Ganked from vanmojo, the first “LJ tagmeme” thing I’ve seen in ages that looks fun:
If you read this, if your eyes are passing over this right now, (even if we don’t speak often) please 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.
When you’re finished, post this little paragraph on your blog and be surprised (or mortified) about what people DON’T ACTUALLY remember about you.
Be My Blog 
Dude, remember in 7th grade that day we ditched school after 3rd period and hung out at the 7-11 on ventura blvd. like the the day, just smoking and drinking cherry slushes, and then that truant officer came by and asked us what we were doing, so we like told him we were checkin out the hot babage action, and he was so totally down with it so he started bumming our smokes and I was all, dude, you like have a job and shit and you are taking our smokes? And he was all, dude, give me smoke or I will bust your asses back to school, so we gave him smokes, but you flat out would not let him drink any of your cherry slushy, so he said he was going to bust us anyway, but then you showed him that gnarly watch you had and school was out, so he could not do anything to us, and he was all bummed out. good stuff man. We should do it again sometime. You know, like hang out at the 7-11. live out the glory days. dude.
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mmm.. Hot Babbage.
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sadly, I think I actually talked like that when I was 12.
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I remember the time we spent an evening in a drain pipe just south of Tiajuana after the Federales stole our wallets and shoes. Good thing you had that cheap tequila with you. And the Mayor’s daughter’s dress made for cozy foot swaddling. I seem to remember getting a ride back over the border in the back of a stoner’s VW, stashed under oily rags so we could sneak through. oh god! remember the dried vomit on the floorboards that we had to smell all the way back to Anaheim?
shame about that mayor’s daughter, tho.
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That wasn’t cheap tequila, man. That was expensive peppermint schnapps.
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ah, that’s the magic of Tiajuana – it turns EVERYTHING into cheap tequila.
what was that mayor’s daughter’s name?
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Gustavo.
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THAT explains the razor rash I had on my belly.
I thought she was just…, well,… swarthy, like the eastern european girls of my youth.
ya gotta admit, she had great legs for a fella.
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i remember that time you and i chatted for hours about how overwhelming awesome it is to be alive.
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Winner of the ThreadKiller Award 2005.
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oh, i hope that wasn’t taken the wrong way. i think substitue gets me enough to, uh, tolerate my humor?
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Just spinning with it. Remember that time we misunderstood each other and end up being best friends with matching tattoos?
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How do tattoos work on mummies, anyway?
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The afterlife is permo
Forget about removal.
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winnar
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I liked how, when you were pregnant with your first child, you’d let me rest my ear against your belly, and I’d listen to the baby kick.
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Once upon a time we met.
THE END.
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I remember the time you put your tiger suit on and i put my bear suit on, we climbed into the back of the cement mixer and made wicked, hot, passionate, furry love.
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lol noes taht was me
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I will never forget the day you peed in my Coke. You weren’t even Chinese, nor were you playing a joke.
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I bit you right in the wax tadpole.
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Right. I remember this. It was high school, of course.
It was during Phys. Ed. class, the spring that Coach Spangler made us all play softball, and he picked to be one of the team captains. (“Now don’t pick all your friends,” Spangler told him. “Like hell?” he said. “What else am I going to do?”)
We were the worst intramural softball team ever. We had more fun than anybody ever did playing softball— and more fun than anybody playing softball since. We lost every game. But everybody managed to cross home plate at least once— every single one of us.
For some of us, like , just getting to first base was a minor miracle. But you were one of our secret weapons, as I recall. You’d sucker the jocks on the other team into thinking you were completely helpless with a softball bat. You’d be whistling a little rebel tune when you saw the entire opposing team come inside the baseline as you came to bat. It was especially cool that one time when some of the more openly strong players on our team had loaded the bases for you, and you openly taunted the opposing team.
“Are guys sure you want to come in so close?” you said. They just laughed mercilessly.
On our side of the backstop, we were all trying not to laugh. Not because it wasn’t fun to watch you do this to them, but because we didn’t want to be seen laughing along with the jocks at your act. They were laughing at you. If we had been laughing, we would have been laughing at them. But it would have been hard to tell that.
I remember every time you cracked one hard and high into a completely abandoned center field, the leather on the ball almost sloughing off from the air friction as it rocketed over the heads of our opponents. I still savor the looks of dumbfounded embarrassment spread across the faces of the opposing team.
You were cruel even then, you know. You’d make a genial offer to sign autographs as you approached the shortstop on your leisurely stroll around the bases. Sometimes, you would backtrack from second to first multiple times, pretending to make sure you tagged first base. Some poor fool would be running like mad for the weeds out by the band practice field, searching for the ball so he might throw you out before you crawled on your belly over home plate in a kind of gloating dance number. It never happened.
Coach Spangler, to this day, will always pick one of the kids from the geekiest cohort to be a team captain for softball.
“Do yourself a favor,” he’ll say to the poor stupified kid he picks for this torture. “Pick all your friends. Trust me.”
He knows not fuck with the affairs of wizards, for it makes them soggy and very difficult to light.
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Considering Spangler, all that shit MIGHT have happened.
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To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what parts of that are fictitious and what parts really happened. I have it on Good Authority that the last three paragraphs are completely accurate.
(Of course, Good Authority is currently hanging upside-down by his ankles, trying to breath through his nose, because his mouth is stuffed with a butt plug, his eyelids are taped open, and his head is forcibly braced into a position where he can only watch recorded video loops of Weekend Update With Tony Snow from the FoxNewsChannel of May 2003— so what does Good Authority know about anything?)
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remember that summer we spent working at the circus as trapeze artists??? it took you so long to convince me to do it that we were almost too late signing up, but we just made the deadline. and with those outfits i designed for us, they couldn’t refuse. man, you sure could walk a tightrope! i can’t even count the nights we spent up with you trying to convince me that i wouldn’t just fall and break my neck… you did catch me every single time though.
i can’t believe we didn’t take them up on their offer to work full time & travel with them…
dude, we could’ve been clowns!
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We are clowns, though. We just aren’t properly compensated for it!
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exactly! we could be rich and famous!
we sure did screw that one up.
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I’ll never forget when we stole the Mona Lisa after that hazing ritual at the Sorbonne.
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Yeah, that was messed up. I was seriously burping up Dubonnet for a week.
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Memories, like the corners of my miiind
You were coming out of ESL class as I was turning the corner to go to seventh grade math class. We almost ran into eachother, and were startled. You, being a simple country girl straight from rural South Korea, couldn’t remember how to “excuse me” in English; and I, inexplicably, tried to think of how to say “excuse me” in Korean, but was equally stumped. So we were both sort of at a loss for words until I simply and absurdly said “huh-unh” and moved on.
I often wondered if you assumed that “huh-unh” meant something, like some forgotten completion of the set of better-known English interjections “hunh!”, “unh-hunh!”, and “nuh-unh!”.
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Re: Memories, like the corners of my miiind
I always fuck up the politeness level of “huh-unh”.
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Oh, man, remember our Barbershop Quartet? That was pretty awesome, touring the State Fairs with our naughty barbershop renditions of classic Oak Ridge Boys tunes. Personally, I thought it was a rather weird niche, but the people just went nuts over it. Well, you remember. It was you, me, Mike, and…I forget that other guy’s name. I think I heard he died.
Anyway, you should know that even after all these years, I am still so, so sorry about Albuquerque. Call me!
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the faggy bottom boys!
GOODBYE MY CONEY ISLAND BAAAYBEEEEEE
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I remember the time at the regional meeting in Tuscaloosa when you won the award for Top Regional Sales, Waterbed Division, and Mitzi Reynolds threw a total shit fit and stormed out of the awards ceremony. Good lord, that had to be over 20 years ago now; was it 1984? Anyway, that Mitzi really had a bee in her bonnet that night. She thought she had that regional sales award all wrapped up, not just because of her high numbers but because of all the ass-kissing she’d been doing. Plus rumor had it she’d been kissing more than just ass, especially with Chip Jensen, who was in charge of the sales awards that year. When she heard your name called for that prize – a weekend for two in Minneapolis-St. Paul (restricted to August, November, or January) – she nearly split her shiny pants. Do you remember those pants? You just wanted to shake her and tell her that not only was 1979 over, but she hadn’t even looked good in them then. Oh, and those frost ‘n’ tipped poodle curls she piled on her head. Anyway, we were so glad when you won that award. You both deserved what you got that night. How was the trip, anyway?
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You and I got so drunk at the Rhapsody concert that we beat up this fratboy dressed like an orc, while shouting “GONDOOOR! GONDOOOOOOR!”
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I’m recalling a time at the Key Club (of course, it wasn’t the Key Club then, just good ol’ Gazzari’s) when we were seeing The Rain Parade opening for The Three O’Clock – ‘member? I was ordering us double shots of Rumplemintz from that really cute brunette waitress, and you wouldn’t drink them, and so I would drink them both & make a really big deal about doing it, too? And how you ended up running into some of your friends and then ditching me at Ben Frank’s? And then I ran into that waitress after she was off work, and she took me to her apartment and I passed out in her bathroom?
I hope you had a real good time with your friends. I got fired from my job at Tower for showing up 3 hours late & smelling like Rumplemintz barf.
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1992
There was that time we were totally wasted and got locked out of the apartment, and you went to the truck — I thought you were going to get your cell phone, but you returned with an big old axe. I remember your strangely purposeful bloodshot eyes, but for some reason I wasn’t afraid. And then you started swinging. Before I could say a word, you’d gouged a fist-sized hole in of the door. And managed to dent the frame a couple of times too; you weren’t so accurate.
I still see those marks on the door, every day when I come home. God, I’m sick of them.
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Remember that time when, armed only with cheap plastic ballpoint pens, we rescued a busload of schoolchildren and a laundry basket full of kittens from the Nazis, who had somehow gotten hold of a speedboat and a nuclear warhead?
That was fucking sweet.
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Ah, Paris.
September 1926, you wore that gown we took from my Auntie Mabel’s corpse at the funeral the day before and you were ravishing.
Under the soft gaze of a half moon we made love against the alley wall of the haberdashery your uncle used as a front for his smuggling business.
The sores went away, but the feeling never left.
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I’ll remind you that today is the anniversary of the day when I left a comment in your journal which you said was “the best comment ever written on LiveJournal.” What, you don’t remember that? How could you not remember the best comment ever?
Which also reminds me of the time I went to your house and cooked eggs and you told me that you don’t eat eggs. I said “who doesn’t eat eggs?” and you said “me.”
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I still remember the time I had to pick you up after Esmerelda threw you out. You were still wearing your apron from your job peeling oranges, and I never got the smell out of that Hyundai.
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On tour with the Clash
I remember the time right before our Senior summer in High School our band was opening for the Plimsouls at The Whiskey, when Joe Strummer, in town producing for IRS records, saw us and asked if we wanted to tour with the Clash that summer.
I’ll never forget the look on his face when you told him that Lefty-Euro-Punk was so 1980, and that we were already signing with Arista and taking some dates with Devo that summer on the college circuit.
But he wasn’t through, and we spent the rest of the night, into next morning doing shots of Anjeo Mescal. It was around dawn as I recall that you relented (I thihnk it was about the time he promised our own tour bus) and we had our agent place a pre-dawn call to Mark Mothersbaugh, to tell him we were fucking off to Europe with the Clash for the Summer but would catch up with them for the fall music festivals…
You know the litigation just settled in that case last month? I am still waiting for my check…
mojo sends
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So it was that when the world was young and unformed, that you and I were the only beings. And you looked upon the formless, still waters and decided it was not good.
Thus bade you me to pound the waters for seven times seven days and seven times seven nights until it became hard in places, and this we called “land.” And it was good.
And lo! we did wrestle for twelve times twelve days and twelve times twelve nights, ere I smote you to the ground and you bled. And the blood did flow as a mighty river, and it did flow hither and thither, and everywhere it flowed did trees and flowers bloom. And it was good.
And lo! you did offer me a reach-around, yet politely I declined you, for wrestling was gay enough. And thus you bade me leave while you rubbed one out; and when I returned your seed had grown strong and fruitful, for the earth was covered with all manner of living creatures. And it was kind of gay, but it was still good.
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