LuckyBuzz Steals My Heart with the Most Awesome Meme Ever
LuckyBuzz says:
I love this meme so much I can't even stand it. I love this meme so much I want to whisk it away to Vegas for the weekend. I love this meme so much I want to feed it blueberries in bed on a snowy morning.And LuckyBuzz is right. What I am about to hit you with is indeed the best meme ever (I guess, if your readers aren't unimaginative jackasses... If they are, then, whoa boy does this suck.). I'll let Ms. Q, who seems to have invented it, explain:
Whether you know me or not, even if you have never been here before, make up a fake memory of us. That is, post a comment with a COMPLETELY MADE UP AND FICTIONAL memory of you and me. It can be anything you want - good or bad - but it has to be fake.Y'all. Do you not see how awesome that is? Do you not know me well enough by now to see how I'd think that this is practically Christmas morning in a meme? I love it. I want you to try it. So, go ahead. Delight me.
posted by Aunt B at 12/07/2005 07:07:00 AM
20 Comments:
My favourite memory of you was the time we decided to drive topless all the way to Austin to catch a Tom Waits show. Our hatred of the inequities of gender dressing rules --combined with Jagermeister and Kahlua--prompted us to protest The Man with Mammaries, as you so eloquently exclaimed. All was well until we hit Little Rock and the heater went out in my 1963 Volvo. I was all for throwing on my MIT sweatshirt, figuring that it would not only keep me warm but attract the sexiest of geeks, but you were adamant that protest is only acheived at the price of individual comfort. I loved that you were willing to brave frostbitten nipples for the Larger Cause, and lifted a glass of Cointreau in your honor.
Dude, remember that time we went to the baptist ladies tea to try and stop those fundamentalist christian gun runners that stole your car and kidnapped the ATF agent you were having the affair with? And all hell broke loose when they were on to us and I pulled my trusty glock out of my knee high stiletto-heeled boot to shoot our way out of there? And then we had to flag down one of the trucks from the truck driving school I was attending (Learn to drive the big rigs!) to get out of there?
Sure did seem like the story would end there, but then we had to have Professor Steve end our speeding in a semi-lesson and drop us off at that roadside bar because they were on to us and we could only give 'em the slip on the backroads so many times. And then we went into the bar...the one with the bottle trees out front, clinking in the wind, and when we asked those bikers politely to transport us back to rescue the ATF agent from the baptism pool where he was hidden, then we had to agree to let them come with us for the rescue if we wanted to ride back. By the way, Madge the bartender says hey and don't come back unless we promise not to start another fight by the pin ball machine.
That was pretty awesome when we tried to rescue him, and the good child preacher with mystical powers (I still believe he healed One-Eye Chuck's gunshot wound with those mystical powers) and the good church members were helping us by stalling the gun runners with a stewardship meeting. The only church meeting guranteed to last 300 hours longer than necessary. I still remember when you looked over your shoulder when we were crawling through the air vent and said to me, "When this is all over, let's go to Memphis and relax by frightening the staff at Tater Red's. Or maybe we could just enjoy a tour of a civil war battle site with 900 school children. Your choice, SuperGenius."
The only thing I regret is when I got hit in the head with that hymnal. Ever since then, the part of my brain that prevents run-on sentences and grammar errors hasn't been too functional if you know what I mean.
And don't play dumb that after you broke it off with the agent you didn't hook up with Thor, that biker that looked like a viking. You can deny it all you want, but I know you didn't disappear to an MLA conference that year. That was just your cover.
Since I know B and the Supergenius have history together, I'm assuming that story is true.
W
Holy crap. I hesitate to try to follow those amazing memories, but I was thinking about that time we were in Wales in January, and it was so cold that the vodka actually froze in your flask? And then we found that tiny little pub and there was just the one other guy there, and we bought him a drink, and he said his name was John and he used to be in a band but now he produced records?
Weird how John Paul Jones *seems* like the kind of guy you'd recognize, until you realize you have no idea what he looks like, huh?
If we hadn't been on our honeymoon, we might have accepted his invitation to Tahiti. Whatever. Next time.
OK, W, you got me. The part about Thor and Aunt B is completely true. Otherwise, I'm not sayin'.
I am posting this before reading the other memories by others so as to not plagerize their ideas...
I remember the first time we met. You were a plucky stripper, I was the reluctant friend at a bachelor party. They hired you to give a lap dance to my friend, but you refused to do so because the bride was a friend of yours and you were invited to the wedding. I saw you again at the wedding, albeit this time more clothed. Since I was there sans date, I came up and started to make small talk at the reception as we dined on appetizers together. I was witty and charming and you gave me your phone number.
I called you up the next day and we agreed to go out. On our first date, it was electric between us...until your pyschotic ex showed up, demanding to know what I was doing with his girl. We got into a giant battle with lasers and I realized that it was actually Greedo from Star Wars. Before we escaped, he admitted he hadn't shot first and that George's edit to the original Star Wars was total b.s. He also admitted he, not Oswald, was behind the Kennedy assignation.
As we ran outside and got into a DeLorean, we were suddenly whisked back in time to the early days of Doctor Who. I grabbed a VCR and taped every lost episode, which I sitll hoard, even though you say I should share them with the Dr Who community. We then went on a whirlwind tour of history with Marty and Jennifer, who agreed to be in our wedding should we ever marry.
But, alas, you met and fell for Albert Einstein, leaving me lonely and sad.
Ah, well....but those were good times.
These are clearly the greatest fake memories ever! I love, too, how I am clearly some kind of amazing sex goddess in all of them. Talk like this makes me think y'all are just conspiring to get to see the new bra.
I never really resolved things with you, but I guess that now is as good a time as any. I blame the Clash for what happened.
I remember the first time I saw you, walking across campus, the fall leaves swirling around your feet all red and gold making you look like a goddess in blue jeans. The weather was warm for early October and you plopped down on the bench beside me and asked me to play that song by the Cure. I knew the chords, you knew the words. That was that.
I know now that I was in love, but at the time, I couldn’t call it that. Your throaty voice, like a 40s movie star, was the real attraction. You read me poetry. You combed my hair. When we went to art openings, we dismissed the callow boys who weren’t worth our time. I remember everything – your silly black beret, dancing with our battered teddy bears to our favorite records (The Waterboys, Talking Heads, the Furs). Your hand so cool on my forehead when I vomited at McGill’s. That night, you slipped your arm around my waist, helped me home (god! up that rickety staircase!), and put me into a fresh shirt. That whole winter’s worth of memories are backlit in my mind and smell like cedar and cinnamon. I wish I had kissed you.
We never should have tried to travel together. You wanted to go to Andulusia -- fuckin’ Clash. I wanted to be with you, even paid for part of your ticket. God, what a sucker. Neither of us spoke Spanish, the train service was poor. Two weeks felt like three years. You dropped your Walkman off our balcony; I saw it break in slow-mo, a heavy-handed MTV-style premonition. You ran low on money because you had to buy that stupid red leather jacket. One last evening at the tapas bar, which is where you met Israel. Izzy. Rhymed with Kissy, he joked. ETA, my ass. You fell for his whole “communisto terroristo” thing – fuckin’ Clash. I wound up taking your luggage to the train station the next morning; finally you showed up with our tickets, lazily walking down the street dragging your purse. I wanted to slap that dreamy smile off your face. I spite-fucked a conductor on the Lyon train, but that only made me feel worse.
You really weren’t happy anymore on campus. It was too small, you said. When you transferred, you promised to write but you didn’t. I knew you never gave me a thought thereafter. Other dorms, other girls. I heard later that you spent some time as a booking agent for the Minutemen – way to use that Comp Lit degree. And now you’re blogging, which is how I tracked you down. (You’re not very anonymous, you know that, right?) I guess I expected a little more from someone with your fire. But I guess you’re doing alright. Not that I’m bitter or anything.
I had one, but there's no way I'm following Bridgett's hot lesbian cross-continental love affair.
Why did you treat her like that, B? Bitch.
Peg, you think I was bad to Bridgett? All that was going on during my brief marriage to LuckyBuzz. Hence the annulment. I'm rotten to the women I love.
I often think back to that August of long ago when we got into a tickle fight while standing in line at PF Chang’s. I don’t even know what started it. But then you accidentally peed and got so mad at me (I swear I didn’t know you were peeing or I would have stopped tickling you). Once I caught on and finally quit, you walked tight-legged over to the curb and sulked for the next fifteen minutes. Then Alison Krauss walked up from behind to console you and you thought it was me so you turned and slapped all in one motion. You caught her a good one, didn’t you? So, of course, I just thought that was hilarious—then I started peeing. Obviously, we scrapped dinner altogether. After changing clothes and spraying ourselves with Febreeze we ended up at Mulligans listening to the house band and drinking Harp and Jameson until midnight. Somehow we ended up in a cab headed for the Villager and you were sitting on the cabbie’s lap making siren noises while he pushed it to 75 mph up Broadway. I bet he’s still smiling. At the Villager we played foosball—remember? God, I love foosball. And every time we were scored on the gorgeous bartender (you know the one—the tight pink sweater?) ran from behind the bar and kissed me like she meant it. I never enjoyed losing so much in my life. Man, that was a good night. I think you still owe me 50 cents from the last game of foos though. Memories rock, eh?
Remember when we hid your can opener?
-The Ghosts of the Civil War
P.S. Ha! That is a made up memory because the truth is we stole it!
Remember that time we went over to Brittney’s neighborhood and told the lady down the street that Brittney had been tampering with her mail? I don’t think that that either of us alone could have convinced her, but having two separate “neighbors” randomly pass along the same neighborhood “observations” seems to have done the trick.
Well, it wasn’t quite as much fun as the time we broke in to Brittney’s house and polished off the last of her tequila, but it was pretty damn close.
I was doing a little Christmas shopping at the mall last weekend. I wandered past the women's dressing room and I heard "Pssst W, get over here."
So I walked over to the curtain and a hand reached thru and dragged me into the dressing room. Inside were B, the Professor, a huge pile of shoes, and a very fogged up mirror.
B had a mad look in her eyes. I know that look. It usually means a large biker gang or soccer team is about to see her breasts. She looked at me and said "The Professor and I were shoe shopping, and talking about the patriarchy. We just got so hot and bothered we had to duck in to make out. And you're going to record it. The Professor is taking care of the premiere party next weekend."
I heard the Professor talking on her cell phone. "Yes, fill up the UHaul with midgets, and trampolines and get them to B's house. And don't forget to stop by Hustler to pick up the handcuffs and paddles. B said get the extra big paddle, B says she's going to make Sarcastro cry."
She put her cellphone away and looked at B. "It's taken care of. Men are so handy when trained properly."
/edited/
I'm really looking forward to watching the video this weekend. After the first 20 minutes my glasses were too fogged over to see what was going on.
W
I love you guys! These fake memories rock. You make me feel like a woman of intrigue.
Come on B. Give us a fake memory.
W
Well, sure, W. For you, anything.
I remember waking up with Jim Morrison's pants on my head, each leather leg hanging down over my shoulders like basset hound ears. I couldn't immediately remember how I'd come into possession of Jim Morrison's pants, but I was pretty sure I'd never be allowed back in the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.
Cleveland's not the kind of city you go to unless you absolutely have to. So, you can guess, if I was there, I was in a bit of trouble. That's the problem with tequila. Things seem like a good idea.
I had been sitting there doing tequila shots with Kleinheider at a little bar in Smyrna. As you know, it's nearly impossible to get Kleinheider out of his house, but I'd lied to him and told him that I was Pat Buchanan's lover and that I had access to secret files that would seal the border forever and the combination of the two was too much for him to resist.
I think after the seventh shot, he knew I was lying. For one, I couldn't even say if Pat was short for Patrick or Patrell. And, for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why I wanted to prevent U.S. citizens from visiting Canada. But by then, we were both feeling pretty good and relaxed.
He asked me if I had any tattoos. I said, "no." I asked him if he had any piercings. He said, "no." We both agreed that, if we were going to do any major body modification, it'd have to be way cooler than piercings and tattoos.
After a few more shots, we agreed, we should be joined at the hip.
I know, obviously stupid. Stupider still was talking the Rutherford County bloggers into doing it. And thanks for nothing, Rex L. Camino, who suggested that we not just superglue ourselves together, but make some incisions and see if we couldn't fuse some flesh together. Apparently all Camino's time among vegetation, he thought he could just graft us together.
I guess he was right, but it was irresponsible of him to suggest it anyway.
And, I probably should have insisted, once we sobered up, that we go immediately to the emergency room and get the stitches taken out and get ourselves patched up.
But Sarcastro (I don't know which one of you fuckers tipped him off, but if I ever find out, I'll kick your ass.) wanted to see for himself this ridiculousness. But he couldn't work us in among his many lovers until Sunday afternoon, which was five days away.
A lot can heal up in five days. And then I had a business trip and Kleinheider had a cousin who had never met a liberal girl and then I got used to having someone to rinse the dishes before I put them in the dishwasher and, frankly, I think Kleinheider liked wearing a mumu, which was our only clothing option.
You know, you get used to bad situations and you learn to live with them. We liked the company, even if we spent a lot of time fighting about what news network to watch on TV.
But eventually, we got tired of the fundimentalist Christians taunting us with cries of "Abomination" and throwing their Bibles at us. (Which is a side note: why couldn't the Gideons have persecuted us? At least they only have those tiny New Testament/Psalm deals. Much less painful.) And I wasn't sure how I was going to explain my presense to Kleinheider's dad.
But no one in town would separate us. They said the proceedure was too risky.
Our only option was a doctor in Cleveland, who had performed a similar proceedure on Richard Nixon and Joe DiMaggio (their situation also involved tequila, I hear) back in the early sixties.
It was painful and the peyote/painkiller combination sent me on quite a ride. Hence the Jim Morrison Pants.
I know it's for the best. Kleinheider and I could never live together peacefully. But, I have to tell you, every once in a while I catch myself watching President Bush saying something about giving amnesty to people in the country illegally and, without thinking, I reach over to reassuringly pat a knee that's no longer there--yes, sometimes I still feel his paleo-conservative presense.
It was a couple of Halloweens ago. We got all boozed up and decided to go trick-or-treating. You dressed as Liberal Outrage. I went as Noblesse Oblige. We grabbed a bottle of brown liquor and stumbled out the door. Our fearsome appearance frightened many of the children into forking over their evening's haul of candy. For the next two hours we staggered from door to door demanding treats from the bewildered residents and their tearful spawn.
Once we had each filled two Hefty Cinch Saks full of assorted sweets, we wandered through the park telling each other ghost stories designed to cause incontinence among the elderly and the very gullible.
Upon arriving at home, you proceeded to eat as much candy as you possibly could in under two minutes. I may have dared you into that course of action. My lawyer advises me not to categorically admit or deny any complicity. After two minutes, you had devoured enough Skittles, M&Ms, Hershey Minis, Twizzlers and Candy Corn to get full.
The sudden influx of that much sugar into your body caused you to go into convulsions. This, coupled with the massive whiskey consumption and lack of anything substantial (besides candy) in your system, caused a medical condition known as "Fuckedupitosis" to manifest itself.
I rushed you to the emergency room, where the attending physician's first question was, "How much has she had to drink?"
"Nevermind that, now you quack", I bellowed in my outside voice. "This woman needs medical attention! Stat!"
They pumped your stomach and gave you a morphine drip for the pain. In a narcotic induced haze you looked up at me and smiled with chocolate stained teeth, and said, "I love Halloween."
I was paid by the same people who enumerated the other contributors for mentioning: Jagermeister, Kahlua, Volvo, Cointreau, PF Chang's, Febreeze, Jameson, Harp and the Gideons.
As well as promotional consideration provided by the PR reps for Tom Waits, John Paul Jones, Alex Chilton, Alison Krauss, and the Estate of Jim Morrison.
Hefty Cinch Saks just crack me up as a brand name. Much more evocative than generic trash bags.
I'd make fun of "subulety", if I hadn't written "enumerated" instead of "remunerated".
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