Louie The Louisianan

When I was 15 my friends and I found the skeleton of a cow at the bottom of a cliff. 

News Flash: Cow vertebrae are super cute. 

I took one home and named him Louie The Louisianan. I made him a banner and wrote his name on it with the calligraphy pen some relative gave me for xmas the previous year that made me roll my teenagery eyes like a mofo and think "WTF am I going to do with a freaking calligraphy pen? I'm not Shakespeare. I'm not writing sonnets all up in here. Sonnets are for pussies." But it's like The Universe knew I would need to write something fancy, so it totally did me a solid and told my aunt to hook me up. 

Thanks, Universe.

And oh...Louie's banner WAS fancy. I put toothpicks on the ends so it could roll up like a scroll and be opened quite ceremoniously when he needed to be announced and stuff. Like, when he was entering a room or whatever. If I had been a trumpeteer I would have even played a big do-do-da-do situation before I unscrolled his banner and announced him. But I didn't have a trumpet. I was, however, one badass recorder player. But although I looked everywhere for my old recorder, it was nowhere to be found. When we moved the year before, my mom had sold pretty much everything that I loved including but in no way limited to: my Glamour Gals collection, my Play-Doh ice-cream truck, and my Annie Doll. Those scars run deep, mom. Deep. 

But I had Louie to keep me company in my new, lonely, play-doh ice-cream truck-less room. And I loved Louie like I love anything that's odd and freaks people out. 

I wrote him a little biography of his life story up until the point that I found him hanging out at the bottom of that cliff. He was from New Orleans. He grew up on the Bayou, huntin' gators and selling their skins to boot makers and stuff for a decent dime. He had a family, but something bad must have happened to them, because when he would start to talk about them he would get a wistful look in his eye sockets and just stare out the window for hours at a time, never finishing what he had started to say. And I never pushed it. I just let him tell me what he wanted when he wanted, because (a) I'm not Barbara Walters, and (b) I have a short attention span and letting people (or vertebrae) tell me big honkin' stories, and actually listening is not my strong suit. Or weak suit. Or any suit of all, really. I don't own any suits of any kind. Suits are for suckers. And people who work in buildings. Which are really the same thing.

Louie liked Vienna Sausages and creamed corn. A lot. It's, like, all he ever wanted to eat. Although I rarely let him eat because he had no stomach and if I got creamed corn all over the floor my mom would pitch a royal fit. Louie's favorite music was Public Enemy. I know. I was surprised too. He loved horror movies. Wanted to watch them all the time. Never got scared either. He was one tough customer. His favorite smell was Pine Sol and he liked the feel of burlap. 

Louie was a keeper. But since I'm all growed up, and doing grown up things like giving birth and raising a person and stuff,  I've been keep him in my attic. Yeah, I feel bad about it, but sometimes dead cow bones freak little children, and not so little husband's, out. But I might bring Louie down soon to sit in front of my fireplace with the Zombie Babies. People are starting to get used to my babies, and much to my dismay, rarely is anyone fazed anymore. With the exception of that one housekeeper I interviewed a few months ago. So it's time to step up my game, and an old cow vertebrae with a creepily happy face, just might do the trick. Especially if I put, like, a gross rubber rat or spider in his mouth or something. People are jaded, you guys. I gotta do what I gotta do.

P.S. These are my Zombie Babies. Just in case you aren't on my FB fan page and haven idea what the hell I'm talking about. They are pretty amazing, and I have no doubts that they will love Louie. And I can totally trust them around him because duh, his flesh is long gone. Plus, my babies are sweetie pies and would never hurt a fly. A fat, fleshy slow-moving kid? Yes. But a fly? No.

Sometimes I'm too lazy and confused about the point of my blog posts to actually title them. This is one of those times.

While I was being all insomniac-ish in bed last night, I pretty much wrote two awesome blog posts in my head. They were good. Really good. One was so funny that I was having a hard time controlling my laughter, and I was worried that I would wake up The Hub. And then I thought for a second that it might not be such a bad idea if he woke up because then he could bask in my brilliance with me, because while basking in ones own brilliance is pretty fantastic, it's much fantastic-er to bask in your brilliance while also basking in the awesomeness of someone else basking in your brilliance. That's like double basking. And everyone knows that everything's better when it's doubled. Well, except maybe your body weight. Or a herpes outbreak. Or the length of a Celine Dion song.

So at one point during my lonely giggle-fest I almost nudged him awake but then I realized that not only does he not usually find the things that I find funny to be nearly as funny as I do, but he also had to get up for work at 4:30 am and would most likely not be super excited to be awakened at 1:00 am unless I was planning on giving him the goods. Which I wasn't, because (a) My brain was wide awake, but my body was super tired, (b) I was in mega giggle mode, and in my experience, sexy time doesn't work out really great when only one of the participants in in mega giggle mode, because the non-giggle-modey participant will most likely think that the giggly one is giggling at them, and people (i.e. men) are kinda sensitive about people (i.e. women) giggling when they are naked and trying to do the sexy things, and (c) Although there originally was a "c", I have now forgotten it due to the fact that I was really caught up in "b" which got me thinking about the first time I touched a boy's Willy Wonka and how I got the giggles and although he seemed to find it adorable at first, he started to get a bit self-conscious about it after a few minutes. Which kinda made me giggle more. And let's get real here folks...those things are pretty ridiculous, especially when you're faced with one for the first time. How anyone can keep their composure during a time like that is way beyond my understanding.

FYI I just made up that whole "Willy Wonka" thing, although surely someone has used it somewhere before. And if there is not a porn film called "Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory" my faith in the creativity of the porn industry is going to be shattered. SHATTERED. As a matter of fact, I'm going to google that stuff right now. Hold on...

"Willy Wanker and the Fudge Packing Factory." It exists. Thank you, Universe. Because seriously...I was thisclose to going into the porn industry just to write, produce, and direct that awesomefest. So the fact that it's been done already has really saved me from being ostracised from my family for being a porn whore. It's not like I was gonna star in it or anything. I was just gonna make it. I woulda hired actors to actually be in it. Who knows? I might have even been able to get Johnny Depp to star in it. He IS very experimental these days, what with the whole sticking his Willy Wonka in one of the Olsen twins situation. I don't know which twin, but does it really matter?

He's obviously on a downward spiral of bad decision making and shameful behavior.

And now I'm sad. Cuz that man is a hot piece of action and he's either banging the really grossly skinny Olsen or the really really really grossly skinny Olsen. And now I'm flashing back to when I first heard that news, which was approximately one week after I planned "Occupy Johnny Depp" (click there) on Facebook and made a whole Pinterest board about it where my fans could help me gather all the items we needed for a successful occupation of him and his pants. And then I heard the news and that all came to a screeching halt. Screeching. Halt.

Super screeching.

And I assume this comes as no surprise to you, but I have totally gone off topic with this post. Basically it was supposed to be a post about how I wrote two amazingly awesome blog posts in my head but then stuff happened and I forgot them both by the time that I woke up from my much too short slumber of approximately 4 hours. And I was distraught over the whole forgetting thing. But now I'm ok. Mainly because I accidentally discovered that there exists in this world, such a thing as Willy Wonka porn. Any day I make a discovery like that, is a good day.

I'm starting to make sense, and it scares the shit outta me.

I don't know what's wrong with me lately. My brain is totally unable to retain any sort of information for more than 5 seconds. Tops. And those of you who know me, or have read this blog for awhile, are probably thinking to yourselves, "What the flip is she talking about? This is nothing new. The girl is a mess." And you are right. But it has been worse than usual. I am sure that if The Hub were here right now he would totally corroborate my story. Yes, I am always a mess, but the amount of mess that I am at present time is approximately 127.5% messier than the mess I was previously. Did that make sense? I'm not sure. Not a whole lot of stuff really makes sense to me right now. Yet some things make more sense than ever. And I'm pretty sure that statement made no sense at all. This is obviously a downward spiral, so I guess I'll move on.

Something is totally up. I have been having some of the funniest thoughts that I have ever had, yet I forget them almost instantly. All I can remember is that they were HILARIOUS. But as far as I know, maybe they weren't. I mean, maybe they were totally stupid and I forgot that part yet I am so narcissistic that I assume that they were comedy gold. That's totally and completely possible. But since I realize that that is totally and completely possible, doesn't that mean I am NOT narcissistic? Would a narcissist even think for one millisecond that there was ANY possibility that they were not funny? Also, would a narcissist think that her hair looks like shit 80% of the time and that her nose was way too big for her face? And would a narcissist tell you that one time she accidentally peed on her friend's couch and another time while she was having a really heavy period and a really bad cold at the same time, she totally sneezed her tampon out? I seriously doubt it.

Narcissistic crisis averted.

But my point is: My head is a mysteriouser jumble than usual.

In case you didn't notice, my last two blog posts pretty much made sense. I mean, they were actual stories with a beginning, middle, and end. They both kinda had something that resembled a point. Ok, maybe not a point exactly, but a theme. And things like points and coherency and themes and stuff? Those are not usually things that I excel at. At all. And in an advice column that I did on the Ghetto Genius website, I actually gave straight up, good, advice, that wasn't even sassy at all. It was totally the perfect platform for me to recommend sporking someone in the under balls, yet I took (gulp) the high road and actually made mature and sensible recommendations. It was so uncharacteristically thoughtful and sincere that Facebook and the interwebs were abuzz with rumors that I had died and had my identity stolen by Oprah. Ever since I wrote that blog post about how much she was pissing me off, I'm pretty sure she has been out to get me. So I can totally see her hiring a hit man to take me out. And since her crappy network and all her shows totally suck donkey dong, she might be looking to score with my hip followers. But I am onto her plan and it ain't gonna see the light of day. I do believe, however, that somehow she is infiltrating my brain waves with her empathy and adviceyness. She probably has a machine that does that kinda stuff. If I had a bajillion dollars like her, I'd totally build all kinds of amazingly badass machines like that. And also open the Hobo and Koala Academy's that I've been dreaming about for years. I wanted to educate the hobos, plus turn them into a mega army. And the koalas' really need some Planned Parenthood stuff. Sex education. Condoms. Things like that. It's an epidemic. Seriously. Google it.

The fact that Oprah has time and money to spend building machines to mess with my brain waves yet has no compassion for the Hobo's or STD-ridden Koala's really says a lot about her "character". Or lack thereof.

Everything about me is just a little askew. Always has been. You can ask around. I am sure my family and lifelong friends will agree with this statement. My brain works in mysterious ways, and part of my charm (or so I like to think) is the fact that I ramble on and on and rarely write anything that makes complete sense. Oh sure, there are little sensey morsels embedded here and there is some of the things that I write, but writing an entire post that is completely coherent and fails to mention a hobo, a zombie, a unicorn, or a sporking, is really rare. But it's happened 3 times this week. And while most people would be worried if they started to think like I usually think, I am frightened when I don't. When I start to make sense? That's when I start to worry that I might be losing my mind.

I am trying to Dr. Phil myself here, and it's not working. And it usually does. I am someone who does plenty of dumb-ass things, yet after -or sometimes even during- the fact, I not only realize what I'm doing, but also exactly why I am doing it. I Dr. Phil myself at least 4 or 5 times a week. And I am really good at it. The only thing I lack are the down home, back woods euphemisms. I'm so totally not good at those and get them wrong every time. You can teach a man to fish, and he will eat some fish. But if you don't teach him to fish, he will probably just eat vegetables.

I love vegetables, BTW. Especially grilled.

So basically what I have learned is that once again I am opposite of most people, because when most people get out of sorts, they get "crazy' or "random" or "scattered", but when I get out of sorts I start to make sense. And while they make medication for the regular out of sorts people to get them back to normal, they don't make anything for me. So I'm pretty much mega-screwed. All I can do is wait patiently for whatever screw that accidentally got tightened, to get knocked loose again. And no, that is not an invitation to start whacking me on the head. So back off.

I did not win the lottery. I probably did not win any friends either. That's just how it goes when you like to act like a weird a-hole.

So last week was that big ass lottery thing and everyone was freaking the hell out about it. I have to admit that I didn't even know it was going on until my friend Stephanie emailed me and a shit ton of her other friends to see if we all wanted to kick in $20 apiece for a big pile of tickets. I am not traditionally a gambler because I don't like to lose money. At all. Oh sure I've gambled before, but not on my own dime. I went to a riverboat casino with the in-laws once and my father-in-law gave us all $20.00 to gamble with, so of course I totally accepted the shit out of it and got my gamble on good. If someone wants to give me free money to gamble with, I am all up in that situation. I figure if I lose it, big whoop. It wasn't mine anyways. But that night on the riverboat, all I would play were the slots because (a) They are easy, and (b) I am stupid. There were lots of other games that looked fun, but instead of pictures of fruit and piles of gold, those games had instructions and numbers and stuff and I am not a good instruction follower. At all. I space out within the first 2.5 seconds of the hearing or reading of any kind of instructions. Ikea furniture is my own personal hell and if left in my hands, an Oostaborgen-jorgen-wtf bookcase is likely to come out looking like it was put together by blind people with no hands. And board games? I love them long time, but I have to make someone else read the instructions then explain the game to me as we play. NOT ahead of time, because I totally won't listen. I will roll my eyes and sing songs and maybe cover my ears, but I won't listen.

Anyways...when I went to the riverboat with my free $20.00 I did the slots all night and lost pretty bad, then when everyone said they were ready to leave I put in my last quarter and won $20.00. Which I was totally not cocky about. At all. Then a few years ago The Hub had an office party at the horse track and everyone got a free $20.00 to gamble with and since everyone there was an engineer nerd, they were all reading the stats or whatever you call them and trying to mathematically deduce or equate or -insert nerdy math term that I don't know because The Maths give me diarrhea, here- which were likely to be the winning horses, while I casually perused the booklet and picked some cute names like "Cher Rocks My World" or something like that, and won around $400.00 plus total bragging rights about how name cuteness trumps math annoyances every damn time.

But back to the lottery...

So even though the $20.00 for this lottery situation was to come out of my own pocket and the likelihood of my getting anything out of it was slimmer than Leann Rhimes ever since she stole that Eddie guy from that other woman like a slutty ho, I decided to go for it. But in all honesty the reason that I decided to give away enough money to almost cover the cost of a case of Modelo is not because I thought that I would actually win this lottery, but because I was bored and I wanted to be involved in this hugemongous email thread that Stephanie started.

After Stephanie sent out the email asking around 20 women (most of whom I do not know) if they wanted to participate, I told everyone that I was "in" and then sent the following email to all of them:

"PS If we win I'm not above poisoning you all, burying you in shallow graves, kidnapping Johnny Depp and running off to FIji with the winnings. Just FYI."

Then Stephanie sent the following email:

"Problem to your scheme-you will have to take me along, or cut me a deal. I have the tickets."

To which I replied:

"I was gonna murder you first and take the damn tickets. Duh. But you must admit that we had an awesome time on our non-lesbian L.A. vacation and could probably live happily together in Fiji."

After those exchanges, a few of the ladies started talking all crazy and delusional like THEY were going to Fiji with us. Which I cleared up pretty fast. Then Stephanie told everyone to drop their money off at her house in envelopes. So I wrote:

"Everyone please be a peach and attach your addresses too. Ya know, for the murdering part. It's easier for me to kill you if I know where you live. XO"

Then Stephanie said:

"Patti, I may have to meet you in Fiji, after you have done your time in prison for murdering all of these people. Kinda like from the scene in 'Shawshank Redemption' where Morgan Freeman meets up with Tim Robbins on the isolated beach."

To which I replied with:

"Minus the butt rape."

And then some woman I don't know named Lori, dropped off her money with Stephanie's address written on the envelope so that I would perhaps be confused and murder Stephanie instead of her. As if I am THAT stupid. Well, actually I am. But thankfully Stephanie caught it and called her out. Then Lori feigned innocence and confusion which is always a great tactic to take when accused of any wrongdoing, as is -in my experience- showing a boob. But in Lori's feigning innocence email she also claimed that the neighborhood PTO has a non-lesbian trip to Fiji every year and that Johnny Depp was to be this year's guest speaker. To which I replied:

"Johnny Depp has been chained up naked in my attic for 2 weeks as my sex slave. He's gonna have to cancel."

Then another woman named Laurie emailed and really won me over with her offer to become my partner in crime and pretty much kill old people or anything else that was to get in our way, and I, of course, took an instant liking to her. But then another woman emailed and said that Laurie wins the email contest cuz she made her laugh the hardest. So I said:

"Well since you think I'm not funny I will kill you first. And more painfully. Like with a spork."

And I meant it.

And that pretty much shut down that email thread.

Then the day after the winners (not us) were announced, I sent this photo out:

And we didn't hear from anyone after that. And I doubt that they went silent because they actually thought we were in Fiji. Cuz dude, Fiji is pretty freakin' toasty and I'm wearing a cardigan since that was actually Malibu and it was a teensy bit chilly that day. No. I think that the reason they went silent is because I had threatened to kill them all one by one. It might possibly be because I also said the term "butt rape" which sometimes makes people freak the freak out. Or maybe it's because they had another secret lottery pool going, and they all won and cut Stephanie and I out of the deal. Hmmm.....I am totally sharpening my sporks and checking to make sure Depp is still in my attic. 

I sat down to write a story about a bunch of strange stuff including the fact that in 10th grade I had a "pet" giant dead cockroach named Riggy, which was short for Rigor Mortis. But then I started thinking about boys and first kisses and stuff like that. And those things have nothing to do with one another. I'm just really confused right now.

The summer between 8th and 9th grade was the first time that I ever open mouth kissed a boy. And I open mouth kissed that boy A LOT that summer. See, I may have waited a long time to tongue kiss a boy, but at least when I finally did it I was smart enough to choose a boy that lived within walking distance of my house, therefore increasing the amount of tongue kissing by, oh, I don't know...A bazillion-fold? I spent that summer making up for lost time and also making my mom ask me approximately 831 times, what was wrong with my lips. Because when you are kissing someone like there is an asteroid hurtling towards Earth and the only thing that can save humanity is not Bruce WIllis and a cheesy Aerosmith song, but YOU having your tongue in some boy's mouth all day every day, pausing only to have a drink of water every now and then so you don't totally dry up, your lips end up looking like giant, red, chapped fish lips.

And although this particular boy took my French Kissing virginity, I had semi-technically had a few previous "boyfriends" who weren't really "boyfriends" inasmuch as they were boys who were friends who one day said to me "Ya wanna go together?" to which I replied "I guess" and then became super duper confused when we didn't actually go anywhere at all. I soon figured out that all the term "going together" meant in middle school was that you tell everyone you're going out, and you basically just keep saying that to people until something dramatic happens, like your "boyfriend" sees the way that Susie Thompson's boobies bounce up and down when she competes in the sack races at 7th grade field day, and he dumps you and your A-cups before you even have a chance to totally hypnotize him with your mad mad hula hoop skills.

Psst! I'll tell you a little secret: Boys? They like the boobies.

I guess my first "boyfriend," at least in my mind, was a boy named Mikey. Our moms were friends so we hung out together a lot, went to school together, etc... And unless my memory fails,me (which it rarely does unless tequila is involved, which it wasn't, cuz I was only 8 and I'm not a goddamn Barrymore), one time we had a fast-as-lightening closed mouth kiss by the bathroom at school, which to an 8-year-old is some pretty heavy stuff. But it only happened once with him, and I realized that he was too goody-goody for me. He was a Ricky Stratton and I was looking for a Derek Taylor. Then came the boy in my neighborhood that I used to make play house with me under the picnic table. I would make him closed mouth kiss me, tell me I was pretty, and then sweep up the patio while I made dinner, i.e. opened up some Coca-Cola's and Slim Jim's.

My sister, me, and boy #1.
Yes, we are wearing matching keds.
Yes, our mothers must have hated us.

In 6th grade my friend's older 7th grade brother asked me to "go with" him. Since the other two boys were friends of mine, the had never asked me this particular question. Since we were already friends, we just skipped such formalities and got straight to the closed-mouth kissing. But this boy asked me to "go with" him, all serious and formal and everything. So I said "go where?" and he said "nowhere" and I was mega-confused and I just told him he was stupid. But then when I told my friends about it and they explained it to me, I went back and told him yes. And I went absolutely nowhere with him for a few weeks. And since I only saw him for 10 minutes before school and at absolutely no other time since 6th and 7th graders were kept totally separate and he did not live within bike riding distance of my home, it was a pretty innocent, and boring, romance.

Then one day this boy's sister invited me to spend the night, and since I had never slept over at her house before I was super excited and said okay. Then when I got there, she dropped a bombshell: "My parents said we could sleep out back in the camper, and my brother is gonna sneak out there and I will leave you two alone." Ummm....#1) WTF? And #2) Oh. Hell. No. This was a 7th grade boy that I had agreed to "go with" based on the facts that it meant absolutely nothing and I never had to be alone with him. Ever. But staying all night ALONE with me in a camper? An automobile with a bed in it? A sex vehicle? No thank you. I mean, he was in 7th grade for Pete's sake. And I had heard tell of 7th graders making sexy time in the woods during recess. And that news? That scared this open-mouth-kissing virgin (and every thing else virgin) to death. So what I did was what any good 6th grade tongue virgin would do: I pretended to have a tummy ache, called my mom, and went home. The trip home was quite a relief, but also slightly bittersweet because I WAS looking forward to that tongue kissing situation. I had practiced on my right arm so much that I was starting to develop strange feelings for one particular bit of my forearm. I was not, however, EVEN THE SLIGHTEST BIT READY to have ANYTHING else happen. Especially the sexy time. At least not with another person. Sure, I had been "dating" myself for quite some time, but "dating" a boy? No no no no no no and no.

After I barely dodged that camper sex party, I pretty much spent the next 2 years dry-humping my pillow and pretending it was Billy Idol. The closest I got to making out with a boy was square dancing in 7th grade P.E. class. Don't get me wrong, I was all kinds of fired up to do some making out. My pillow had pretty much been humped into oblivion. But during those years I got tall. Taller than the boys. And when you are taller than the boys, they aren't really that into you. And ya know what? You're not all that into them either. You know who IS into you? College boys. We lived in a neighborhood of fraternities and college rental homes, and when you are as tall as a college girl, you get talked to. A lot. They assumed  I was in high school, and I often enjoyed dropping the pedophile bombshell on them that I was, indeed, only 13 or whatever I was at the time. If I was afraid of that 7th grade boy's secret sex camper, I sure as hell wasn't gonna mess with any college guys.

That brings us back to the beginning of this story, which was the summer between 8th and 9th grade. When I tongue kissed a boy for approximately 90 days straight and pretty much lost total feeling in my lips after day 29, but kept on going anyways. Cuz I'm a trooper like that. And as an end of summer parting gift, I may or may not have let him touch my boobies. I'm not gonna say, because sometimes my parents read this when they're really mega bored and are in the mood to punish themselves. I don't know why they do it, but they do. So let's just end this story by saying that after the 3 month kiss-a-thon and a possible boob-touch, I read the Bible and prayed to Baby Jeebus every night and asked for forgiveness for being a tongue tramp. The End.

P.S. I totally let him touch my boobs. And it rocked.