Because nothing is more important in my universe than making the Smokies better and more interesting, I’ve been playing around with the idea of commissioning a pianist to co-write and perform a Smokies theme song. My vision is for a video crew to record the performer singing the song, and post it every week as an opening to the Smokies.
Whoa, this is full of Smokies. All the way. Double Smokies, oh, my god, they’re double Smokies all the way. Whoa. Whoa, man. Ahhh. Whoa. Whoa. Whooooaaa, ha ha ha ha, oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god, ha ha hah whooooo0000, ooohhhhhh, my god, whoa, wooooo yeah!!!!
Oh, my goooooooodd, oh, my god, look! They’re starting to look like triple Smokies! Oh, my god, it’s full on, double Smokies all the way across my screen!!!!
Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha. Oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god, oh, my god.
Anyone sick of the advertising theme yet? I’m not, but I think that other than MFR (which deadlines at 200 AM), this will be the last piece that you see from me about advertising for at least a fortnight—maybe even a castlenight. However, in the spirit of my theme of the week, I decided to re-title all of your monikers to sound like products, services and consumables that one might see advertised. No need to thank me. I had fun doing it. Also, here are your awards:
It was so frigging hot Sunday that Little Penguino and I sat in front of Tad’s Tropical Sno shaved ice shop in beautiful Manhattan, Kansas, waiting for it to open. Really, I can’t take much more of this. This is miserable; this reminds me of the late June days we spent in Ghangzhou, China, when Mr. Penguino dehydrated so thoroughly, a doctor had to be called to our hotel room to pump 4 litres of saline solution into him intraveneously.
Because of the 2010 FIFA World CupTM Finals occurring later today, I’m not confident that this article will ever be read. However, like me, a few of you may not be football soccer fans. Don’t get me wrong, I tried this time around. Soccer culture can be very alluring. There seems to be more excitement and unlicensed restaurants operating as bars in my area than at any time in recent memory. I know people who get up at 600 AM to hang out in pubs drinking beer to watch the European matches when the World Cup is not going on. Justified early morning drinking in loud shirts? That part seems great, but I just can’t seem to appreciate the nuances of the game itself.
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Do you find that your mantelpiece is straining under the weight of all of your Smokie awards? Are you not even able to remember whether or not you own a mantlepiece or pets, for that matter, because your place is so jammed with Smokies? Are you confused and a bit irritated because you’ve never received an actual Smokie in the mail or by special delivery and are wondering about the others who are being squeezed out of their homes by trophies? If the answer to any of these questions is “yes,” then you can relax. Things are about to change. If it was straight “no’s” for you, then you can still relax.
Forgive my lackluster approach to writing the Smokies this week. It’s pretty hard to pull clever snippets of humor out of one’s head when oil-covered birds are being thrust into one’s vision every other minute or so. I’m pressing the razor to my wrist by the time sweet little turtles and snappish pelicans are shown fighting for breath. It was a pelican who saved Dory and Nemo’s dad, remember.
Why is it so damned hot already? On Friday it was 100 degrees in Baldwin City, Kansas, and I was trapped on Thomas the Tank Engine sans air conditioning. I tried to close my eyes and imagine myself in another century taking a train west in my long dress, corset, and button-up shoes and the thought of how effing hot I’d be – and without A/C in a covered wagon, either – was practically my mental undoing. On the other hand, I made sweet love to a large shaved ice yesterday and it occurred to me that it is a pleasure unparalleled – definitely better than the best sex in the world, especially if you compare them both being done in 100-degree heat.
It’s been a morose week, my friends. We started with an execution and while recovering from that, we plunged right into the topics of sociopathic murders, sexual assaults, draconian anti-abortion laws, deceased toddlers, gym rudeness and celebrity deaths. Given the dark nature of this week’s smorgasbord, I couldn’t blame any of you if just went into a gloomy emo shell and wrote death poetry in the comments. You all could have just written, “why bother” every time a new post was listed, just because you were so focused on the subject matter and not the actual content of the articles.
A funny thing happened to me on my way to work last week. I have to drive about nine miles on a twisty two-lane state highway to get to the interstate that takes me to the “big city” where I work. Just as I was rounding a particularly twisty corner, I spied a massive wild turkey headed toward the highway on my right. I slowed down a bit and he seemed to stop once he reached the road, but the sick son-of-a-bitch took “flight” right as I was passing him so that his gargantuan body slammed right into my windshield.
Due to certain miscalculations, some of the content of the following post has been altered.
It seems only fitting that Wordsmoker’s 2000th 2005th post would be the feature that celebrates its writers and commenters: The Smokies. I realize that it is no coincidence that those with author privileges refrained from posting over the past few days to allow me to make these Smokie Awards the featured piece for the 2000 2005 post milestone. While I’m aware that writing the 2000th 2005th post is not a personal achievement, my heart swells with pride that I am the one who you all chose to author a piece for this esteemed slot.
Just sit right back and you’ll read a list, a list of some awesome quips, that started from this WordPress site aboard this mighty . . . uh, blog. Okay, so where the hell have I been, you’re wondering? And not because you’ve missed my half-dead sick ass or you’ve been overworried about the torrential rainstorm that came down inside our family room after having some minor repair work done on the mother-fucking roof. No, no, you want your damn awards and you want them now. I’m getting to it, okay? Quit rushing me. After all the things I do for you kids, this is the thanks I get?
And listen, I saw that you all have been posting stories like mad fucking maniacs over the last couple of weeks and I gotta tell you, you bastards, this is why we can’t have nice things. But what the hell, they don’t call me Mama Penguino for nothing. Leave your dirty socks on the floor, don’t rinse out your sticky cereal bowls and for god’s sake, don’t worry about taking out the trash.
I have to apologize to my fellow Wordsmokers for the two-week hiatus from the Smokies. Due to circumstances beyond my control, I was forced to relocate my operations center from the alley where I had been converting your golden threads into shabby tapestries, to a completely different alley.
As you may recall, the last time that I wrote the Smokies, I had embedded a photo of what I liked to affectionately call “Smokies Central.” When I went back a few days after posting them, it was like a bad dream. Everything was gone: the dumpster, the Port-O-John… Well, I guess it was only two things, but you get the idea. It was as though someone had read the Smokies and decided to send a warning.
Those of you who are not mothers please pay attention. After this last tumultuous week on Wordsmoker, it’s come to my attention that many of you are quietly unaware of what being a (wife &) mother means to today’s modern Wordsmoker woman. Having never read a “mommy blog” in my entire sadly sheltered life, I had a gander at some of the more popular sites written by and for mommies.
That shit is just plain wrong.
You want to know the truth? Even though I, myself, am a primary bread-winnin’ mommy, I know a few things about traditional motherhood. It’s in the manual, people.
Because I know that my activities are so interesting to you, I’ve decided to treat you all to a little tour of the workplace where I complete the Smokies every other Sunday. Actually, I am aware that none of you care about this process because I’m not some arrogant jerk like those fucks at How It’s Made. I realize that it’s the end product that counts. However, it’s either this or I use a current event that I don’t have time to research, and then get trounced in the comments for using Fox News talking points, even thought I usually watch CNBC. Anyway, here’s where the Magic happens:
