|The Mage Sister||
... a whopper, by Jeanne Bradford
Normally during my lunch hours, I go down to our company Wellness Center and work out. Hey, it’s taken 82 pounds off of my bee-hind, and that’s NOT a whopper.
But not today. No, today I’m not doing it! And you can’t make me.
1.) Yard gnomes stole my pants. You can’t work out without pants. Everybody knows that. Well, actually you can, at least, until security comes and drags you out of there for indecent exposure. But I’ve already had two warnings this year, so…
2.) I’m on strike! No more working out until they supply us with sprinkled donuts! I don’t know why they’re so resistant to this idea. A girl needs to keep up her strength, for crying out loud. But no. They’re all, like, that’s not very healthy. Whatev, people! Whatev! All I know is I’m hungry and I’ve got one thing on my mind… and it ain’t boneless, skinless, rubber chicken.
3.) I have a doctor’s note. Don’t pay any attention to the red scratches over that one sentence that looks like it’s advising to me workout. That’s not what it says. Trust me.
4.) I’m giving it up for Lent. What? Lent is over? Well, I’m just getting a jump on next year. Yeah! That’s right! Take it up with the Big Man upstairs if you don’t like it.
5.) I… um… I… have a headache! Yeah, ooh… it’s a corker. Ouch. I can barely see. I’m pretty sure there’s a warning label on every machine in there that says it inadvisable to use it if you have a headache and can’t see.
6.) There’s a work out advisory today. Yes, the Working Out Advisory Board said, “DON’T DO IT!” Why, thunk I? “CUZ WE SAID!” they said. OK. Not a trouble-maker, me. Um, Reason #1 notwithstanding.
7.) It has been way too long since I’ve written a whopper and I miss doing it.
So there we have it. You may think my reasoning stinks, but that’s what I’m going with. So there.
Earlier this week, I had loads to say on the blog. Today, I can’t remember a single thing. This leads me to the only conclusion I can possibly draw: Aliens stole all my ideas.
You heard me right. It’s the only logical explanation. You know, it’s been quite warm this week, and I’ve been sleeping with the bedroom window open, so I can only surmise that they flew right in and did some kind of Vulcan mind-suck thingy and took all my story ideas. Stupid aliens!
Well, I guess they aren’t stupid anymore, are they? They stole all my great wisdom! And now I just know some Queen of Betelguese Minor is passing off my ideas as her own, and I’m going to have to see them in a Star Trek re-run or something! (That’s how the space-time continuum works. Ask anybody.)
Isn’t there some sort of Interstellar Intelligence Agency I can complain to? Surely they would frown upon such dastardly activities. They might not want Earth story ideas getting all mixed up with Betelguese Minor story ideas, which, if you think about it, could be potentially disastrous! Oh, the chaos that would cause! The copyright issues alone are mind boggling! I don’t even want to contemplate it. Although it would serve them right for stealing my ideas in the first place.
Hey! I could sue! I could, and I could end up owning Betelguese Minor. Although, I have to admit, just owning my house is a lot more responsibility than I had anticipated. Imagine what an enormous responsibility that comes with owning a planet! All kinds of life forms, constantly complaining: “The sky leaks!” “The ground is spongy in places! It needs to be replaced!” “When was the last time you had the sun serviced? It’s always cold over here!”
Not to mention having a sullen queen skulking about without an original idea in her head because the Interstellar Intelligence Agency put the cosmic smackdown on her and told her she can’t steal anymore ideas, and now she’s all cheesed off because I booted her off her throne.
No, on second thought, I’ll just let it go. Chances are they can’t possibly know what to do with all those ideas anyway.
Have you heard? There is a new method of identity theft lately. Evidently, according to a recent police report, a woman came in to report that thieves had broken into her house during the night, stolen her hands, and were using them to steal her identity.
The lady insisted on filling out a report, which she did. She took the form and the pen, had a seat in the lobby, and began filling out the report. With her hands.
Naturally, the local constabulary was skeptical and more than a little suspicious. They tried to clarify the woman’s complaint, really wanting to give her the benefit of the doubt. “What exactly do you mean?” they queried. “Perhaps they took your fingerprints?”
Although, I’m not sure how exactly that could lead to identity theft, myself. I suppose someone could use your fingerprints to frame you for… something. But that’s just me, and clearly I’m naïve.
NO! she insisted. Those rotten rotters had snuck into her house while she was sleeping, cut off her hands and stolen them, and were out there right now using them to do their dirty deeds, disguised as her! And probably robbing banks and opening credit accounts at liquor stores and maxing them out and running drug cartels and buying purses and shoes and the like. The dirty scoundrels!
But ma’am, your hands are right there one the end of your arms, they pointed out. You’re using them to fill out that form.
Lies! Hearsay! Untruths! she screamed. How can you not see the truth when it’s presented right in front of you with such compelling evidence!
Then the bus showed up to take her to the local mental care establishment.
“Has she been complaining about her hands being missing again?” asked the weary attendant.
“Um… yes,” said the officer taking the complaint. “She claims they were stolen.”
***Sigh*** “Sorry.” He turns to the woman. “Back on the bus, young lady, and no more of this sneaking off business or you don’t get dessert tonight.”
“Oh fine!” she snaps. “But will you help me find my hands when we get back?”
“Yeah, whatever. Just get on the bus.”
And I’m sad to report, although I’ve embellished a little, this whopper is based on an actual event. Keep an eye out for those hand-stealing scoundrels, guys. Yikes. Who knew?
WANTED: 20-something Professional Woman Seeks House Husband. Licenses in general contracting, electrical, and plumbing strongly preferred. Must be a strong multi-tasker, be capable of lifting 100 lbs or more, and possess an energetic and self-starting attitude. Minimal talking allowed. Must be willing to get dirty, and work as a team with Lawn-Husband and Car-Husband. Required to collaborate with Car-Husband every six months or so to clean the garage… and the basement… and the attic.
Duties include taking out trash, eliminating vermin (spiders, ants, mice, etc), unclogging drains, resolving miscellaneous plumbing, electrical and structural issues, and tackling big grungy jobs. Duties do not include cooking, messing around in my kitchen, touching my stuff or telling me if these pants make my butt look big. I won’t ask. You don’t go there. Other duties as assigned.
NO benefits. Salary negotiable, but may include cupcakes, the occasional steak, and all the basking in my female genius you can handle. Actually, that’s all it includes - but that’s plenty, bud, and you’ll learn to like it!
Call for appointment to apply in person. Thieves, psychos, murders, perverts, drug addicts, slobbering alcoholics, stupid guys, lazy bums, controlling women-haters, and complete and total jerks need not apply.
This is Jeanne Bradford, reporting live from Oz. We survived the storm last night, and what a storm it was! Wind, torrential rain, almost continuous thunder and lightning with intermittent flying monkeys. It was brutal! Lost power several times, and the monkeys kept trying to pull the shingles off the porch roof.
At first I tried poking at them with a broom handle to try and motivate them to move on, but they weren’t having any of it. I tried hitting them with the broom handle, but the rude little beggers just yanked it out of my hand and hit me back! I ask you!
I’m not sure, but don’t think my home owner’s insurance covers flying monkey’s pulling shingles off the roof so, out of desperation, I threw a handful of Charlie’s kibble at them. Funnily enough, that worked! It distracted them long enough for the wind to catch them and blow them away. Yay!
But then the little blackguards ganged up together and picked my house up and flew off with it! With me and Charlie inside! Charlie was barking his head off. I was running from window to window shaking my fist and yelling at them to put it down. But they didn’t listen; they didn’t care. It wasn’t their house they were vandalizing!
Inconsiderate flying monkeys! Thoughtless! Just thoughtless! And I know for sure that my home owner’s insurance doesn’t cover relocation to alternate dimension by flying monkeys. Can you imagine the premium on that??? It would be worse than flood insurance!
Now Charlie and I have to figure out how to get back home. I expected a bunch of friendly, helpful munchkins and maybe a good witch or two might be willing to offer me some sound advice, like follow the yellow brick road or something. Nope. The ‘yellow brick road’ is just asphalt. One grumpy guy who clearly hadn’t had his coffee yet asked me if I’d ever tried to drive on a bright yellow road in the morning sun before, and had I any idea the headaches and accidents that could cause. I said I hadn’t thought about it that way and he said some quite rude things.
So here Charlie and I stand, stranded in Oz. If anyone out there has a transdimensional vehicle capable of transporting a house, an annoyed homeowner and a very tired and confused pup back to where they belong, PLEASE email me.
In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have pissed off the flying monkeys. What’s a few shingles?
I think I just gobbled my lunch like a troll! Yikes!
It has been an extremely busy morning, and I’ve certainly been acting like a troll today. I didn’t have dinner last night because I was still full from lunch yesterday. I had a few spoonfuls of yogurt for breakfast this morning at about 6:30, busy, busy morning, lots of snarling, terrorizing villages, cursing babies, and kicking kneecaps. Just bad behavior, really.
People got annoyed, coworkers cried, the villagers rioted. Cops were called. Angry letters were written. Then there were jet fighters, right there in the office! And tanks! And lots of cute lil’ fellas with short hair and nice tushies in fatigues running all over the place, shouting “Hoo-wah!” and rolling and stuff. The jet fighters kept tearing up the ceiling tile, which got the guys from maintenance irate, and they kept mouthing off to the 'hoo-wah!-boys', who kept telling them to clear off as this is an unsecured zone, which subsequently incited them to fisticuffs. Fights breaking out, shells exploding, shrapnel and quarterly reports rained from the sky.
Then around 1:30, I realized I hadn’t eaten anything since this morning. So the villagers chased me out of the office with pitchforks and lampshades… you know, whatever they had on hand… and I crawled through the debris, down to the cafeteria to grab a salad. I brought it back to my desk - the 'hoo-wah!-boys had cleared off by then - where I ate it with such enthusiasm that people turned and ran when they saw me. I may well have consumed a small animal or two in there, I just don’t know.
Now that I’m feeling aces again, I sit here asking myself, who was this frightening creature who has been sitting in my chair all morning with her head spinning round? And why is my keyboard sticky? And who flung spinach and sunflower seeds all over my cubicle?
Good grief! I think maybe it’s not a good idea to skip dinner anymore.
It happens in darn near every office in which I work – we all end up with silly nicknames. Some I won’t repeat because they aren’t nice, and we don’t really want the people attached to them to know we call them that anyway.
My nickname is Ginger. There is, of course, Showgirl Lisa, because she often breaks out into song during the day. There is Wee Lisa, not to be confused with Showgirl Lisa, because she is teeny-tiny, and Groovy Mary, aka Glug, who hits the water jug so heavily we suspect she may be spiking it with diazepam. Thus, she’s grrrooooovy. Then there is Myfanway Moonypants – Pants for short. “Hey Pants!” I greet her every morning. “Hey Gingey!” she responds. She likes being called ‘Pants’ – she thinks it sounds mysterious.
She was originally Myfanwy Fancypants, but one fateful day, we had no choice but to change it to Moonypants. Yes, it was an edict of the highest order. Zeus himself, came down from on high and said, “Thou shalt now be known as Moonypants!” and, as you well know, you daren’t get sassy with Zeus or he’ll turn you into something unpleasant like a puddle or a cockroach. Why, you ask?
It was a day like any other in the admin/transcription pool. We were happily working away and chatting, like we do. One of the girls, Dublin, because she was born there, had her work cart a wee bit too far out in the passage way as Pants walked by. The cart had a hook. Pants had… well, pants – she was wearing scrubs. ‘Was’ is an important word in that sentence because as she walked by, she got caught on the hook and, suddenly, she wasn’t wearing pants anymore.
“Eeek!” shrieked Pants. “AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!” shrieked Dublin. Pandemonium ensued as Pants hopped around with her scrubs around her knees, mooning the entire admin pool while knocking things over as she struggled to keep her balance and simultaneously re-hoist her britches. Women squealed, dodging flying pens and paperclips and staplers and moonpies. I would have rushed to the assistance of my friend, however I was paralyzed in my chair, giggling helplessly.
And so was the legend of how Myfanwy Fancypants became Myfanwy Moonypants. And, unfortunately, most of this is actually not a whopper.
It’s been a weird day. Everywhere I went, as I passed by people, I’d get that strange feeling. You know, the one where you just know people are staring at you. The hair rises up on the back of your neck, and you can feel the heat from their laser beam eyes, and you turn around, just barely catching them looking away, a disgusted look still pasted on their faces.
“Well, I never!” thought I. “What’d I do to deserve that?” Do I have lipstick on my teeth? Am I wearing my clothes inside out? Do I have BO… halitosis… rampant dandruff? So I made a note to pull my friend Showgirl Lisa aside and ask her why people were staring at me.
That was the plan, anyway. Showgirl Lisa is a germaphobe, I should note, and she was avoiding me like the plague. I’d see her at the end of the hallway and wave, trying to get her attention, and off she’d sprint in a different direction. I ended up chasing her down corridor after corridor, first speed walking, then sprinting, then flat out marathon running!
“Wait up, Lisa! Fer gawd’s sake, yer killin’ me!” I panted, and grabbed hold of her hair, effectively stopping her dead in her tracks.
“Get away from me!” she shouted.
“I say, that’s rude!” I said, all indignant like. “Is that any way to treat a friend?”
“Get off me, you weirdo!” she screeched. “Ew! Leave me alone!”
“What’s the deal with everyone today?” I demanded, letting go of her hair. We were starting to get strange looks from passersby. “Why is everyone being all weird?”
Lisa started backing away, wearing the same expression I’d been catching fleeting glimpses of all day. “Nothing! Whatever, weirdo!”
“Seriously, I will pull your hair again! What gives?”
“Fine! Did you bother to look in a mirror this morning?”
“As much as usual. Why?”
“You have poop on your butt, dork.”
“Where!” as exclaimed, whirling around in a circle as I tried to see my derriere. But Lisa had already escaped.
So I went to the ladies room to attempt to find the offending spot. I couldn’t really be sporting the poo-look and not know it, could I? And yet, there it was… a small brown spot about the size of a dime on the back and side of the leg of my jeans. But wait… not to go into personal habits here, but how on earth would it have gotten there?
And then I remembered, I’d been eating York Peppermint Pieces the night before – you know, the ones that look like M&Ms but taste like York Peppermint Patties? I dropped one on the couch, and darned if I could find the little bugger. I must have sat on it when I was eating breakfast this morning.
Further cautious investigation supported this hypothesis, and I marched off to Lisa’s desk, poo-pants in hand. “It’s chocolate, weirdo!” I stated, shoving my jeans under her nose. “Why would I be wearing pants with poo on them, I ask you!?!”
Lisa looked even more disgusted. “I think a better question is why are you standing in the middle of the office without your pants on? Get away from me, weirdo!”
Sigh. It’s been a very weird day…