Floozy Finds: her sanity at the bottom of a communal sweatshop sandbox.

I had planned on waking up this morning and harvesting something brilliant and funny from my ass for my Thursday slot of Floozy Finds! Doh! That did not happen. My mom needed me to rush up some things for her at the hospital, and so, rush I did. No shower, makeup, toothbrushing. Just me and a hat. Oh, and clothes under that hat. Wouldn’t want to repeat the Nightmare of Aught-Eight. (It was on stage, a few clowns, and no pants.)

I rushed to the hospital, only to realize after an absurdist conversation with the lady at the information desk, that no, my mom was not at this hospital, but was instead at the American Fork hospital (go cavemen!). I dork-walked back to my car and proceeded to my homeland. (Good ol’ AF! We will love you till we die! That is the song to the high school. Not, the hospital. Because that would be a bad P.R. choice.)

My mom is all cutesy and serene at the hospital. Every mental part of her is focusing on DO NOT PUKE DO NOT PUKE. That sums up every hospital stay I have ever had.

I brought her a fabulous lunch from Kneaders, we chatted, and then  I left, not without leaving a daggery serious ‘take care of my mom’ look at all of the personnel. I’m sure I impressed them with my tuffness.

When I got home I fell asleep. Hospitals sap my wit and mind-bling. Today’s post is just this! Nothing more. No creepy baggies of illicit sand filled with mysterious turds.* Nope. Today, I just want you all to find a loved one (saying that makes me feel so Oprah) and say ‘hi, I like your face.’ Or, ‘thank you for finding the remote control, I thought it was a goner.’ Or, ‘If you ever leave me, I will haunt the shit out of you.’

You can do this, right? For me? For my mom? For that super nice celebrity Matt Damon?

Next week I’ll be better. I’m planning on giving a thesis of information about the Utah Accent. Because when you make fun of my Utah accint, it rilly hurts my fillings.

*My newest theory about the baggie of sand and turds:

Okay, it probably wasn’t kitty litter. BUT SOMETHING MUCH WORSE. I imagine a sweatshop somewhere in a dungeonesque basement crammed full of gummy-spined women working tirelessly over these stupid obscene penguins. When they have come to the part of the assembly where the bag of sand is placed in the bottom of the toy to give the TriPenguin weight, they shovel up some sand from an open pit of sand-like particles and pour it into the baggie and tie it up unconvincingly. I imagine that this Open Pit of Sand has sat there are on the floor of the factory, mindless of the various cats, rodents, and marmosets that scurry over it and dump their poops. If I knew my scat better , I would have analyzed the TriPenguine turd to determine the breed. But, alas! My dream of becoming a scatologist never came true.

And that is how I ended up with a baggie full of sand and turds when I autopysied a stuffed animal from the Dollar Store.

THE END.