Forgive me, faithful Daisywriter companions, for I have blog-sinned. It’s been a week since my last confession. So much has happened in the past week, even though none of it was really that blogworthy.
First and foremost, I captured a fabulous snapshot at the Purdue/Penn State game this past Saturday. It’s a flying penis. A really, really large penile member floating around the stands in a glorious, inflatable format. Someone actually BOUGHT this thing somewhere. In fact, it’s created such curiosity in me to find out where in the sam hell you can actually buy 8-foot blowup shlongs. The flying penis first reared its head (no pun intended) a few weeks ago at another Purdue home game -in the student section, of course - but it was snatched up so quickly by security guards, it eluded me. This time, I was ready for the big one-eyed wonder worm, and lo and behold, I got my photographic evidence. There’s nothing funnier than a flying penis. Much like chimpanzees, it’s up there as comic gold on the funny list.
So, there was that blogworthy occurrence. Pictured above for posterity.
Fast forward to this morning, when I arrived at work like my conscientious early-bird self, opened up my Outlook inbox, and saw a really cool surprise. My boss #1 is Mr. Communications man-in-charge of my company, and I am, for lack of a better phrase, his right-hand writer/editor/manager chick. He’s like a marketing and communications-slanted John McCain, if you will, and I’m his Sarah Palin. If he’s not able to do something merely because he is incapable of cloning himself, I’m his little Alaskan princess stand-in, whisking into action with my rifle to combat communications terrorists and such. I'm just amazed that I have a shred of imagination left, people. Honestly.
My boss will be out of town on business in Tennessee in early December. He has committed to being at an engagement and as a result, he will not be able to travel to Brazil to handle yet another engagement. Yeah, you read that right. BRAZIL. What does this mean? Well, this means that I, Daisywriter, the girl who doesn’t speak a lick of Portugese but feels as though her Spanish minor may still come in handy beyond ordering margaritas one of these days, gets to possibly go to BRAZIL. I almost urinated all over myself with excitement.
Of course, my thoughts went immediately to colorful, party-filled, naked people in the street in Rio, free and festival-like and very, well, Brazilian. People with this fabulously sun-kissed skin, soaking up rays and being decadently carefree while I watch, all WASPy and pasty and ginger-like, in absolute bewilderment. However, upon conveying the wonderful news to my husband, my thoughts were somewhat squelched. Husband-man is petrified that I’ll get killed anywhere near a Brazilian airport by random gunfire (much to my surprise, their murder rate is four times that of the United States). Or worse - I'll be kidnapped and sold into Brazilian sex slavery. He’s completely freaked out about my safety or the lack thereof in such a turmoil-infused country. Which, I’ll admit, is very sweet and protective and dutiful-husband-like, but I keep telling him to give me at least 5 minutes to bask in the glory of my Brazilian, half-naked, sunshine-filled, party daydreams.
I guess I never really thought about the crime, but he has made me promise that I’ll have either a traveling companion or some sort of escort for the trip. Traveling alone is, in his opinion, not an option as a pasty tourist chick. Even the boring federal transportation sites tell travelers to be cautious, as “random acts of violence” are common in that neck of the woods. And here I always thought everyone was just drunk and in costumes all the time.
So much for carefree and colorful. Although I am thinking about confiscating the giant shlong and taking it with me as a peace offering.
