Friday, November 9, 2007

Q&A Friday!

I’ve always thought of India as a place where dreams are bigger than reality, which is why I wasn’t surprised when I read the headline earlier this week: “Indian Girl Born With Eight Limbs.” Instead of being grossed out, I thought of all the wonderful things I could do with my life if I had eight limbs. First, I would start a charity. Daniel Murphy’s Fund For People With Extra Parts. I wouldn’t discriminate between what kind of extras a person had. If you had two heads, or just two livers, you would be welcome.

Then I would start a website for people with extra parts to meet like-parted mates. It would be called www.extraheartsforextraparts.com. People from all over the world could communicate and socialize with people who understand what it means to put your pants on three legs at a time. And it wouldn’t be just an altruistic endeavor (although I might win the Nobel Peace Prize, which I would refer to as my Nobel Pieces Prize). It would make me hugely wealthy because all the people with extra parts would have their generous endowments from the Fund For People With Extra Parts with which to pay for the extra parts matchmaking service. I would be lauded as a visionary and a reformer for the handicapped, a “brother in too many arms” to the disfigured. I would be famous, and quite the handyman.

Then I read today that the Indian girl underwent successful surgery to have all the extra limbs removed. And along with her third right foot, my dream died.

So it’s back to a regular old Friday, typing out a Q&A Friday with my two regular hands and my regular sized dreams of achieving fame and fortune the old fashioned way – with 1 pancreas, two arms, two knees and a penis full of hope.

Hay Dan,

Now that you are living in Brooklyn, any chance you are going to get a flock of your own? Nothing like having a few chicks in the back yard.

Here’s an excerpt from the article referenced in the email, just so everyone knows what we’re talking about:

Apparently, a bunch of Brooklynites--especially in Red Hook and Cobble Hill--are getting into chicken farming. As in, backyard coops. Today's Daily News reports that "chickens are now flocking to Brooklyn thanks to a renewed interest in eating locally grown and raised foods."

Being an animal lover, this really appeals to me. I’ve seen firsthand on the news the horrific conditions in which these beautiful animals are raised. Plus, I love the all-natural taste of farm fresh eggs, but I hate overpaying just to know that the chickens who laid them weren’t smacked around. Plus, you can’t overestimate the kitsch factor of raising chickens in your backyard. I can think of nothing more relaxing than waking up late on a Sunday morning, throwing some pants on and going out to feed my chickens.

The problem arises when it comes time to eat them. I mean, I can barely even remember to defrost the frozen cutlets before I leave for work, let alone go through all the necessary preparation to roast a whole chicken. And another thing I don’t get is how you ensure that only one of the birds dies after the cockfight? What if one dies, and you’re like, “OK, good. Dinner,” but then moments later the victorious bird also passes from mortally inflicted wounds? Then you’ve got TWO chickens for dinner. That’s a lot of chicken! I guess you could make sandwiches the next day. Or some nice chicken salad. But still, it seems like a big hassle.

Although, I do have the best chicken names already picked out: Frank, Tatum and Jezebel. There’s something about Jezebel that just screams “Eat me with a biscuit.”
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Dan,

I went on a first date with a guy the other night and the restaurant he took me to for dinner was THE WORST. He said it’s one of his favorite places. How much stock do you put in a guy by his choice of restaurant? The food was so bad that it made me like him less.

Hungry in Texas

The first time I took Brooke on a date, she emailed me beforehand saying, “You pick the place, and I reserve the right to judge you on it.” Pretty ballsy for a girl who I’d met THROUGH THE INTERNET. But it made me really work hard to find the perfect place. And you know what? I did. And you know what? She almost went home with me that night. (Well, she didn’t slap me when I asked.)

The point being, it makes a big statement on a guy’s part that he takes the time and care to pick out a good restaurant, especially for a first date. The fact that this guy THOUGHT he made that effort scores him points. The fact that he likes food that tastes like trash, however, is disconcerting. The last thing you want is to invest in this relationship only to be taken out for a “casual” meal to the back door of the local diner where they trash the leftovers from the lunch shift, where your boyfriend proudly uses the line, “Dumpster for two, madam?”

Then again, I’m a bit of a foodie. I once too a girl to Boston Market and she ordered the string beans instead of the creamed spinach. That was it for me!
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So, I was reading this article and it mentions, among other things, that "one third of people under 30 can't remember their own phone number".

Myself, I am over 30, and do not seem to have a problem remembering my phone number, except when filling out forms, then I use the phone number for the local pizza shop. So I was wondering what you thought.

I’m not sure I understand the logic behind using the local pizza parlor’s phone number when filling out forms. Like, would you use the pizza parlor as your emergency medical contact? It could be really unhelpful if you had a heart attack someday. Like:

ER Surgeon: (dialing emergency contact number while sitting on your gurney performing chest compressions)
Pizza Place: “Gino’s, please hold…”
ER Surgeon: (listening to soft rock, still performing chest compressions)
Pizza Place: “Gino’s, how can I help you?”
ER Surgeon: “DOES REGINA ROGERS HAVE ANY FAMILY HISTORY OF HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE!”
Pizza Place: “Who? What? Is this a delivery?”
ER Surgeon: “MY GOD MAN, SHE’S GOING TO DIE!”
Pizza Place: “OK, we can rush the order. What’s your address?”

Blah, blah, blah aaaaand you’re dead.

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Happy Birthday! How come you didn’t share it with everyone that it was your birthday? Did you get everything you wished for? (I heard there was a sale on unicorns at Kohl’s!)

I don’t like to use my blog as a place of ego stroking and self-aggrandizement. Sure, it was my birthday. But we all have birthdays. Except the Jehovah’s Witnesses, but I don’t think they have the internet either. So I figured on my birthday, which was this past Wednesday, November 7th, same day as it is every year, including all the years going forward such as next year, I would just go about business as usual.

There were a few things I really wanted that I didn’t get, like this and these. But Brooke saved the day by giving me something that I have wanted for a really long time. Plus she got me this great watch. So despite the fact that there were no unicorns under my birthday tree (now that’s something I would consider raising in my back yard – I bet when unicorns fight they shoot rainbows at each other!), it was a great day. Thanks for asking.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go look for some date rape toys on eBay.

(Think you’ve got what it takes to have a questions? Email me at redactedblog@gmail.com)

11 Comments:

Blogger Mo said...

That Indian girl up there reminds me of that evil octopus woman in The Little Mermaid. I was waiting for story to explain how she tried to steal someone's voicebox but instead I read that she had the limbs removed. And then I realized how lame I was for knowing characters in The Little Mermaid.

BTW, Happy Belated Birthday.

November 9, 2007 at 4:39:00 PM EST  
Anonymous Dwight said...

"And then I'd cut off all your fingers so no one could ID you. They'd call me the Overkill Killer."

November 9, 2007 at 6:07:00 PM EST  
Blogger faithstwin said...

Do the rainbows come out of their ass?

I've been feeling like I am missing something on my birthday and I believe it is the Birthday Tree. Thank you!

November 10, 2007 at 2:59:00 AM EST  
Anonymous Anna said...

So sorry you didn't get your Vulva Puppet. Oh well, there's always next year!

November 10, 2007 at 5:27:00 PM EST  
Blogger Jay Cam said...

well she doesnt have eight limbs any more!

is that a good thing?

November 11, 2007 at 2:04:00 PM EST  
Blogger bad influence girl said...

The Nobel Pieces Prize....ooooh, laughing so hard I'm weeping....and snorting...sneeping? worting?

Happy belated birthday, fellow scorpio.

November 11, 2007 at 4:14:00 PM EST  
Blogger denise said...

hey. me and my friend recently started a blog. please check it out =]. www.senseless-sentiments.blogspot.com

November 12, 2007 at 12:57:00 AM EST  
Blogger Red Robin said...

Since I love your blog I had to tag you in mine! Your it
http://redrobinphotos.blogspot.com/

November 13, 2007 at 11:06:00 AM EST  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Please, please post. So that we don't have to look at that horrible/sad picture anymore.

November 13, 2007 at 4:05:00 PM EST  
Blogger Banu said...

I think the woman meant forms as in those that are going to tele-market you to the grave. So she puts the pizza parlour number so THEY get harrassed instead.

November 16, 2007 at 1:05:00 AM EST  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Hey, I am a Jehovah's Witness, and I do have a birthday (I think, yup belly button and all). Also have the internet (not Amish)

November 26, 2007 at 6:17:00 PM EST  

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