Roasted Peanut Gallery

Happy Memorial Day Weekend everyone!

I am so excited to bust out my linen clothing and my white pants. Just kidding. You all know I love livin’ in the nude. And if I did wear clothes, I sure as hell wouldn’t be excited about wearing white pants.

While I would ordinarily enjoy a lovely three-day weekend welcoming the arrival of summer— attending parades, grilling meat, sipping a cold brew or two, and of course memorializing— it’s supposed to be freezing and rainy where I live. THE WHOLE WEEKEND. So this is what I’ll be doing:

For those of you who are in sunnier parts of the country, I’ve got some Memorial Day Weekend tips. You’re welcome.

1. Don’t stand too close to the grill. Especially if you are a tiny, plush elephant or an even tinier, faceless rabbit. Or if you’ve consumed a lot of booze and are highly flammable.
2. The more beer you plan to drink outside, the higher the SPF should be on your sunscreen. Unless you’re going for that tripped out, my-face-is-on-fire feeling you get after a day of drinking in the hot sun… in which case replace your sunscreen with olive oil.
3. If you want to improve your town’s parade, fire the costume designer for the high school marching band. Those pants aren’t doing anyone’s crotch any favors, especially not the portly flag twirler at the front of the line. Camel. Toe.
4. Croquet, Horseshoes, Slip n’ Slide, and Capture the Flag are all awesome outdoor games, but if you want your party to be a real success, go for Badminton. It appeals to preppies, hipsters, and low-brow yahoos who love the word “shuttlecock.” Fun for everyone. Until Howard slaps you across the face with his shuttlecock. Or until he drills you in the ass with his shuttlecock. SHUTTLECOCK.
5. Finally, don’t eat too much corn. It’s always freaky the next morning when you take a big dump and your turd looks like a corn cob.

HOWARD. Bring me more tequila so I don’t have to get out of my tub.

Hey hey HEY! I know, I know, it’s been ages. You’re feeling neglected. You’ve missed me terribly. I get it. But I have a really good excuse. I’ve been on the road for a few weeks now, delivering commencement addresses and receiving honorary degrees from several distinguished colleges and universities.

What can I say? Young, impressionable college students want to absorb my sage words of advice before heading off into the real world, and who can blame them? I’ve done pretty well out here myself, and much like the Class of 2013, I too have no car, no job, and no conscience, so I’m inspirational and relatable all at the same time. Here are some excerpts from the speeches I’ve given over the last few weeks…

“Be gracious and appreciative of your family members who have supported you throughout your college experience. Many of you are going to have to ask them if you can move back in with them tomorrow.”

“People say, ‘Never say never.’ But that’s bullsh*t. There are three things you should never do: never ask the DJ if you can sing an a capella song at Karaoke Night; never skip the Deep Fried Oreo cart at the State Fair; and never accept a ride into town from a guy named Travis.”

“Now that you’re no longer college students, you can’t bring cheap booze to a friend’s house anymore. I know it’s unfair, but rules are rules.”

“Most of you have made lifelong friendships here in college. You’ve laughed, cried, held each other’s hair back while you vomited… Then there are some of you who everyone thinks is a weirdo and they’ve given you some hilarious nickname, and for the next several years they’ll laugh and talk about you when they all get together and don’t invite you. Don’t be depressed. You’re still a weirdo, but at least you’ve made some other people laugh at your own expense.”

“When life hands you lemons, make limoncello.”

“You’ve made plenty of mistakes in college: shirtless frisbee golf, that drunken hookup with your lab partner, majoring in Gender Studies… Don’t beat yourself up too badly about it. No mistake you make will ever be as bad as Lady Sybil’s decision to cut her hair.”

Pretty inspiring, right? Yeah, you’re welcome, Class of 2013. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of f**king honorary degrees to hang in my study.

Happy Boozeday Tuesday! In honor of boozing it up, then falling down and hitting your head really hard, I decided to spend my morning texting with my favorite concussion survivor.

Former Madam Secretary Former Presidential Candidate Former First Lady Hillary Rodham Clinton: Talk to me, girl.

Celeste: It Takes A Village, bitches!

HRC: LOLZ.

Celeste: What have you been up to since stepping down as SOS?

HRC: You know, catching up on my soaps.

Celeste: Groovy. Did you give John Kerry any advice when he took over your job?

HRC: Yes. Order the Scorpion Bowl at Uncle Ping’s Noodle House in Shanghai. Best. Cocktail. Ever.

Celeste: Um, awesome. So are you buds with Obama, even though he came out of nowhere and stole your nomination?

HRC: Well, we’re not good friends like my “husband” and Bush ’41, but we do get along. Still, I wish he’d stop calling me names on the basketball court.

Celeste: Such as…?

HRC: Can’t Shoot Pantsuit.

Celeste: Rough. Got any good comebacks?

HRC: Yeah, I give him sh*t about his birth certificate, being a “community organizer,” and having big ears. No offense.

Celeste: None taken. Hey, how’s the old ball n’ chain?

HRC: Bill? You know, still “playing his saxophone.”

Celeste: LMAO. You put the Hillary in Hillaryous.

HRC: Ooh, I like that. Good title for my new reality show. JK!

Celeste: How’s Chelsea? Feeling the pressure to procreate now that Jenna Bush Hager is a baby mama?

HRC: Let’s hope so! I want to be a grandma soon. You know, before I’m too busy in 2016.

Celeste: Uh, what will you be doing in 2016?

HRC: Taking back what I lost in 2008… a good haircut.

Celeste: Yeah, the long hair doesn’t do much for you. I mean don’t worry, you’re no Lady Sybil in Season Three (and no, I’m not going to let that reference go anytime soon) but short hair does look better on you.

HRC: Nice Sybil reference. I love me some Lord Grantham.

Celeste: I’m a Dr. Clarkson girl myself. So don’t you think your likability went way up as SOS? You’ve got major status. You’re like a White Oprah.

HRC: I swear to God, if that woman wins the presidential nomination before I do, I’m going to pull a Tonya Harding and take the bitch out.

Celeste: Good thing you’ve got that concussion football helmet.

Dear Celeste,

I was reading your blog the other day and I suddenly realized who it is you remind me of… has anyone ever told you you’re a lot like Miss Piggy? Do you two know each other? ’Cause…that’d be cool. I don’t know.

Later.
Derek
*******

Hi “Derek.”

You are about to become that littlest piggy who cries “wee wee wee wee wee” all the way home. And not in a good way. The ONLY two things Miss Piggy and I have in common are:
 1) we’re both very sassy
2) we’re both in relationships with men much smaller than we are

That’s it. That is IT. So please, I would prefer it if you did NOT draw a comparison between me and that swine. You don’t hear ME tossing around elementary French to try and sound cultured. “Moi is hungry?” Yeah, that’s not really French, sweetheart. You don’t see ME donning wigs and haute couture outfits like that porky prima donna. Hell, you don’t even see me wearing any clothes at all because I like to keep sh*t real. Everywhere I go I’m like a slo-mo streaker and I f**king love it. 

I mean look at this woman:

She looks like Honey Boo Boo. Or more appropriately, Honey Baked Ham. Aw, SNAP.

Now don’t get me wrong. I do like Piggy. I just don’t want to be told that I resemble her. I’m sure if I met her we’d get along well enough: she’d down her cosmo while I tossed back my whiskey coke, and we’d judge other people and share stories of scaring the sh*t out of Kermit and Howard…  Who knows, maybe we could even become good friends, like Tina and Amy, Rachel and Monica, or even Peppermint Patty and Marcy, minus the lesbian action.

Hmm…now I’ve got a hankering for some bacon. Thanks a lot, Derek.
Celeste

You guys. YOU GUYS. You’re not going to believe it. I was able to conduct a Skype interview with the Supreme Leader of North Korea, Kim Jong Un! See the transcript of my interview below…

KJU: GREETINGS, ELEPHANT! YOU MAY ADDRESS ME AS THE SUPREME LEADER!

Celeste: Yeah, I’m not gonna do that, unless you call me Supreme Elephant, which I know you won’t. So you call me Celeste and I’ll call you Double Chin Jong Un.

KJU: WHAT?! HOW DARE YOU?

Celeste: Look at your picture! Nobody ever takes a good photo that’s shot from below. I’m sure the angle is intended to make you appear as though you’re looking down on everyone from your powerful throne, but trust me, it’s not doing your chins any favors.

KJU: GOOD TO KNOW! THANK YOU FOR THE ADVICE!

Celeste: Wow. Ok… Since you seem to be taking advice surprisingly well, let me take this opportunity to point out that in addition to needing a new photographer, you could also use a new hairdresser. You’ve got that awful Korean Forrest Gump thing going on. That is SO 1994. If I had to choose between your haircut and Lady Sybil’s haircut, I’d actually go for Lady Sybil’s.

KJU: WOW, MY HAIR MUST LOOK REALLY BAD! SYBIL’S HAIR WAS TERRIBLE IN SEASON THREE!

Celeste: I know, right? AND you could use a new personal stylist. Head-to-toe black and head-to-toe olive green do nothing for your complexion. Who designed your dictator pantsuits anyway, Kim Jong Ill-fitting Clothes?

KJU: SOMEBODY GET TIM GUNN ON THE PHONE!

Celeste: AND you could use a new Photoshop artist.

KJU: ZING. YOU GO TOO FAR, LITTLE GREY YODA.

Celeste: Ok, ok. Take your pudgy finger of the big red button, little man… So, what’s your deal? Nobody knows your exact date of birth or who one of your parents is. You’re like a North Korean Suri Cruise.

KJU: I LOVE TOM CRUISE! I WOULD BE HONORED TO BE SURI! TOM CRUISE IS THE BEST! MAVERICK! AUTISTIC GUY’S BROTHER! JERRY MAGUIRE! TOM CRUISE HAD ME AT HELLO!

Celeste: Jesus, ok settle down. Don’t you worry about the resentment of your two older brothers who got passed over to be the next Supreme Leader?

KJU: NO! THEY’RE NOT MY BROTHERS ANYMORE. DENNIS RODMAN IS MY BROTHER! 

Celeste: Dude, do you know how ridiculous we Americans think Dennis Rodman is?

KJU: I LOVE THE CHICAGO BULLS! GRANTED, I TRIED TO BEFRIEND MICHAEL JORDAN, BUT HE SENT DENNIS INSTEAD!

Celeste: What did you think of that whole plotline in 30 Rock when Avery was kidnapped in North Korea, and Margaret Cho was cast to play you?

KJU: ADMITTEDLY, CHO WAS REALLY FUNNY! DON’T TELL ANYONE I SAID THAT! BUT THAT SHOW TOTALLY JUMPED THE SHARK THAT SEASON.

Celeste: You’re right, it totally did. (I still love you, Tina, I just don’t want to argue too much with Double Chin here…) Ok, one last question: do you play ping-pong in Pyongyang? Do you call it pying pyong?

KJU: YOU’RE TOO FUNNY, SUPREME ELEPHANT! I PLAY EVERYDAY! I AM AN AMAZING PING PONG PLAYER! I AM THE BEST PING PONGER IN ALL OF PYONGYANG!

Celeste: You know, Forrest Gump was a pretty awesome ping pong player, too. I guess that explains your haircut.

**END SKYPE.**

Hey, hey hey! Remember me? Of course you do. Who could forget their favorite elephant? I apologize for not blogging in what must feel like ages for you… I had a Girls’ Getaway with a couple of lady friends. Actually, with the only two lady phants I can stand to be around. Would I have preferred to go on a trip with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler? Absolutely. But sometimes you have to settle. No offense, lady phants.

Here are my bitches: Flora is the big busty gal on the left who can totally drink me under the table, and Pippa is the naive, innocent tag-along on the right who thinks I’m awesome so it’s a total ego boost for me to hang out with her. I always force her to be DD when we go out.

And I of course remain the beautiful fearless leader of this Trunky Trio. Check it out: here we are clowning around in our hotel room in Atlantic City…

Just don’t tell Howard we were in Atlantic City. And then Reno. And then Lake Havasu City. I totally lied and said we were going to Prince Edward Island to take the Anne of Green Gables tour. Oops.

And now I’m back to really grey sh*tty weather. I mean, obviously I love the color grey. And yes, I spell it with an “e” because I’m posh and because “elephant” starts with “e”… and because Anne of Green Gables was “Anne with an e” (work with me people, I’m trying to convince Howard I was really there…). But it’s APRIL. I’m ready to see some goddamn flowers blooming. Not to mention shirtless dudes. All I saw today was snow and ice and sleet and rain. F**k. Come on, Flora and Pippa. Let’s tell Howard we’re going to Colonial Williamsburg and head to Cabo…

If you’re like me, you hate yoga. You don’t hate the idea of yoga, because chilling out, stretching your muscles, and lying on the floor inhaling and exhaling all sound pretty awesome. (In fact, I myself was lying on the floor last night, inhaling and exhaling, thanks to Howard’s medical marijuana prescription. The dude has no face, so it’s totally justified…)

Anyway, while you don’t hate the idea of yoga, you hate the reality of yoga. Hanging out in a hot room with a bunch of liberals who are more flexible than you are, listening to whale sounds or Al Gore’s greatest hits, holding in your farts while you try to touch your toes (so not relaxing, people!), and TRYING TO REMEMBER WHAT THE DIFFERENT POSITIONS ARE CALLED makes for a pretty unenjoyable experience. Listen Yogis, just say “Lie Down!” instead of “Okay, friends, let’s get into the Shavasana position.” WTF is Shavasana? Or Trbadhgraaasaata?? How the f**k am I supposed to remember all this? Namasté? More like Nama-stay away from me, you bendy granolas. F**k.

So imagine my utter delight when Howard gifted me this book. Apparently he thought I was a little too tense and bitchy, and he no longer wanted to share his meds with me…

Look! Easy-to-follow instructions! Step-by-step illustrations! Finally, my idea and my reality of yoga have united harmoniously, much like a lotus flower and a praying mantis. Now I can stretch in the privacy of my own home and not worry about fending off potential lefty suitors because DAMN I look good in a unitard.

Howard wants to know if this means I’ll be a nicer, more centered elephant. And to Howard I say, “Get into the Downward Dog position and kiss my ass.”
**Namastélephant

Spring may have sprung this week in every other part of the northern hemisphere, but the only thing that’s sprung at my house is Howard.

I think I understand Scandinavians now, and how they find creative ways to deal with long winters: Norwegians come to the U.S. and ski competitively for American schools; Swedes write dark and disturbing novels about a bicurious biker girl with a bitch of a family tree; Icelanders drive snowmobiles to the tops of volcanoes; Danes design modern furniture; and Finns create brightly-colored textiles to bring some color into their otherwise cold and monochromatic lives.
I keep threatening to kick Howard out of the house, and when I do, I’m planning to design an amazing elephant-themed bungalow, which will be referred to from here on out as The Trunkalow. My first order of business will be to stretch this Marimekko fabric over a wooden frame and hang it above my (and mine alone!) comfy, cozy bed.

Now, I don’t know about those cowboy boots on her two left feet, but otherwise I can totally hang with this posse. 

Well, Saint Patrick’s Day came and went, and it was a pretty decent celebration. Even the sky was green!

Northern Lights on March 17 over Scandinavia, home of Nordic skier ringers… Is it really Northen Lights? Or is it a bunch of leprechaun vomit?

Howard and I started the evening off at the local Irish pub. Little did I know that the pub was throwing its annual St. Patrick’s Day wet t-shirt contest, “Erin Go Braless.” Howard was psyched. Perhaps a little too psyched. Much like St. Paddy himself, I had to chase that rabbit’s Trouser Snake right out of there.

Blah blah chasing leprechauns, rainbows, pots of gold, Guinness blah blah blaaahhh, Howard vomited. Did I mention I won the wet t-shirt contest?

Be gone, ye Trouser Snake.