If random (and moderately disturbing) texting ever becomes an Olympic event, rest assured, you don't have a shot at the gold. Bronze, maybe. Silver, if you're lucky. But the gold surely belongs to Daughter-Only and I.
Here's a recent text conversation between Daughter-Only and I in its shockingly pointless and odd entirety. It began normally enough--with D-O asking if I was getting a break from work (presumably so I could give her a ride home)--and then swerved completely out of control almost immediately. Daughter-Only got the last word because I was forced by the cruelties of timing to actually pay attention to my job while I was at work.
MM: In Bolivar [a town about 15 miles from home].
D-O: Until when?
MM: 9--I'm not getting a break. Working til 10:30.
D-O: I know you work until 10:30 you silly little poopsicle.
D-O: Yep. Diaper rash.
MM: Ostrich ass feathers.
D-O: Blue chicken wing pillow fights.
MM: Are just the wings or the entire chickens blue? Is it a naturally occurring blue or a sign of injury, disease or other bodily distress?
D-O: The wings are. And they were born that way, after of course, the Great Explosion of Nayithe, in which a number of cats vomited on William's coat.
MM: Ah, but the question remains who put the bomp in the bomp-de-bomp-de-bomp? PS--Whoever it was failed to put the bomp in the T9.
D-O: Well the little ditty of Vienna thinks you're so vain time after time.
MM: Uh--of COURSE I'm vain--this song is about me. And then some.
D-O: Nope. Wrong again. It's about the Pilgrims swimming in tidal pools of iguana saliva.
MM: Sweet salmonella--you win. But worry not--the hounds of heinieville will rise to howl again--and maybe even hump your leg.
D-O: Wicked wheat waffles!! How could the dolphin orphanages host such a curtain of packing peanuts? It's slutterly ridiculous.
MM: Depends entirely upon what is packed among those peanuts. Was it Schrodinger's cat? Cuz if you apply the Dupendorfer principle the answer is bad venison.
D-O: No, no. Schrodinger's brother was in those peanuts!! Incoming news: an obese walrus from Tenessee just had a severe heart attack on the walls of a Turkish ballet studio. Bring immediate help! (And two lollipops.)
MM: What flavor? Lollipops I mean. Everyone knows walruses are root beer flavored. Except the really old ones--they taste like avacados.
D-O: Not nearly as bad as the douche canoe flavor of an Indian Vortex Lion. Oh, what's that? You don't know what a douche canoe tastes like? That's insane. Who hasn't tasted a makeshift boat filled entirely, and only with vaginal cleansers?! You are sooo deprived.
MM: True story.
D-O: Not as true as the skies are blue.
MM: It is too truer than the skies are blue. But not quite as true as the blue chicken wings were blue.
D-O: Goat killing should be provided by the 97th amendment.
MM: I thought that was the plan. Unfortunately both goats and their potential killlers will succumb to a rogue hiccup virus long before that amendment's passed.
D-O: Terrible how one tiny sheep-wannabe can be mentally damaged to the point of no-return by a single rusty-orange fingernail.
MM: That's a whole other bale of fish fur.
D-O: Shedding bananas, SmudgyFace! What a brilliant observation. It's as delicate as looking into a tin foil mirror with only seconds left on the clock of doom.
*Randomness beat out randmosity here largely because the suffix "-osity" was ruined for me by the episode of Growing Pains where Carol got the job writing for the school paper and in her eagerness to show off her superior intelligence fills her assignments with unnecessarily long and complicated words. The paper's advisor calls her in and tells her, "This story stinks." She says, "I don't understand." And he says something like let me put it in words you will understand: "It's replete with stinkyosity."
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