Tuesday, October 25, 2011
Age is Something that Doesn't Matter...Unless You're a Cheese.
Attention, foolish knaves! ‘Tis the day of my birth! Everyone rise and applaud! (WaAHooOOO!) And now, for God’s sake, stifle your impulses and lend me your ears eyes.
I feel it only fitting to address my followers in a more mature tone today. After all, I’m no longer a baby. I’m four! This means a few things. For one, I can vote now, and I’m definitely a supporter of the Pentatonix. Allow me to introduce you to their flow if you haven’t had the pleasure already— they’re pure genius. SOO JELLY!!
Get this! Mom said next year, my pals and I can try out for The Sing Off (every little gay boy’s castle in the sky). I’ve already got our first 5 costumes on lay-a-way at K-mart! I know we agreed on NOT sharing our group name until we’re tighter vocally, but I feel it only appropriate to mention it, being it’s my birthday, and I’m the most advanced singer when it comes doo-wappin’ some acappella. So let’s hear it for the Holy Howl Babies! OW OW!
We’ve been practicing all month for today in particular. Here’s a sneak-peak for your listening pleasure (Clearly, I’m the one recording, and yes they call me “Ma’am,” which is obviously in reference to our inspirational leader, Abby Lee Miller, Dance Instructor Extraordinaire—she gives us the swift kick in the pants we need when our whining is incessant):
My mother’s precious, don’t get me wrong. Awkward and special in her own stocky way. She means well, I’m sure,
but if she even thinks of sticking me in that damn clown costume again, I’ll shriek inappropriately, yell “stranger” and run for the Hollywood hills. I’d like to change it up a bit, so I sent out a mass email to all of my friends asking for some original ideas for a costume.
Here are a few I’m thinking of doing:
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8.
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10.
****Since we all can vote now, I'd love to hear which costume you'd like to see me in this year!! 1-10? Any other original ideas?
Well, if none of those do the trick, I’d like to try on the hat as a commentator for the Westminster Kennel Club Dog Show. I think the irony is nothing short of uproarious. Only problem there is I don’t know if I could train my voice to be that deep and monotone, but I have the British accent down. The spectacle would sound something like Charlie Day among James Earl Jones and Michael Clarke Duncan.
Happy Tails and Happy Birthday to me!
Wednesday, October 12, 2011
Oh, cheese and crust! He's lost his head!
I don’t dive too deep into the pool of the supernatural, even though I’ve been told (only a couple of hundred times) the spirit of Maurice Gibb must live in my throat. 
Gosh, if that were the case, and I was rocking the stylish wardrobe of the BeeGees’, I would go to every coffee house in Atlanta and show those damn “hipsters” how to truly rock a fedora…
I’m not even that superstitious! Wait, well. I have this theory that Max is actually the cat from 1993’s Hocus Pocus, and all of us humans should proceed with caution when in his presence. Why this theory, you ask?
For starters, he’s black, has a British accent and his breath is atrociously close to that of an unwiped keister. I mean, the latter is probably due to the fact he’s on his like, what.. 7th, 8th life by now? I’m sure most of the dead are prone to having death-breath… hehe!! (look what I did there!!) Well, anyhow, the jigs up, you fugly little monster. I know your skecret!
Let me stroll back on topic. There have been some umm, well, “spooky” happenings in my apartment since October began (at least that’s what mom and dad are bellyaching about). I, for one, think my mother is off her wooden rocker and trying to scare the Lebanese out of my dad (not a hard task, by the way).
She insists it’s the contrary, but states she does get a good kick out of standing behind doors and jumping out to hear his girly scream and see his eyes pop out.
With all that said, I’ll fill you in since I know you’re just DYING to hear what happened (pun intended and delightfully provided by yours truly):
1. Last week, we’re all getting ready for bed— brushing teeth, combing each other’s hair, applying Carmex and licking the last wall that needed my stamp of approval. I had gotten in trouble the day before for turning up Dave FM too loud and disturbing the tubby pregnant lady above us (she’s a stomper and deserved a taste of her own medicine). My punishment was cleaning duty, all 1200 sq ft (whatever). I’m saying all of this because we went to bed, door closed and locked, to a clean and garden-fresh smelling home (spank you very much).
The next morning, we wake up to my dog bowls in the middle of the hall. Dad asks mom, “Did you put these here?” She had some smart-ass remark like, “Why, yes. Yes I did, Matthew,” followed by a disapproving/stank-face look. They immediately turn to me and assume because they’re mine that I must have woken up in the middle of the night, unlocked the door and strewn my plates in a fit of fat-boy rage! I told them I was nestled all night in between dad’s hambones. After all, being the light sleeper he is, he couldn’t deny that fact.
2. Last night, mom and I were doing our usual before bed routine-- all lights off, doors locked, sound machine on and meechums goodnight. We wake up at 7:30 this morning and mom walks out and gasps…. The hall lights were on. We both distinctly remember looking down the dark hall before closing the bedroom door last night…
It’s interesting now that I think of it, but I’m pretty sure the whole dog bowl incident happened a week ago from last night. Regardless, dad’s freaked out and what’s more! American Horror Story comes on tonight. I’m thinking of sneaking out the back window to play a nice little trick on the folks when they’re in the middle of tonight’s new episode…. Might wear a black mask? Might go to Starship and buy a leather one-piece? Might bang on the door and say, “I HATE TREES!” (that’s for those AHS fans)
MMM. Well this could get interesting. Gosh, I love October and not because I’ll be four in 13 days! If anyone else has any bright ideas on how to scare the Bejesus out of my rents, do tell. I’m all ears!
Love,
Angel Joe
Gosh, if that were the case, and I was rocking the stylish wardrobe of the BeeGees’, I would go to every coffee house in Atlanta and show those damn “hipsters” how to truly rock a fedora… 
I’m not even that superstitious! Wait, well. I have this theory that Max is actually the cat from 1993’s Hocus Pocus, and all of us humans should proceed with caution when in his presence. Why this theory, you ask?
For starters, he’s black, has a British accent and his breath is atrociously close to that of an unwiped keister. I mean, the latter is probably due to the fact he’s on his like, what.. 7th, 8th life by now? I’m sure most of the dead are prone to having death-breath… hehe!! (look what I did there!!) Well, anyhow, the jigs up, you fugly little monster. I know your skecret! Let me stroll back on topic. There have been some umm, well, “spooky” happenings in my apartment since October began (at least that’s what mom and dad are bellyaching about). I, for one, think my mother is off her wooden rocker and trying to scare the Lebanese out of my dad (not a hard task, by the way).
She insists it’s the contrary, but states she does get a good kick out of standing behind doors and jumping out to hear his girly scream and see his eyes pop out. With all that said, I’ll fill you in since I know you’re just DYING to hear what happened (pun intended and delightfully provided by yours truly):
1. Last week, we’re all getting ready for bed— brushing teeth, combing each other’s hair, applying Carmex and licking the last wall that needed my stamp of approval. I had gotten in trouble the day before for turning up Dave FM too loud and disturbing the tubby pregnant lady above us (she’s a stomper and deserved a taste of her own medicine). My punishment was cleaning duty, all 1200 sq ft (whatever). I’m saying all of this because we went to bed, door closed and locked, to a clean and garden-fresh smelling home (spank you very much).
The next morning, we wake up to my dog bowls in the middle of the hall. Dad asks mom, “Did you put these here?” She had some smart-ass remark like, “Why, yes. Yes I did, Matthew,” followed by a disapproving/stank-face look. They immediately turn to me and assume because they’re mine that I must have woken up in the middle of the night, unlocked the door and strewn my plates in a fit of fat-boy rage! I told them I was nestled all night in between dad’s hambones. After all, being the light sleeper he is, he couldn’t deny that fact.2. Last night, mom and I were doing our usual before bed routine-- all lights off, doors locked, sound machine on and meechums goodnight. We wake up at 7:30 this morning and mom walks out and gasps…. The hall lights were on. We both distinctly remember looking down the dark hall before closing the bedroom door last night…
It’s interesting now that I think of it, but I’m pretty sure the whole dog bowl incident happened a week ago from last night. Regardless, dad’s freaked out and what’s more! American Horror Story comes on tonight. I’m thinking of sneaking out the back window to play a nice little trick on the folks when they’re in the middle of tonight’s new episode…. Might wear a black mask? Might go to Starship and buy a leather one-piece? Might bang on the door and say, “I HATE TREES!” (that’s for those AHS fans)
MMM. Well this could get interesting. Gosh, I love October and not because I’ll be four in 13 days! If anyone else has any bright ideas on how to scare the Bejesus out of my rents, do tell. I’m all ears!
Love,
Angel Joe
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