Archive for the 'Geinus wasted @ your library' Category

I’d sell your heart to the junkman baby
For a buck, for a buck
If you’re looking for someone
To pull you out of that ditch
You’re out of luck, you’re out of luck

The ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
The ship is sinking
There’s leak, there’s leak,
In the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves, and lawyers

God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business. Business.

Digging up the dead with
A shovel and a pick
It’s a job, it’s a job
Bloody moon rising with
A plague and a flood
Join the mob, join the mob
It’s all over, it’s all over, it’s all over
There’s a leak, there’s a leak,
In the boiler room
The poor, the lame, the blind
Who are the ones that we kept in charge?
Killers, thieves, and lawyers
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away,
On Business. Business.

Goddamn there’s always such
A big temptation
To be good, To be good
There’s always free cheddar in
A mousetrap, baby
It’s a deal, it’s a deal
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
God’s away, God’s away, God’s away
On Business. Business.
I narrow my eyes like a coin slot baby,
Let her ring, let her ring
God’s away, God’s away,
God’s away on Business.
Business…

And those are the lyrics to Girlfriend’s favorite song.  It’s by Tom Waits.  I’d like to thank my father-in-law for playing it for her and singing it to her.  He thinks he’s hilarious, you know.  She busted out with that one when she was about 2 1/2 and we were at Target standing in an aisle with two elderly nuns.

EDIT BY THE PIMP: here’s the song…

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She was all “God’s away, God’s away, God’s away on business!”

Luckily, I think they were deaf so it’s completely fine.

I love random playback of inappropriateness at inappropriate times though, don’t you?

The song is going through my head because this morning, we do, in fact, have a leak in the boiler room and I have to survive the morning with no water because we had to shut it off so as not to flood the house.  My father-in-law, being the great dad that he is, will be coming over this afternoon to help Mister fix the broken water pipe and will without a doubt, be singing in chorus with Girlfriend about a leak in the boiler room the entire time. I need to brush up on the lyrics so I can join in.

Also, any work people reading this, it’s my official calling in.  I won’t be at work tonight because somebody has to watch the kids while they fix the leak.  Don’t any of you say you can’t phone it in on your blog because I totally just did.

Suck it, bitches.

And Homeslice was awake all night with teething pain and the Monkey Pig Typhoid Cold Flu.  I might take her to the doctor’s.  I’m debating.  And I was feeling much better after my Monkey Pig Typhoid Cold Flu but I’m getting re-sick.  My hair hurts again and I have a sore throat.  I blame Homeslice and all her snots.

There’s baby snots in my hair right now, fyi.  I just had it blonded, too.  It looks awesome even with the snot.

And I got Lady Days finally and it’s beastly.

It’s pretty much Armageddon here as far as I’m concerned.

So I will spend the morning baking 32 festive green mini cupcakes for Girlfriend’s St. Patrick’s day thing at school with no water for clean ups.

Sa-weet!

So yes.

The universe woke me up with great big “HAPPY MONDAY, FUCKFACE!”

PS: I don’t know why the formatting is all shaquaed up there.  It’s the least of my problems today.

PSS: I don’t mean this to be complain-y.  I’m just sharing with you what it’s like to be Queen.  It ain’t all glamor and midget porn, you know.

Wanna know what I ate yesterday?

Oatmeal with wheat germ, butter, and brown sugar.  I put just a little bit of butter and brown sugar, so it tasted like, I don’t know, paper? I’d have put banana in it but my mom ate the last one when she was visiting the other day. (Whore)

Orange juice

Half a mango

One handful of Whole Foods brand organic chocolate animal cookies, consumed in the dark in my pantry with the door closed so Girlfriend wouldn’t catch me eating them BECAUSE COOKIES ARE BAD FOR YOU AND YOU CANNOT EAT THEM EVERY DAY.

One handful of dry roasted peanuts.

Water, water, water, water, water, water

Cheddar cheese on whole wheat bread with pickles on the side. (Btw, you guys HAVE TO get this book.  I’ve been making bread like a motherfucker!) (Don’t worry.  There are NO semen recipes in it)

Then I get to work, and here’s where being tired and sad and wanting to go home turns into a Food Craptacular:

Immediately upon entering break room to put my dinner in the fridge- BAM! One mini cupcake from the break room table. It wasn’t even good, I knew that, but I ate it anyway. WTFF?

A couple of hours later…

Baby carrots and 1 tablespoon of peanut butter

1 Cookie

1 Apple

1 Chocolate from somebody’s Valentine’s sampler

1 Cookie

Amy’s Palak Paneer and a salad for dinner

1 Piece of Denise’s birthday cake

And then I went home and went directly to bed before I could eat one more thing that would make me want to shoot myself in the face with a bazooka.

Do you see a pattern here Queefies? Because I do, and that’s why I’m about to do something unimaginable, something I never thought I would do, something that has absolutely nothing to do with Lent (because I’m giving up anal for Lent just like every year).

I’m going into sugar de-tox, you guys.  I’ve been eating like this every day since Christmas 2008 and I’m tired of feeling like shit about it.  It’s not so much that it makes me fat.  It’s that it’s a monster and it demands more and more and more of itself and it’s never happy or satisfied.  There’s always another cupcake, another cookie, another whatever and I’m all done with it!

So, for the next week, I will not eat any bullshit food.

None. Nada. Nein.

Who’s with me?

Let’s ALL do it!

One week.

No sugary treats.

If you guys see me eating a cupcake or some such nonsense like that any time between now and next what day is it?, you need to slap it out of my mouth and shove it up my ass (except I gave up anal for Lent, so probably don’t do that last part).

Whilst Girlfriend was at school yesterday, I went sweater shopping because the room  where I work at Schmuckytown Pubic is right next to the big double doors where all the Schmuckytown Pubic Employees do their inning and outing and also where the UPS guy comes to deliver his package (not his figurative one you filthy dirties, his literal package) and so holy Mary mother of Jeebus is it COLD.  So, sweaters.

And Homeslice is the bestest little shopper in all the land as long as we bring Princess Sophie with us:

Remember the woobie in Mister mom?  Yeah.  It’s kind of like that only it’s me that freaks out when she’s missing because she keeps Homeslice occupied for a long time.  Sophie crinkles, you know.  She’s very fancy.  She was also $15, but when I showed her to Homeslice, her eyes got all wide and she was just like, “oooooooo” and so I bought her.

And because of my rather wise and extravagant investment in Princess Sophie, I was able to sift through tons of CRAP (seriously, what is with the crap in the store right now?  No wonder all I ever buy is solid color long sleeved cotton scoop neck tee shirts.  That’s all there is!) and I found two pretty warmish ones that will do nicely as “library sweaters” (read: for work only because only a librarian would be caught dead in these suckers but it’s better than freezing my tits off or wearing a SNUGGIE, which my boss actually resorted to last yesterday night), and since it’s colder than Santa’s balls these days, I brought them home and put one on immediately for work.

And it’s kind of cute in an asymmetrical, chunky, woolen kind of way which I don’t mind at all and somebody was all “Hey! Cute sweater!  Is it new?” and so I’m all  “Yeah!”  And then  she was all “I could tell!” And then she pointed at the wad of tags and spare buttons dangling from my armpit.

Oh.

I forgot to cut those.

Do any of you guys ever use those spare buttons and little bits of wool that come with new sweaters?  Like, if you get a hole in your sweater, do you run to your jewelry box (where else would you keep that, anyway?) and get out the little baggie of spare parts and just start knitting the hole back together, or are you like me and you just put the sweater in the Donations for the Poor Who Have Better Sewing Skills Than Me basket you keep in your closet?

Anyways, I’m an idiot.

The end.

PS: I’m  sensing some tomfoolery involving a Snuggie and Schmuckytown Pubic.  Aren’t you? I can feel it in my bones, just like I can tell when it’s going to rain.

PSS: I wrote this entire post while wrestling with Homeslice.    I’m kind of heroic.

Wow.

That was a busy weekend.

So Mister’s  snippy snippy went fine on Friday.  Thank you all for your well wishes.  It warmed his heart as his balls froze to death under a pile of frozen peas.  I was feeling a little sad about it, to be honest.  I’m not going to have any babies anymore.  Sigh.  But then Homeslice starts bitching and pulling my hair and I am very comforted that I won’t be having any more babies.  Hoo. Fucking. Ray!

And Mister is maybe a little sad that he didn’t have a son to pass on his family name, but I told him not to worry.  Maybe one of the girls will be a lezbeefriend and she’ll adopt some little Chinese babies with her life partner and the family name will not die with him.  It will just become Chinese instead.

(This cannot leave this blog, but between you and me, my money’s on Homeslice.  I mean look at her!

She’s diesel!  And she’s a little, shall we say, overly enthusiastic, about the boobages.  I’m just saying.)

And so right after Mister got home from his appointment, I went to a party because I’m a very caring wife like that and I know you’ve all been waiting for the final count on the theme sweaters and I am very sad and disappointed to tell you that there was only ONE and it wasn’t even that hideous.  What a bummer.  And there was nary a candy cane turtle neck to be seen.  What is wrong with these people?  There were, however, a large number of red sweaters and snow flake pins, so it wasn’t a total loss. I got a really awesome coffee cup that said “Do you have a library card, cause I’d like to check you out.” on it.  It’s pretty awesome, obviously, and so that nobody would Yankee Swap me for it, I rubbed it on my bum.

I like to think that I always bring a touch of class with me wherever I go.  This was no exception.

And then yesterday we did our Christmas tree.  It looks lovely, but can I ask you guys something?  Do you always picture events like these in a glowy, Hallmarkish scene only to get to the tree place and freeze your ass off while dragging a kid who keeps whining “I’m hungry. Can we get donuts?” every five seconds because she knows Home Depot has donuts (assholes), and when she’s not asking for treats, she’s bitching that she’s cold because she left her hat and gloves in the car, and you just want to kill yourself?  And then when you finally get the fucker home and set up in the stand, people wind up fighting and acting like jerks and you end up decorating the tree all by yourself while fantasizing that the Goblin King came and took them all away?

Or is it just me?

Anywho, that’s my weekend update.  It was fucking fascinating, I know.

PS: I got a shipment of wonderful home made bath stuff that I ordered from the lovely Ms. Darkstar.  She sent me some as a present after I had Homeslice and the stuff is just marvy. I bought some as Christmas presents.  She makes awesome lip balm too.  The orange mango (I’m too lazy to get up and go check on the name) one smells just a like an orange Chuckle.  Serioulsy, you need to order some stuff for the people on your list who, ahem, need to smell better.  She’ll hook your shit up.

So yesterday was a nightmare because I intended for the post about sandwiches and lunchboxes to be like, um, I don’t know…FUNNY? And sort of light and meaningless like the one I wrote about cake frosting, but I’m thinking that because it was related to work and most people hate their jobs and/or co-workers, everyone took it more seriously than intended. Or, I did a shitty writing job (to be honest, this is the most likely scenario).

Whatever.

Anyway, yes. It wound up hurting lunchist bigot’s feelings and that’s not what I meant to do at. all. I like lunchist bigot, actually. In fact, I actually LOVE lunchist bigot.  She’s just a pain in the ass about fridge space. And she felt ridiculed by everyone when really, I intended to make light of a silly work fight that to me, was just absurd and meaningless.

I thought that was pretty clear, but I guess not. ( ie shitty writing.)

So anyway, this is my public apology to lunchist bigot.

Sorry lunchist bigot.  Sorry I threatened to put boy pee on your sandwich.  Sorry we said we’d get you a lunchbox (EW) for Christmas, sorry we said you needed to get laid, sorry we said we’d set you on fire.  I’m a douche.

Please don’t tell everyone at the Christmas party that I was the one who gave candy underpants as the secret present.

THEY WERE NOT WORN SHUT UP!

PS: This is exactly like the time when somebody took a shadoobie in the bookdrop and I was THE ONLY ONE who thought it was funny. Everyone else was walking around all horrified and shit. Even Lynne didn’t think it was funny at first. I had to convince her. There is no sense of humor at Schmuckytown Pubic Library. It’s very serious business with the books and everything.

PSS: I can’t believe I almost forgot that today is Mister’s big snippy appointment! And on the phone this morning while I was begging my mom for some babysitting this weekend because I have tons to do and Mister will be moaning and clutching his balls for the next few days, my mom was all “make sure you give him tea and sympathy. He’s doing something Very Special (only my mother would think a vasectomy is very special). It’s nothing like going through 9 months of constipation and puking only to push a watermelon out of your cooch (TWICE!) and then nursing the little fucker off sore tits for a year afterwards, but it’s still important.” “Uh-huh. Thanks mom. That’s…great advice.” And then I got off the phone before she started in with tips and techniques for helping him with those 10-15 ejaculations to “flush out the pipes,” so to speak.

And Mister is already walking around like he’s got an elephantitis (fuck you spell check!That IS how you spell elephantitis, asshole.) of the nuts problem and his appointment isn’t until late today. I think he’s pretty smart actually.  It’s always good to get your Careful Walk down just right BEFORE you’re in actual pain.  You don’t want to have to work that shit out while you’re on Vicodin–just relax and enjoy, amiright?

I got him a present:

except I got him the Large size one because who wouldn’t want to be flattered at a time like this?

So anyway, everyone pray for Mister who is going under the knife for the greater good of humanity or whatever.

PSSS:  Tonight is the library Christmas party.  I will get back to you on the final count of ridiculous Christmas Theme Sweaters, candy cane turtle necks,  and people who were shitfaced on 1/4 glass of wine.  Seriously, I’m only going so I can clean up when people look at thier wine and say “I just can’t handle a whole glass by myself.”  I’ll be all “pass that over here, bitch!”

So I’m involved in a fight, you guys.
It’s at work.
We have a bigot amongst us. A lunchist bigot.
Someone at the library does not like People Who Bring Lunchboxes to work and she has been very vocal about it and by vocal, I mean leaving notes on the magnetic dry erase board that’s stuck to the fridge in the staff lounge. She thinks they take up too much space.
This has been going on for years.
I find this troubling because I happen to be A Person Who Brings A Lunchbox.
It’s true. I am such an asshole, and by asshole, I mean that I am an asshole in the eyes of the lunchist bigot.
And apparently, someone else who is also A Person Who Brings A Lunchbox placed her “luggage” as the lunchist bigot calls it, on top of lunchist bigot’s sandwich this morning which prompted the lunchist bigot to write a note requesting that Lunchbox Person not put her “luggage” on her sandwich anymore. Seems reasonable, anyone would be upset by this and the Lunchbox Person was being inconsiderate, BUT it really ignited the lunchist bigot’s ire as the tone of the note was clearly one of annoyance.
And so I wrote back in an attempt to soothe the tension and suggested lunchist bigot put her sandwich inside the drawer in the fridge to protect it, and then, thinking the note was written by the sandwich smoosher, lunchist bigot replied with something snotty about sandwiches belonging in the fridge and not “luggage,” (in the past, her argument being that lunchboxes are insulated and therefore do not need refrigeration, but anyone who owns one knows the insulation is crap) and therefore she should be able to put it wherever she wants, and then I said that she should lose her lunchist attitude or else Something Unfortunate could happen to sandwiches.
Like, one could wind up in the public men’s room urinal for a couple of hours and then be put back into the fridge say, around noonish?
I don’t like to make such threats but I believe we need to fight bigotry and intolerance in all it’s insidious forms, and if innocent sandwiches have to wind up in urinals to get people’s attention, so be it.

I will fight for peace betwixt the Lonely Sandwich and the Lunchbox peoples! I shall call it The Lunchboxian People’s Front!

PS: Dun-dun-daaaaa…..

PSS: This is pretty much the biggest scandal since The Coffee Mug Incident of 2007 when someone used my coffee cup and never washed it out AND THEN BROKE IT! Boy was I MAD! There were some nasty messages left on the dry erase board that day I can tell you.

PSSS: Shenanigans and Tomfoolery are afoot!

Yesterday at work I had a two hour long conversation about celery.  With Lynne.  I’d love to tell you what exactly we were saying, but I think we were both asleep at the time. I believe I ended the conversation by saying something like “next time I’m at the grocery store, I’m going to get up in celery’s grill and ask it what the fuck.

…?

?????

Moving on…

And then I had a little incident with the breast pump.

Have I ever told you that I bring my breast pump, Mr. Thirsty, with me to work so I can pump during my dinner break instead of reading People magazine or something awesome like all normal people? Well, I do because I’m dedicated and kind of heroic and quite probably a better mother than you.

And I do it standing up in the men’s staff bathroom because it’s the only private place in the whole building and nobody uses it. The director wants us (I’m not the only one with a kid on the boob juice)to use the kitchen on the second floor just off a very dark and super creepy old room where monks used to have their dinner and also sometimes pray they’ll stop popping boners when they shower next to the other monks and stuff.

And people have keys to that room and to the kitchen. And there’s a window in the kitchen door which makes it anyone? anyone?

Not.
Private.

And my breasticles are shy, you guys, and they won’t do it when they think somebody can see–just like when you’re in a public bathroom and there’s other people there too and it’s dead. silent. and you CANNOT PEE and the more you think about peeing, the pee is just like “Fuck you! I’m not coming out!” And so you sit there just waiting for everyone to leave and then somebody farts and you try really, really hard not to laugh.

It’s exactly like that except totally different.

Anyway, I have become the stealth pumper and I run into the men’s room super fast so I don’t get caught by the feds or the director or somebody and then when I turn the pump on, I stand really, really close to it so as to muffle out the whoo-pssh! whoo-pssh! of the pump because it’s a pretty unmistakable sound and if I get caught, I’ll be dragged out by my ear and sent to the kitchen and I DON’T WANNA PUMP WITH DEAD MONKS WATCHING ME because they’re scary.

Also, they smell like dead people (probably).

This is a long post, right?

And so there I am, and I’m pumping and I’m thinking my thoughts and planning my plans and admiring my new boots and wishing I wasn’t standing up in the men’s room milking myself, when out of the corner of my eye, I notice something scurry across the floor and it was coming TOWARD ME!

And so I looked at it and it looked at me and it was a fucking spider the size of my head! (not really, but it makes this story soooo much more interesting. It was still big though. I didn’t take a picture so you’re going to have to trust me.) and normally I’m not scared of spiders but it scared the hell out of me and I yelled “GAH! SHIT!” and then I lost my grip on the pumpings and dropped the cups to the floor which made a terrible echo-y clatter as they spilled and splashed the walls.

And guess who was just outside the door when all hell broke loose in the mens’ room?

There wasn’t anyone outside the door and I know this because I checked before I started wiping Homeslice’s dinner off the floor and the walls and my NEW FUCKING SUEDE BOOTS.

And no, I had not waterproofed them yet, like an asshole.

And I got it all cleaned up and everything and poor Homeslice had to have formula for dinner, but I didn’t get caught pumping in the men’s room which is good, so this story has a mixed ending of both happy and sad pony feelings.

So yes.

That’s the most interesting stuff that’s happened to me in the last 24 hours.

PS:I’m going to have to sit under my desk and pump from now on because I’ll be damned if I go into that men’s room again.

PSS: The spider is waiting to kidnap me and take me to her web and eat me. I’m reasonably sure that could happen. Like, 75% sure. It was a BIG motherfucking spider, okay?

Here is Crissy in her tutu.

She had to distract Mister with a bottle of nail polish for his nails so she could put it on.  He was sobbing on the floor in the fetal position, clutching the tutu.  Crissy had to do something to get it away from him.

Here he is in his Goth Boy outfit:

Crissy thinks he enjoyed putting on lipstick and eyeliner a little too much, and you can’t tell in this picture, but his nails came out really pretty.

Here is a picture of the party at Crissy’s friend Gina’s ad agency.

And here is Gina who Crissy has known since elementary school:

Crissy hadn’t seen her in eleventy million years and she looks prettier than your friend Gina.

(This is fascinating isn’t it?)

This costume has to be the best thing Crissy has ever seen, but it was also scarier than a hockey mask and a chain saw  because when Crissy was just a wee little Crissy, she was terrified of these things on Sesame Street. And when they walked in, Crissy sort of grabbed the Wonder Woman she was talking to and hid behind her a little bit.

See? 

Scary. Mother. Fuckers.

Wonder Woman could totally kick a yip yip’s ass, right?  Crissy needs to know just in case she ever finds herself in this situation again.

Thank God Crissy didn’t see any clowns there because she would have been out of there but then she remembered there was wine and so she did that instead of running away.

Crissy also bumped into another friend from elementary school (actually TWO other friends from elementary school but she doesn’t have a picture of  the other one) because Rhode Islanders DO NOT LEAVE THE STATE. EVER:

And Crissy isn’t afraid to tell the Queefs that she felt like a little bit of a loser because here’s Gina who is prettier than all other Ginas and owns an Ad Agency, and here’s Amy who is also pretty with a cute haircut and is a lawyer, and here’s Crissy who is super pretty but has done nothing since Grad school and when asked what she is up to now, Crissy babbled some nonsense about her blog and Hottest Mommy Blogger and being Queen of Fucking Everything and no, not Queen of Fucking Everything and then she spilled wine on her tutu.

Multiple times.

Very. Impressive. Crissy.

Almost as impressive as Crissy’s betutued ass going up the stairs to Gina’s studio.

Or Crissy’s chestical area at the dessert table:

Actually, Crissy’s tits were probably the most impressive thing about her, either that or it was the tutu, and next time she goes to a party and accidentally stumbles into an elementary school reunion, she’s just going to point to her tits and say absolutely nothing because that would have been better.

Crissy shouldn’t be allowed out in public, obviously.

Conversation with Lynne about Girlfriend’s school fundraiser:

Lynne: How was your weekend?

Crissy: Fine. You have to buy a candle from my kid’s school fundraiser so she can learn how to write with like, real paper and pencils instead of scratching letters into the carpet with her fingernails.

Lynne: I’ll buy a fucking candle; I’m not buying from anyone else so consider yourself privileged.

Crissy: Thanks for buying a fucking candle.  My kid won’t be illiterate now because of your generous candle buying.

Lynne: Where are said candles?

Crissy: Catalog on break room table.

Lynne: Oh ok.  I shall purchase one tomorrow.  If it stinks, your ass is grass.

Crissy: If the candles stink, I’m giving it to you as a Secret Santa gift. You better hope I don’t pick you this year because that’s what you’re getting. If my kid grows up to be illiterate, it’s your fault.

Lynne: I said I’d buy one.  I’m even going to get a $15 one so shut off.

Crissy: You’re only buying ONE? I’m beginning to question your level of devotion to me.

Lynne: I have candles coming out my eyeballs at home.  I have a kid in college, man.  Cut me some slack.

Crissy: Fine.

Lynne: If I buy two I won’t be able to pay my mortgage; do you want that on your conscience?

Crissy: I don’t care about your problems.

Lynne: I thought not.

Crissy: I just looked at an entry in the catalog that said Depression Pottery and I thought “Who makes pottery when they’re depressed?” and then I realized it meant Depression ERA Pottery. I think I may be the victim of zombification, which, as you know is a real problem at this time of year.

Lynne: Depression Pottery; you make it then you break it and slit your wrists with it.

Crissy: Depression Pottery: Healthier than Vodka Sodas.

Crissy would tell you more about what happened after that, but it’s too much.  There’s a lot that goes on at the library, obviously.  And since nobody is probably going to comment on this because what is there to comment on, really, Crissy will include Lynne’s suggestion for Mister’s Halloween costume which took Crissy forever to find this morning, but when she doesn’t want to find it, it comes up by accident like in front of Girlfriend who saw it and said “hahahahaha!  She’s kissing a PENIS!” and it made Crissy want to die a little bit:

There’s nothing like a precocious four-year-old to put Crissy’s rather impressive screen minimizing skills to the test, Queefies.  Come to think of it, maybe Crissy doesn’t want Girlfriend to learn how to read.  Around here, that would probably be a very bad thing.

So yesterday Crissy went back to work and they cleaned her desk for her and made it all impossible to find shit pretty and everything and her friend Celina left her a cake and it was vanilla cake with whipped cream frosting and lots of pink on it and it was really good you guys and Crissy just sat there trying hard not to eat the entire thing so as not to get a big fanny which was a miserable failure probably because Crissy went and got a knife and a dish and brought it back to her desk and just kept putting more cake but she figured she deserved it because there she was, at her old desk again and it felt very much like she never left except for the 1,126 emails she had to sift through because that’s what happens when you’re the Queen.

People email you a lot and a lot about the size of your “man meat” and about make the ladies scream with pleasures in the bed and about the Acai berry and about VIAGRA 80% off!

And there was a welcome back-ish note on the fridge in the break room that said “Guess who’s coming on August 17?” and then someone else wrote some discontentedness because it was Crissy who was coming back to work and not George Clooney coming to visit and let the librarians touch his fanny. Did Crissy ever tell you they celebrate his birthday at the library?

Yes.
With cake.
And they talk all about his fanny as they smear cake on their chestals and say things like “George, George, oh George! I’m long overdue for a checkout! Place a hold on me George! Hold me! Take off your dust jacket and show me your hardcover!”

Not really, but they do have the cake and the fanny talk.

But they also celebrated Crissy’s coming back to work with cake so she supposes she’ll let them talk about and maybe even touch her fanny and possibly her chestals too. Crissy thinks her fanny is probably nicer than George’s. It’s smoother at the very least.

Everyone likes Crissy’s fanny.

And the night was pretty quiet and stuff and pretty much the highlight was the cake and Crissy letting her friends touch her fanny and also being called to the circulation desk by Erin to check out an asshole wearing a pink polo shirt and these pants on his fanny: