Just kidding, no one actually makes phone calls. All my most special people text!

I am a resource. A beacon when times are tough for the toughest. For we at Vomitola know all too well that being extraordinary is a painful and isolating condition. How many times have you thought to yourself “Wow, today sucks. Only sudden and immense wealth could fix this one.” You’re wrong. Although honestly, it won’t hurt anything.

But as a complete hypocrite, I am crossing my fingers that the private shares of Facebook that I’ve had kicking around forever will squintuple-oon in value in one day, and then I will then retire us and devote my time to making live webcasts with Lambchop. We are thinking of tentatively titling our show “The Choke,” after the errant taco that started it all.

Stay tuned, it’s going to get weird. Especially for the special.

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Pictured above: Licketysplit walks on water.

The other day, I was saying to Lambchop “I wonder if people realize just how close our lives are to the drivel we write here?” It’s America’s best-kept secret and shame. WE really live this way! We really mutter about lost gum and shake our fists when they run out of chai at the coffee bar. We have situations and hijinks.

This morning, I have already been beset by my lawyer, money manager, and a plastic surgeon. That last bastard would not let me take an arm’s length photo as he carved 3 unattractive millimeters off my face, nor would he let me take home suturing material “just cuz.” He also would not give me breast implants on the spot. Not that I need them. He was very reassuring that once those 3 millimeters are run through pathology (that means “the study of ugliness,” I believe), I will be perfect. What a relief! He could have told me that before the botox and laser peel, I suppose. Everyone’s got to make a buck.

I have somehow secured an advancement in my career (the odd thing I do when not writing Vomitola), and I am expected to write the public announcement of my own good fortune. Do you think it’s enough to mention that I haven’t killed and eaten anyone in 6 whole months? I am so used to luxuriating in my own bubble of excellence that it seems almost rude to analyze all the ways in which I am excellent. What do I say about the me who has everything?

I have punted this task to Lambchop, who advises a complete lack of humility.

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Had it with Hoobjoobery?  Ready for the perfect specimen of masculinity?  Then let me remind you of the fine qualities of my erstwhile beloved, Steele.  He has everything- the golden calves of a man who is unafraid to lounge naked beneath the Italian sun because his body is more taut than Beelzebub’s bedspread.  He has a great personal fortune, about which he cares nothing apart than it is needed to keep his stylist on 24 hour alert to tend to his unstudied appearance.  He loves to travel and weep at romcoms.  He loves cheese and wolf puppies.

Oh, Steele and I have had some times.  We rode elephants in Thrissur, we sunned in Ibiza.  Why he even took me to visit the Holy Father.  (By the by, if that crumply gentleman had held his cup any lower, I would have thrown a quarter into it!)

He is an adventurer with teeth of lunar brilliance and excellently cut jackets.  There is no downside, this man has no flaw. In addition to be handsome, courteous, and able to balance a ball on the end of his nose, he has the good manners to not be overly reflective. When his pretty eyes close dreamily on my pillow, thinking of nothing more than the wax on his ivory Rolls, I do not wish I had some anxious poindexter in his place, more capable at pointing out the ills in society than giving me the what-for.

I am sure you are all wondering what life must be like in this gilded lane. While Steele will always remain my model of the ideal boyfriend and sailing companion, Lambchop is not one to be tied down to any man, and so I let him loose on the world of woman to add even more to his perfections.

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I’m glad we’ve established that ugly people have lives too, and potentially even problems, so let us move on once again to the attractive. We at Vomitola have bagged and tagged our share of the handsome over the years, and we have decided that there are two main attractive male archetypes.

After one particularly lackluster showing back in the 90s, we coined the term “Hoobjoob.”

The sensitivity! The hair! The aimlessness! Ah yes, the Hoobjoob is the bane of the modern woman’s existence. So promising at first, these specimens inevitably disappoint via complete lack of follow through. Maybe you somehow managed to bed one of them, probably by tripping and falling on him. Then the nightmare begins: the rambling texts and gchats and lame Facebook comments, the inability to make actual plans, despite copious amounts of flinchy but ongoing attention. What is this? We start to wonder, is it me? Could I be less than desirable in some way? Why is he not interested in banging, but interested enough to keep pestering me?

A trusty girlfriend can easily provide the answer: “Ah, you’ve got a Hoobjoob on your hands!” And then you can blithely change this person’s name in your phone and never speak of him again. There is no other solution.

If you give us a genius grant, maybe we can actually ascertain the reasons for Hoobjoobery in the modern male. Is it toxic exposure to hair products? A particularly damaging episode of “Full House” viewed in childhood? You thought you were getting John Stamos, but beneath the hair lurks all the social skills of Dave Coulier!

Anyway, we can’t be actually arsed to do this research unless you give us enough money and a dissection kit. If you’ve been Hoobjoobed, move on, guilt free. It’s not you, it’s Hoobjoob.

Coming soon: Part II: The Steele.

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Mary clearly had her intern up all afternoon scouring the internet when said intern should have been highlighting the fringe on Mary’s water dog.  How she does let normal business run amok when she is on a quest!  I took a gander at the ugly people wikipedia, and it appears nothing more than a dating association for Italians.  I could barely restrain a giggle.  Ugly Italians?  I should sooner see Intelligent Oklahomaoans.   Or Moderate Republicans.

Moving on to Ugly People Problems, I was thrown into uncertainty.  There do seem to be a lot of complaints, and yet, they all seem to relate to unpleasant quantities of hair or missplacement of features.  Just as a warm, gloaty feeling began to settle upon my person, I chanced upon a very disturbing factoid.  Apparently, it is common for ugly people to take an interest in a handsome celebrity, and then envy the partner of that celebrity!

Suddenly I was plunged into an abyss, recalling my torment when my precious Baby Goose packed his things and took up with that cradle robbing asp.  Can it be that these unfortunates, the hideous, the hirsute among us could actually relate to what I felt??  That they also might have prowled the outskirts of a Paris film set looking for a good place to hide a body?  Would they, too, have sent to her home one hundred tiny boxes filled with mouse tails, just to spy her look of fearful dread from a tree branch across the street?  It may be, it may be so.

What if we have other things in common?!  I don’t know if I can handle having my world view so shaken on a Wednesday.  I better have a lie down.  Perhaps Mary’s sadly dull-looking water dog will keep me company.

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Lambchop passionately advocated for respect for the problems of the beautiful yesterday, and while I leaped in the air and applauded, daintily, I felt like there might be even more pathos lurking beneath the surface. Sure, people underestimate just how hard it is to ravishing, the drudgery and responsibility of showing up each day with one’s DNA assembled just so, but ugly people cannot be without their issues. Or can they? We are not FOX News, so I set out to see the other side.

My first hurdle was finding an ugly person. As a rule, I don’t know any. I wandered around, ransacking supply closets, looking for one hiding. I realized that creative agencies don’t hire ugly people, so I was woofing up the wrong ugly tree. I decided to go under cover in order to attract the right demographic. I put on a Liz Lemon shirt, librarian glasses, and wandered around with unwashed sex hair and yesterday’s makeup remnants. People kept asking what I’d done with my ‘do, telling me I looked great. This wasn’t working.

So I did what any modern child does and took it to the internet. I present you, Lambchop, with irrefutable evidence that ugly people DO have problems!

All studies begin and end with Wikipedia, so here you go: The World Association of Ugly People “attempts to make society more aware of ugly people’s problems.” More aware. Interesting. They assume we are already at least a smidge aware! Presumptuous.

But I did you even one better than Wikipedia. I Googled! Some social scientist at Tumblr has collected the definitive research on the problems of the ugly. Entitled ugly people problems, this person’s dissertation attempts to prove that ugly people do, in fact, have lives too, and thus problems. If A = B and B = C then A = a wasteland of an existence.

Quod erat demonstrandum.

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I was off on a cruise last week with dear, old Ron Jeremy, for it is dreadfully gloomy in New York right now.  Apart from a spot of bad fish, it was a rollick.  So what have I missed?  Mary informs me that two of the dampest teens in existence have a philosophical point to make:  Hot girls have problems, too.   Casting these nasal-piped puffins aside (done!), I really have to disagree with the message here.  It is not in dispute that beautiful people have problems.  Heavy is the head that wears the crown!

Truly, the attractive among us are the *only* ones who have any substantial problems.  We worry about diseases we might get, the ones that poors have.  We worry that our shag carpet is just the wrong shade of eccru and it might be bringing us down.  We are frightfully concerned about whether anyone truly loves us, or whether it is all just an illusion brought on by our celestial allure.  To be so exceptional is to be very lonely.  Everyone else is stuck in a tractor beam on their miserable chins and gaping nostrils in the mirror, and never actually get around to any real trouble.  Like Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, ugly people are at the very bottom, and do not have the sense to be plagued with hunger and loneliness.  How I envy the simplicity of their self loathing, which revolves right around the facial area.   Ugly people are delighted to have cancer because at least they will slim down and not look so sweaty.  It is a condition you and I could not possibly comprehend, mired as we are in hob-knobbing, and misting our undereyes with diamond cream.  The PM of France knows exactly what we like.

So please do not tell us about the problems of the excessively handsome.   We are too well acquainted.  Ugly people do not have any problems.  Apart from being ugly, of course.

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A few years ago, I found myself vomiting profusely for reasons unknown but likely related to a child picking up random stuff on the ground and then sticking her fingers in my mouth. It was the kind of endless anguish that left me atoning and bargaining. As I clutched the toilet bowl, heaving, I even tried positive psychology, which shows you how desperate I was.

I realized that while this was bad, it could be worse. Yes, I could be projectile vomiting while being simultaneously fucked in the ass by Ron Jeremy. I don’t know why my mind wandered there, but I actually felt better for a second. Word to the wise: it can *always* be worse.

Then a few months later, I ran across an excerpt from Ron Jeremy’s autobiography. Remind me to save up for the whole enchilada some day, it seems like a thing.

I read in horror, mouth slack, as he spun a yarn about shooting a scene on a boat with a lead actress so seasick that she was leaning over the rail vomiting.

Even Ron found this off-putting, but the show must go on: “If you’ve never had the chance to fuck a woman while she’s vomiting over the side of a ship, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

Dreams really do come true. People are professionals. There you have it.

This vomit/fuck scenario became my personal yardstick (har har) for abject terribility. Is it a Ron Jeremy moment? We hope we never find out, but life typically imitates art. Especially today. Once you’ve looked over that rail, where do you go next? Well, according to Ron, back to shore to recover and fake some orgasm reaction shots. I’m still weighing my options.

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Now that we’re rejecting everything in the material world that is not aesthetically or sensually pleasing, we’re doing a lot of reevaluation around here at House of Vomitola. We cast a critical eye on all aspects of our lives. Do our turbans protect us from the assaults of the workaday world? Are our sunnies shielding us appropriately from the unkempt and otherwise unappealing?

I was personally sent for a tailspin the other day when it turned out you can have good things, but not too much of a good thing. I awoke with the most frightful headache, and careful reflection led me to diagnose myself first with brain cancer, then glamour fatigue, then exhaustion and dehydration. I was getting ready to call the Mayo Clinic when my house cleaner suggested that it might be…a hangover. WHAT?

I stumbled out to meet the day, unclear as to how Champagne Wednesday could be at fault for my condition. How could Armand de Brignac hurt me? I decided to go to work, as it is perfectly acceptable to be useless there. I still work because I need that “me time.” An underling asked why I was cradling my head on a velvet pillow while reclining on my Persian carpet. What was the occasion for the festive indulgence? Well, it was WEDNESDAY. What else does one do?

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Against Lambchop’s bitter protestation, I got a farm on eBay in a fit of tipsy impulse. While I was at it, I got an uninhabited island off the coast of Panama, but I’ll deal with that later. I also considered buying that town from The Hunger Games and filming complicated Twilight fanfic reenactments in it.

So. The farm. It’s…well…farmy. Not what I expected at all. No one showed up to greet me with a cheese plate! The animals smell quite strange. I really did not want to know where filet mignon comes from after all.

Apparently there are people out there in America who can’t have nice things. I was absolutely stricken to find this out. Did you know that to farm, you have to do work? There is dirt. Flies. It’s not all tumbles in the hay loft. And hay is ouchy anyway.

As a result of my little lifestyle experiment, I came to the painful realization that if I can’t have nice things, I don’t want to have any things. If I can’t have bespoke custom measured thousand thread count sheets, spun from 24 carat gold, I don’t want to sleep. If I can’t have European white truffles grated onto my tongue, I don’t want to eat. If I can’t glance at the hour on a Patek Philippe Supercomplication, time should stop.

I think I’m a Buddhist now.

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