the cheese stands alone

Trading Cases

Tiffany is doing some Bob Villa-esque home improvement, and she's gone all out and posted a little video tidbit for us. She has an accent warning on it, but what I found amazing was how calm and confident she sounds.
If you caught sight of me with some kind of power tool and a massive remodeling project looming, most likely the only sound you'd hear would be shrieking, cursing, and small animals running away.
Speaking of small animals... yeah, nice segue... anyway, while I was watching the vid, the GM1 pokes his head over my shoulder.
"Wassat?"
"It's Tiffany sanding her hallway."
"Oh.... huh, is that one of the bloggerettes?"
Bloggerettes. Makes us sound like we should be standing in the wings, waiting for Ike Turner to smack us.

Like A Man On Mars Throwing Away Oxygen

Very calmly and carefully, I took the lid off the sugarbowl and spooned sugar into my cup. Then I laid down the spoon, took up the coffeepot, and poured a nice, steaming cup of coffee.... into the open sugarbowl.

I am going back to bed.

I Want A Lovely Bumblebee Tracksuit Too

"Kill Bill", the game.
I think I did pretty well, although I don't really know... it appears to be in Hungarian or something.
Fun knows no language barriers.
(sliced and diced by zenwanderer)

You Asked, They Answered ("They" Meaning Me and the Little Voices In My Head) Part 3

All kneel at the feet of DaGoddess as she asks:
1) Can I borrow your car? Mine's giving me the automotive equivalent of the middle finger today.
My car never gives me the finger. It merely holds out an open palm, begging for more and more money. And any day I don't gots to have my wheels, dear, you are certainly welcome to 'em.
2) When are we going to eat hot dogs together again?
One of these days, your schedule and mine are going to synch up properly and then, if the restraining order from Oscar Mayer has expired, oh yea verily, we shall eat weiners.
3) Do you think we'll get kicked out of Ikea/Price Club for eating hot dogs the way we do?
I think both Ikea and Price Club should have to pay us for eating their hot dogs. The way we do it, nothing less than a sale-day crowd would be attracted.
And a corollary question from Bob:
1.Have you considered producing a Bloggers Gone WILD! video when you and Da Goddess eat hot dogs together again ?
We actually did try that, but the camera kept melting.

Xade (spelled like it sounds) asks:
1. If I have already posted this thing on my blog before, do I have to do it again or is it an 'all you can ask' kind of deal?
This kind of thing is like breathing or watching "Teletubbies".... you can do it as much as your system will allow. But remember, moderation is the key to clean living.
I wonder if there's a 12 step program for bloggerholics?
2. Cause I didn't fall under the 'First five people get an honest answer' category, does that mean I can just assume that you weren't exactly telling the truth in your first answer?
Never assume, because then you make a donkey out of me and my.... wait... okay, never legume because then you make a bean out of.... that's not right.... never resume because you should Finnish your Dutch treat.....
Nevermind.
Just know I would never, ever lie to you, Xade. Maybe to the rest of them, but never you. Just use the secret decoder ring.
3. How exactly does one become a Munuvian, do you have a secret ring or handshake or somethin?
It's a complicated process involved DNA restructuring, a series of biomodifications, and the vast and overwhelming generousity of the wonderful Pixy Misa, without whom I would not exist.
Okay, yeah, Mom and Dad had a little to do with it.

The Lure of Art

Xade, that little genius, has found another game to keep my mind off fairy floss stress..... Floats.

You Asked, They Answered ("They" Meaning Me and the Little Voices In My Head) Part Deux

Lovely Maura asks:
1. Of what are you most proud in your life?
I'd have to take the easy answer here, Maura, and say of course my marriage to the GM1. It's my one shining successful move in an otherwise self-checkmated game.
If you want the SECOND most proud moment, a moment where I felt like a peacock in full flaunt, see the continued answer to this in the extended entry**
2. Top Ten DVDs if you were stuck on a deserted island (with a DVD player, TV with surround sound, and a generator).
Holy crap, Maura, you play rough, girl. Lessee.....
Fifth Element
Kill Bill Vol. 1
Fight Club
The Thin Man series
Moulin Rouge
Grease
Paint Your Wagon
Princess Bride
Young Frankenstein
and of course, Chicago
3. Here's a million bucks. What would you do with it (it doesn't all have to go in one place)?
I'm about to get all Responsible and Boring now. I'd pay off all my debts, give cash gifts to all my family, and buy a house so the GM1 can have a dog. Oh, and buy the dog as well.
And maybe a cruise.
With Tom Hanks.

Pixy, who obviously has forgotten who (or what) he's dealing with, asks:
1. Is the Goldbach conjecture correct?
I believe not. It's socially impossible to get three primes in a room without all that nitpicking and infighting that makes the soiree just impossible.
2. What "proof" did Fermat have in mind that would not fit into the infamous margin?
He intended to prove that, at the time, the margins were just too damn small. He succeeded.
3. Why does the universe appear to have one time and three space dimensions?
Because there's never enough time but you can always find room for jello.
(Sorry to have to go all super-genius with a non sequitor complex on you with this one, but sometimes rational thought just won't do...... okay, yeah, like rational thought and I were ever in the same room.... HA!)

**1. My second most proud moment was a very fleeting one, and trivial, and probably stupid. But it's mine, I tell you, mine!
At one time, I could dance. I don't mean classically trained ballet or tap, nothing any self-respecting terpsichordian teacher would cop to. I mean shake dat booty and wiggle dat thing. This was back in the late 80s, when club dancing was all shimmy and big hair and spandex.
So one New Year's Eve, having just moved to San Diego, the soon-to-be-ex (may he rot in a hell of moldy fishhead stew and crotch-itch) and I called a truce in our ongoing war and went out. Being the big spender he was, we walked four blocks down the street to the local dive. STB-ex had thoughtfully taken the opportunity while I dressed to get shitfaced in advance, and by picking a fight with the bouncer before even setting foot in the place managed to ensure I'd have a lovely New Year's Eve all on my own.
Did I mention that I had all our celebration money in my own hot little pockets? Yeah.
So I went on in, commandeered a tiny table next to the dance floor, had a couple of beers for Dutch courage..... and I danced all by myself for the next four hours. I knew no one there. No one knew me. And all us no ones had nothing to prove and no rep to uphold.
Clothing stayed on. Movements never went lewd. Gravity remained my buddy and didn't suck my ass to the ground in a sudden power display.
At one point, the band, before going on break, applauded me.
A couple of women asked me if I gave dance lessons. I drank free the entire night. And no one (yep, the infamous No One again) made any kind of advances or hits or whatever.
Maybe it was coming through that I wasn't dancing to entice or lure. I was dancing to celebrate. Celebrate the new year. Celebrate that I was young and healthy and living in SoCal. Celebrate that final sweet "click" in the brain that made me realize it was absolutely 110% over with the Ex and I could move on.
Danced my ass off, I most certainly did.
And the next business day, filed for divorce.

You Asked, They Answered ("They" Meaning Me and the Little Voices In My Head)

DRC asks:
1. If you could be alone in a room with one person for 24 hours with no repercussions, who would it be?
Tom Hanks. Without question, Tom Hanks. I have had a Tom Hanks fixation since "Bosom Buddies." It's now increased to the power of a neurotic obsession. I can't watch any movie, or at least any part of a movie, where something bad happens to Tom Hanks. I cried hysterically for three days after I saw "Cast Away".
To this day, I curse the name of Helen Hunt.
Curse you, Helen. Curse you again.
2. If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?
In a penthouse, with room service and a spectacular view.
With Tom Hanks.
3. Would you ever be on a Reality Show?
Well, now I know that I don't know you in life-outside-bloggery, DRC, because my friends and family are sick unto death of hearing me go on and on and on about how my dream is to be on "Survivor". I'd settle for "Big Brother", but "Survivor" is the true enchilada.
If I can't have Tom Hanks, by the way, Jeff Probst is a damn close second.
Wait, if I'm a really good cheese, can I have both?

One of my idols, Teresa, asks:
1) Do you change your hair color everytime you change the colors on your blog?
Not anymore, but in my *coughlonglongagomisspent* youth, I was known as Rainbow Head. I have quite literally, at one time or another, had every color hair possible. My most memorable was the time I sported mainly copper-penny red, with fuschia bangs and rat-tail. Remember rat-tails? Yes, it was that damn long ago.
2) Are you going to apply to be on the next version of Donald Trump's Apprentice so we can get behind the scenes blog reports? (after the Fairy Floss cart - Trump's requests should be a piece of cake -right?)
I want to be the one who follows the Donald around with the hair spray supply. Talk about job security!
3) What's your favorite article of clothing?
Back in those days of yore that sound so much better now than when I was actually living them, I had a black shiny spandex dress, with a zipper running completely up the front and another completely down the back. It was quite the girly-est thing I've ever had, and it was my Weekend Party Till You Drop Dress. Nowadays, modesty and zoning laws have retired The Dress, and my favorite bit of clothing are my plaid Converse hi-top sneakers.

More answers later.... it's almost time for "Survivor", you know.

Just Ask

Other than the underwear ads and the little tearout strips of perfumey paper, one of my favorite part of a magazine is the Interview. They get some wildly famous celeb cornered and ask them blindingly invasive questions like "Who inspired you to act?" and "Do you hope the movie is a success?" (I always want them to say something like "Lizzie Bordon" and "No, because failure makes me hot, baby, red-hot like the surface of the sun in a tight thong and no tan lines! Hot, I tell you!")

So Tiffany has this new meme and being the plagaristic, soul-sucking content vampire responsible blogger that I am, I snuck up behind her and tapped her on the shoulder and when she turned to look I stole it from the other side and ran away laughing because that's just the kind of evil, content-vampire I am, except I have much better sneakers, look... see the plaid? Don't you love plaid sneakers? I could die for a good pair of plaid sneakers, they're so.... je ne se quois, doncha know? decided to help spread the word.

Anyway, the way it works is: you ask me any three questions in the comments here. First five people to do so get absolutely honest answers, unless of course it would violate my witness protection status or involves my pubic hair.
And best of all, it completely absolves me from having to think of interesting, new content for a least another couple of days.
Then, go do the very same thing on your blog. Be brave, be daring, be willing to answer stuff, and when you do open up and tell all, tracky-backy to me.
I like that phrase.... tracky-backy, tracky-backy, tracky-backy.

Never Get Involved In a Land War In Asia

Which Princess Bride Character are You?
this quiz was made by mysti
(cleverly intrigued away from Carol's Chaotic Collection of Curiousities)

Mad Scientist

Please note: marbles are in no way a substitute for olives in a martini.

Ask Me Stuff, Will You? Why, I Oughta....

Robert, one of our new fresh fodder for the great and terrible hungry gods Munuvians, has received several questions from some PR firm who wishes to have bloggers fetch their coffee, spitshine their Jags, and do all the grunt work while they party with anorexic nymphomaniac models in the south of France answer a few questions. As I get way too much spam as it is, I am using Robert for my own evil ways as a mere pawn in this power struggle to get out the word about new ways to increase my erection sending my answers to him to forward on to Mr. James Fryer, the PR hack who is so very interested in us bloggers.
Here's what I sent:
1. How do you typically source material/stories for your blog/site?
I make it all up. Every single word. If it's a slow news day, I pretend I write for the New York Times and write some kind of fantastical nonsense piece about the .03821 percent increase in the price of beets being directly linked to the Bush administration's plans for complete world domination. And in making beets cost more, too, the bastards. In fact, everything I've ever written is a total and utter lie. Including that statement. Think about that.
HA! You're having a brain hemorrhage now, aren't you? Paradox rules!
Yes, I watch a lot of "Star Trek" reruns, why do you ask?

2. Have you any examples of a story that you have broken on your blog, being second sourced up other blogs or the mainstream media?
I was the very first to post about the dire consequences of the lack of beer in my fridge. Later on that day, other bloggers expressed a similar and equally distressing lack of beer. Actually, it wasn't equally distressing, because it was then about them and not my problem anymore, and as we all know here in the cult, it's all about me. Yes it is. It IS. Don't make me do that Vulcan mind meld thingy again.

3. Do you believe people use or will in the future use blogs as a news source over the traditional medium of newspapers, tv and radio? And have you any evidence to support this?
If anyone is still listening to the paper, reading TV or watching radio for their news needs, they should just stop it. Stop it right now.* Anyone who takes breaking news seriously in this country knows that all right and proper news information management comes from those of us with way too much time on our hands a burning itch in a rather embarassing spot desire to be the first to get the scoop and an illegal police scanner a constant raw news feed from our second cousin who used to go to aerobics with the sister of an intern at the local network radio station a reputable reporting source.
*and because it's silly. Did you actually read that sentence? No? Just skimming again to see if I mention "breasts" or "hot naked jungle sex with fairy floss vendors"? For shame, for shame.

4. What are your views of the commercial sector adopting blogs to communication with customers, and other target audiences?
I think it's hot, a terrific turn-on. The very thought of the commercial sector makes me want to rip off my clothes, rub low-calorie psuedo-dairy products on my body and run shrieking in ecstasy amongst the cartons of fairy floss pre-production materials and old sno-cone holders in the back storeroom at work, at least until my break is over. Can't be late coming back from break, you know. There are RULES, dude!

Recommended Reading

I was going to add on some illustrations from the book but there is a rather threatening injunction on the author's website telling me all the foul things that will happen if I do such a thing, so all I can do is tell you to have a friend buy it and copy it for you at work.
Yeah, like you were really doing something else more important?
I didn't think so.

And Yes, The GM1 Is Rather Chewbacca-ish

:: how jedi are you? ::
(forced away from Robert....get it? Forced....the Force.... ah, man, I crack myself up.)

Another Reason I Need To Move To UK

Win your weight in cheese.
Pardon me whilst I go have some private fantasy time....

In Case Anyone Has A Spare Genie In A Bottle Or Something

Speaking of looks (well, weren't we?), I have a confession to make....
I'd give 3 years off the backend of my life to look like Meg Ryan in "Addicted To Love".

My wishing aside, it's a pretty good movie, with one of the better lines ever...
"That girl of yours is a carnival ride!"
Rather like what I'm having engraved on my tombstone:
"Here lies the last E ticket attraction."
Death has no room for false modesty.

Fixer-Upper

I've been trying to catch up on my backblog (get it? back log... back blog? Too early yet? Alrighty.) and I am sensing a trend here....
I've read one screed against women who wear makeup and get their hair done, one denouncing of cosmetic surgery, one hissy fit against body piercing, and one self-righteous fuss against fashionable shoes.
Let me say here and now, so it goes on my Permanent Record, the Cheese is FOR all these things. If I'd had the better end of the genetic lollipop, maybe I wouldn't have to wish for all the time and money it would take to retailor myself into a gorgeous hunk of sizzling womanhood. As it stands, I will die before I give up my good mascara and my yummy shoes that make my legs look all modelish-chiseled.
Unreal body images forced on us by magazines and fashion empires? Balls.
Ancient Egyptians used cosmetics way before Vogue was published.
Beauty is only skin deep? Balls again. It's a 50/50 shot that the troll on the bus is a true Mother Teresa, just like it's even odds that supermodel is a puppy-kicking sociopath.
It comes down to the right to choose. I am very very much for the right to choose. I am the Pro-Choice queen, baby. And if I want to spent my time at the Lancome counter and worship Nordstrom's shoe sales, then it's my choice.
You want to go out in the world baldfaced as a newborn baby? Your choice.
But keep your judgemental paws off my belly ring.

Invisible

Can anybody see this or has my blog eloped with the bunny?
I'm seeing naught but albino penguins in a blizzard.
Damn.

PS... nevermind, seems to have just been a computer burp.

Easter Greetings

In case anyone has forgotten, here's the real reason for the season.....

Dibs on the ears.
Happy hoppy Easter, everybody! from all of us here at The Cheese.

Can't Buy Happiness? Try Being Happy Without It

"Our checkbook has addition deficit disorder."

- the GM1, watching me play with the calculator and mindlessly scribble random figures balance the checkbook.

Batteries Not Included

There was a mysterious note in my mailbox when I got home yesterday.
Wait, I should have started that "It was a dark and stormy night"....
Anyway, it was from the Post Office, and wasn't the monthly notice that the mail carrier's Lithium prescription had been refilled so it was okay to talk to him. No, it was one of those little cardboards telling me I had an "oversized envelope" that I could pick up at the main post office between 7:15AM and 7:18AM (if I want maximum old-lady-in-front-of-me-in-line-who-wants-to-buy-stamps-but-pay-for-it-all-with-pennies-
painstakingly-dredged-one-by-on-by-buggery-one-from-the-bottom-of-
the-slight-uriney-odored-plastic-carryall-she's-dragging-behind-her time.
The mysterious part was not "when in the hell will she run out of hyphens and get to the point?" but was the info in the sender box.
I am receiving something from "Adult Ed."
I do not know any Eds, truly.
Is it short for "Adult Education"? And if so, when did I sign up for it? And how did they determine that I'm an adult and not a six year old Pretty Pretty Princess trapped in a middle-aged Dowdy Dowdy Duchess body?
Is it from "Adult" Ed, as opposed to "Child" Ed, who never writes or calls. He's a child, for godsakes, people, what do you expect of him? Whoever he is, I mean.
More importantly, and from the GM1's point of view the main reason I should be pressed up against the Post Office doors waiting in hysteria for them to open, is it porn? Is it free porn? Is it quality free porn?
Or is it just another in a long series of vibrator catalogs?
Yeah, like there aren't enough of those cluttering up the magazine rack in the bathroom already.
What?

If You Find It, Hold On To It For Me

More signs that I've lost it:
1. I just realized that if I have to walk away from the computer to go piddle take care of urgent business, I will close the browser window, even if I'm not done reading, because I have this odd notion it will be used up before I get back.
2. I saw a pretty little desktop fountain in a catalog, and immediately thought "I'd get that, but the cat would be bothering it all the time."
3. I don't have a cat.
4. The email notification sound came on three times this morning, and each time it surprised me so that I yelped like a stepped-on puppy. These three times were within 10 minutes of each other.
5. I walked into the bathroom and had to take a few minutes to remember was I coming in or going out.
6. I had a small nervous breakdown because sometime in the night, my ass had increased in size by 500%.
7. I then realized I had my thong on backwards.
8. Before I finished that last sentence, I.....
9. Ooooh, look! Something shiny!

Fable

Sex slaves, monkeys, and death moths.... how could anyone resist Temptation like this?
(gimped away from everlasting blort)

It's Not the Point, It's the Pain In My Ass

Yes, as I have been informed many times, my work hours are not that onerous. Clock in around 10:00AM, clock out around 4:00PM. But seeing as how this is an amusement park environment, and there is no designated employee parking, and the park itself is easily as large as Iowa, and speaking of Iowa, my work space is on the other side of the park so it's like out in Dogballs, Iowa or something* So in order to find a parking space and trot over to the luxurious employee lounge** and swipe my timecard through the Slot That Pays,*** I must leave home at least an hour early, depending on what the Eye In The Sky Traffic Copter**** says the drive will be like. And the drive home invariably incorporates three fender-benders, two stalled pickup trucks from Tijuana in the fast lane, and a partridge in a pear tree getting a ticket and forcing, yes, FORCING I tell you, everyone to slow to five miles an hour and watch because no one, yes, NO ONE has ever seen someone getting a ticket before and who knows, it could be Ponch or John handing it out and we ALL want to see a star, don't we? Well, DON'T WE?
Coffee.... sip coffee, breathe deep. Ah... mental equilibrium restored.
So let's say my real hours are 9:00AM to 5:30PM. Still reasonable, you say, Mr. or Ms. Sit At A Desk In A Clean, Quiet Building Without Screaming Toddlers Surrounding You, Unless You Work In A Preschool And Then You Dug Your Own Grave Sister, YOU Lie In It.
And therein lies the crux of the matter. Toddlers. Children. Tots. Kids. Wee folk. The little ones. Everywhere I look.
Now, let me ask you, what kind of a sick parent and/or guardian figure brings a CHILD to an AMUSEMENT PARK ENVIRONMENT? I ask you?
Oh..... yeah, I get your point. Where the hell were YOU when I was filling out the application, you Monday Morning Quarterback Hindsight Is 20/20 Person you?
My exposure to the vast population of Mommy and Daddy's Pride and Joy thus far has been quick glimpses of nieces, nephews, and cousins at family reunions, all of which could be escaped, given enough Jack and Coke. Or those untrained ill-behaved hordes who populate Wal-Mart. Apparently these go to Amusement Parks in their off hours. In packs. Slobbering, shrieking packs.
And they all want fairy floss. Cotton candy. Kiddy crack. Call it what you will.
Yesterday, a wee little bit of incipient manhood threw himself at my stand and asked for, nay, DEMANDED that I give him treats. I informed him it would cost $2.59 for said demanded treat. He gave me the Evil Eye, Junior Division, and again demanded his treat. I took the hardline, much as the Teletubbies on my training video recommended I do, and demanded payment.
This little angel of the playground KICKED my treatcart, stared me in the eye, and snarled "BITCH!" and then ran off into the crowd.
I had to call over a coworker to cover the stand so I could take a break, as I was laughing too hard to continue the highly technical task of fairy floss production. Damn near wet myself, I did.
I worked six days in a row last week. I have six more this week. Today is my day off. And what am I doing? Going to my OTHER semi-part-time job cleaning apartments. Man, am I a glutton for punishment or what? Especially since I just learned I settled on a flat rate that is approximately 1/3 of the going rate, but let's not talk about that now. It makes me weep like a toddler denied fairy floss.
The point is..... shit, what was my point? I had a point, I really really did. Where did I leave it? Oh, there it is. I'm sitting on it. Ouch.
The point is, I'm dead tired. Therefore, blogging will be light. Don't say I didn't warn yez.

*That's always been our family's designation for a place at the outer end of nowhere... Dogballs, Iowa. Second cousin to the traditional Bumfuck, Egypt.
**Two square feet between the wet foods dumpster and the pile of rotting cardboard boxes.
***Yes, it's early enough that it this phrase makes me giggle like a titillated schoolgirl.
****Who I suspect is really just a radio station intern reading off traffic averages stats in front of a shaky microphone while pounding on his own chest, because the station I listen to is too damn cheap to even HAVE an Eye In The Sky Traffic Copter. Maybe an Eye In The Sky Traffic Pigeon With A Kodak Instamatic or something.
*****We've replaced LeeAnn's asterisk key with Folger's Crystals... let's see if she notices!

Waiting

I have the word "DUCK" stuck in my head.
I don't know if it's an omen or an oncoming stroke, but I'm not leaving the house for a while, just in case.

Actually, I Think Feminists Would Be Cute If They'd Just Shave Their Pits

I'm SCUM! Not militant at all.

I'm Going To Be Late For Work

And it's all Jeff's fault.
PS.... Thanks to wide-awake visitor Ben, I must amend this to give credit for finding this for me first to Zenwanderer. Sorry, Jeff, you were scooped.
Cheese for the both of yez, then!

O Come All Ye Gullible

April Fool's Day, not surprisingly, is one of my favorite holidays. Any holiday that celebrates smartassery and pranks would have to be. Back in the day (don't you love that saying? Like in times past I'd only work in a job one day before they'd wise up and fi.... hey, wait a minute!) when I worked in an office environment, people would actually skip work on April 1st, in fear of the havoc I'd wreak.
Wreak.
Wreak.
Wreak.
If you say that over and over, it sounds like the "Psycho" shower scene noise, doesn't it? Cool.
Anyway, now that I work among in an environment that is so rigid and lacking in a sense of joie de vie that it makes Plymouth Rock Puritans seem like hedonists who got tossed out of the Playboy mansion for being too wild and crazy (Repressive? I got scolded for making a joke about the undeniably ugly uniform pants we're forced to wear.... "You do NOT make fun of The Pants. The Pants are an invaluable part of our team morale! NOW DROP AND GIVE ME TWENTY!")
Where the hell was I?
....
.....
.......
Oh yeah.
So now that I'm working in No Fun Central, I miss those days of missing mouse balls and swapped keyboard keys and false pink slips. But now that I think about it, the best prank ever didn't happen in an office.
I pulled it in a mall.
Heh heh heh.
She said "pulled it."

Remember those t-shirt shops that abounded during the mid-80s? You could go in and have little fuzzy letters or crinkly plastic pictures heat-nailed to any t-shirt you liked, creating the illusion that no one else EVER had thought to put a photo of a kitten dangling from a branch with the logo "hang in there, baby!" on a black Hanes Beefy T.
You style maven you.
If it was a really up-and-coming shop, you had an Airbrush Artist On Premises! Here! Now! Live! who was usually a failed art school student with a borrowed air compressor and a huge pot habit.
Most of the time, it was owned by absentee owners who just wanted to have a little income from a place that was lame enough to let their loser son Floyd be assistant manager, albeit in the family tradition, an absentee assistant manager. Fine with us working stiffs.
(hehehehe, she said "stiffs"..... oh shut up already.)

Tammy ran the place. I was just a lowly wage slave. Together, we tormented the guys who worked next door in the tool department at Sears. Especially poor hopelessly horny romantic Bumpy, who had a crush of elephantine proportions on Tammy, since she was about a foot taller and of a different species altogether.
What, you thought "Bumpy" was a nickname? It was a classification.

One day, on his semi-hourly cruise by the counter to see if Tammy was around and had changed her stance on beastiality, Bumpy mentioned that his birthday was in two weeks. Later, I mentioned it to Tammy. And on his next fly-by, Tammy and I told poor gullible Bumpy that we had ordered him A Present for his birthday.
Every day, for the next two weeks, we embellished and embroidered our hints.
Was anyone going to be home at Bumpy's to take delivery, because such a thing would need signatures, since the hauling company was very exclusive, as not many places even had such merchandise.
Would there be a crowbar handy to open the box?
What was his apartment building's pet policy?
Had he had a physical recently? With full innocuations?
Two weeks deadline came.... and went.
Had it arrived yet? we'd ask Bumpy. Did he like it? Wasn't it wonderful?
Not there yet, would be Bumpy's dejected reply.
Disappointment simmered for a week.
Finally, on Bumpy's next "hi, how are ya? Where's my gift? I'll take ten minutes with Tammy in an appliance carton if you want to substitute..." visit, I began to quiz Tammy.
Are you sure, I asked her, that the advertisement promised swift delivery?
Oh yes indeedy, she replied.
And are you sure, I asked, that we were clear on Bumpy's proper address?
Absolutely, she answered.
And when you called in the order, I asked, did they say anything about....
Me? she gasped. Me called in the order? I thought YOU called in the order!
Bumpy looked back and forth and back and forth and back and forth... and then Bumpy wandered off, not a word said.
I never saw Bumpy again, as the following week I got a new job away from the mall and, as retail relationships usually go, didn't keep in touch with Tammy.

....Until about 12 years later, I was back home visiting my mom, and nostalgically visited the mall. The t-shirt shop was still there. The airbrush stoner was still there. And Tammy was still there.
Nothing like stasis, is there?
So Tammy and I caught up a little, played "remember when?" and "whatever happened to?", and passed some time.
As I was getting ready to leave, I suddenly thought of something.
"Remember that guy we pulled the birthday gift prank on, Bummy or Bumpy or something? Wonder what ever happened to that poor schmuck."
Tammy blinked at me. "I married him. We got five kids."
I was dumbfoundedly silenced.
Tammy shrugged. "Well, I felt so bad, ya know? About how we screwed him with that joke? I had to do somethin', dint I? "

Heh heh heh... she said "screwed."

(inspired by Lee's rendition of all things pranky)