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AmberButlerIsThePrettiestGirl
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Name: Johnny
Country: Andorra
Birthday: 2/28/1981
Gender: Male
Interests: See above.
Expertise: Rockin'. Not "rocking." Rockin'.
Occupation: Retired
Industry: Hospitality
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
4/18/2003
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| Sometimes it takes a disaster in order for one to really appreciate what one has.
Growing up, I had a huge collection of stuffed animals I kept on the
top bunk of a bunk bed set in my room. I called them my babies.
Whenever my friends would come and visit, I would introduce them to my
babies. By name. Each one. All 34 of them. And I did this regardless of
whether or not the visitors had already met my babies, because I always
had this feeling that the visitors forgot my babies' names since last
time. Sometimes I had to introduce the visitor’s to my babies twice in
one visit, because they'd forget the babies' names already. And I'd be
really sneaky at it. I'd test them. I'd say, "Cousin Kristen, could you
get me Butterscotch? You know, my baby with the big purple nose and the
orange handcuffs?" And she would bring me the baby that fit that
description. "No", I'd have to say, "this is My Pet Monster. You
brought me My Pet Monster. Butterscotch is the one wearing the necklace
with my picture on it. Here, let me introduce you to him..." And I'd
introduce her to my babies again. I didn't get a lot of visitors, but I
always had my babies.
Then mom bought six cats over the course of two years. They were a lot
like stuffed animals. Cute, fuzzy, talkative. Only they got really
scared when you made them perform basic stuffed animal activities, like
wrestle one another, or star in plays. Usually they'd hiss and scratch
and run away whenever I tried to have fun with them. I chalked their
fear up to the fact that they were in a new environment, and weren't
used to being out of their Petco cages. Whatever the reason behind
their fleeing, I wouldn't see them for the rest of the day. They had a
hiding place I didn't know about and couldn't find, and they didn't
come out of it for food or to use the litterbox or anything.
So I devised a plan. Next time a cat would run from me, I would follow
him. I would track him down and find his hiding place so I could play
with him some more. The next time I played with Buddy, a dull orange
tabby whose eyes widened and back hair stood up on end whenever I
entered a room he was in (presumably from joy), I found my chance.
Buddy was always nice to play with because he was declawed, and his
attempts at scratching were more like high-fives. So, as I played the
high-five game with him, I made sure there was ample room for him to
escape. And escape he did. He beat his cute little defenseless paws
against the floor and bounded off into my room. And I followed.
I ran through the doorway just in time to see buddy's tail disappear
into my pile of babies. Quietly, on my tip-toes, I crept through my
filthy room and towards the bunk bed ladder. As I slowly made my way, I
realized that I hadn't really played with my babies in a long time.
There they were, staring down at me, judging me for spending more time
with the cats then with them. Ascending the ladder, I further realized
that I couldn't remember a lot of their names. Did I call the spider
puppet Jillian? Or was it Maggie? And that Wuzzle there, was his name
BumbleLion, or Lion-O? I couldn't remember. I waded through a sea of
nameless babies, ashamed.
When I made it to the end of the bed, I found Buddy. I also found
Callie, the calico, who was apparently still in hiding from an earlier
playdate. She gave Buddy a reproachful look, then turned her frightened
eyes to me. But I paid them little notice. My babies were here,
nameless and sad. I decided to spend the rest of the night with them,
playing with them and hugging them and giving them brand new names that
I would never forget, ever ever ever. And that's what I did. Buddy and
Callie scattered, and I began rolling around in my babies, showering
them with terms of affection, giving them belly-busters, kissing their
plastic little noses. It really had been a long time since I played
with them. They smelled musty. Like, really musty. Offensively musty.
And for some reason they were moist.
Then I learned that, just because cats don't leave their hiding place
to use the litterbox, doesn't mean they hold it in. They find ways to
get relief. Horrible, horrible ways.
The babies that got the “number two” treatment were immediately thrown
away. Those merely receiving a golden shower were sent to the wash,
and, if afterwards they still had visible yellow stains, were given to
the Salvation Army to find less discriminating owners. When all was
said and done, 23 of my 34 babies were disposed of in some way, shape
or form.
I was devastated. My family of friends was almost entirely gone,
surviving only as a paltry bunch of stuffed animals I had to keep in a
garbage bag in my closet (the top bunk mattress having to be thrown
out). Worse yet, the cats’ new hiding place turned out to be inside the
walls, where I couldn’t follow them. My babies were gone. It felt like
my world was crumbling around me, like I had nothing propelling me
further in life. I became sullen and isolated. My grade average
plummeted from “C-“ to a straight “D”, and I didn’t even care. I
would lie awake at night, naming my lost babies, seeing them with my
mind’s eye, and belly-bustering them with my mind’s mouth. I was the
most depressed 13-year-old at my junior high.
But then, slowly, I recovered. I meditated on life, and on what’s truly
important. I hadn’t lost everything. Sure, I lost all my friends. And
at one point I was covered in cat pee. But in the long run that’s not
so bad, really, because I still had a lot. A lot of Game Boy games. And
a Game Boy is a WAY easier method by which I could drown out my sad and
weird life than stuffed animals ever were.
All this being said, I still feel discouraged, immensely so, in
reporting that Amber Butler, the prettiest girl, is getting married.
No, discouraged doesn’t cover it. Depressed? No. Despondent? Maybe.
Savagely embittered? Yes, I think that describes it. WHO DOES SHE THINK
SHE IS?! I asked her to marry me, like, eight times! And who is this
Zack Rock guy she’s marrying? Did he set up an entire blog just to
impress Amber? No! No he didn’t, I did. Unless there’s a Xanga blog out
there called
AmberButlerIsEvenPrettierThanThatOtherPageCouldEverAlludeTo, which I
don’t think there is.
Siiigh… at least I still have my Game Boy. My… the prettiest Game Boy… in the whole… wide…
WAAAAAHHHHHHHHH!!!!
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| Quick, I want you to answer this question without thinking about it. It's going to be one of those, you know, psychological test like what they used to give me back when I kept licking the walls at school (743 days lick free! There by the grace of Dr. Phil go I). Okey, here't goes: What is your source for offically licensed Iraqi playing card products? Don't think about it, just answer it. All set? Now, what's your answer? Huh? No, nononono. The correct answer is www.greatusaflags.com. Wow. I don't know how you got your answer, but you must feel like an idiot right now. You were sooooo off.
So, how does one offically license playing cards featuring the most wanted individuals in the Iraqi government? I mean, did they get permission from Washington, or perhaps they sent a letter to Saddam. Or maybe, just maybe, the manufacturers of the playing cards wanted to fill up the space on their advertisment and didn't feel "These cards will sit on your coffee table as a conversation piece for a month before losing their novelty and get tossed in the garage along with all the paraphenellia you got from the LAST war, you consumeristic miscreant who won't allow anything to become real to you unless you purchased something" would move cards. One way or another, these cards ain't half as cool as my "Abandoned Weapon Designs of the Nazi Regime" Magic card set. I hear my limited edition "Jet-propelled bratwurst" card is going for $34 on eBay.
In closing, here's what my hometown looks like to the man who has made my appreication of modern art swell like a broken ankle, Thomas Kincade: 
It's from his Napa Valley collection. I actually saw Thomas Kincade at a baseball game two days ago. I booed louder for him than I did for the Padres pitcher that kept walking Barry Bonds. Anyway, I just don't see what people like about Kincade. I mean, sure, his paintings are pretty and all, but I can think of something even more pretty: the physical apperance of one Miss Amber Butler. There's no painter in all the world who could even approach the savage prettitude of Amber Butler. She makes even the most pastel Monet look like little brown rabbit dumplings. Oh, that reminds me, I have to go see the Charles De Gualle exhibit over at the SFMOMA now. I mean, the Marc Chagall exhibit. Marc Chagall. Amber Butler. Oooo, you so pretty. | | |
| My computer died immediately after I wrote my last blog. I'm typing this on Liana's computer. Liana is one of Amber's housemates. I don't know why I don't just go over to Amber's room and say hi. Maybe ask if I can smell her hair. Oh, that's right. Amber's not here. Amber's at church. Siiiigh. So close, yet... yet...
I really wish that virus didn't erase everything on my computer.
Amber Butler may be the prettiest girl, but can her prettiness retrieve all my erased documents? No. Wait, maybe. I'll ask her. Dang, it just might work! Ah, Amber Butler is the prettiest girl. | | |
| I'm slowing coming to terms with the fact that the more I attempt to make everything I do filled with as much meaning as possible the more frustrated I get and the less I accomplish. Maybe its time I lower my standards on what I feel is acceptible output. But then, Amber Butler doesn't lower her standards; she continually exceeds all previously constructed standards for such things as, I dunno, sweetness, smartness, um, superness (stupid need to alliterate). And prettiness, of course. Amber Butler is the prettiest girl. Maybe I should gain strength from her and continue onward, work hard, and excell.
No, I could never do that well with my life. I wish I was the somethingest something. | | |
| Ah, Amber Butler. The prettiest girl. Just say that name out loud. Amber Butler. Doesn't it make your whole throat feel as if it participated in the ingestion of the best meal ever? Amber Butler. Now whisper it. amber butler. It's like the brush of angel wings against your nose, innit? Sometimes I spend hours just saying Amber Butler's name, over and over, trying out different emphasises. AMber Butler. Amber ButLER. AmBER BUTler. Then I will draw a picture of the first thing that comes to my mind after I say her name. Once I drew a sunset. Once, I drew a waterfall, with a bunch of kids in a barrel on top about to go over the edge. But usually, I just draw pictures of Amber. Amber Butler. The prettiest girl. | | |
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