Get a haircut, get a real job . . .
I'm still adjusting to the fact that I have a job that requires some use of my brain and demands a certain level of accountability. It's quite odd.
In other news, a friend of mine recently told me that a mutual acquaintance of ours, a black Jewish lesbian named Shaq, told her that she and I had made out. In fact, we have not. Upon seeing her face in bright light, I was quite frightened by her underbite. It reminded me of our pet shih tzu.
My dad wants to go to the Westminster Dog Show this year. I went last year and it was a delight. I sent my dad a link to the website and he called me yesterday:
"Kad, when's da dog show?"
"Dad, I sent you the dates and a link."
"I know."
"Did you read my email?"
"Yes."
"I told you in the email when they were. Sometime in February."
"Don't get testy with your poor fodder, God love him."
"Dad, all I'm saying is that I sent you the info via email. Now you're calling me for it. It's the age of technology."
"Send it to me again."
"Okay.Will you read it this time?"
"If you call me."
"So I need to call you to tell you to check your email."
"Yes. "
(pause)
"Ya sista called me yesterday."
"Oh yeah? How is she?"
"I don't know. She called my cell."
"Dad, you know some people turn their cells on."
"I was at home. My phone was in the car."
"Dad, you know some people bring their phones into their houses."
"But I was home."
"Do you check your messages?"
"On my cell?"
"Yes."
"I don't know how."
It's amazing that he and I even talk at all.
posted by Kath at 11:56 AM
2 Comments:
kath while i sympathize with your incident in which the a large pro basketball player claims to have made out with you, it is not quite as aggravating as when someone you briefly dated claims to have fucked you. believe me.
11:32 AM
I heart blogs with much dialogue.
Kad, yo faddah will never learn to check his voicemail. No one past fifty does.
And per the Soho party in the last entry, don't ever let that shit get in your dome. Far too often, we all try to do what those ladies tell us, and then get shot down 'cause we're overzealous.
My point is that somewhere right now, Young MC is out there, not feeling very cool, not getting the ladies, not sure if he can afford another drink, watching college kids buy whole rounds. And Young MC--a name he no longer uses because it just makes him sad--is all down on himself.
But you know what? Eff that. The man wrote Funky Cold Medina. The man wrote Bust A Move. He ought to be shitting on these kids.
And you wrote The Chitzu Approves of Buttery Sex. These amazonian bitches treating their sinuses like a goddam Capri-Sun have nothing on you. Screw them.
10:54 AM
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