class to a group of new hires for a new business with which I am associated. “No problem,” I said when the task was put on my side of our lengthy to do list prior to our Grand Opening.
How hard could it be, I thought, to find a person with the knowledge necessary to teach others how to bring somebody back from the brink of death?
Turns out its damn near impossible to find someone who will teach others how to do this black magic known as CPR. I have concluded CPR instructors are like ninjas. Nobody actually knows one, but we know that in a fight, Chuck Norris would kick all their asses.
I’ve enlisted an Army of my peeps to assist me in my desperate search for a CPR ninja of my very own. The problem is that everyone I call acts as if I’ve just asked them for the name of a good back alley abortionist.
“Ummm, well I know a guy who knows a guy who might be able to do it, but I think maybe he had to stop.”
As of today, I have reached the end of my rope with this whole thing and have therefore decided just to teach the freaking class myself.
Am I certified to do so?
I am not.
Does that make me any less qualified to teach life saving techniques to the masses?
Definitely.
But with as much enthusiasm as the first time I had sex, I am going to show up in a low cut dress, plaster a fake smile on my face, and shout out a lot of words I do not understand.
Infarction! Aorta! Long-term commitment!
Topics I will cover include:
How to know if someone is really experiencing a heart attack or is simply a big fat cry baby.
(A good way to separate the ill from the pathetic is to kick them square in their no-no place. I’m saying if it’s really a heart attack, they will not possess the energy to beat the crap out of you.) When to give CPR.
(The Sher method of CPR indicates you should do it whenever you want to show off. It’s great to bust out some CPR moves at parties. Who doesn’t love getting straddled and having their chest pumped? Some people pay good money for that kind of thing.)
How to actually do the actual do.
Step One - shake the victim violently and ask in a loud voice, “You didn’t have Mexican for lunch did you?” If they do not respond, flick their nose or nipple as hard as you can and issue the command, “I asked you a question dumb ass.”
If no response…
Step Two – Tilt their head back and hold a mirror under their nose to check for breathing. If you do not have a mirror, don’t worry. Simply lick your finger and shove it under their nose. Do not make the rookie mistake of licking their finger.
If you feel air, it’s all good and they’re breathing. However, since this low life has caused you to get off your behind and rush to their aid, they’re getting CPR come hell or high water.
Step Three – Pinch their boob, hold their nose, cover their mouth with your mouth and blow as hard as you can. If you find yourself incredibly aroused at this point, it’s perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of. The giving and receiving of CPR between two adults at least one of whom is conscious is a beautiful thing.
Step Four – Sit on the victim’s stomach and place your hands one on top of the other in the center of their chest. Begin pushing up and down as fast as you can, as hard as you possibly can. If you do not feel like you are pushing hard enough, enlist the help of a couple of the people who will certainly be standing around watching you. You will need about the same amount of pressure it takes to squeeze the air out of a radial tire so this is no time to be gentle.
Step Five – Do that boob, nose, mouth thing again. It’s not really going to help the victim, but it’s not all about them, is it?
Step Six – Keep pumping their chest until they come back to life, or until your arms get tired. If you do get tired…or bored, the proper protocol is very similar to what dealers do in Vegas when leaving a table: Wipe your hands together in a washing gesture and tell the dead guy good luck.
Step Seven – This is the most important step of all so listen up, class. If the person grabbing their chest in pain and falling smooth out on the floor is in any way unattractive, shout out, “I don’t know nothing ‘bout no CPR! Somebody call 9-1-1!” ~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ This song has been stuck in my head all day. No idea why, but I love it.
