Sunday, September 30, 2007

My Motorcycle Cherry is Now Broken!

For all of the crazy shit I've done, I had never been on a motorcycle. Lame, I know, but I had never actually cared that much. Actually, I was pretty sure you had to be a meth addict to even ride one, but I found out that was false on Friday night.

I think my friend only really wanted to get me on it so my boobs would be pressed against him, which is reasonable and acceptable. Anyway, I figured I'm the ripe old age of 23, I should get at least one motorcycle ride under my belt. I really wanted to flip off the other bikers, but I was informed that would be a BAD idea. I guess I am not that hardcore.

The vibrations made me a big fan, but to thoroughly enjoy it I would probably need to ride it alone. Overall, it was a good experience, but I wouldn't be a good candidate for owning one mainly because of my excessive drinking. I think vomiting while on a bike would be pretty ass-nasty, as it would fly back into my face and burn my eyes with it's extreme alcohol content. Also, with my penchant for hitting pedestrians (especially hobos), I need a bigger automobile than just a crotch rocket.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Fuck St. Paul!

I went to Sweeney’s last night in St. Paul, and was immediately reminded of why I don’t go to St. Paul. Because it is all historic and old, there is no parking. After driving around for 20 minutes, and finally parking in B.F.E (which I don’t really mind, until I’m stumbling back to my car in the middle of the night, worried about getting a rapin’ from one of the locals). Difficult choices I had to make in haste because I didn’t want to miss out on valuable happy hour time.

That should not have been a concern. The bastards at Sweeney’s don’t have drink specials until 9; I don’t stay out THAT late on weeknights when I am working (I use that term loosely) the next day, thus by the time I get to nine pm, I have usually been drinking hard enough I don’t NEED drink specials. And because I was in St. Paul, I needed to be coherent enough to navigate my way back into Minneapolis, which is now more difficult because of the
fucking bridge being down. So this translated into no double fisting action.

To make everything more craptacular, the bartender kept hitting on me, before and after my friend arrived. Then I feel obligated to flirt back because I want the most potent drinks possible (that is the WORST thing ever, a watered down drink) and I don’t want him to spit in my drink.

There was one bright spot in the this turd of a night, this old woman was teetering down the stairs on her way down from the banquet hall, and she had to grab on to a tall potted tree to keep from falling down! My eye almost popped out of it’s socket from trying not to point and laugh. I shouldn't be complaining, I got drunk; mission accomplished!

Thursday, September 27, 2007

That is what your bedroom is for...

I am pleased to report, as this month is coming to an end, my new roommates are working out well. One never knows when we meet them on craigslist. So far there has been no waking up with someone watching me sleep, I have found no shower cams, and my laundered underpants are not mysteriously sticky and/or crusty. They aren’t a bad couple of guys; one is obese and gay, which means I hide my food and my lube, but that's not TOO bad. The other is super quiet and always working on his peace of shit car, so I fully expect him to ask me for a ride at some point. It could be worse; even though my apartment is like my bat cave, and I am only there to sleep, I had a disturbing episode with my former roommate (also from craigslist).

I had came home early and was taking a nap. My roommate parks in the back, and I on the street, so he never sees my car. We were never really close, and other than polite chit chat when we pass each other, we were relative strangers. Don’t get me wrong, he was a nice enough guy, but it's not like we were ever friends; although his frat boy friends were always trying to get me to drink with them... THAT’S a recipe for getting train ran on me. I think I will pass! Anyway, I wake up, thinking I'll make myself a sandwich, and when I come out, there is my roommate, furiously beating off to softcore porn on TV. And by furiously, I mean he is choking that chicken like it owes him money, so much so his brow is furrowed and sweaty, and his face red. The look on his face is classic! His eyes get big, and he jumps up and starts running to his room... However, to reach his room he must pass me. I try to get out of his way, but he was trying to side step me, so for a moment, we engage in this dance, him with his still hard dick in his hand, and me with my laughter that I cannot hold back. My peals of laughter echoed through our garden level apt, and his shame followed him into his room.

Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Glamorous STD's!

I’m sure all of you folks have seen the ads for Valtrex, it’s that magical pill that will keep your outbreaks to a minimum and keep you from spreading The Herp to your snuggle buddies. They have these fantastic commercials where everyone is having a blast kayaking, hiking, and sailing; hell, I don’t even have crotch rot and I don’t have that much fun in the outdoors. It almost makes me think that if I skanked out and got a case of The Herp, I might enjoy life more. ALMOST. I think it is a very dangerous thing to glamorize STD’s. Next thing you’ll hear about on dateline (other than the Pope molestering more children), is teenagers peer pressuring each other into getting venereal diseases, because ‘all the cool kids are doing it’.

What bothers me the most about these commercials is their fact that 70% of people who got herpes, got it while their partner wasn’t having an outbreak. THIS MEANS THAT THE OTHER 30% KNOWINGLY HAD SEX WITH SOMEONE WHO HAD SORES ON THEIR GENITALS…. What the fuck?!?! If someone, not matter how hot or kickass they were, has lesions on their naughty bits, I would not fuck them with Angryman’s dick. I understand that alcohol and substances account for part of this percentage of bad judgment, but that doesn’t encompass everyone that is ate up with The Herp. This means that there are skeezy people out there, who in the process of hooking up with someone, looked down saw a scab and/or open sore and said “well, that doesn’t look pretty, but I’m gonna take a run at it anyway”…. That is a flavor of desperation that will leave a helluva aftertaste.

There is also a group of people who start dating someone, find out they have herpes because that person admits it, yet still go forward, full steam ahead. My friend was trying to rationalize it to me “but he’s a really nice guy, everything that I’m looking for, and if we use condoms, I MIGHT not get it;” sexually transmitted diseases are not an area where I want the word “might” to play a role. I don’t care how much I love you, or think you are a whole bag of awesome, no one is worth a lifetime of the shame that comes with filling a valtrex prescription every month.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

The Corporate Cocksuckers at General Mills

A friend of mine was bitching the other day about how General Mills have shrunk boxes and kept prices the same. I was shocked she wasn't aware they were corporate cocksuckers, and that is just their brand of greedy whore magic. General Mills isn't some mom and pop business that cares what consumers need. They are so big that if you choose not to buy their goddamn cereal, there are a metric ass ton of people who will, and they continue to thrive. This is all common sense, and there is a bigger issue about boxed cereal that bothers me; besides, I do my part by giving them the finger every time I drive by their headquarters in Minneapolis .

What pisses me off is that there are hardly ever any fucking toys in the bottom of the box. Now, it's all this send away bullshit that needs three UPC's and a check or money order for 2 dollars. Fuck that, I am not nearly that patient. I want to dig through my Lucky Charms with the zeal of an old time miner trying to find gold... All to get my plastic piece of shit that will probably break. I don't care if it's a choking hazard to small children. If they don't see it and end up eating it and choking to death, their parents should have been watching them closer and obviously don't deserve to have children. But if they are older and beyond needing parental supervision, hey... fucking Darwinism at it's finest. They would've probably grown up to be a dumb ass or become a corporate cocksucker working for general mills, and Judas H. Priest we certainly do not need more of those.

Monday, September 24, 2007

Wisdom, Wesley Snipes Style...

Jonathan was an awesome shit and showed me the error of my ways when he passed this golden nugget along to me. My favorite Wesley Snipes piece of wisdom is "you can put a cat in the oven, but that don't make it a biscuit". So very true. It's similar to the saying "you can't turn a whore into a housewife", but with more eloquence. A cat will still be a cat, whether it is burning to death in an oven, or sitting on the window sill.

I will apply this to the Bush family; you can stick them in the governors mansion or the white house, but they are still the same fumbling idiot Texans. They are such lower life forms, that they are resisting evolution, and becoming increasingly worse.

But, "some motherfuckers are just always trying to skate uphill"; isn't THAT the truth. No matter how many scandals, coke binges, DUI's, rampant incompetance is brought to life, this family continues to run for office. I say, let's elect Wesley Goddamn Snipes as our next president. Not only could he whip some serious ass as a candidate (both literally and figuratively), but i think once he got into office, he could shake the cabinet and congress up enough to make a difference. Vote Snipes 2008!

Wisconsin Weekend And Why I Need An Abortion

I went to Wisconsin this weekend, land where the ghosts of cheese curds past haunt the asses of the residents in the form of dimples. It was an overall quality weekend, nothing out of the ordinary, other than the signs. I didn’t notice these on the way there because it was dark and I was excited for the coming festivities (a.k.a. drunk). Every 10 or so miles there are these anti abortion signs. I understand that it’s necessary to have nine kids there because many people live on a farm, and since slave labor isn’t legal, the other option is to use your own genetic material to make free workers that can’t really leave.

But what about everyone else, that doesn’t need to milk cows and shovel hay at home? Why cant WE clear out all unwanted uterus passengers? They dont seem to 'get' that even if it is outlawed, it will still happen, only by some guy that is NOT a doctor, in an alley, in his van with a rusty coat hanger. Just like prohibition, when they made booze illegal, it just reduced the quality control and then you had people going blind from their moonshine. It really pissed me off that these self-righteous assholes had the indignation at other people’s wombs to put up these signs. And these were all on main highways and interstates, not shitty little dirt roads, so it wasn’t like these could be avoided by people traveling through.

Granted I have never had an abortion, but seeing these douchebag signs made me want to get knocked up for the sole purpose of getting one. I remember when I was about 17, I asked my mom for an abortion for Christmas. After she stopped freaking out, and I told her I WASN’T pregnant, I explained I wanted it to be like a ‘get out of jail free’ card, that I could use anytime, in case the occasion arose. She wasn’t amused, and I ended up getting a car stereo, not an abortion gift certificate.

Lesson I learned: despite being able to buy booze on a Sunday, I could never live in the shit hole of Wisconsin. I kind of like my reproductive rights without the condemnation. Besides, who wants to have the ever present stench of cheese and ignorance on them all the time?

Friday, September 21, 2007


I am seriously ill today; sooooo this post may not be as much of a sparkling gem. Partied with some friends in Bloomington last night, and about shit my pants. There I am, drinking my margarita, and the tornado sirens go off. With my chemically induced paranoia, a few fears popped to mind first, as I am not from the Midwest, thus unaccustomed to tornado sirens. 1. I thought jesus was coming back, and I’m like “crap, I’m wearing jeans, he’ll never rapture my ass now!”; that and all those gay jokes I’m constantly making about him and those 12 dudes he always hangs out with 2. I thought it was possibly an air raid, and the goddamn communists were coming to fuck us up. So I’m trying to pry off their crawlspace door, figuring with that extra protection, I should be totally fine during a nuclear holocaust. I bet I could hardcore beat some zombie ass if I needed to, though.

My friends assured me it was just a tornado siren. Laaaaaaaame. Honestly, if there were REALLY a tornado, I’m pretty sure I would hear it coming. Not just the wicked witch’s cackling, but everyone says it sounds like a train. No matter how drunk I am, I’m downright positive I would hear that shit.

Anyway, so eventually I took a ‘nap’ on their futon, and woke up about 3:30 with the realization I needed to go home. While driving back to uptown Minneapolis, I noticed the other drivers. Being way after bar close, all of the drunks were off the road, instead there were an abundance of methed out truckers. I can’t really say that much about MY quality of driving, as I was vomiting into a walmart bag in my lap, but I could practically see the blood vessels bursting in their eyes.

Ughhhhhhhhhhh I feel awful, and I keep burping up this vile mixture of mango rum, tequila, pineapple juice and pizza rolls. Who wants to make out?

Thursday, September 20, 2007

shhhh... don't tell carrot top I said this...

I was watching “Last Comic Standing” last night (they really know how to make 30 min AT BEST of comedy stretch into two hours...) and I saw Carrot Top once again. I had seen him on Flava Flavs roast a month back, and was instantly seized with a "WHAAAAT THHHHHE FUUUUUUUUCK?!" seizure. He was rippling with muscles, practically leaking out botox, and wearing more eyeliner than a 14 year old gothic girl. The muscles are obviously not natural, and a product of steroids… ok, I get that part because everyone always picks on him, so why not bulk up so he can beat some ass if someone tries to mug him at the Flava Flav roast?

What totally befuddled me was the botox. Generally, when I think of people prone to use botox, it’s ladies growing older that try to recapture their youth and stay in the spotlight. Granted, he is 42, but he’s not a woman (made even more obvious by his unnatural muscles and rope-like veins in his neck) and he was never REALLY a star. Even when they introduced him last night it wasn’t as the ‘famous star of comedy Carrot Top’… no, it was as ‘the recognizable comedian Carrot Top’; there is a vast difference between being a recognizable comic or a hilariously funny comic. What exactly is Carrot Top trying to hold onto with the botox? He wasn’t exactly a ‘pretty boy’. No amount of black eyeliner would change that.

I better not say anymore, because with all those steroids he’s taking, if I piss him off he might go ‘roid rage on me and beat me to death with one of his props.

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Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Now the flask is in the other hand...

Many a time I would be talking to my best friend, Mike, in Florida on a Sunday, bitching that I didn’t have any booze. He thought this was absolutely hilarious, and kept telling me I should plan for my Sunday drinking on Saturday. I would explain it’s not always that easy, like for example if I drank more on Saturday than I expected, or I dropped the bottle and now had a kitchen floor covered in vodka. Coming from a state that not only has no restrictions on liquor, but actually encourages drinking through such accommodations like drive-thru liquor stores, plastic to go cups at the bar, and even a theme park, Busch Gardens, built by beer people with a beer college in it… I was not prepared for being unable to go to the liquor store on a Sunday, and it took me quite awhile to get with the program; I am ashamed to say I still have unfortunate occurrences where I am left wanting on a Sunday .

This weekend, Mike and his new boyfriend were driving to Georgia, to see a Bjork show; I feel I can only tell this story by including the text messages I received. My first text message: (5:24 pm) “G0d, I’m in the middle of Georgia, do you know what they do to gay jews in GA? LYNCH EM, that’s what!” the fun has begun.. Slightly later, I get this little gem: (7:26 pm) “we just passed a Jeff Foxworthy outlet store. WTF?” I can honestly say I was unaware they even have regular Jeff Foxworthy stores, much less an outlet store.
The full horror of Georgia didn’t actually set in until Sunday arrived along with this text: (4:37 pm) “I now know the pain of dry countiez. nearest place to get b00ze is fucking alabama or back 2 fla. I HATE GE0RGIA!” I chuckled to myself, knowing that now he would be forced to go to a bar, and Mike at bars isn’t always the best idea. Like me, he can get rowdy, only in hyper-homo-drive, and also like me, he has no patience for dumbasses. At least I can manage to keep myself in check, where he goes full on “Bitchy Fag”… I like to consider it part of his irrepressible charm.
Mike (7:48pm): “We had to leave the bar early. ugly queen was hitting on Chris, so I was forced 2 threaten him with his own be3r bottle. He had shitty weave 2! LOLZ!”
And it gets better. Mike (9:28 pm): “I just slapped the shit out of some wh0re that was running her mouth. Had 2 leave another bar. My badz!”
We have been best friends since we were 14, thus I knew him well enough to know it was not over; he is nothing, if not determined... Mike (11:06 pm):
“just whipped out my d1ck on tha bar to get a b0ttle of tequila!! T1me 4 shotz!”
It all ended well enough, but this is a perfect example of what happens when there are dry counties or states. Are they really necessary? They don’t stop people from drinking, but instead make them become better planners orforce them go to some bar; pissed off people at the bar are fights waiting to happen and DUI's more probable.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Comparitively, My Car is Pretty lame...

I was watching Knight Rider the other day, more for the amusing David Hasselhoff appearances as opposed to quality TV programming experience, and I realized, I have totally been missing out. Here I am, driving around in a car that doesn’t talk to me, when I could have a knight rider car that tells me when to change my oil and brakes when there is a pedestrian I am about to hit. No worries about DUI’s when I’m in my kickass knight rider car; it would even be even better than calling on-star to tell me what back roads I need to take to get from ____ bar to home.
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Even more hot shit than that would be a transformer car (the ULTIMATE hybrid…). Anyone around my age, who was a little kid in the late 80’s, fondly remembers this show, and always wondered in the back of their mind how sweet it would be to have their own transformer. I believe I’ve mentioned this before, but I have awful road rage, and it would be so invigorating the next time some douchebag on wheels cuts me off, to have my car turn back into an amazing robot that would stomp them into the road; hey, don’t flip me off, because my car is “more than meets the eye”. They fly too, which would be super handy during my commute when I’m running late because for some reason the night before I drunkenly hid my keys inside my shoe and it took me an extra 20 minutes to find them.
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Finally, the ultimate car to have would be a “Back to the Future” De Lorean. Besides the awesome side opening doors, this car goes back in time. Why should I settle for my regular mazda, when I could be traveling to the past or the future? Although, I’m thinking with how expensive gas is, it would not be cost effective to drive, and flux capacitors would probably be expensive as hell… it would so be worth it, though.
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Sunday, September 16, 2007

Yer Booty Shivers Me Timbers

I will preface this post by saying there is these couple guys I go out with quite frequently to "game" with, where I am their wing-woman (chicks are always suspicious of a group of guys, but when there is a female with them, the dynamic totally changes). One of the guys, I will refer to as "Novice", because he has issues with women and how to talk to them, so I have made it my personal mission to help him find a lady. I like going out with my boys because it discourages random dudes from hitting on me, because when they see me with 2-3 guys, they assume one or all of them are banging me. Not true, but whatever keeps the riff-raff away....

Anyway, so we usually have our shenanigans in uptown, because all of us live there, except for Rico Suave. This evening, we hit downtown instead, which is mediocre at best; another aspect that made this Friday night different than most of our gaming outings was I had a fake pirate flag tattoo on my cleavage. Keeping in mind, I usually stand out anyway, because I'm almost 5'10 (not including heels), have a copious amount of red curly hair, and a big rack... What better to draw attention to us, than a white-trash looking tattoo (side note: I have three real tattoos, all in places out of site, and I feel the "cleavage tattoo" is the pinnacle of underclass tattoos)
The second bar we went to, The Drink (not nearly as kickass as Uptown Drink, and full of pompous displays of idiocy and overall more pretentious), these two women from the navy found me, and thought that I was a lesbian expressly because of the tattoo. So, off we went, wantonly dirty dancing while Landon, Rico Suave, and Novice watched on, and were more than a little jealous.

The night wore on, we hit the Local, Bellanotte (which had the prettiest tranny I have ever seen and she was wearing a gold glitter top hat and kept petting my tattoo...), and a few others. Shots were slammed and drinks clinked as we made our rounds. By the time we made it back to The Drink four hours later, I was not quite blackout-drunk, but I was visiting a nearby state I like to call "sticky shoes" drunk... this is the kind of drunk where the next day the tops of my shoes are sticky like the floor of a candy factory from me spilling cocktails all over them. I had some creepy guy that was monkey dancing near a group of girls come up and start trying to tell me how I needed to put lotion on my tattoo because he could tell by the way it was peeling it was new, and said he could help. I declined his generous offer. Another event made possible by my fake tattoo, was the bucktoothed girl coming up to ask where I had gotten the tattoo at, and where she could get one (it's a very real possibility I laughed in her face and told her to spend the money on birth control). One guy said I was being "stingy" because I would not let him do a cleavage shot, and that EVERY girl who had tattoos on their breast ONLY had them because they wanted guys to do shots out of their cleavage. hmmm... entitlement much?

We ended the night as we usually do-- stuffing our faces with greasy food. If we aren't TOO drunk and have the ability to be patient, we go to the Uptown Diner, but this particular evening, we were nowhere near sober enough to be waited upon (also, last time Landon had passed out in the booth, so we wanted to wait a bit before we made our return). This meant the Soho Cafe, across the street. Now, for a place in uptown that is open past bar close, you would think the people working there would be accustomed to loud drunks. This is NOT so. Every time we come stumbling in, usually talking about something obscene, they give us the dirtiest looks. This time we had some competition for being drunken assholes... a group, much like my own with three guys a chick, only she was the 'shrinking violet' type, and obviously sober cab. So in between bites of stromboli I am going back and forth with this guy about who can hold more liquor. We are going through the laundry list of what we have drank, and finally, Landon is exasperated and says: "JUST PULL OUT YOUR FLASK". This young man I was in debate with did not expect some chick to pull out a flask. He slams his hands down on his table so hard the napkin dispenser almost falls off. "YOU WIN!" he yells. The victory would've tasted so much sweeter, but Novice, who was more sober than all of us could tell we were about to be kicked out. I left triumphantly, with pizza sauce covering my face.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Unauthorized Customer Service

Sometimes I don't think people have enough fun with life at the simple things, and take every day activities entirely too seriously. I feel that I must find every opportunity to incur good times, otherwise there is much i could and would miss out on.

For example, when I go to target, I like to wear red shirt and khackis (as most of you know, the employees do as well). I like to aimlessly walk around, but never with a shopping cart because that gives it away. Constantly I am bombarded with people asking me where to find stuff. The conversation usually goes like this--
Customer: where can i find the pet food?
Me (after an exasperated sigh): I think you should learn to be self sufficient and find it YOURSELF!
Customer (quizzically): Excuse me?
Me (with a helpful smile): I don't want to encourage your dependence on others, and instead want to foster an attitude of self reliance.
Customer (with deepening scowl): That's really rude! Have you been drinking? You smell like vodka! I AM TALKING TO THE MANAGER ABOUT YOU!

The look on their face is priceless. I like to leave the store very soon after that, though... I would really like to hear how the conversation with the manager goes. Good luck to the employee that in any way resembles me working at area targets.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

The measure of a man:

While being out and about in uptown and other areas, I have encountered many men who feel as if they are all that and a shot of tag. 9.5 times out of 10, they are not, but it is entertaining to converse with them as they put on their “A” Game; especially as the night wears on, and I become more intoxicated and easily amused.

Anyway, most of them are a sort of attractive that would be appealing to only certain groups of women. For example, there is the Frat Boy Asshole, that the blonde college girls (you know, the ones usually majoring in interior design), with cotton candy for brains and so much lip gloss it looks as if you could ice skate upon them. Yeah, they can drink an oceans worth of beer, but you might find them puking on your brand new Nine West strappy shoes later in the evening.

Another fine example is the Young Douchebag Hottie, with the personality of a roof shingle, but can lay on the flattery thicker than he lays on the hair gel and/or mousse. He usually goes for the a lady to take care of him, whether it be the stereotypical Cougar (come on, she just wants to feel young again, like she did before menopause) or the fat girl with low self esteem and her daddy’s credit card bankrolling her emotional growth. This fine specimen wears leopard print thongs, doesn’t have a steady job and speaks volumes on the important people he knows.

One type of guy that I would be remiss in not mentioning is the Older Married Guy. He trolls for barely legal girls or starry-eyed 20-somethings that live on lean cuisine and naïveté. He drives a flashy car, wears Italian loafers, and has teeth so white, they glow creepily in the black light. He is always just on the verge of getting divorced, because his wife and mother of his kids is just ‘such a bitch’.

There are many more types I could go into, but those are just the highlights. I think a guy should only be able to consider himself a true catch if he can appeal to the triumvirate of poon, or Poonumvirate, if you will. This means the three basic categories of women: The barely legal cupcake, the independent mid-20’s to early 30’s chick, and the MILF-like early 40’s housewife that’s still hot and has strong knees. If women from all three of these categories would be into you, then yes, you may strut around as a bonafide hottie.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

you aren't fooling anyone...

everyone just needs to stop with the fire decals on their car. hey, guy in your 40's with a receding hair line and short sleeved collared shirt, on your way home from shitty job selling used appliances, no matter how bad ass you think those fire decals look on your aerostar minivan you are mistaken.

I am on my way home from work, i do not want to flirt with you, i want to have a drink, so stop fucking winking, and give up revving your engine next to me at the stop light. this is not indy 500, we are NOT going to race. flames will NOT make your car go faster (yes the guy at checkers auto parts WAS lying to you); my little mazda would (and does) take you, so fucking stay on point, and take your lame ass to your kids soccer game in your douchebag-mobile. also, raising your eyebrows in a suggestive way only suggests to me that i should throw the rotting bag of mcdonalds that is a week or so old at your car.

while i am on the subject of retarded things to do to one's car, FINS! WTF?! nothing makes you look more like an asian drug dealer (other than removed muffler and dragon decals maybe, but they are a close second) than a goddamn fin. it's like rolling probable cause for the law to stop and search your poor taste on wheels. i saw a ford probe with a fin the other day and almost wrecked my car with my peals of laughter that shook me from within.

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Tuesday, September 11, 2007

friends don't let friends wear "princess" shirts...

there are many reasons why women should not be wearing these princess shirts... for starters, they aren't exactly the pinnacle of fashion, they barely were acceptable 7 years ago; these little pink shirts with "princess" emblazoned on them were originally meant for a 5 year old. there is so much wrong with the usual people i see wearing them.

for example, yesterday in Chicago lake liquor (WTF is up with that place? it was on the way to my friends house from my house in uptown and stopped at that fucking shithole... there was a passed out bum in the parking lot, some guy selling pirated DVD's outside, and an armed cop inside)... anyway so I'm standing behind this woman with two inches of black roots showing in her ratty Dixie bitch blond hair, and she's wearing this bubble gum pink shirt with "princess" spelled out in rhinestones, waiting to pay for her box of wine (the epitome of class, of course). pumpkin, in case you missed the memo, you are NO one's princess... you look like you've been through two divorces, easily in your mid-40's, probably a bankruptcy, and because your goddamn shirt is too short, i can see your C section scar hanging out of the bottom, so that means you must have popped out at least one kid. oh, and FYI, you smell like cat piss and stale cigarettes.

if she had obviously been a prostitute (par for the neighborhood), i could totally understand the lapse in judgement, because once you get to that point, who cares anymore about dignity and appearances? but despite being legitimate white trash and being one of those bottom of the barrel, used up stripper types, she *probably* (i can't say this with full confidence, of course) wouldn't have sold herself.
so folks, point is... unless you are under the age of 10 (and that might even be pushing it) or a prosty only concerned about not getting a beat down and the HIV, wearing a "princess" shirt is unacceptable!

Monday, September 10, 2007

why should a baby shower include sobriety?

Recently I went to a baby shower (which was more like a “WE’RE KEEPING IT!” party, as that had not always been the case in the past), and because these events are more often than not more boring than watching congress when there aren’t political scandals, I was not enthusiastic about going. It’s always the same cutesy games, cooing over baby clothes, and women who have given birth before talk about the disgusting things their body does before, during and after childbirth. As much as I enjoy hearing how much their placenta weighs, I thought I should bring mr flask, as he has made other not-so-exciting events much more bearable.

So there I was in the kitchen, infusing my lemonade with liquid goodtimes, and a friend of mine sneaks up on me, startling me to where i almost drop my flask on the floor, which could have turned an innocent baby shower into a brawl.
ME: “EXACTLY! It’s a reason to celebrate! Don’t sneak up on me again, you almost made me spill the festivities. Why shouldn't I be drinking?”
HER: “Well, drinking is bad for babies”
ME: “I am well aware of this. I’m not going to offer it to _______, and I know I am not pregnant, so unless there is some proof that my breath can cause a baby I am not carrying fetal alcohol syndrome and you are done being holier than thou, I’m going to take my drink in the other room”

side note- my breath HAS been strong enough before that the B.A.C. could possibly do such damage, but this was not one of those times.....

She made a sound similar to that of a hog being choked by leather belt. and why shouldn't there be free flowing drinks at a baby shower? We have drinks at other monumental occasions in our lives; birthdays, weddings/engagements, promotions, housewarmings, anniversaries, holidays…. Why not at a baby shower? Just because the soon-to-be mother cant? That’s like saying just because someone at a party is lactose intolerant we shouldn't serve ice cream. It’s the same retarded logic. I talked to the mother-to-be after the party, she agreed, and said if she gets knocked up again, she’ll be sure to have drinks at the baby shower. I'm optimistic.
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Friday, September 7, 2007

Truly Flasktastic!

so when i went to the irish fest, i got a customized flask with my last name and coat of arms on it. i waited with anticipation for it to arrive in the mail. AT LAST! before i could take it to the fair for its monumental first outing last week, i realized that in order not to waste any liquid vodka deliciousness, i needed a funnel to facilitate the transfer from bottle to flask. i don't know of any place that sells funnels for the express purpose of filling up your flask(which is ridiculous, and once i start my store "Lava Lamps and Clit Piercings" that will be one of the items we always have in stock) , so off i go to the auto parts store, flask in hand to measure, cause i don't want to get a funnel that wont fit the narrow opening. i am lazy, so i ask the sales guy to help me find a funnel, and he looks at me like "why does some chick need a goddamn funnel" because i do not look the the type to be changing my own oil. so i whip out my flask, much like a hobo would whip out his dirty penis, to start sizing up funnels. the sales guys eyes became huge with astonishment. this 250 plus lb guy just starts snickering, like a little girl. and i'm like WTF? i'm trying to practice responsible drinking and not alcohol abuse (which, without the flask, i'm sure would happen because i'd be spilling liquid vodka delight all over the place). anyway, once he realized i was indeed serious, i got my funnel and left a happy customer. it's maiden voyage at the fair was successful, just added it to some lemonade and i was set to go. tomorrow it's coming with me to the renaissance festival...i already have it chilling in the freezer, chock full of vodka-y goodness! YUM

Thursday, September 6, 2007

your nursing home of choice...

ok, so i work in a facet of the housing industry. today i just came across the name of a senior citizens community called "labor retreat". WTF were they thinking when they named this place? would you want to send your grandma to a retirement community with 'labor' in the title? HELL NO! what are they making them do? is it like a sweat shop with all the blue hairs crocheting and quilting until their fingers bleed? the orderlies refusing to give them their Metamucil or prunes if they aren't productive enough? fuck, i am in my 20's and i don't want to 'retreat' ANYWHERE with labor in the name, i can only imagine when the arthritis sets in and i have a plastic hip.... usually, when i think retreat, i am thinking relaxing, maybe some pool side activities with a cocktail involved, but when i hear labor that idea goes out the window as i start to picture geezers tilling away at a tomato garden to earn just a bit of free time to get some shuffleboard action in. it sounds vaguely like a concentration camp. why don't they just name it "Auschwitz Retirement Community"? to me, 'Labor Retreat' is really an oxymoron and not an attractive concept. when i get old, my spawn better not send me to Labor Retreat, but instead to Rum River Estates (yes, a real senior community). now that sounds like a place i could grow old gracefully at. just think of how crazy the bingo games could get?
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since when does tragedy equal tourism?

soooo, this past weekend they FINALLY opened the the 10th Ave Bridge, which made people feel the need to flock to it as if it was disney land. 'hey Ma, pack the kids in the mini-van and lets head on down the road to see that there bridge that fell down'... i saw license plates from north dakota, idaho (i cant really blame them, there cant be much to do in that shit hole, other than peel potatoes), michigan, wisconsin... the list of midwest states could go on until i started smelling corn out of nowhere, like those who have smell something random right before they have a stroke. anyway, i come from the land of tourism (florida), where a stain looking like the virgin mary on the side of the road can be considered noteworthy, or turtles with the face of hemmingway painted on their back requires a roadside stand, and i just don't see the bridge as something that should be a tourist locale. frankly, those people flocking to it and taking pictures to send back to granny in bumfuck kentucky seem a bit like vultures. more so, is the d-bag that was having a goddamn yard sale at the apartment buildings at the end of the 10th Ave Bridge. not selling 35W bridge paraphernalia (which i'm not sure if that would be MORE offensive or LESS), but garage sale type shit like his old keyboard and some def leppard posters. i guess he's a real opportunist, taking advantage of the tourism to sell his meaningless crap; out of curiosity, i wonder how much he actually sold? i didn't think falling bridges and the resulting death would be good for commerce, but hey, stranger things have happened. back to the fact that the 10th ave bridge was being made into a tourist pit of quicksand, the first rule that i don't think the midwest gets, is that you cant get in the way and block traffic. that is not good and it pisses people off. i have horrible road rage to begin with, much less after being disgusted with these jackoffs for being there to begin with, on the way back when i was closer to the 35W bridge side, i decided to start screaming "OH MY GOD WHAT HAPPENED TO THE BRIDGE???? WHERE DID IT GO? PART OF IT'S MISSING!!!! WHY ARE ALL OF YOU STANDING AROUND, PEOPLE COULD BE HURT!?!?!?!!?!? IT'S FUCKING ARMAGEDDON WHAAAAAAAT HAAAPPENED TO THE BRIDGE??? i don't think anyone was amused. but hey, most came to the bridge for entertainment, right?
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Wednesday, September 5, 2007

midget wrestling

(re posted from my myspace by popular demand)

last night, while partying in uptown, i went to Mortimers (this is of course after like four hours of quality drinking time at old chicago). those of you who know me, know that one of my life long dreams that i MUST do before i die is to wrestle a midget in lime jello. it's not so much a dream i guess, as an aspiration. anyway, so there i am, at the bar, and what comes up to me??? you guessed it folks, A MIDGET! YES!!!! the heavens had opened up and dropped a midget upon me like manna to those poor bastards wandering around in the desert. i'm getting distracted. ok, so he comes up to me, and keeping in mind that in my heels of the evening, i was almost 6 ft tall. and this guy wasnt technically a midget, but at like 5 ft he came pretty close. i'll give him this, for a midget, he had some game. most guys don't just come up to me and start chatting away like were old friends cause i can be a bit intimidating, but this dude, who was a foot shorter than me, starts buying me drinks (and like a true irish person, i did NOT turn those down). i then proceeded to tell him my aspirations, and i did it in the most suave way possible; while scrunching down till i was eye level with him. he wasn't amused and insisted he WASN'T a midget(just semantics, i guess self delusion is still alive). and to prove this, he challenged me to an arm wrestle. WTF?! like a free drink, i do not turn away challenges either, especially when they are began with a "double dog dare". he won, i guess when you are THAT short you have something to prove and work out a lot, cause he was pretty ripped. so the night goes on, this midget never leaving my side, like a toy poodle, here has got to be one of the best parts: he tried to convince me he was a gigolo. get this, a tiny little pocket sized gigolo! i was strangely fascinated by this. i peppered him with the many questions that came from that. i asked if they were happy meal midget women like him or full size? do they ever make him get on top and spin him around? do they buy him oshkoshbigosh and dress him up like a doll? is it requisite for him to sit on their laps? he was a patient little man with these demeaning questions, and somehow, his tiny ego wasn't bruised because he asked me what i was doing after the bar closed and thought we might go for a 'little' fun. AHAHAHAHAHA i almost fell down laughing, but hey, i guess you can do anything if you re standing on a stool. you've got to be kidding me. good times in uptown.

Why i do not trust non drinkers

Occasionally I encounter people who do not drink. Almost immediately I am filled with a inherent sense of distrust towards them; there's something they aren't telling me....what skeletons reside in their non-drinking closet? and of course I always assume the worst.... I could certainly never date someone who doesn't drink, despite it being cool to have a designated driver all of the time to cart my drunk ass around (and there are times when that would be useful, and economical, as it costs almost 20 dollars to park my car in downtown all night).

Their reasons for not drinking usually indicate why they would be shitty to date. If they are recovering alcoholics, that means they are weak and don't know their limits. If they don't drink because they are angry drunks, that usually translates into them having a volatile temper, and during a fight are prone to hauling off and backhanding someone over an argument regarding what to have for dinner. If they never really got into drinking from lack of immersion, then they are boring and afraid to try new things. they might also have trust issues, because they don't trust themselves to occasionally drink and not develop a problem (not to mention being cheated on often for being so goddamn boring).

Top 10 important reasons not to date someone who doesn't drink:

10. they smell like dryer sheets, not all sexy and delicious like rum.

9. they never think it's a good idea to go play in the ball pit at McDonald's at 1 am
8. the sex never lasts very long either (i truly believe drunk sloppy sex has a bad rep).

7. they always say lame stuff like: "why are you dancing, there's no music? or get off that table!"
6. they take you to parties and functions that are without a full bar.
5. non-drinkers usually aren't down with buying you $50 of drinks in uptown.
4. a non-drinker could never appreciate my renditions of lynyrd skynyrd at 3 am at Denny's.

3. when someone who doesn't partake in libations wakes up, that is the best they will feel all day; how depressing. no amount of coffee can change how awful THAT is.
2. people who don't drink always want to leave the party early... WTF, Tom is just putting the lampshade on his head, why would i want to leave now?!

1. and most importantly when will i get the chance to write on their face "I LOVE DICK" with a sharpie?

i fucking love croutons....

in my salad, all the time! i feel a little ripped off if they are missing. i realized at lunch while eating my salad that they are kinda like orgasms with sex. yes, sex is still enjoyable without them, but are made OHohOOOOOOOH so much better with them. just like orgasms, croutons are not all the same, but that's ok. i like garlic croutons, Caesar croutons, little ones, big ones (although, like orgasms, i do prefer the big ones), seasoned ones, cheese flavored croutons... salads abound with crouton possibilities. my eyes roll back in my head contemplating them and their crunchy goodness. if the restaurant feels that they should try to save a little money by leaving them out, they are like that lazy guy women go out on a date with, who thinks "oh the pleasure of me fucking her totally makes up for her lack of getting off." it's that kind of thinking that makes me not want to go back to that restaurant and makes women not want to go back out on a date with that apathetic guy.
not to overshadow my earlier comparison, texture wise, they are a bit like prostitutes. they are crusty, and break when i stab them with my fork. but yet i keep coming back for more. although, unlike a prosty, i never worry about getting HIV from my croutons. another point in their favor.
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