ChunkyKnubbyNavel

An Explanation and an Apology

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Tue, 12 Apr 2011 00:38:00 +0000

In all seriousness, if this is your first time visiting this blog, or possibly the second, please start here or here.

For the rest of you, this is a short explanation as to why it seems like I’ve dropped of the face of the blogging world.

If you read the blogs of even the most talented female comedy writers (This is me giving you a second to go “Oh, yeah! Jenny Lawson and Allie Brosh!”) they always have one post, or maybe even two or three that are “real.” It is always shocking when you happen to stumble upon that post, because you realize that even the strongest and most hilarious women struggle with something, and every once in awhile, they succumb to those struggles and that is okay.

All this to say that this is my “that post.” And it will never happen again. And it is a very minor “that post.”

A lot has gone wrong, a lot has been hard, a lot has changed, a lot has been remembered that I had so desperately tried to forget, and a lot is slowly getting better, but I don’t actually trust that it is going to get any better at all. I avoided even logging onto Blogger because God forbid that anyone actually know what I’m thinking or feeling.

After the second time I went to a fast-food restaurant, and some poor 16 year-old girl asked, “What can I get for you?” and I started crying a reply of, “...my best friend back and also I’m not entirely sure because I don’t entirely trust your tacos,” I knew that blogging would jump to the backseat of the priorities list while I spent a month or two picking up some pieces and putting them back together.

To those of you who have sent emails asking where I’ve been, I absolutely adore you. To those of you whose blogs I usually frequent, I will be back. Promise. To those of you who haven’t left, thank you for staying. To the friend who was so unexpectedly thrown into my life, and who is already forever in my heart, thank you for helping me pick up some of those pieces.

I know that I don’t need anyone’s permission to take a break from writing on my own blog, but so many of you have become so dear to me. You are all so funny and witty, and really the only sense of community that I have, so I thought I’d give you this quick explanation because I consider you my friends.

However, I cannot write an entirely serious post because there are very few things that I can actually take seriously, even when everything falls apart, so I’ll leave you with a “Whitney and Ryan Conversation” and the promise that I will be back in no less than a month. Rachel will still be here.

Ryan: What do those ribbon things mean?

Me: I think they're to support the veterans. Or breasts.
...It is probably to support the veteran’s breasts!

Just so you know, I just decided right this second that I’m starting a new cause called “Breasts for Vets.” I have no idea what it’s actually going to be about, but taking the time to start a cause that has a half-rhyme in its title is practically as good as knowing what your cause is for. Right, my Paper > Plastic interns?

Also, I have been wanting to write this letter for years:

Hang in there with me,
-Whitney

A story about me scaring off another one. Enjoy.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Thu, 17 Mar 2011 00:30:00 +0000

Annnnnnd...she’s back.

Hello again, followers of CKN!! I have missed you. Not really. Because I don’t know most of you...and the ones I do know I see pretty often. But still.

I know it’s been a while since I’ve blogged, so once again I have to grovel a little and give you a list of lame excuses.

Excuse number one: I’m really busy....doing important stuff.

Excuse number two: I’ve been on another continent, helping...people...and endangered monkeys.

Excuse number three: My contract at my office job ended, so I have had fewer funny things to gripe about.

I’ll give you a hint: two of these are lies.

Anyways, yeah, no more boring office job!! But now I have too much down time, which is kind of good because I like to do laundry and read books, but soon I’m hoping to be working again, and taking classes, because, quite honestly, I’m boooored.

But to occupy my extra time, I’ve been working on some writing (not blog related, apparently....) and doing a little bit of socializing, which is good, because I didn’t do much of that for like...a year.

I’ve recently started going swing dancing weekly, with some of my friends. The repercussive opinions of my friends have been rather mixed on this subject....

Some friends:

Other friends:

But it’s ok because the best kind of friends are the kind who can hate and disdain you and still be your friends! Wait......

Anyways, there are some nice people who go to swing. There are also some gooberish people...who are still nice. But also gooberish.

For example. There is this physically disabled guy (we’ll call him....Disabled Guy) who keeps coming onto me. Don’t get me wrong, I have noooo problem with disabled people. What bothers me about this guy, is that he sort of uses his disability to instill pity in girls in order to pick them up. Not cool.

So this guy has some sort of disability, I don’t know what it is exactly, because it’s not bad enough for him to be wheelchair bound, but it’s bad enough that he seems to have some difficulty walking. Which begs the question, what is he doing at a swing dancing social?? Thing is, I’m not that good of a dancer myself, so it makes it really hard when the guy who’s leading isn’t easy to follow...but I’m a nice girl. So I don’t turn boys down when they ask me to dance. Because that would hurt their feeeeeelings.....and then their tentacles would bleed all over me. Ew.

So this guy asked me if I wanted to play the “Random Questions” game while we danced....which is the second lamest pickup. But I humored him, and we asked each other dumb irrelevant things that real adults don’t actually ask each other, such as, “What’s your favorite color?” or “If you could have any superpower, what would it be?” Yaaaawn.

Then he asked a brilllllllliant question. “Soooo....I’m not coming onto you or anything, but do you have a boyfriend?”

Yeah, boys, I hate to break it to you, but when you guys ask us that, we ladies are smart enough to know you’re lying.

But I politely said, “No....”

To which he replied, “Fiance...?”

“No......”

And then my favorite part happened. This is where I became Not a Nice Girl, and I said, “You didn’t ask me if I had a husband.”

The look on his face gave me leave to be convinced he’d crapped his pants.

Like I said. It really wasn’t his disability that turned me off, I just didn’t like him as a person. But seeing as there’s no nice way to say that, I carefully avoided him for the rest of the evening.

The End.

Love,

Rachel

"Dostoevsky's Points are as Solid as Taylor Lautner's Abs" and Other Similies That Will Disappoint Your English Teacher

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Wed, 02 Mar 2011 00:23:00 +0000

This weeks was like being slapped in the face with my own hand, which wasn't actually too bad because I moisturize. Then the week got better. And then my futon turned on me, so it was bad again.

Me: Hello my dear, beautiful futon to whom I am so grateful. Let me reclineth against your “really dirty because the cat sheds and I accidentally give away my dust-buster charger to GoodWill but that’s okay because someone is probably wearing it as a makeshift belt right now” cushions, that I might starteth my German homework.

Futon: Nope. I gonna fold you.

And it did.

I would have asked Ryan to take a picture, but as the futon folded me in half, I forgot that it was just a futon, and for about 4 seconds, I thought that a fire-monster was trying to drag me to Hell. So Ryan did not have time to take a picture because of my instantaneous reaction to flail wildly, and also my new-found fear of futons means reenactment pictures are an impossibility.

WHITNEY’S SCIENCE CORNER
(That’s not really going to be a thing, but "Whitney's Science Corner" sounds like a place where kids would go to make fruit snacks out of Kool-Aid, and that's adorable.)

Today I am giving you an anatomy lesson, because anatomy is sexist, so I changed it.

This is Adam and Eve:

Why is it Lego Adam and Eve? It may be because all of the other pictures of Adam and Eve were super naked, and Lego naked does not strip away innocence as much as regular naked tends to do. OR, it may be that I believe that God intended everything to be very plastic and pointy, and after the fall of mankind, God let some guy create Legos so that man would see a glimpse of perfection: plastic stuff. Once again I have proved that Plastic > Paper.

Just in case you ARE offended by naked Legos, I added the black bar ~~because I care.~~

Adam and Eve each have their respective "neck bulges," which is referred to as the "Adam's Apple." But Eve has her own neck fruit, so I named it. Someone needs to keep track of how much I contribute to science, because it is a lot.

And now you are much more educated than before you read this blog. Actually, you're pre-educated because the "Eve's Peach" is ahead of its time and hasn't been accepted by the many science professors to whom I pleaded my case and called chauvinists. Then they were all, "Whitney, I'm a girl scientist and I teach computer science which really has nothing to do with naming body parts." And then I walked away because my attempt to use big words and my inability to distinguish between the various branches of science defeated me once again.

DEER

If you didn’t read last week’s post, go do that.

I had a couple people send me emails, and a couple people left comments like, “WHAT HAPPENED NEXT!? I CAN’T STAND NOT KNOWING WHAT HAPPENED AFTER THAT DEER POOPED AT YOU!” And I’m like, “Woah, read a book.”

But I will let you know what happened because I love all you weirdos so very much.

Nothing happened.

Well, I guess that's only kinda true. I came downstairs the other day and saw about 25 deer lining the perimeter of the house, and the next day, a deer sacrificed its body to damage my sister's boyfriend's car and when I found out, I whispered under my breath, "It's begun," and everyone was like, "what?" but I was too busy running upstairs to find my old fencing swords and a Nerf Gun. It wasn't until a few hours later that I realized that old fencing swords were not going to be enough protection because they have those little plastic balls on the tip, so if I stabbed the deer, he would be all like, "That was a lovely parry and thrust," and I'd be like, "Thank you, deer," and then I would die.

I'm kinda planning on waking up to this:

And I'll be all, "You can't call me that! Only my best friends call me that. And hold on a second while I grab my fencing sword that I totally destroyed because I tried to get the plastic ball off the top in anticipation for your attack. I also have this Nerf Gun, but the darts got bent when I stuck the suction cups to the door and tried to climb up them like Spider-Man, so they don't usually actually leave the gun, even when I push this little button. See? Also, I was going to eat this Pop Tart, but if giving it to you will postpone my death, you may have it."

-Whitney

I'M YELLING AT YOU. Now I'm not.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Mon, 21 Feb 2011 01:37:00 +0000

TWO Whitney and Ryan conversations!

Conversation One

Whitney: You’re just jealous because Conan O’Brien is my emergency contact and you’re not!

Ryan: What???

Whitney: He helps me get out of trees.

Conversation Two

Whitney: ...and then I force them, using threats of violence, to...to...
I forgot what I was talking about."

Ryan: Blanket ice skating*.

*Blanket ice skating is when you throw a blanket on the wood floor, and then you slide around on it. Whitney happens to be a blanket skating prodigy, but ~~everyone~~ no one recognizes her skills. They also don't recognize Blanket Ice Skating as something at which one can be a prodigy. Mothers appreciate blanket ice skating and will say, “I guess my annual mopping has been done for me.” Blanket ice skating makes you a hero.

ACTUAL STORY
This week...a deer pooped at me. I know you’re thinking, “~~I'm hungry~~ Whitney, that’s not a thing,“ but it is a thing. You rush to the window, hoping to have one of those moments when you gently lean your head against the window, stare out into the world thinking about ~~candy~~ art, lift your head off of the window, wipe off that little mark that your face left from your face grease, and walk away feeling content, but also knowing you need to wash your face...but NO.

I’ve actually illustrated it for you. You're welcome. I've also named each picture something very ~~artsy~~ stupid.

Confrontation

Confusion

Fear and Contemplation

Confusion on the Other Side

"I'm Gonna Poop"

The Visual

And so ends a very short post about the one topic I swore to myself that I would never write about: poop.

PS TINA FEY I AM ON TO YOU! You stole both my discotheque joke AND the one about how anyone who says "this thing we call life" should be beaten. I know you're reading this blog. You owe me some ~~money~~ friendship!!!!!

-Whitney

Whitney Won All the Cars, but More Importantly, If You Lost Your iPhone, it is Probably Because She Stole it

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Mon, 14 Feb 2011 01:23:00 +0000

Once again, it's been too long! Unfortunately, after my intensive German class ended, a 19 credit semester began.

This week, I won all the cars. After I won all the cars, I also learned that I was the winner of all the tobacco and all of the oil, but those responses will have to be saved for another day. My point is, I am probably king now because I have all the things.

EMAILS

from: marchillojm@sbcglobal.net
to:
date: Tue, Feb 8, 2011 at 3:57 AM
subject: Your Email-Id Has Won £950,000.00 In Mercedes Benz On-line Promo.Send:- Name....Address...
Tel‏‏signed-bysbcglobal.net

Your Email-Id Has Won £950,000.00 In Mercedes Benz On-line Promo.Send

fromWhitney Bradley <rachelandwhitney@gmail.com>
to: marchillojm@sbcglobal.net
date: Tue, Feb 8, 2011 at 9:43 AM
subject: Your Email-Id Has Won £950,000.00 In Mercedes Benz On-line Promo.Send:- Name....Address...
mailed-bygmail.com

I. AM. GONNA. PEE.

from: Mercedes Benz Company <uknagodoh@gmail.com>
reply-to: nat.west-transferdept@hotmail.co.uk
to: rachelandwhitney@gmail.com
date: Tue, Feb 8, 2011 at 11:52 AM
subject: Serial Number MBA/8114/09

Congratulations on emerging as one of our award winners. Mercedez Benz Promo offers awards to Lucky owners of selected emails that came out in our Random Draws.For Claims purpose do contact the Natwest Bank Plc immediately with you information and Serial Number MBA/8114/09 on the contact details below:
Email: nat.west-transferdept@hotmail.co.uk

fromWhitney Bradley <rachelandwhitney@gmail.com>
To <nat.west-transferdept@hotmail.co.uk
date Wed, Feb 9, 2011 at 7:14 PM
subject I Win All Your Cars
mailed-bygmail.com

Dear Person,

Another person told me to tell you that I won all your cars. I was not told what to include in this response, so here is a brief biography. My name is Whitney, and I am homeless, but we don't call ourselves that. We prefer "permanent wanderer" or "ex-pro golfer." I access the internet by stealing iPhones from graphic design majors the community college. I spend most afternoons down by the river making “science.” I mix together different measurements of rocks and dirt, ingest them, and note the side effects on the wall under my bridge with one of those rocks that somehow makes chalk even though it looks like just a plain rock. A lot of people laugh at me now because of my science, but no one will be laughing when I finally create a dirt/rock pill that prevents both pregnancy AND STDs.

Since the car you are giving me will be my home, I would like to invite you to my house-warming party, but it will actually be very cold. It would be lovely if you would bring the chips and salsa, but please don’t spill on my new, luxurious leather interior or I might get stabby. Luckily for you, I am so weak from a diet of only my own failed science that if you do get stabbed, you will likely suffer no more than the equivalent of a paper cut. But like, thick paper.

Please RSVP ASAP!

-Whitney

Attached is my party flyer.

You guys can all come to my party too.

-Whitney

UPDATED Welcome to Preschool. Everything is a Test.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Tue, 08 Feb 2011 00:50:00 +0000

First of all...

The top searches that led to this blog.

If this is an actual thing, someone needs to email me a picture.

**UPDATE** I did indeed get a picture sent to me, and I don't know whether I'm ecstatic or terrified that there is actually a tampon taser. "The Pink Stinger." You should probably go look at it RIGHT NOW. http://inventorspot.com/security_system

I shouldn’t be writing right now because I need to start my paper on diversity which might get handed back to me because the title, “A Badly Made Churro is Hardly a Churro at All” may have racist implications, but in all honesty I was just eating a churro. But, I love all of you very twisted people, so here’s a post.

STORY!

I was talking with my dear friend Candace a few months ago, and she told me that “when she grows up” she wants to be a preschool teacher. Then we started talking about how, to teach grades K-12, teachers have to take a test covering the basic knowledge needed to teach these grades. PROBLEM. There is no test for preschool teachers, and honestly I don’t trust most people to have any knowledge of anything. I just read a Facebook status from a 21 year-old who said that she couldn’t wait until she graduated “collage” after this semester. Then I kicked the kid sitting next to me in the computer lab because I don’t have an appropriate outlet for my anger.


You sure did, you diverse group of people. You sure did.

So I made up a test to make sure that our preschool teachers are qualified. And I’m going to send it to the governor. Only I don’t know who my governor is, so I’ll probably send it to my mom and she’ll ~~throw it away~~ know exactly what to do!

Are YOU ready to be a preschool teacher!? Well...we’ll see.

Welcome to the preschool teacher entrance exam! Please read over the following rules before the test begins at 10.30am, or whenever we get you all to quiet down.

1. As you may have noticed, there was a paper bag sitting in your chair when you walked in today. This bag is filled with goodies to help you perform well on the test! Inside, you will find a juice box, some crackers, and a napkin with a note from each of your mothers that says that you will all be loved no matter how well you do on this test. ~~Your mothers are liars.~~

2. Please refrain from blowing bubbles in your juice box during the test. It is okay if you forget once, but if you forget a second time, the test Procter will rip up your exam in front of your face and you will be asked to leave the room.

3. The test should take no more than 15 minutes, because you goof-balls just can’t sit still!

4. If at any point during the exam you feel as if you need nap time, raise your hand, and your sleeping mat will be brought to you. If you say you’re tired, but you lay on the floor giggling, you will be asked to return to the exam room.

5. After the written exam, you will have a 10 minute “blocks improvisation test.” You will be graded on your creativity. Points will be subtracted for every block that you lick.

The Exam

Congratulations! You’ve completed the exam! Please head over to the next room for improvisational block time!

I think that test should do the trick.

-Whitney

PS If people are sending you awesome spam mail, PLEASE forward it to me so that I may annoy some people. I’m bored. rachelandwhitney@gmail.com

Yeah...Like That Time I Tried to Decorate My House with Gas Station Novelty Items

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Wed, 02 Feb 2011 00:48:00 +0000

You guys, I had a five day break because apparently learning the entire German language in fifteen days entitles you to such a break.

I did NOTHING FOR FIVE DAYS.

Well, maybe that’s not true. Yesterday morning, I both burped and played video games. I spent the afternoon concerned for my, you know...unparalleled femininity. So in the evening I devised a plan to make me feel like a girl again:

Whitney’s Optional Steps to Returning to Femininity Post-Burp
1. Think about painting your toenails. Dismiss the idea of painting your nails because you don’t own nail polish.

2. Try to make your own nail polish out of water, red food coloring, Elmer’s glue and some glitter.

3. Mix the ingredients in a bowl.

4. Try to avoid letting the glue dry in the bowl.

5. Fail at avoiding letting the glue dry in the bowl.

6.Throw the bowl away and learn a hard lesson about how being creative doesn’t mean you have common sense.

7. Tell your boyfriend/husband that you’re so fat that all you’re going to eat for dinner is this apple.

8. Manipulate your boyfriend/husband into telling you that you’re not fat and that you should eat more than that apple.

9. Pour chocolate sauce on your apple. Eat chocolate apple.

10. Get on Facebook and tell your friends that you’re so fat that all you ate for dinner was an apple ~~with chocolate sauce.~~

11. Take a nap and dream about a sparkly place where anything is possible.

12. Say “Hugh Jackman” a lot.

BAM. Femininity reinstated!

MICHELLE MARCEL PT. 2

I heard back from Michelle Marcel. For those if you who do not want to go back and read that post, all that you really need to know is that I am in cahoots with some criminals. We banter. Oh yeah...her name suddenly changed!

From: Mich Marceline
To: rachelandwhitney@gmail.com
Date: Tue, Jan 25, 2011 at 2:14 AM
Subject: help

Dear Whitney,

Thanks for your mail and still alive, living in fear, hunger and danger here since our country is under military threat because of wicked president who refused to step down after losing election, please do everything in your power to save my life and future, hope for news from you soonest.
God bless
Michelle

From: Whitney Bradley <rachelandwhitney@gmail.com>
To Mich Marceline
dateTue, Jan 25, 2011 at 8:42 AM

Today at the store, I bought another gallon of milk even though I have half a gallon left in my fridge “just to be safe.”

-Whitney

From: Mich Marceline
To: Whitney Bradley <rachelandwhitney@gmail.com>
Date: Tue, Jan 25, 2011 at 12:28 PM
Subject: with good faith

Dear Whitney,
I am very glad to hear from you. The fund will be transferred to your account and there will be no problem. This transaction is 100% risk free and legal. I just want to leave this country because I have suffered lots of humiliation from my immediate uncles, because they want to inherit everything my late father acquired, as a respect to the long aged inheritance tradition here in my country. I am a young girl that has a bright future and wouldn't do anything that will jeopardize my future. I do not want anything illegal in my life, so be rest assured that everything will be concluded with transparency, understanding and sincerity between both of us. In as much as I need your assistance in the fund transfer, I will also want to live with you and continue my life as soon as the money is transferred to your account...Please I would want you to send me your full scanned copy of your identity.
Michelle

She attached these. But don't read them because they are "top secret."

From: Whitney Bradley <rachelandwhitney@gmail.com>
To: Mich Marceline
Date: Tue, Feb 1, 2011 at 8:42 AM

Mich Marceline,

I can totally relate to the “humiliation of immediate uncles.” Once, my uncle playfully hit me in the face with a pool noodle, so I can only assume that he is after my inheritance.

Today I put on my finest sweatpants and headed to the bank. I was all like, “You have to help Michelle Marcel/Mich Marceline because she’s in danger of being humiliated by her uncles!” And they’re like, “You mean she’s going to get hit with a pool noodle?” and I was like, “EXACTLY.” Then I showed them all your documents, but they quickly averted their gaze and said, “We can’t read that! It’s. Top. Secret.” I told them that I would read the document to them so that they didn’t have to actually read it, but they closed their eyes real tight, wrinkled their noses, shoved their fingers in their ears and went “LA LA LA LA LAAAAA.” I left without completing the transaction. I spent my afternoon in a janitor’s suit and my finest fake mustache wiring the speakers in the bank to my MIDI keyboard. Do I even know if that’s a thing you can do? I do not. Now, I’m tapping in your top secret message through morse code, so all the people in the bank are subconsciously hearing your fathers message. The money should be to you soon. I have no doubts. My ID is attached.

Click on it to read it.

PS I don’t have an extra bedroom, so you will be sleeping in my bathtub. I’ll throw the cat in there so that you two can try to keep warm. Just a “heads up” I like to shower in the middle of the night and then go back to bed. You know, 2am-ish. I’ll do my best to shower around you as you sleep, but if you wake up, you’ll sure be in for an unpleasant surprise!

Lovsies!
Whitney

PS Thanks to everyone who joined our little Facebook fan page! I'm planning on getting some discussions going on the page. We'll have some fun ;)

My brother is so cute. Please don't murder me.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Fri, 28 Jan 2011 16:35:00 +0000

Okay. So. I haven’t blogged in a long time. This is because not much funny has gone on in my life, and I just have not been able to compose a worthy post.

This is code for: Rachel is lazy. But she is working on it, so please forgive her. ....Eh, me. I mean me.

Oh, and excuse number 2 is that sometimes I want to blog about people that probably read my blog, and I am afraid they will be insulted. For example, I have a funny story about my brother that I am hesitant to tell you......but it’s SO blogworthy. So I am going to tell it, and if I don’t post again soon you will know that it is either because I am lazy, as is my usual excuse, or that I have been murdered in my sleep by my big brother. Both are equally likely.

So here goes....

It was Christmas Day, 2010. My brother got an iPod. That’s all he got, because an iPod=lots of dollars.

****You know, just in case that wasn’t clear enough and you needed a picture to comprehend it.

I got lots of presents. So many of them. I don’t want to brag here, but I got a glorious amount of presents that were monetarily equal to my brother’s single present, but still. A. Lot. Of. Presents. Fake Santa came through.

Anyways. One of my presents was a Chemex. In case you don’t know what that is, it’s a fancy glass vessel for making pour-over coffee. It looks kind of like this:

And now I must explain my brother. He is a barista at an Indie coffee shop, and he is incredibly passionate about Good Coffee. If you mention the word “Starbucks” to him, he will probably take a Venti Sugarfree Non-Fat White Chocolate Mocha with Extra Whipped Creme and shove it down your throat, cup, lid, cardboard sleeve and all.

So on Christmas morning, when I opened my present and out came a Chemex, which I had asked Fake Santa for the previous month, my brother said...

So then he proceeded to remove my Chemex from its box, and assemble all the pieces and whatnot, and then he had to make ME a pour over, because I don’t do it right and it’s a science and you have to control all the variables and time it and make it JUST RIGHT......

I didn’t have the heart to tell him that he makes it way too strong for me, and variable and science or no, I always like it better when I do it myself.......

So the next day, I told my dad, “I’M GONNA MAKE MY OWN DAMN POUR OVER!!”

And I did.

(Part 2 of that story.....)

The other day I was at my neighbor’s house, because it was Emily Kate’s third birthday, so we ate pizza and cake and did birthdayish things, and as the evening progressed, Emily’s six-year-old sister Madeline began sulking a bit because Emily wouldn’t share her birthday present with Madeline.

I secretly empathized with Emily. She just wanted to make her OWN damn pour over. I mean.........whatever.

Love,

Rachel

My Metaphorical Soap Keeps Requiring me to Pick it Up

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 01:16:00 +0000

There is a very good chance that this post will not be funny at all. I just took my German final, and just when you start to believe that nothing is more unfunny than German...you have to take a test about German. And then, when you think nothing can be unfunnier than a German test, you finish your test and try to go hand it in, but your butt gets stuck between two desks and you have to ~~gracefully remove yourself~~ do a little flailing dance to get unstuck and then you accidentally blurt out, ~~"Oh my, pay no attention to me, classroom of people, and keep working diligently on your exam"~~ “That was sexy,” but it wasn’t. sexy. Basically German is embarrassing and not sexy.

If you’ve never been here before, maybe you should start here. Or something. Anywhere but here.

It’s been one of those weeks when you think things are under control, but then bad stuff happens. Umm, I’m trying to think of a metaphor. Uhh...this week has been like when the bar of soap falls off of its little ledge in the shower and it lands on your foot but you don’t pick it up so that you can teach it a lesson, but next time you get in the shower you HAVE to pick up the soap and the soap wins. Soap is smarter than me and German isn’t sexy.

Wait, nevermind. I just got smarter than soap.

I think I just made an invention in my mind. Now I have to go draw it! It’s like shower shoes, only much more...bigger. It’s basically a tissue box that you stick your foot in. And since Plastic>Paper Inc. is so successful right now, these shoes are going to have a soft, spongy center, and a thick plastic outer shell because, seriously, is paper going to help you survive the trauma of light foot bruising? I think not.

Here, I started sketching a commercial, but I can’t think of a name for this invention, so if you think of something, you should let me know. “Shower Shoes” is both taken and lame, so, yeah. I’m out of ideas and you guys are really creative.

Then also when your friend comes over and says, “Hey, why do you have two plastic bricks in your bathroom?” you can be like, “Because they are my ~~shower shoes~~ and those shoes protect me BETTER THAN ANY MAN EVER COULD!” Then your friend will not care about your shower shoes, but he or she will know that you are very bitter about being single.

Before I got so distracted, I was ACTUALLY going to write about how Rachel and I were nominated for “Best Original Artwork” on 20sb and how that must make you all idiots because everyone knows that “Best Original Artwork” belongs to a kid who got an associate’s degree in photography and took a picture of a bee that is really close to a flower. Not ON the flower, but really close. Seriously. I’m going to google “Bee Close to Flower.”

Was that not EXACTLY what you were imagining?

But in all seriousness, thank you for the nomination but also go to an art museum.

-Whitney

PS Michelle Marcell emailed me back, not once, but twice. With like...pictures of "her ID." I'll post her email and my reply once I work up the energy.

Crest Finally Made a Line of Toothpaste for Big Kids Like Me, but This has Nothing to do with That

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Fri, 21 Jan 2011 01:39:00 +0000

You guys are gonna have to hold on tight, because this is a lot of reading.

I’ve started replying to spam email because ~~friends are hard to come by~~ ~~I like to~~ 6 ...nope. No good reason.

So, this email is from "Michelle Marcel." And she sent me this really heartfelt letter while she was crying all over her computer which was a big risk for her because rumor has it that “wet” and “electronic” usually don’t go well together. I haven't really tested this theory, but I once saw Groundhog Day, and also my hair dryer is really close to my sink, so, yeah, any day now I should find out what really happens. Anyway, she could have died, you guys. Actually I just googled “wet and electric” and ~~was shocked that this phrase and many variations had been googled~~ it looks like vacuums can be both wet and electric so probably Michelle wrote this with a vacuum.

Michelle Marcel

WITH TEARS!!!!!!!!
Quite frankly, I know it may have sounded pretty strange for you on why I chose to contact you who are a complete stranger to me and I must tell you this, I contacted you for the simple reason that we do not know each other. It would be very difficult for me to contact anybody here who knows me for this purpose as I may stand the risk and chance of being cheated of my inheritance because the person would have known my weaknesses. I may even lose my life that is why I decided to contact you a complete stranger.
My name is Michelle Marcel the only child of my parent. During the civil and political crisis in our country, my parents were poisoned by heartless people. Fortunately for me, I was in the school when this tragedy took place to my family. I was in coma for almost two weeks. But I thank the almighty God because I never knew that I could support the shock of losing almost my family. Right now I am still here in country but very unsafe for me.
I'm living in great fear and bondage. I intend leaving this country as soon as possible but only one thing kept me back. My late father has deposited with one of the prime financial institution the sum of money, $3.2Million USD .But unfortunately he did not complete the transaction before he sudden died. I have mapped out 25% out of the total money for your help and assistances because it looks stupid for me trying to confide in a total stranger I never met before. By instinct I am convinced you are an honest person and you have the capacity to handle this transaction with me. As soon as it is done, I will come over with to meet you and spend the rest of my live in your country. I wish to invest the money into estate business and other good business you may propose. I promise to greatly compensate you for any assistance you may offer me. I do not know how you may feel about this but I want you to take this very serious and confidential.

Best wishes
Michelle Marcel

REPLY

Michelle Marcel,

Absolutely! What do you need? My social security number? DNA? A picture of my mother in a bathing suit? Just like blond girls on Spring Break, I believe in living life with no regrets. I would so totally regret not helping you out, you super fantastic girl you. In fact, the only regret that I DO have is that I never heard back from the girlfriends of those four Nigerian Princes for whom I emptied my bank account on several occasions. I sure hope they're doing alright.

You have a very cool name. It's too bad with someone with such a cool, alliteration-y name is stuck in such a lame and unspecified country! And wow, your the child of only one parent!? I'm gonna jump way ahead of and assume that you're like...a fungus...or the offspring of an asexually reproducing alien species. If living in America has taught me anything, it is that I should know nothing about politics but still try to make political jokes, and also I should shoot aliens. I won't shoot you though because I believe all creatures are like ponies: beautiful, and they just want you to leave them alone with some apples. Also, if you are an alien and you are just landing here, you should know that surviving in America will require you to own a pantsuit that is both professional and revealing.

I can't wait to hear back from you! Since you're a girl, and I'm a girl, and we have now had a back-and-forth email conversation, we must be best friends, so good for us! When you get to America, we should try to bake cookies like all American girls do for fun, and oh will we ever giggle when we drop eggshell in the batter! I just can't wait!

-Whitney

PS I have some great business ideas for you once you get here. Like a meat shop called "Bread." Or a pet store called “Bread.”

PPS Me: Knock, Knock. You: Who's there? Me: Sarah Palin? <Example of American political humor

I’ll update if I hear back from her!

Also, if you guys want to work for Plastic>Paper...we need to come up with a business plan with bar graphs and pentagon charts and whatever else business is about. We also need advertisements. I’m thinking our slogan can be, “Paper Burns. Plastic Gets Melty.” or “Plastic. Stuff has Plastic on it. Shouldn’t you?” Any other suggestions? I haven’t really decided what our company is going to actually do so we’ll start with a slogan and go from there.

-Whitney

I Don’t Think I’m Going to Shave My Legs Tonight. Stop Thinking about My Legs.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Mon, 17 Jan 2011 01:10:00 +0000

Dear Internet Children,

I’m sorry it’s been so long, and I ~~promise~~ I will never be gone for so long ever again.

...

You know when you fall asleep in a cardboard box and then you wake up and your husband’s all like, “Did you just fall asleep in that cardboard box?” And you’re all like, “Yeah, I just did that. We need reenactment pictures.” And then you take reenactment pictures, only you move the box slightly to the right so that people won’t see that you were sleeping kinda close to the trashcan? Well I can relate because that happened to me this past weekend.

In my defense, I've been in this German class that last for 8 hours a day, 5 days a week. Followed by 5 hours of studying. Then I had to drive 2 hours. Then I was selflessly playing with my cat because Ryan bought a new computer and who can resist playing in such an awesome, big box?

Actual Story...

I have a new favorite thing. That favorite thing is when people who have never read my blog send me emails that are all like, “By reading your blog, I can tell that you’re a great cook.” And I’m like, “Seriously? I think the only time I ever mentioned food was when I said I was going to ignore my imaginary children to drink grown-up lemonade." That’s not even cooking. Only someone who didn’t know how to cook would even suggest that mixing drinks could possibly be considered “cooking.” Anyways, I went searching through my email trying to find this one particular message that said something like, “Thank you for using your blog to make the world greener,” but I can’t find it, so I’m going to paraphrase it. By “paraphrase,” I mean that I’m going to completely make up the email, and you’re just going to have to believe that I’m not lying to you.

The Email

Dear Whitney Bradley,

I have read your blog, and I noticed how you are taking action to make the world greener and cleaner! Good for you! I want you to know that I also care about the environment, for I am typing this from a “green” computer. This means that I am sitting in a dead tree that I hollowed out, wearing a tank-top made of soy that I purchased after working for 3 weeks at my local vegetarian restaurant, “Hide That Bacon,” and my computer is powered by an extension cord that is twelve miles long and plugged in at a “green” coffee shop that has pictures of all the Kenyans, who have been paid more than 15 cents an hour, plastered all over the walls so that they don’t look as incriminating as Starbucks. Wasn’t that a long sentence? By making such a long sentence, I just saved some “.”s. See how green I am? Anyways, you should give my company some money. Soy clothes don’t buy my themselves.

Won’t you snuggle our world with us?
Earth Snugglers Inc.

The Email Back

Dear Earth Snugglers’ Inc.,

Nope. I’m not snuggling your anything. You haven't read my blog. Although begin your email convincingly with, “I have read your blog, and I noticed how you...” rarely has anyone ever finished that sentence with anything but, “must not have graduated college.” Did you even visit my blog? I don’t mean “did you skim it it for blatantly obvious grammatical errors.” Did you read that post that had pictures of me stabbing live trees with forks for the woodpeckers? Woodpeckers are natures small and inefficient lumberjacks, Earth Snugglers’ Inc. If ever there was an animal that should NOT be saved, it would be woodpeckers. OR...do you remember that time when I had nothing to do so I went outside with a pair of tweezers and started plucking individual blades of grass from my lawn? That’s because it hasn’t happened yet, but now I have plans for tomorrow. I’m going to go back to my room and sit in my pile of yet-to-be-recycled pile of Dr. Pepper cans. Maybe tonight I’ll try to hide them in the gas tank of my diesel engine trunk. That is, if I can take a break from standing outside and spraying my aerosol hairspray directly into the wind.

Love you Bunches,
Whitney, of Plastic > Paper Inc.

I really like replying to emails with nonsensical emails because sometimes I get replies from really annoyed people. I’m thinking about starting a business where you pay me $5, and I send emails to people you want to annoy, anger, or dump. This business would probably only work for about a week before I would be assassinated and my obituary would be all like, “Everyone outlived Whitney. Who’s Whitney?” And I’d be all embarrassed from Heaven.

-Whitney

This is a Post from Rachel. She didn't Include a Title When She Sent this File to Me. This is Whitney. Also not Including a Title.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Mon, 10 Jan 2011 01:26:00 +0000

If you have read some of our earliest posts, you may remember a man named Franco (a.k.a gay, hairdressing weenie.) In reality, Franco is neither gay, nor a hairdresser, nor an exotic cereal inventor. He is actually a handsome Asian man that likes to flirt with me at work at the most inconvenient times. In my mind, however, he is still always wearing a hotdog suit.

First of all, I’m not really the flirtatious type. I’m not apt to like people in general, and as I’ve already established, I am kind of antisocial at work because I am too busy thinking about all the places I’d rather be and conjuring ways to make the hours go faster (such as counting the day in musical albums rather than in hours, rationing my food to break up the day with snack times, and writing myself lists of all the amazingly fun things I am going to do when I get home, such as...yoga. Or fingernail painting....or...basically anything besides everything I have to do at work.)

I am also not a morning person. I hate it when anyone tries to talk to me in the morning. After ten am, I’m all yours (within reason), but before then, unless you are quietly bringing me a latte and then immediately making yourself scarce, I really want nothing to do with you. I am overall pretty good at disguising my Morning Hatefulness, but Franco caught me at a time when it was making itself inescapably clear.

Apparently I looked really attractive. I mean, who wouldn’t want to hit on THAT, right?

Anyways, so I went to the cafeteria to get myself a bagel, hoping to not encounter anyone I knew. Ok, I actually went and hid in the bathroom for a few minutes when I saw someone else I knew going to the caf, because I really didn’t feel like talking to anyone and didn’t want to enter at the same time for fear of having to make conversation.

So I was at the bagel table, when I started dropping stuff, because I hadn’t had my cup of coffee that morning and I had my headphones in so I kind of had negative 10% alertness going on....and it seems to me, that every time I am dropping things or having an otherwise ridiculous clumsy moment, THAT is when guys choose to approach me. I think it’s because they’re secretly scared to talk to girls so they just lurk in corners and watch for you to do something stupid so that they can pop out and make fun of you for it so they seem all cool and composed and smooth and whatnot, when really they’re just too chicken to talk to you at your best. Feel free to defend yourselves, guys, but I probably won’t buy it. I’m onto you.

So my half-awake, food and caffeine-deprived brain, that was at that moment using all of its capacity to absorb the Postal Service which was playing on my iPod, took an absurdly long amount of time to understand what was happening, and I stared blankly at him as I tried to think of an adequate comeback. Nothin’. Absolutely nothing.

I must have looked kind of ticked off, because his confident, flirtatious air started to fizzle, and he began backpedaling, with “I’m just...kidding.........”

And then he walked away and I very calmly said something super lame like, “I guess I am just kind of clumsy this morning”, at which he politely chuckled.

After that I hastily got in line to pay for my bagel, and he made another feeble attempt to flirt with me, because he obviously wasn’t getting the picture that I was pretty much at my grumpiest and wanted to be left alone.

Of course, later I thought of many adequate comebacks....well, no, I didn’t. But I could’ve yelled something like, “OH YEAH?? WELL YOU’RE ASIAN!!!”

Which is neither an insult, nor a valid argument, nor even relevant.....but it might’ve caught him off guard long enough for me to make a run for it.

Or I could’ve said, “YOU DON’T HAVE A BEARD!!” which would have been an insult, AND a valid argument, AND an adequate comeback.....all of which only I would have understood. But once again, ample running time.

Bottom line, be warned Francopants. Next time you disturb my morning I’m going to deck you in the face.

Love, Rachel

I don’t feel like writing, so here’s my Christmas card. Nevermind, I actually wrote a lot.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Wed, 05 Jan 2011 00:58:00 +0000

Whitney and Ryan conversation:

Me: I need to write a blogpost, but I don’t wanna. I don’t feel funny.

Ryan: You just told me that you are pregnant with salmonella.

Me: THAT’S NOT FUNNY. THAT IS SERIOUS.

I am not going to give you any back-story.

Christmas Cards

Now that I’m married, I have to fake being an adult and do things like ~~go to work~~ send out Christmas cards. Whoever ~~whomever?~~ started this tradition which forces me to stress about, and then send pictures of myself to people who don’t remember me, was an idiot. I’m googling this idiot.

John Calcott Horsley 1817-1903.

He doesn't really look like he invented the Christmas card, but I guess everyone needs a hobby.


“I invented Christmas cards and child abuse because THOSE STUPID KIDS WON’T STAND STILL AND I JUST WANT THIS PICTURE TO CAPTURE HOW BEAUTIFUL OUR FAMILY IS. PLEASE JUST THIS ONCE. FOR MOMMY. MOMMY IS GOING TO CRY AND USE PHOTOSHOP.”

Thankfully, I am not a mommy, and I have no idea how to use photoshop. I’m not sending out Christmas cards because I like to push the hilarious boundaries that a flamboyant British man established in the 1800s. BUT, I will show you my Christmas card and EVEN write an annoying Christmas letter filled with stuff that I think is cool about my life, but that significantly lowers your respect for me because you thought that I spent my time rescuing orphans, but really I just spent a year playing Super Mario and eating.

Dear estranged family members and people whom I don’t know but came to my wedding,

Well, it’s that time of year again! That time of year when implied social law demands that I send you a card which inclides ~~with pictures of a baby in a lobster pot~~ adorable pictures, a witty one-liner, and an out-of-context Bible verse. I couldn’t fit my Bible verse on my card, but here is one of my holiday favorites:

“I wish those who unsettle you would emasculate themselves!”
Galatians 5:12

May you all carefully reflect on Paul’s words during this holiday season.

I would like to thank those of you who sent us Christmas cards and letters! It was so nice to see that those kids you have ~~that I forgot about~~ have grown up so well! Really starting to look like mommy and daddy aren’t they? How wonderful. Make sure you give my phone number to the one who looks like George Clooney once he turns eighteen. Haha, I’m just making awkward jokes because I can. Many of you asked us if we have yet to be blessed with a child. And then when we so "no," you recommend that "we get going." What a well-though-out ~~completely inappropriate~~ comment! No, Ryan and I do not have kids, because I met one once. Also, I will have no idea what to do with it. If it’s a girl, I’ll have to tell her she's not fat, and also invent ways to raise her self-esteem. And outlaw Barbies. Unless it's like...Oily Complex Barbie. If it’s a boy, that means that the toilet seat will be left up twice as much, and consequently, I will fall in the toilet twice as much. I’ll still include a picture of a baby though. A baby in a lobster pot.

As far as what I’ve done with my life this year, I once acted out an episode of Jersey Shore. Ryan has been much more prolific, but he also acted out an episode of Jersey Shore. We have a cat. I threaten to drop-kick it a lot. I do drop-kick it a lot.

Love,

Whitney, Ryan, and Rimsky

PS Enclosed is the address “of the apartment I am moving to, so please send next year’s Christmas card here.”

New Address

Nope. I’m not creative enough to think of a fake address.

PS that has unrelated to the Christmas letter. We have a fan page up on facebook now because I want to meet Tina Fey. Don’t try to make the connection.

-Whitney

Zombie Apocalypse for Dummies

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Thu, 23 Dec 2010 00:26:00 +0000

Surgery is my favorite thing in the world. I’m not having surgery, and I haven’t had surgery recently, but today I was reminiscing about how the only time I ever get any decent sleep is during surgery. AND after surgery, the doctor comes in and is all like “can I get you some toast” and I’m like “duh.” Then he even lets me pick a flavor of jam and also when I get home my mom is all like, “would you like some vicodin and Chinese food?” Basically, 90% of the good things that happen in my life occur about three hours post-op. ~~I’ve only had surgery twice and it was on my pinky fingers.~~

This has nothing to do with my story, but I’m tired. In fact, I’m SO tired that I sent several family members a nonsense underwear-related email. Stockings are for underwear and toothpaste, and I wanted to get this right.

“Do you want special Christmas underwear? I can only assume that Christmas underwear would make you feel all tingly from the magic of Christmas being so near your butt. I don't know what I meant by that. I should stop studying and go to bed. And I'll get you regular underwear.”

I haven’t slept in a week. Also, beware, anyone in my family...beware of Christmasy underwear.

I HAVE ONE MORE STORY BEFORE MY REAL STORY!

I was at Best Buy purchasing a few non-undergarment-related presents. I had to stand in line for about an hour ~~because that is what Christmas is all about~~. By the time I reached the front of the line I was ~~sweating~~ shining with Christmas magic and ~~grumpy~~ not grumpy. One of the Best Buy employees was sorting us into lines.

DIALOGUE REENACTMENT!

Employee: Hey KIddo!

Me: Kiddo? I’m like...married and crap.

Employee: **Squints at me, puts both hands on her hips, bends down and stares directly into my eyes** Does somebody need a cookie?

Me: **Pouts** Yes.

The moral of the story is...take cookies from strangers. I assumed the cookie was poisonous, but I ate it anyway ~~because I was hoping for surgery~~. Also there is a very age-confused woman working at Best Buy.

ACTUAL STORY!

I feel like complaining. Like complaining about the Zombie Apocalypse. Because it’s stupid. I think I am in a bad mood because I have two different brands of contacts in my eye and one is thicker than the other and you should probably pity me because I’m like Quasimodo except instead of the Hunchback of Notre-Dame, I’m the Bumpy Eye of My Particular Apartment Complex.

Anyway, more often than one would expect, I am asked silly questions like, “Who would win in a fight: zombies or unicorns? What about zombies or vampires.” And I reply with, “Let me answer your question with a question. Is there any trick to remembering how to spell “breath” versus “breathe?” Then no ones’ questions are answered, and I have probably written a lot of awful papers in which I “took a deep breathe.” Also, zombies will never win anything. Here’s my book “The Zombie Apocalypse for Dummies.”

I hope you all have a very neutral holiday,

-Whitney

PS A huge "thank you" to John from Strange Weapon of the Week, for some blogging tips. Go check out his site if you want to learn about awesome things like vomit guns. Seriously. It's a thing.

‘Tis the Season of Disillusionment and Squandered Dreams.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Sat, 18 Dec 2010 18:00:00 +0000

As a little girl, I was always kind of sensitive and anxious and didn’t really like to be away from my mom’s side for very long.

One year, a few weeks before Christmas, my dad was out of town so my mom had to do all of the shopping herself. She was about to leave me in the care of my big brother and sister--which was in and of itself enough to scare the pants off of any child. These were the people that had once tied me up inside of a laundry basket and left me there, and had also at another time nearly blinded me with bathroom cleaner spray...and let’s not forget the time they slammed my finger in a door hinge!!! But I digress.

I really didn’t want my mom to leave that day, so I kind of threw a nasty fit that was probably inappropriate for my age. I really don’t remember how old I was, but I was probably just a little bit older than I would admit if I did.

My mom quickly got fed up with my amazing display of drama, and burst out with,

THERE.

IS.

NO.

SANTA CLAUS!!!!!

**picture of my mom that doesn't really look like my mom.

She went on with, "Do you know how your presents get under the tree? I put them there!! And the only way for you to get presents this year is for you to shut up and let me go shopping RIGHT NOW!!!!!!!!!!"

My mom tells me this story every year, despite the fact that I remember it quite vividly without her help.

Bah humbug.

Happy Christmas, everyone.

-Rachel

Timmy, Whaddya Tase?

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Sun, 12 Dec 2010 23:38:00 +0000

Classes are all finished now, and I only have three finals next week, so I think I win. Every semester around this time I get stressed out and threaten to quit school and do something ~~ridiculous~~ for the orphans. This year I plan on quitting school and opening a classy bowling alley.

Me: Ryan, I want to quit school and open a bowling alley.

Ryan: Please think about what you’re saying. Do you really want to associate with the “bowling crowd?”

Me: Rednecks need love too, Ryan. But, I’m not going to associate with them, I am going to “own” them. It’s for the greater good.

Ryan: Mullets are not for the greater good. They are all business in the front and a party in the back.

Me: WAIT. A. MINUTE.

Ryan: What?

Me: CLASSY BOWLING ALLEY. There will be martinis and a discotheque. That’s what kids are into, right?

Ryan: Discotheque?

Me: I’m pretty sure Obama said something like that.

Ryan: Where?

Me: In Time Magazine.

I’m really looking out for the children.

REAL STORY

Since “LOL 4 Dummies” seemed to ~~force me to threaten many people with free boats~~ teach many of you an important lesson, I thought that I’d continue with the “4 Dummies” series with “The Zombie Apocalypse 4 Dummies.”

THEN, one afternoon I was wasting time on YouTube, and searched “Taser,” (don’t question my antics) and from the videos that popped up, it became apparent to me that someone needs to teach people what should and what shouldn’t be ~~tasered.~~ ~~tased.~~ ~~tasered.~~ tased. I am currently setting my “4 Dummies” efforts aside to dabble in children's literature. This first book ~~is really moving~~ is titled “Timmy, Whaddya Tase?”

You might have to click on the pictures to read the text. Sorry it's so small, but I'm an author, not a magical make text bigger wizard.

See? ~~I'm an American hero.~~

-Whitney

PS When I gave you my twitter name and was all like, "hey, follow me," I didn't mean for you to open a new twitter account with the names like "Cinnamon DeepLusty," take a topless picture of yourself, and THEN follow me on Twitter.

PPS I want to do some serious pimping out of this blog. I know NOTHING about html stuff, so if anyone is willing to help me out, shoot me an email. I don't really have money, but I'll give you ~~my firstborn~~. ~~Ryan.~~ a shout-out for your blog or something.

The Stache Stash That Discourages Friendship

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Tue, 07 Dec 2010 01:09:00 +0000

This post is going to be short because I’m going to ROFL ~~Reduce Optimism in Foreign Lands~~. That won’t make any sense unless you’ve read this. But seriously, this is going to be short and possibly unfunny because I’m tired from spending my morning conducting a choir of 45 girls who were probably ~~all judging me for what I was wearing~~ really impressed with my skillzs.

I thought I’d introduce you all to my Stache Stash. What’s a Stache Stash you ask? It is what happens when you get married when you’re 20. It’s not a disease. Hold on, and I’ll explain.

STORY

I had this conversation about 42 times after I got back from my honeymoon:

Friend: Oh my goodness, how was your honeymoon!? I bet it was like so totally super romantic!!!!! LOL!

Me: ~~LOL OMGEE IT LIKE SO TOTALLY WAS~~ We bought fake mustaches.

Friend: Uh, what?

Whitney: It’s really nice because when I put one on you can’t even tell who I am. Plus, it emphasizes the physical similarities between myself and Andy Reid.

Friend: ...

Whitney: Umm, I’ll be right back.

And then I put on one of my fake mustaches and none of my 42 friends ever recognized me again. They also never tried to call, ~~so I put them on my special list~~ because I’m sure they’re all very busy.

All of the mustaches are now stuck on the mirrors of my car. If you are ever in trouble with the law, let me know because I’ll come rescue you and hook you us with an array of disguises. Here, look at my pretty pictures.


You can put them on the mirror so you can see how awesome you look being in disguise

I do have a story though about how the Stache Stash does not help me make friends because sometimes I forget about the Stache Stash and how it usually requires a small explanation.

STORY 2

Once upon a time, I was giving a girl from school a ride to her apartment. The sun was shining, so I lowered my mirror to block the sun...thus revealing Stache Stash. Then the following happened:

*Girl eyes Stache Stash and looks a little scared*
*I think one thing, but says something else completely out of context*

Me: It’s okay. I’m married.

Girl: Oh, how nice.

Me: No, I mean it’s okay that I have fake mustaches in my car because they half belong to my husband and also they help disguise us and emphasize the physical likeness between myself and Andy Reid.

Girl: You can pull over here.

Me: I’m normal!

Girl: You can pull over here.

Friendship ~~averted~~ earned.

-Whitney

Crouched down in secrecy

UPDATED Tina Fey Did Not Comment on My Blog and I am Saving All of the Birds

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Sun, 05 Dec 2010 03:51:00 +0000

I did have a favorite comment this week!

“Anonymous said...
Whitney I love you”

Anonymous can be anyone, so naturally I’m assuming it is Tina Fey. I was going to chisel her an award on a sheet of solid gold, but I don’t have a chisel. So I’m going to write her an ~~awkward~~ very heartfelt letter.

Dear Tina Fey,

Today I had this conversation with my husband:

Me: Look at me playing with the cat AND stirring macaroni. I’m multitasking!

Ryan: But are you also pooping? That’s what Tina Fey would do.

Me: You’re right.

**Several seconds pass**

Me: Umm...don’t come in here.

Tina, THAT is dedication to your advice. And THIS is a picture you being a little risque and cartoon me not being very risque because I can’t draw that. I look a little scared, but I think that's healthy.

I saw the other day that you anonymously commented on one of my blog-posts. There is no need to be anonymous, Tina. How are we going build an everlasting friendship if we’re both continually sending anonymous mail to each other? ~~I have a picture of your face tattooed on my bicep.~~ And, people who leave comments on my blog are practically family, so I thought I’d share one of my irrational fears with you. I am afraid of icicles falling off of buildings and stabbing me in the part of my brain that controls bladder function. Or like...finger nail growth rate. Something awful. For this reason, I have added a hardhat to my Christmas list.

Whitney

PS I would also like you to know that I watched you receive the Mark Twain Prize for American humour, and I thought your speech was very ~~racist~~ prolific.

ACTUAL STORY

For those of you who aren’t aware, I have spent the past month painstakingly ~~plagiarizing~~ writing a research paper which led me to write two incredibly valid emails to Aquaman and the United States’ Congress. Neither responded, but that’s not the point. The point is that we can now deduce that Aquaman is dead.

Anyway, my actual assignment was to write an eight-page research paper about something to do with the BP oil spill. I asked my teacher if I could write about how I think Aquaman died from the oil spill and maybe also I’d throw in something about birds. She said, “How about just the bird part?” And then her eyes got kind of glassy, and I can only assume that she was remembering how, earlier this semester, I turned in a paragraph about how I sometimes run outside to yell at birds if they wake me up too early. Then I’m pretty sure I watched her try to figure out how to get me transferred to another class so late in the semester.

That was a recap. Now onto the new stuff. I researched birds, and like, all the birds are dying, you guys. Some people have even quit their jobs to go down to the Gulf of Mexico to clean the oily birds. So I decided that I really should do something for nature since it is always there for me ~~when I turn on Animal Planet~~ when I run ~~twenty yards, walk another twenty yards, and then post on as my facebook status “just ran like 5 miles!”~~. I wanted to do something for birds in particular since they have been a part of my life for the past couple of weeks.

What could I do though? All the birds have migrated, so I can’t go feed them or anything. I sat at the window and stared up at the trees like you would expect in the post break-up scene of a movie that has the word “sleepover” in the title, while I contemplated what I could do for the birds that they would appreciate once they got back in the Spring. Looking up at the trees made me think about woodpeckers, and that’s when the brilliant idea hit: woodpeckers make holes in trees. I have no idea why they do this, but it really doesn’t matter. Woodpeckers like hole-y trees, and I can make hole-y trees. I armed myself with a fork and headed outside to make some tree holes. I figured no one would believe me so I asked my mom to take some pictures. This is how a couple of those conversations went down:

Mom

Me: Mom, I really need you to come outside and take a picture of me stabbing a tree with a fork.

Mom: Okay, but we have to do it now because I need to leave.

Ryan

Me: Today I had my mom take a picture of me stabbing a tree with a fork.

Ryan: Good. Did you know we’ve almost been married for one year and four months?

You guys, people are learning to tune me out and that ~~terrifies me~~ is probably for the best.

But here is the picture of me stabbing a tree for the birds:

Now I have to start writing a new paper. The paper has to be an argument, so I’m all set to argue about ~~why I should not have to pay for tampons~~ politics?.

-Whitney

PS I’m thinking about writing a eulogy for Aquaman, so if you’d like to contribute a little something, leave a comment with your final words to Aquaman, or shoot me an email at rachelandwhitney@gmail.com.

PPS I’m starting a “Zombie Apocalypse 4 Dummies,” but I have a lot of exams this week, so you guys will have to be patient.

PPPS Some people have asked if Claire's ever responded to my email. They did not, but they are seriously going to regret it when all of the twelve year-old girls are clamoring about "baton head."

PPPPS I finally got on the Twitter train. Wbradlaaaay is my name or whatever you call it. If you say some "@" me, it will probably take at least two months for me to get back to you, because I don't know how to use "@" yet.

**UPDATE** People have left me comments and sent me email claiming that they are Tine Fey, so I think you all need to comment or send me an email give me a reason WHY you are Tina Fey, and then I'll pick a winner and thou shalt be crowned TINA FEY.

-Whitney

Also, you can be expecting a post very soon about my "stache stash" so stay tuned or else *very intimidating threat*

Awkward encounters and Amish people

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Fri, 03 Dec 2010 03:02:00 +0000

The title of this, I realize, might be rather misleading. I did not have an awkward encounter with Amish people. I had an awkward encounter with a different kind of person than an Amish person. Not that Amish people are .......different......well, yes they are. Shut up.

Anyways, this weekend, I had the immense pleasure of meeting the friend of a mutual friend at the aforementioned mutual friend's party, and this friend...the one that...I was not previously acquainted with................could I have worded this more confusingly? No. I think not. Regardless, we'll just say I met this guy at my friend's party, and he said to me, "Hey, you're one of the writers of that website, aren't you?? I'm a follower!" To which I replied awkwardly, "I..uh....yes....I am that.....ummm...I'm uncomfortable..."

And then I got kind of overwhelmed by Party Peoples and went to hide out for a half hour in my friend's bedroom and text my mom. Because I know how to do a party right, suckas!

Anyways, awesome guy whom I had the pleasure of meeting, I'm sorry that was so awkward! I am even more sorry that I seem to have irrevocably forgotten your name....which is not cool of me. Please don't un-follow our blog because I have a terrible memory and am a sucky people person. Meanwhile, I am going to rename you Travis. While I don't remember your real name, I definitely remember that Travis is NOT the correct one, but it's too late. You will forever be Travis to me. And Travis, I want to congratulate you for being the very first Chunky Knubby Navel fan that I have met without having been acquainted prior to the launching of this blog, let alone without having nagged you to click the "follow" button. My mom hasn't even clicked the "follow" button. Meh. Oh well, at least she texts me when I am at parties and miss her. Unfortunately, Travis, I have no reward to offer you for being my first whatever it is I just said you were....and not even this Honorable Mention really counts because no one knows who I'm actually talking about.

But anyways. Thanks Travis. Feel free to comment and tell me your real name and I will probably continue to call you Travis because now it's what I remember.

Moving on. I haven't posted in quite some time.....partially because I am too busy doing important things like painting my fingernails purple, then getting bored with purple and switching to blue, then getting sick of that and going back to purple....and right now you are not getting illustrations because I just put on a fresh coat of purple and I have to be very careful typing and therefore will have no time left to do justice my masterful illustrating skills.......so you get lots of fun words, yaaay!

But one of our followers sent me this message the other day:

"Dear Rachel,
While I adore posts from our good friend Whitney, I am saddened at your lack of postage on ChunkyKnubbyNavel as of late. It is distressing to me and I wish you would post again. Or else I will have to start a competing blog and out-blog you.
The end.
Your affectionate sister Liz."

I remember Liz's name so there's no need to give her a fake one...but if I had any reason to do so, I'd probably call her Penelope. But instead I'll just say Liz. It's shorter and easier to type.

Liz's note made me feel kind of guilty and sad, but it only lasted like four seconds because no one really listens to their sister. Come on. You don't listen to your sister either, Liz. Just admit it.

So I have not had many exciting things to post about. My time has been occupied with work, which is running out of funniness because office humor can only go so far before you just want to slam your head into the copier and shut the lid down on it until you are unconscious, and maybe, if you somehow convince them that it was an equipment malfunction, they'll give you disability pay. But that's not funny. It's just sad, with maybe some free money, which is neither funny nor sad.

So when I am not at work, I am usually pestering my dad and watching movies with both my parents.

Tonight I watched this old movie with Tim Allen and Kirstie Alley about Amish people. It was not as hilarious as my mom had led me to believe. So I got bored halfway through and went upstairs to make my bed (at nine o'clock at night, because I am too lazy to make my bed in the morning but I am really OCD and hate getting into an unmade bed....so every day, for the past 12 or so years, I have made my bed at night.) and tried not to think about how much I had to pee because I had just painted my nails and if I went pee I would have to wash my hands and that would ruin my nails so even though I'd had a hearty glass of whole milk and a cup of tea, I had to hold my pee so as not to ruin my nails.

Whoa, wait a minute. I was talking about Amish people. Not pee. I don't understand the fascination with Amish people. There's like a trillion Christian novels about Amish people, which, if you think about it, is like the worst set up for an intriguing plot, because how exciting can their lives really be? Wouldn't excitement and drama defeat the purpose of being Amish? I have been at times compared to Amish people...because I am homeschooled. Ok, they're not the same. Doing math homework on your couch and reading classic novels for fun may make you a bit of a dweeb, but it's not the same as being Amish. I don't make quilts or wear headcoverings or churn butter or anything like that.

So as I was watching this movie, I said to my parents, "I'm glad we're not Amish. Amish people are weird."

To which my mom replied, "Well, we're weird."

And then, in unison, my mom and I both said, "But not as weird as Amish people....."

And before you get upset about how intolerant and socially unacceptable everything I just said is, calm down. They're Amish--they don't have the internet. They'll never know.

I realize that this post has absolutely no plot cohesion or even a solid ending, but it's over now, because I still haven't peed yet, and I think my nails are dry.

--Rachel

PS Brian Vulcan, I don't know you, but you have a cool name.

LOL 4 Dummies

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Tue, 30 Nov 2010 00:24:00 +0000

ALL CAPITAL LETTERS WHICH WILL GRAB YOUR ATTENTION EVEN THOUGH I DON’T HAVE ANYTHING INTERESTING TO SAY.

So I didn’t really have a favorite comment this week, so you all lose. However, I did get a comment that complimented me AND insulted me in about 3-ish sentences which is kind of ~~mean~~ a skill. I thought about making an award for this insult/compliment ~~complisult~~, but instead a just wrote “good job” on the back of an old receipt that I found in my pocket.

“This is completely off-topic, but chunkyknubbynavel almost made me piss myself laughing. I just thought you should know. Your artwork is much better than anything I could do, which actually isn't much of a compliment. Sorry.” -That Ain’t Kosher

Thanks and unthanks, my friend!

ACTUAL STORY

Internet language has always been a frustrating topic for me. I think it is because I believe that the English language is ~~some totes magotes wicked sweet lingo~~ affective if used correctly. Actually, I think I might just be bitter because it wasn’t until a few months ago that I actually learned what ROFL meant, but I didn’t want anyone to know that ~~I thought ROFL meant “Reading On Front Lawn”~~ I didn’t know how to use ROFL, so I used it anyways. No one ever corrected me because all of you are jerks.

Example 1
Friend: Hey, want to go grab some dinner.
Me: No, I can’t, man. I gotta ROFL and ROFL
“Read Oedipus for Lecture” and “Rescue Orphans from Lightweight boxers”

Example 2
Friend: I’m balding.
Me: Omg, ROFL.

“Rogaine Omits Follicle Losses”

Basically, I’m very helpful and heroic...acronymically. Which is a WIJI (Word I Just Invented).

A few days ago, my anger at internet language exploded, which consequently caused two people to go without dessert because I’m that powerful.

Texting:

Me: Hey! What’s going on?
Friend: Eating dinner lol

No one laughs about eating dinner because eating dinner isn’t funny ~~unless you’re eating dinner with midgets I mean little people~~. Then I turned green, ripped my shirt off like the Hulk, found a new shirt, and texted my friend’s mother and told her not to give my friend any dessert because my friend is an idiot.

Friend’s Mom: But she loves dessert lol
Me: You can’t have any dessert either.
Friend’s Mom: Okay.

I’m influential.

So I wrote ~~the most powerful eight page novel of this generation~~ a stupid book ~~about shirtless vampires~~. It is called “LOL 4 Dummies” because I also hate when people use numbers instead of words and so when I use “4” in my title, I am being hilarious. Appreciate it.

I'm going to be a billionaire.

If any of you dare to leave me comment that just says “lol,” I will figure out your address, and mail you a letter that says you won a free boat, but you WON’T HAVE WON A FREE BOAT. You will be sad, and I will win.

-Whitney

...I Probably Shouldn't Have Said That?

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Sun, 21 Nov 2010 20:47:00 +0000

This is going to be short because I have to ~~take a nap~~ write a paper. I promise a longer entry soon. With poorly-drawn pictures!

Last night, Ryan and I had a coupon for a Chinese restaurant downtown. We had to wait a very long time for a table, so naturally we were both getting pretty ~~racist~~ hungry. When I’m ~~racist~~ hungry, my brain to mouth filter starts to malfunction. I was already on a role of saying stupid stuff since, one night earlier, Ryan had seen my non-filtered ambien mode.

Ryan: I made chili, do you want a bite?

Me: I hate chili.

**Takes bowl from Ryan and eats all of the chili**

Me: I hate chili.

**Begins conversation with lamp**

Anyway, we finally got a table at the restaurant, filter mode was off, and Ryan decided to bring up WWII.

Ryan: So what do you feel was accomplished in WWII?

Me: What?

Ryan: You said you enjoyed talking about something serious. WWII is serious right?

Me: Uh, yeah. I guess it is. What did I feel was accomplished in WWII?

Ryan: Yeah.

Me: Well, we stopped Germany from becoming a world super power, and also it led to the basic plot scenario for Saving Private Ryan. Basically, it is now the plot for about 80% of all movies and video games. WWII was probably the greatest thing to ever happen to us.

Someday soon I am going to get ~~shot in the face by a veteran~~ a stern talking to.

-Whitney

PS I'm not racist at all, and I think WWII was awful, so please don't yell at me.

Dear Congress and Aquaman

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Wed, 17 Nov 2010 23:02:00 +0000

This might be a lot of reading, but I believe in you! Much more than I believe in myself.

Oh, you guys are just the best. There is nothing like taking a break from hours of mind-numbing homework to learn that you were very close to being the cause of unplanned urination.

“I almost peed when I read your latest blog.” -Tabbatha Renea Maria Plomaritas

So once again I will be presenting an award since this is my favorite comment of the week.

I need to clarify that I did not spell “a lot” as “alot.” It is just smashed together. I also found something new that I am awesome at drawing besides bald eagles and stars: a swirly.

I’m sorry that is has been so long between posts, but school is ~~making it so when people ask me how I am, I just kind of grunt at them~~ teaching me valuable life lessons. Right now I should be writing a research paper about the BP oil spill. I’m having to resist the urge to write about how Kevin Costner created a real-life Chitty Chitty Bang Bang that would clean all the oil while all of America sang a rousing rendition of “Toot Sweets,” but I have a feeling that my idea would be ~~stupid~~ ~~brilliant~~ not taken well. I also thought it would be ~~hilarious~~ important write about why Aquaman hasn’t done a blasted thing to save the turtles and also maybe why hippies haven’t sacrificed their bodies by using themselves to plug the leak. Where are my dedicated hippies!? Chugging soy milk and selling me water in paper cartons isn’t really helping any of us now, is it?

I’m going to write a letter to Aquaman. And maybe Congress. Then I will hand in the letters I’ve written instead of my paper to my professor, and once again she will tell me to go sit in the hall, but that I can always come back inside if I calm down.

I just called Ryan. To tell him that I was writing a letter to Aquaman.

Me: “So I am writing a letter to Aquaman.”
Ryan: “Okay.”
Me: “But I looked him up, and he’s like, really lame. I don’t know how he could help with the oil spill.”
Ryan: “He could plug it with his butt.”

He doesn’t question me AND he provides an even dumber idea than I had???? I definitely married the right dude.

LETTERS
This is my letter to Congress:

Dear Congressmen (and women. You all look very nice in your pant-suits today!),

I figured that is it my duty as an ignorant 20-something year old American to tell you what to do about this whole oil spill thingy we got goin’ on. My very educated suggestions come from ~~the advertising on facebook~~ years of research. I have come to learn that the spill has essentially been stopped.

However, I drink soy milk.

Whitney=Soy milk
Soy milk=Hippies/Lactose Intolerance/Lactose Intolerant Hippies
Hippies=Overly concerned about nature, but not so much about how they smell

By the transitive property:

Whitney=Overly concerned about nature, but not so much about how I smell.

So merely stopping the leak is not enough to please me or the cows that now have uncomfortably large udders because of me not drinking their milk.

Congress, I, a very concerned citizen, suggest that you ~~use the bat signal~~ assign your finest biologists the task of finding Aquaman and making him clean to oil spill. If you’re not willing to find him yourself, I simply need a resurrected Sam Quint, and I also need a boat. And sequins.

Obviously the best citizen,
Whitney

PS What’s Tina Fey’s address?
PPS I read yesterday that Sarah Palin got to add a word to the dictionary. “Refudiate?” I’d like you to refudiate her refudation and have you add my word into the dictionary. I’d like it to be: “hicktanglo.” If you have “hicktangloed,” then you have tied up a cowboy with his own lasso. Thanks.

LETTER
This is my letter to Aquaman:

To whom is may concern (That’s you, Aquaman),

Earlier, I wrote this letter to you on paper, but when I went to mail it to you, via the ocean, the paper disintegrated because, Aquaman, I am an idiot. I hope you can accept messages etched by my teeth on a slab of rock because this is the best that I can do. Don’t get picky now, Aquaman.

If you weren’t already aware, billions of gallons of oil have been leaking into your ocean over the past seven months or so. Since you have not responded, I can only assume that you are dead and my two front teeth that are now ground down into tiny stumps from carving this message have been wasted. Aquaman, please send me two replacement teeth. Shark teeth are preferable.

My husband suggests that you get off of your butt and then use it to plug the oil leak, but don’t listen to him because he doesn’t know what he’s talking about 1) because the leak has stopped and 2) “butt-plugging” is not one of your listed powers. I, on the other hand, know that you possess the power to sense the primal emotions of aquatic creatures through "The Clear." Do I have any idea what that means? No I don’t, Aquaman, because I just Googled you about 30 seconds ago. However, it sounds as if you know when your fish friends are sad, and let me tell you what, Aquaman, oil makes fish really sad. They are so sad that they are dead.

I would like you to consider this a threat: I have emailed congress asking them to resurrect Sam Quint, and the two of us are going to team up to catch you by throwing sequins into the water because from your super outfit, I can deduce that you will totally like, come to the super shiny things that will make you look fabulous. Once you’re caught, Sam Quint, you, and I will get super drunk and compare our scars. There may also be singing. But the singing will be in English, Aquaman, not in dolphin. We will probably sing “All the Singles Ladies” in three-part harmony. You should have plenty of time to prepare.

Take care (of the oil please),

Whitney

PS I found this picture of you. Awkward teen years, Aquaman?

Well, I think I just earned an A.

-Whitney

UPDATE: We now have a fan page on facebook, so look us up if you'd like!

Whitney’s Interaction with Jehovah’s Witnesses UPDATED

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Tue, 09 Nov 2010 00:12:00 +0000

I was trying to think of something interesting to post, when I realized that all I had done today was 20 minutes of homework before I got distracted and spent about an hour debating with myself whether or not “cushions” was actually spelled “cutions,” and I then remembered that I own a dictionary.

I actually managed to start my homework, but then I got sidetracked and wanted to know if my conducting baton could actually stab someone because musical murder is ~~probably the artsy-est type of murder~~ wrong. So then I poked my dog with my baton to see if it would ~~even hurt him~~ tickle, but he didn’t mind and then he wanted an ice cube. Then I never practiced conducting because I realized that I probably would never be a conductor, and instead I would use my baton for ~~stabbing~~ tickling or assisting in some sort of up-do hairstyle.

Oh my goodness you guys, I’m going to be famous. May I introduce you to “The Baton.” Hip enough for prom, conservative enough for Bible study!

I’m seriously going to email Claire’s.

Here is my email to Claire. I let you know if she responds:

You have to click on it.

And this is why I most certainly will be failing my midterm tomorrow.

Now I’m wearing sweatpants which is my most favorite thing besides all food, and I am eating my “lean” chicken alfredo lunch that came in an unopenable (spellcheck says that’s not a real word) box, and it is tasting a lot like someone shredded cardboard and dunked it in non-fat mayonnaise. I’m realizing now that no one is forcing me to eat this, so I think I’ll stop and tell you about when I ~~had a friendly conversation~~ with got attacked by Jehovah’s Witnesses.

This story may be slightly exaggerated, but it actually stays pretty close to what happened. If you don’t believe me, then you can take the time to hunt down my sister and ask her about the time that she almost made me leave a football game early because I was making a scene since the lady in front of us had hair that was SO big that I couldn’t see any of the game. Run-on sentence. Also I think she was hiding cocaine in there.

ACTUAL STORY

I was frantically playing piano the other morning because I am supposed to practice for 10 hours each week which I ~~never, ever do~~ always do because I want to ~~manage a Wendy’s someday~~ be a musicology professor. I heard someone knock on the door, and I thought it was probably a polite serial killer, so I opened the door. It was a couple of older-looking ladies. I assumed that their car had broken down and that, despite knowing nothing about cars, I would be able to fix it, and these women would give me a lifetime supply of free cookies. Because that’s what old people do. They. Make. Cookies.

Old ladies: Hi.

Me: Hey.

Old ladies: We’d like to discuss prayer with you.

My brain: No.
My mouth: Sure, but I pray like all the time, so I think I got it down.

They never actually talked to me about prayer. Instead, they asked where I went to school and I was all like, “Calvin.” I think that going to a Christian college to them is like being taught by Satan while being bottled up in hell. I didn’t want them to think that I had learned anything from Satan so I tacked on an, “It’s cool there” which was totally also a pun about the temperature so that they knew it was cold at Calvin, and whether a Jehovah’s Witness or not, everyone knows that Satan doesn’t like the cold so obviously he isn’t at Calvin.

They asked me what I was studying.

Me: “Music theory.”

Old Ladies: “Ohhhh! What instruments do you play?”

Me: “The alpenhorn and the oboe.”

Old Ladies: “Ohhh! Lovely!”

They must have no idea what an alpenhorn is because it is not lovely at all. Here’s a picture of an alpenhorn just in case you haven’t been carefully cataloging your German instruments for the past 5,000 years:

They smiled, but I knew that they were probably judging me. I automatically assume that all door-to-door religious types agree that all women should do nothing, but cook and stuff so I said, “...but I know I shouldn’t go to college because I’m a woman and I shouldn’t do anything I like, and I should probably go put a steak on my husband’s TV tray because he likes to eat while he watches anime.”

They were all like, *stare.*

So I kept talking which I probably should not have done. “...but I guess it’s okay because now I can serenade him on the alpenhorn while he sits on his fat, but well respected, butt and does his daily Biblical crossword puzzle.”

No, I didn’t say that last part.

*Clarification*
Ryan is not fat at all, and I love him dearly. In my Jehovah’s Witness fantasy, he is very fat. And I’ve also never seen him to a crossword puzzle, but he should because it exercises the mind.

Eventually the ladies left, and I ~~got back on twitter~~ continued to practice the piano.

I left the pamphlets for my mother in case she felt like converting to crazy, but when I got home and inquired if she had read them, she was all like “I threw those straight in the garbage. I’m not even recycling them.” So you should all be thankful that my mother has kept you from, somewhere in the future, purchasing animal bedding made from our Jehovah’s Witness pamphlets. Then I thought about how many people probably do recycle those pamphlets and that probably almost all animal bedding is made from Jehovah’s Witness material.

-Whitney

**UPDATE**
I just wanted to make mention of the new blogroll on the right side of the screen. These are all people I find to be hilarious, or awesome, or inspiring, or hardworking, or absolutely insane. This is my warning to you... The Bloggess, although she will make you cry and wet yourself because she is so funny, is also very vulgar. Don't go there if you are easily offended, and there are definitely some posts that you should skip altogether.

ALSO!

If you would like to be added to our blogroll, shoot us an email or leave a comment with your URL, and we will check out your site!

I have officially gone insane.

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Thu, 04 Nov 2010 00:08:00 +0000

I have a tendency to talk to inanimate objects. That's not that unusual, right? Everyone, including me, curses their work computer (you'll notice I specify "work" computer. My home computer and I have a very good relationship, and I only speak lovingly to him…..it.), or coaxes the senile toaster into doing its job…right??

But I think in my case, it's maybe gotten a bit out of hand.

For example, today I had a conversation with Vladimir.

Vladimir is my car. We haven't known each other that long, but we are becoming quite close. I named him Vladimir after the jolly mustached man in the movie Anastasia.

(guy on the left)

I have always liked that movie, and I likewise named my Macbook after another character in said movie, Bartok the bat.

I also have been reading way too much Tolstoy and have grown to like Russian names. Hence, Vladimir seemed to fit.

Anyways, today as I was searching for Vladimir in the very large parking lot of my place of employment so that I could warm him up before my mom and I left for the day, I began monologuing, and it went something like this…

Vladimir, where the cuss are you?!?! Oh! There you are Vladimir. Did you miss me? See, you needn't have worried, I was just at work, and I am back now. Now, I know you want to go home, but we have to wait for momma, ok? She'll be here in just a minute…….

We (I) said some more stuff after that, but I don't really remember it all and I'd rather not disclose it. I think I was pondering aloud how Vladimir would look with a beard, but decided he should stick with the clean cut look.

And then I realized that maybe I need to find some friends.

-Rachel

Coffee Cup Sizes and Dr. House

noreply@blogger.com (Chunky Knubby Navel) — Mon, 01 Nov 2010 23:16:00 +0000

Before I begin hating on coffee cups, I want to share with you the two most beautifully encouraging comments that I received this week. We’ve been up and running for only one week, and we have gotten TONS of positive feedback about making you guys laugh which happens to be our goal.

“Whitney Bradley, The writings of you and Rachel Dupont HAVE made me laugh like a FOOL! Keep it going :)” -Hannah Nobel

“Hi Whitney, you don't know me. I'm Rachel's brother's girlfriend's eldest brother. Your blog is amazing. It looks great. I can read it easily. The white text on black background is the way to go. Also, everything both of you write is pure gold. Keep it up or you may have a revolt of at least 8 people. No pressure.” -Adam Plomaritas

So I made you guys an award for being my favorite people:

Those things at the top that look like butts are actually very intricately drawn bald eagles, you just can’t tell because your mind isn’t used to art of this magnitude.

REAL STORY

The other night, I was driving my two-hour drive back to Jackson when it suddenly hit me...if I didn’t get some coffee in the next two minutes, I ~~would be sad~~ was going to die. Probably from a brain aneurysm because my head felt a little funny.

Oh, shout out to whoever finds me after I have this aneurysm (my head still feels funny): I would like you to get me Dr. House. Don’t tell me he’s made-up. I would like him to be my doctor, and I would like you to ask him to please skip his two wrong diagnoses and get right to his third correct one. Also if you could tell him to not discover something extra, like that I am a man or that I’m pregnant with eight children who are being absorbed by my small intestine, that would be great. The show “I Didn’t Know I was Pregnant” has taught me that whether your a guy or a girl, fat or skinny, there is about an 85% chance that a baby is going to fall out of you at any second and that stuff freaks me out. So I really need to spend most of my time continuing to worry about that and not something else.

So I stopped to get some coffee.

I can’t remember the name of the obscure no-name coffee shop, but it probably had the word “java” or “mocha” in it. Then the owner probably tried to make it something cute, so maybe they called the coffee shop “Polk-a-Mocha” which is supposed to sound like “polk-a-dot” but it sounds nothing like “polk-a-dot” because they are idiots. Then you sit on the bench outside Polk-a-Mocha in the dark, amongst the serial killers, wondering if the name of the shop is instead somehow related to James K. Polk since no one could be so stupid that they think “mocha” is a proper substitute for the word “dot.” Forty minutes later, you realize that who the heck cares why some no-talent Indie musician names his coffee shop Polk-a-Mocha and now you don’t even want your latte. I have no idea what the name of the coffee shop was, it wasn’t Polk-a-Mocha, I just hate cute coffee shop names.

If Polk-a-Mocha is a real place, I made a new banner for you:

I got in line behind a sixty-something man who was telling the guy in front of him that “they should really put this stuff in an IV” as if he was the first person to tell the coffee IV joke. I wanted to tell Old Guy that I was there, twenty years ago when that joke was told for the first time, and I crawled out of my crib and punched the person who said it with my baby fists. Also if you injected coffee straight into your veins, you would probably die, and death isn’t funny and also it’s just a bad joke. I held myself back, but I did make him this award since I was making one anyway and I found a yellow marker that I hadn’t used yet:

He gets a star because it’s the only thing I can draw besides the bald eagles.

When I was about eleven, my cousin taught me the art of ordering at Starbucks. After pronouncing “grande” as “grand” for a couple months, I got the hang of it. However, I’m still intimidated every time I go into Starbucks because all of their employees like, genuinely want to know how I am doing. Their kindness confuses me so my mind overcompensates and I end up yelling “I want a mocha. CALM DOWN.” Then there was the other time that they asked me how I was, and I started crying because of the Holocaust. They gave me free coupons because Starbucks cares about my feeling, you guys.

Anyways, I have learned that Starbucks must not have managed to obtain sole ownership of the words “tall,” grande,” and “venti,” but they somehow managed to have rights over the ordering them “tall,” “grande,” “venti.” That means every other coffee shop on the planet also has a “tall,” “grande,” and “venti,” but they are all jumbled up in a random order so that you never really know what size you’re going to get. Sometimes when you order a “tall” it’s like, “here’s your magnifying glass so you can find your coffee. sucks to be you.” And other times they practically have to hire a helicopter to airlift your drink from some sort of military base. I was at (not) Polk-a-Mocha, and I wanted a “Starbuck’s tall.” I ordered and was waiting for my coffee when I realized that the barista practically needed a semi-truck to haul my drink to the counter. It turns out that she just had impressive semi-truck-like upper-body strength. This is also when it started to make sense why I just paid about $26 for a cup of coffee, but I didn’t question them Polk-a-Mocha because ~~I have an anxiety disorder~~ I’m super rich.

I kinda looked down at the coffee cup, well, I guess I looked up at the coffee cup since it was practically equally proportional to the Washington Monument (that might be an exaggeration). Then I told the barista in my best valley girl accent that this cup like, totally would not be fitting into my cup-holder. She really didn’t care, but she should have because now there is officially material about her on the interwebs. Then I asked, “ummm, could you maybe put this into two smaller cups?” She though this was a really stupid idea. She said that if she gave me two cups, she would also have to give me two lids and two sleeves which would cost the company like forty whole cents. I told her I only really needed one hand to drive, so I could skip one of the sleeves and get 3rd degree burn which would only cost her about twenty-eight cents and also a hospital bill. I added, “IT’S FOR MY CAR SAFETY.” She still didn’t care, so I asked her if I could borrow a red wagon (the color matters) and some bungee cords to get my coffee to the car and properly secure it to my roof. I might not have said that last part, but I thought it, and is was a good thought.

This is getting too long so here’s a quick summary of everything else that happened once I got my coffee to the car: I balanced by cup in the passenger’s seat, hit the rumble strip every 15 seconds as I tried to get a drink, did the “mom arm” to keep the coffee from spilling when I had to brake for stoplights, and also I was up until 5am because I was so hyped up on twenty gallons of coffee.

-Whitney

PS France may or may not have emailed me today and they may or may not have included this picture. Apparently I’m a big deal over there seeing as I watch all over all of parliament. Basically I run the French government.