Reasons To Rip Your Couch Apart

You may remember the animal we've invited to live inside of our home. His name is Thelonious.

Thelonious likes mud.

Thelonious likes a good run.

But most of all Thelonious loves the taste of a good piece of furniture, especially if it's coated in succulent, expensive leather.

I tried to sell the couch and was pointedly mocked by a craigslister who was doing some furniture shopping before heading out to murder his next victim. I tried to give it away. No one wanted it. We set the couch out in our driveway for a week. It did not miraculously disappear (but it did help us blend in with the neighbors). So, at the will of suburban pride, Levi decided to dismantle the thing so we could at least have a bonfire.

Step One: Drag couch to back porch. Say goodbye.

Step Two: Skin the couch. Begin working on next Halloween's Hannibal Lecter costume.

Step Three: Keep skinning.

Step Four: Seek approval of laser-eyed beast.

Step Five: Stare in wonder and awe at the thing you, at one time, paid lots of money for.

Step Six: Chase laser-eyed beast before he destroys the world with his foam mallet.

Step Seven: Warm up iPod that you lost a year ago in the couch cushions.

Pink Friday

The mall is a dangerous place to be on Black Friday -- put a million people who spent a whole Thanksgiving day with family into one place, and you've got a million bloated, crabby people in one place. And amidst these million people lurks a savage creature -- the Pink Monster. The Pink Monster comes in many shapes and sizes and uses a variety of threatening defensive techniques.

This one will bean you with couture:

This one will put you in a headlock and give you a holiday noogie.

So be careful out there in the land of Wetzel's Pretzels and two-for-one glitter panties. And remember -- a stiff palm to the breast meat, or a swift kick in the jean shorts will stop a Pink Monster in her tracks.

I'm Thankful for Helicopter Hats

Family photos are the worst. You have to mill around in front of the stupid portrait studio while you wait for your appointment, which was an hour ago, while a bunch of crabby families and their crabby babies dressed up in cutesy holiday fare that makes them look like Santa's underage workers made a prison break and took a real wrong turn at JC Penney's shuffle about while they reconsider their stance on abortion. Then you have sit in a million fake-looking poses in front of fake-looking backgrounds with fake-looking props (styrofoam snowballs?) with your whole fake-looking family (did you really think that boob job would fly, mom?). THEN you have to PAY for it all.

Family photos are the worst. Unless this happens:

Want a Food?

Newsletter

Pamela Anderson will play the Virgin Mary in an upcoming T.V. special. Let's just hope, while they're in the stable, the wise men don't accidentally try to milk her.

Two Texas women have been charged with buying and selling a baby. Can you blame them for wanting to beat the Christmas rush?

Brad Pitt says he will retire from acting in three years. Sounds like Brad's finally saved up for that second home.

I think I'll do a little bit of protesting on Thanksgiving this week. First I'm going to occupy the dinner table, then I'm going to occupy the couch.

Kim Kardashian will come out of solitude for a New Year's Eve party. Two months in a divorce Snuggie will do that to a girl.

Herman Cain had an embarrassing moment Tuesday. But he's okay with it since it was the first embarrassing moment he's had in a while that didn't end with a woman slapping his hand away.

Penn State coach Jerry Sandusky is looking guiltier and guiltier. First we find out he had young boys stay over at his house, now police have found a sparkly glove in the guy's closet.

Thelonious Mump

Last week Thelonious got into something, but probably one of my mom's geraniums. Whatever is was, it gave him a bunch of little bumps all over his body. Then a big bump on his lip. Then it made his snout swell up, forcing me and Levi to call him "Thelonious Mump". Eventually T de-puffed like a used-up Macy's Day Parade balloon, but wow.

Speaking of dogs getting into things...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=plH5yXwPSW4

Casa Boni...ta! Casa Boni...ta!

We went there -- Denver's premier not-Mexican food Mexican food carnival. And, boy was it as Casa Bonita-y as ever. I spent all of Thursday poofing out these sort of yellowish, refried farts, desperately hoping that I wasn't ruining the pants I was wearing. My stomach rumbled for a full 40 hours. And, halleluja! Today was the day of the glorious Casa Bonita turd, which is just like any other turd, only it's wearing a sombrero made out of Velveeta. And thank goodness for that turd, you know? Because I was running low on Christmas card ideas.

That's the deluxe chicken dinner working its way through me. It was $13.79, toilet paper not included.

Are you a sheltered whitey who doesn't know what an enchilada is, which forces you to carry around a resentful and unnecessary fear of it and is also making you consider voting for Michele Bachmann? Or do you just want some goddamned fried American food already? Casa Bonita has thought ahead:

How about some Cielito Lindo to help wash down that last bite?

The mariachis were pretty good. It's nice when something shows up at your table and just plays music, as opposed to when something shows up at your table, plays music, acts in a short skit, then dives off of a paper mache cliff. But where else can you go in Denver where you can dine in the presence of pubescent cliff divers and be within four minutes walking distance of a crack house, and within thirty seconds walking distance of Black Bart's E. coli-smothered hideout?

Black Bart's Hideout is where you go to vomit after eating your weight in sopaipillas.

We looked.

Thanks, Casa Bonita, for the memories, for the explosive diarrhea.

Happens To Everyone

Newsletter

The Toronto Zoo is separating a pair of gay penguins. Maybe they're not gay. Maybe they're just Canadian.

Dippin' Dots ice cream has filed for bankruptcy. But don't worry -- they've got a guy working on ice cream of the even more distant future.

Did you see the GOP debate Wednesday night? Rick Perry thought he had the worst moment of the night, but it turns out later on Herman Cain accidentally put his hand up moderator John Harwood's skirt.

Have you seen "Puss in Boots"? Yeah, I haven't seen Kris Humphries, either.

A python in Florida swallowed an adult deer whole. The good news is the deer and the python didn't spend twenty million dollars on a wedding before things went sour.

Kim Kardashian's joining the protests. Occupy divorce court!

The 520 day-long Mars crew simulation hatch is being opened today. The only question is was it a Mars crew simulation, or was it all part of a Febreeze commercial.

One of John Lennon's teeth sold for $31,000 at auction. Would you believe that molar had the same haircut as the rest of the band?

A dress worn by Lady Gaga is up for auction. It comes with a picture, an autograph, and a bottle of A-1 sauce.

Lindsay Lohan was released after serving only a few hours of her 30 day sentence at a Los Angeles county jail. You put your right arm in, you put your right arm out, you put your right arm in, and you shake it all about.

The Duggar family is expecting its 20th child. The family says they "don't know how it happens". Which is probably the best argument against homeschooling yet.

A model wore 30-pound wings during the Victoria's Secret fashion show. That sounds heavy, but the wings actually ended up balancing her out.

You'll Always Be My Number Five

"You'll always be my number five, baby." That's what Levi just said to me. Which would be truly disconcerting in that whose-underpants-are-those-stuck-to-your-snowpants (usually just his, but you know what I mean) kind of way if I didn't know that being his number five means I'm number five on his speed dial. Because the number five is right in the middle of the key pad (if you don't count zero, which is a real number, but a sad, weird one who's almost definitely sitting at its own table down there at the bottom of the keypad because it's allergic to peanut butter or wears the same t-shirt every day or humps the tire swing at recess), and he assigned number five to me because he wants me at the center of everything. Which I really like. Here's to five.

What Are We Washing Our Birth Control Down With Today?

Worst Line Evar

This is years old, but I was just eating some Halloween candy that I found on the street, which is a bad move, and it being a bad move, I was reminded of a moment when I was in high school and utilizing one of the public library's computers, which are used mostly for porn, but sometimes for boob-free research. The man using the computer next to me was wearing a neck brace and appeared to have a broken arm. He leaned over in the weird way people wearing neck braces lean over -- that is, mostly with his eyeballs -- and asked if I could unbutton the top button on his shirt. The naive little dumpling that I was, I thought, sure, I can help a guy with a fake broken arm and a fake broken neck. Lean over here, creepy guy, and allow me to fulfill your fantasy. And I did. And it was weird. And that was the worst line ever.

The Morning After

Kids on Halloween are like the Rolling Stones in an expensive hotel room -- they eat a shit ton of sugar then put their hands in the air and just don't care. Then they eat another shit ton of sugar, throw a few armchairs at the wall, toss the television off the balcony and empty out the mini bar like an angry badger. In just three short blocks yesterday I found one tattered pillowcase, approximately twenty empty wrappers strewn about like used-up groupies, and this:

A Laffy Taffy, a Baby Ruth (I understand why you might leave this behind), a Crunch Bar, Skittles, Peanut M&M's, two KitKats, and a euro. Seriously. Which house is handing out the European cash? Because I make a wicked Angela Merkel zombie, and I'll happily show up on your doorstep next year.