Some days I like to see what searches brought people to Tiny Cat Pants. Today, though, I have two odd terms, terms so odd that the Butcher and I have just spent twenty minutes discussing them.
Case one: “rugby penis” Is this some kind of sports injury? “Man, my jock strap rode up on me strange and I got a terrible case of rugby penis”? Do rugby players have distinctive kinds of penises? “Oh, you can tell he’s an athlete by his rugby penis.”?
Case two: “man carrying woman and kissing her boobs at the same time” Is this a dude carrying a large-breasted woman in the classic “bridegroom & bride vs. threshold” position? Is this a guy carrying a gal in reverse piggy-back? If so, how does he see where he’s going? Is he walking backwards so that she’s shouting directions while looking over his head? How can she concentrate on giving directions?
Most importantly, can we call the injury a man sustains from trying to carry a woman and kiss her boobs at the same time “rugby penis”?
I wish that I could find someone to do an “illustrated search terms that bring people to Tiny Cat Pants” but I feel like it would be completely NSFW.
We got a Bagster bag to put the ceiling in and get it hauled away and they’re coming today. I swear, I am dying of a desire to throw up because I’m so terrified they’re going to say that ceiling weighs more than 3,300 lbs. I like the idea of Bagster, but they have so many complicated rules–don’t put it under electric wires but don’t put it by your driveway unless your driveway is 10 feet wide. Put it by the road, but only if it’s within two Bagster lengths of the road. Don’t overfill it with more than 3,300 lbs of stuff.
I’d already bought the bag when I realized that there really wasn’t any place I could put the bag on my property that would satisfy all of their rules. I’m just hoping they don’t charge us a billion dollars for not following them.
I’m also obviously overly-anxious about this because my head is still fucked.
I wonder if I will ever get my brain back, frankly.
–I admit, I have outsourced the True Blood watching to the Butcher (He says, “It’s nice to see the Smoke Monster from Lost getting work.”) and so I was unprepared for just what a hot mess it is these days. But what the fuck kind of Yoda shit is that? Literally the only interesting thing I saw was some bad ass grandma werewolf and a wedding video. What happened? Dear lord, what happened?
–“I demand, by the way, a five-year moratorium on all song references to beer. There are other ways to go: ‘This vodka will rockya.’ ‘A guy likes his rye.’ Anything. Try water; the Sons of the Pioneers did.” I loved this whole thing. I will now make my millions writing a love song using Diet Dr Pepper as the central metaphor. I will rhyme it with “Oh, sure” and “yep, sir.” Though, with my luck, it will only make the Americana charts. Though, if it made the Americana charts because the Band of Joy performed it? That’d be okay, I guess.
–Hee hee hee.
–Today is kind of a weird day at work. I mean, obviously, I’m not there yet, but it will be. I love my job and these kinds of things rarely happen–where something we produce directly relates to the biggest news story of the moment and so we need to market our product based on that tragedy. But it’s still weird. It makes you think that there is something fundamentally fucked up about marketing, about turning everything into a way to sell something.
–But it will be nice to get back to work. Get back into the routine a little.