Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Halloween Party 2007
Like most people, this weekend offered a Halloween party, which I took advantage of to dress as a pirate. I was almost a border patrol person (I thought it would be hilarious to go around the party asking people for their green cards), but I opted against it. Yes, I understand a bunch of people were pirates this year, and me dressing like one is unimaginative and bordering on being a tool, but I made a fanfuckingtastic pirate. I was so convincing, when I walked into the gas station before the party, the yokel working there asked me “Are ya dressed up for a partay?” me, being the asshole I am, responded: “No, I always dress like a pirate.” When you ask a stupid question, you get a stupid answer.
I am proud to say I assisted in the creation of a special jello shot that was the first to disappear. Blue jello, light rum, a little Hawaiian punch, and some blue Curacao. The people’s party I went to was thrown by some home brewers, so there was tasty hard cinnamon apple cider and shiraz, which I made sure to fully incorporate into my evening. A few hours into the evening, I was at the stage where I needed to lean against something, as I was not as balanced, and not because of the knee high platform boots.
Highlights included, but were not limited to: the amazon woman of great heights in the cat suit that was super hot for an older woman, me fighting with my costume top all evening and eventually giving up, karoke sang by people who took it seriously, the slideshow of past year’s Halloween parties they hosted and the discovery of a picture of me and another girl pretending to lick the nipple of a guy dressed like a member of KISS (hmm, somehow I don’t remember that happening…), and my dear friend in a suit that inflated him to be an obese ballet dancer. You know it’s a good night when you wake up covered in gold glitter and reeking of multiple kinds of alcohol.
I am proud to say I assisted in the creation of a special jello shot that was the first to disappear. Blue jello, light rum, a little Hawaiian punch, and some blue Curacao. The people’s party I went to was thrown by some home brewers, so there was tasty hard cinnamon apple cider and shiraz, which I made sure to fully incorporate into my evening. A few hours into the evening, I was at the stage where I needed to lean against something, as I was not as balanced, and not because of the knee high platform boots.
Highlights included, but were not limited to: the amazon woman of great heights in the cat suit that was super hot for an older woman, me fighting with my costume top all evening and eventually giving up, karoke sang by people who took it seriously, the slideshow of past year’s Halloween parties they hosted and the discovery of a picture of me and another girl pretending to lick the nipple of a guy dressed like a member of KISS (hmm, somehow I don’t remember that happening…), and my dear friend in a suit that inflated him to be an obese ballet dancer. You know it’s a good night when you wake up covered in gold glitter and reeking of multiple kinds of alcohol.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Literal Drunk Ass
Maybe I’m just old fashioned, but I like to drink my booze. Bob brought to my attention this morning a story about alcoholic enemas. This guy (and possibly also this guy) was addicted to enemas (ew, what an shitty thing to be addicted to…. Even heroin with it’s painful and violently ill withdraws and propensity to start sucking dick for cash is better than THAT), and like to fill them with booze to get drunk. It ended up killing him, but I bet he was shitfaced before he died(your intestines absorb booze much more quickly than your stomach does).
He is not alone in zest for getting anally drunk. During a search of this practice (won’t it be fun if my job ever checks the sites I visit at work?), I found many groups, and “how to” websites. My favorites are some of the helpful tips they gave. Some seemed like common sense; for example they say you should use warm beer or wine. Why? Because cold alcohol might be uncomfortable… YOU ARE STICKING A TURKEY BASTER UP YOUR ASS TO GET DRUNK!!! I did not think comfort would be a key part of the equation.
Whatever happened to good ol’ fashioned getting buzzed off of ingesting liquor orally? Last night, I had a great time stumbling through a corn field maze after some flask action. There was no need to shove anything up my ass, alien-probe style. I think when you get to the point where getting drunk the regular way just isn’t enough to rock your dock, it’s time to hit a rehab facility. Much more appealing than shooting booze up my ass is this. Vodka pills sound awesome and only take 24 hours. If it hasn’t already happened yet, I’m sure there will be combining of anal boozing and vodka pills with the insertion of them into someone’s ass.
He is not alone in zest for getting anally drunk. During a search of this practice (won’t it be fun if my job ever checks the sites I visit at work?), I found many groups, and “how to” websites. My favorites are some of the helpful tips they gave. Some seemed like common sense; for example they say you should use warm beer or wine. Why? Because cold alcohol might be uncomfortable… YOU ARE STICKING A TURKEY BASTER UP YOUR ASS TO GET DRUNK!!! I did not think comfort would be a key part of the equation.
Whatever happened to good ol’ fashioned getting buzzed off of ingesting liquor orally? Last night, I had a great time stumbling through a corn field maze after some flask action. There was no need to shove anything up my ass, alien-probe style. I think when you get to the point where getting drunk the regular way just isn’t enough to rock your dock, it’s time to hit a rehab facility. Much more appealing than shooting booze up my ass is this. Vodka pills sound awesome and only take 24 hours. If it hasn’t already happened yet, I’m sure there will be combining of anal boozing and vodka pills with the insertion of them into someone’s ass.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Why No Honesty in Panhandling?
People asked me in college what I wanted to be when I ‘grew up’, and I responded without hesitation: a panhandler. They have a pretty sweet gig, with all their tax free income, being their own boss and making their own hours. I would try to work the Vietnam vet angle with a crutch or possibly wheelchair, in camouflage fatigues, but I don’t think anyone would buy it. Maybe I could go for the “down-on-her-luck-stripper”, offering pole dances for spare change. I think that ruse would work better if I had a bastard child, but I’m not willing to get knocked up to perpetuate the angle.
It’s the lies on the signs that kind of piss me off. Like there’s this one in Uptown that has a sign that says “Homeless from Katrina, Please help a family in need.” He was smart, and misspelled a few words, because no one trusts a panhandler who is too articulate. I have never seen a family with him, but I have seen him drop off money at his car in a nearby parking lot. If he was just more honest, or at least came up with a better quality pack of lies, I could respect him more. Like the college kid who just needed money for beer. His sign said that. I gave him a dollar, because with my penchant for 7 dollar cocktails, I entirely understand not having enough money for drinks.
In the heart of Uptown, the panhandlers are all artsy, and I appreciate that they are playing instruments or singing, because it’s as if they are trying to earn handouts. However, the quality of their music sucks, and I would much rather the crazy panhandlers that dance around and scream at the sky; THAT’S entertainment! I approve of their low-pressure techniques of “selling themselves”, because they don’t technically beg… they just sit there with a sign. It is lazy, but then again they panhandle, so I don’t expect too much of a work ethic and drive to succeed. What I don't understand is where they the money for the markers to write on the signs? If they were really hard up, they would burn the cardboard to keep warm.
The dictionary described a hobo as one who wanders from place to place without at home, or means of livelihood. I call bullshit. In Minneapolis, under the overpass where 394 becomes 94W, they even have the hobo Hilton, where they keep their tents, shopping carts full of cans, and other important. And the panhandling on the street corner is their means and place of livelihood; listen up republicans, we can tax their asses! Just like Katrina hobo, the majority of these smelly dbags are legitimately homeless. I saw one guy with ipod wires. If he is homeless, where is he docking that? When we were out last Friday, Landon came up with the term “hobo cockblocking”, in which we would sit down next to the hobo with our own, more convincing signs and ensure he doesn’t get any money. We might not get any either, but it would definitely mess up his game. Bums are comparable to trolls, charging you money to let you pass, using their weapons of guilt and filth. Hobo Cockblocking effectively takes away their powers, and puts you back in the drivers position of the shopping cart.
It’s the lies on the signs that kind of piss me off. Like there’s this one in Uptown that has a sign that says “Homeless from Katrina, Please help a family in need.” He was smart, and misspelled a few words, because no one trusts a panhandler who is too articulate. I have never seen a family with him, but I have seen him drop off money at his car in a nearby parking lot. If he was just more honest, or at least came up with a better quality pack of lies, I could respect him more. Like the college kid who just needed money for beer. His sign said that. I gave him a dollar, because with my penchant for 7 dollar cocktails, I entirely understand not having enough money for drinks.
In the heart of Uptown, the panhandlers are all artsy, and I appreciate that they are playing instruments or singing, because it’s as if they are trying to earn handouts. However, the quality of their music sucks, and I would much rather the crazy panhandlers that dance around and scream at the sky; THAT’S entertainment! I approve of their low-pressure techniques of “selling themselves”, because they don’t technically beg… they just sit there with a sign. It is lazy, but then again they panhandle, so I don’t expect too much of a work ethic and drive to succeed. What I don't understand is where they the money for the markers to write on the signs? If they were really hard up, they would burn the cardboard to keep warm.
The dictionary described a hobo as one who wanders from place to place without at home, or means of livelihood. I call bullshit. In Minneapolis, under the overpass where 394 becomes 94W, they even have the hobo Hilton, where they keep their tents, shopping carts full of cans, and other important. And the panhandling on the street corner is their means and place of livelihood; listen up republicans, we can tax their asses! Just like Katrina hobo, the majority of these smelly dbags are legitimately homeless. I saw one guy with ipod wires. If he is homeless, where is he docking that? When we were out last Friday, Landon came up with the term “hobo cockblocking”, in which we would sit down next to the hobo with our own, more convincing signs and ensure he doesn’t get any money. We might not get any either, but it would definitely mess up his game. Bums are comparable to trolls, charging you money to let you pass, using their weapons of guilt and filth. Hobo Cockblocking effectively takes away their powers, and puts you back in the drivers position of the shopping cart.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
In Chuck We Trust
I read an article yesterday about how the West is undergoing a time of religious doubt, a solid change from the Reagan years and prior. What is most interesting is that even while questioning the very existence and idea of god, there is a spiritual optimism.
Yes, religion served a purpose, in a time of ignorance, where the earth was thought to be flat, but that period of time was referred to as the Dark Ages for a reason. Religion was necessary to be an ‘opiate of the masses,’ during a period when people needed the idea that good people weren’t getting the shaft, and if a person was evil, they would get punished by some higher power after death. Without that, it would’ve been more chaotic than it already was. Even now, it’s the ‘omnipotent policeman’ concept that keeps many people clinging to religion.
For most people it’s the idea that once they die, their existence will be much more enjoyable. To those with miserable lives, that’s the draw, explaining why many avid churchgoers are those living in or barely above poverty. I think, without religion, these people might be better able to concentrate on how to better their lives, instead of hoping for some after-death lottery. It’s difficult to improve your life, if you think it will get better on its own. But preaching that everyone is responsible for their own happiness and well-being doesn’t rake in the offerings from church-goers quite like telling them if they pray hard enough, and give their tithes, a sky fairy will go out of his way (because the starving masses and other atrocities going on aren’t as important… it’s not like THEY tithe; filthy heathens) to wave his god-wand.
So why not pray to Chuck Norris? We know for a fact he exists. Hell, I see him on those commercials, in all his bearded glory, looking like he wants to apply some of his ‘higher power’ to Christy Brinkly. He stole Bruce Lee’s soul; yes, I know Bruce won the battle, but who is still alive? If you are unfamiliar with all that Chuck is capable of, I will attempt to get you up to speed:
1. There is no theory of evolution, just a list of animals he allows to live.
2. Outer space exists because it is afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck.
3. He counted to infinity, TWICE.
4. Chuck doesn’t wear a watch, he decides what time it is.
5. When the boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks the closet for Chuck Norris.
There is oh so much more, but even with those, I think everyone would agree that there is a legitimate reason to pray to Chuck Norris if there is something needed. Chuck is benevolent, caring, and can run around the world to punch himself in the back of the head. What more does one need in a savior?
Yes, religion served a purpose, in a time of ignorance, where the earth was thought to be flat, but that period of time was referred to as the Dark Ages for a reason. Religion was necessary to be an ‘opiate of the masses,’ during a period when people needed the idea that good people weren’t getting the shaft, and if a person was evil, they would get punished by some higher power after death. Without that, it would’ve been more chaotic than it already was. Even now, it’s the ‘omnipotent policeman’ concept that keeps many people clinging to religion.
For most people it’s the idea that once they die, their existence will be much more enjoyable. To those with miserable lives, that’s the draw, explaining why many avid churchgoers are those living in or barely above poverty. I think, without religion, these people might be better able to concentrate on how to better their lives, instead of hoping for some after-death lottery. It’s difficult to improve your life, if you think it will get better on its own. But preaching that everyone is responsible for their own happiness and well-being doesn’t rake in the offerings from church-goers quite like telling them if they pray hard enough, and give their tithes, a sky fairy will go out of his way (because the starving masses and other atrocities going on aren’t as important… it’s not like THEY tithe; filthy heathens) to wave his god-wand.
So why not pray to Chuck Norris? We know for a fact he exists. Hell, I see him on those commercials, in all his bearded glory, looking like he wants to apply some of his ‘higher power’ to Christy Brinkly. He stole Bruce Lee’s soul; yes, I know Bruce won the battle, but who is still alive? If you are unfamiliar with all that Chuck is capable of, I will attempt to get you up to speed:
1. There is no theory of evolution, just a list of animals he allows to live.
2. Outer space exists because it is afraid to be on the same planet with Chuck.
3. He counted to infinity, TWICE.
4. Chuck doesn’t wear a watch, he decides what time it is.
5. When the boogeyman goes to sleep every night, he checks the closet for Chuck Norris.
There is oh so much more, but even with those, I think everyone would agree that there is a legitimate reason to pray to Chuck Norris if there is something needed. Chuck is benevolent, caring, and can run around the world to punch himself in the back of the head. What more does one need in a savior?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Picture Phones Arent Always The Best Idea...
After seeing a picture of a particularly unattractive friend doing some especially unflattering actions, and then wanting to pour bleach on my corneas, I have decided that picture phones are a vey very bad idea. Granted, some of the quality pictures I have posted on here, like the sandwich toilet and Kenny G were taken with a picture phone and wouldn’t be available if not for the handiness of it. That logic only goes SO FAR, when one is accosted with some of the awful things that are being captured with these contraptions. For example, I have a friend who was snooping in her boyfriend’s phone, and found out that he and his friends have this game of taking pictures of their bowel movements as sort of a running contest. WTF? She did learn her lesson, and has never looked at his outgoing or incoming picture mail again.
Another big reason why having a handy camera is not the best idea, is because it offers a vehicle with which to transport proof of shenanigans to eager eyes. Usually, when one blacks out, nothing they did that night/weekend counts, because they cannot remember it. But when there is physical proof, the blackout excuse is no longer valid. If you are forced to confront whatever scandalous activities you were engaged in during a blackout, then what has the world come to?
As soon as I heard about it, I knew iphones were the snake oil of my generation (they had over 30 glitches in the first model). Of course people went nuttier than squirrel shit for them, becoming wrapped up in the i-perbole that is part of all mac products. I’m strictly segregationist when it comes to my ipod and my cell phone. SEPARATE BUT EQUAL, segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever. Is it really necessary to combine ipods and cell phones? What else will be start combining? Hotdog boilers in the back of toilet tanks? Same concept… I love my hotdogs, and I like having indoor plumbing, but I do not want them combined just because it MIGHT make my life simpler, but will probably just become a bigger pain in the ass when it breaks and now I am out two important products in my life, instead of just one.
UPDATE: shortly after posting this, my childhood friend, Bob, sends two pictures of himself taking a dump (he already had these, and both were taken on different occasions, as evidenced by his different clothing) at the gas station where there is a mirror in front of the toliet. Why do places, in public or private homes feel it's a good idea to put mirrors in front of the toliet? I don't care how hot you are, NO ONE looks attractive while taking a dump (sorry Bob, not even you).
Another big reason why having a handy camera is not the best idea, is because it offers a vehicle with which to transport proof of shenanigans to eager eyes. Usually, when one blacks out, nothing they did that night/weekend counts, because they cannot remember it. But when there is physical proof, the blackout excuse is no longer valid. If you are forced to confront whatever scandalous activities you were engaged in during a blackout, then what has the world come to?
As soon as I heard about it, I knew iphones were the snake oil of my generation (they had over 30 glitches in the first model). Of course people went nuttier than squirrel shit for them, becoming wrapped up in the i-perbole that is part of all mac products. I’m strictly segregationist when it comes to my ipod and my cell phone. SEPARATE BUT EQUAL, segregation now, segregation tomorrow, segregation forever. Is it really necessary to combine ipods and cell phones? What else will be start combining? Hotdog boilers in the back of toilet tanks? Same concept… I love my hotdogs, and I like having indoor plumbing, but I do not want them combined just because it MIGHT make my life simpler, but will probably just become a bigger pain in the ass when it breaks and now I am out two important products in my life, instead of just one.
UPDATE: shortly after posting this, my childhood friend, Bob, sends two pictures of himself taking a dump (he already had these, and both were taken on different occasions, as evidenced by his different clothing) at the gas station where there is a mirror in front of the toliet. Why do places, in public or private homes feel it's a good idea to put mirrors in front of the toliet? I don't care how hot you are, NO ONE looks attractive while taking a dump (sorry Bob, not even you).
Monday, October 22, 2007
Trail of Condemnation and Midgets
Last night I went to the Trail of Terror. I will fully admit that if the tickets were not free, and my flask was not full, I probably would not have had as good of a time. It’s one of these cheesy events that now that I have experienced it once, I doubt I will ever go again.
First, we go into a tent on my quest for a mixer. No lemonade, so I settle for sierra mist upon the “bartender’s” suggestion (all they served was crappy beer and bitch drinks like Smirnoff ice, confirming I made the right decision to bring the flask, and making me think I possibly should’ve brought a backup flask), and note his subtle warning that if I am adding anything, I had best do it discreetly so that the rent-a-cops didn’t notice it. We decide to go on a lame hay ride; can you believe they wouldn’t let me take my drink on it? I chugged it while in line, and this Lion-o type character came up and started growling at me, which I find hilarious, and being the asshole that I am, I call him out as a Thundercat on meth, and he tries to correct me, telling me that he’s been doing this for 16 years (like that is some big goddamn accomplishment). Is he implying I should recognize him?
The people jumping out of the woods to scare us while on the hay ride looked like they had just gotten off work from Hot Topic, and really weren’t trying that hard. I told them this too, and that they needed to give it ‘their all’.
While walking to the big haunted house, I quickly gulped down another cocktail, and got another one to drink while in line. The chick at the front warned us not to touch the ‘monsters’ or to eat, drink, vomit, urinate, defecate or fornicate while inside. This brings to question, what had gone one in there before and if I did a couple of those at the same time, would it be one infraction or two? She also warned against cursing. WTF? How are you going to tell me not to weave my trademarked tapestry of profanity? What if something legitimately scared the shit out of me? There was this thing walking around, that looked much like Rainbow Brite and Rosie O’donnell, that made me want to gouge out my eyes so I didn’t see it anymore.
While in the haunted house, I became bored with people trying to scare me, so I decided to go rogue, and sneak around corners to try to scare them. Sometimes it worked. A couple of times the ‘monsters’ asked what was wrong with me. I got conflicting messages from them, when I would walk in one of these funhouse-like spinning tunnels that were glowing with blacklight, and I mentioned something about it would be way better if I was on ecstasy. The first girl said “DON’T DO DRUGS” and then a guy told me later on “HELL YEAH!”… As if that wasn’t bizarre enough, when I got to the part of the haunted maze where there was a bloody operating room and people dressed as demented doctors and nurses with forceps and whatnot. I immediately say “YES! Can you guys give me an abortion?”, but the monsters of condemnation assured me they were pro-life. I didn’t actually see that coming. That probably scared me more than anything else. Here were teenagers, dressing up as zombies and monsters to frighten people, and they didn’t support a woman’s right to choose?
The whole experience was going straight to the shitter, until I turned a corner and saw HER. At first I thought she was a child, because she was pretending to be Chucky. I was being a dick and offering her candy, which I guess offended her, because she spoke up and said “I’m not a kid.” That’s when I noticed the rack on her. IT WAS A MIDGET!!!! WITH LARGE (relatively so, for her size) MIDGET BOOBS! Anyone who reads this blog, knows of my affection for midgets and how my aspirations include wanting to wrestle one in lime jello. I kept screeching about Ohhhh Mah Fuckin’ GAWD, it’s a MIDGET!!!! And my friend kept hurrying me along. Later I went back, now that I was prepared, hoping to work some sort of arrangement out to fulfill my midget wrestling goals, but she wasn’t there. That made me look like a lying whore, because I had talked her up to the group we were with. When i asked one of the guys that worked there where she was, he said her name was Cassie, and she was a horny little midget girl (this he knew firsthand from some kind of party that everyone went to the weekend before). Even if that is not true, it was her presence that really made my night. Thanks Midget Girl With The Big Cans
First, we go into a tent on my quest for a mixer. No lemonade, so I settle for sierra mist upon the “bartender’s” suggestion (all they served was crappy beer and bitch drinks like Smirnoff ice, confirming I made the right decision to bring the flask, and making me think I possibly should’ve brought a backup flask), and note his subtle warning that if I am adding anything, I had best do it discreetly so that the rent-a-cops didn’t notice it. We decide to go on a lame hay ride; can you believe they wouldn’t let me take my drink on it? I chugged it while in line, and this Lion-o type character came up and started growling at me, which I find hilarious, and being the asshole that I am, I call him out as a Thundercat on meth, and he tries to correct me, telling me that he’s been doing this for 16 years (like that is some big goddamn accomplishment). Is he implying I should recognize him?
The people jumping out of the woods to scare us while on the hay ride looked like they had just gotten off work from Hot Topic, and really weren’t trying that hard. I told them this too, and that they needed to give it ‘their all’.
While walking to the big haunted house, I quickly gulped down another cocktail, and got another one to drink while in line. The chick at the front warned us not to touch the ‘monsters’ or to eat, drink, vomit, urinate, defecate or fornicate while inside. This brings to question, what had gone one in there before and if I did a couple of those at the same time, would it be one infraction or two? She also warned against cursing. WTF? How are you going to tell me not to weave my trademarked tapestry of profanity? What if something legitimately scared the shit out of me? There was this thing walking around, that looked much like Rainbow Brite and Rosie O’donnell, that made me want to gouge out my eyes so I didn’t see it anymore.
While in the haunted house, I became bored with people trying to scare me, so I decided to go rogue, and sneak around corners to try to scare them. Sometimes it worked. A couple of times the ‘monsters’ asked what was wrong with me. I got conflicting messages from them, when I would walk in one of these funhouse-like spinning tunnels that were glowing with blacklight, and I mentioned something about it would be way better if I was on ecstasy. The first girl said “DON’T DO DRUGS” and then a guy told me later on “HELL YEAH!”… As if that wasn’t bizarre enough, when I got to the part of the haunted maze where there was a bloody operating room and people dressed as demented doctors and nurses with forceps and whatnot. I immediately say “YES! Can you guys give me an abortion?”, but the monsters of condemnation assured me they were pro-life. I didn’t actually see that coming. That probably scared me more than anything else. Here were teenagers, dressing up as zombies and monsters to frighten people, and they didn’t support a woman’s right to choose?
The whole experience was going straight to the shitter, until I turned a corner and saw HER. At first I thought she was a child, because she was pretending to be Chucky. I was being a dick and offering her candy, which I guess offended her, because she spoke up and said “I’m not a kid.” That’s when I noticed the rack on her. IT WAS A MIDGET!!!! WITH LARGE (relatively so, for her size) MIDGET BOOBS! Anyone who reads this blog, knows of my affection for midgets and how my aspirations include wanting to wrestle one in lime jello. I kept screeching about Ohhhh Mah Fuckin’ GAWD, it’s a MIDGET!!!! And my friend kept hurrying me along. Later I went back, now that I was prepared, hoping to work some sort of arrangement out to fulfill my midget wrestling goals, but she wasn’t there. That made me look like a lying whore, because I had talked her up to the group we were with. When i asked one of the guys that worked there where she was, he said her name was Cassie, and she was a horny little midget girl (this he knew firsthand from some kind of party that everyone went to the weekend before). Even if that is not true, it was her presence that really made my night. Thanks Midget Girl With The Big Cans
Sunday, October 21, 2007
A-Z Facts About Me
Despite doing something that was very similar, I will still answer an A-Z about me, since Nellioness tagged me (but only because she posts a myriad of naked girls on her blog, so be sure to check her out).
Absolut Vodka; it always makes my night Absolutely fanfuckingtastic.
Boonesfarm; the Colt 45 of wine... it's reaaal classy!
Carlton Meowpants; my cat that I left in Fla with my Aunt.
Douchebaggery; I encounter this many places: at work, the bar, while driving etc...
Eggs; I prefer them over-easy.
Freckles; I have a whole metric ass ton of them.
Gansta' Rap; gets me to a zen-like state at work, and allows me to ignore the banal chatter of my cowokers.
Hanjob Pink; my favorite color of nail polish.
Irish; it makes up the entirety of my ethnicity.
Jansen, Famke; she is delicious and hot, and if it were possible, I would bear her children (full-term too, no 2nd trimester abortions for OUR fetus!)
Kool-aide: always a great mixer when you are on a budget.
Liquor Lyles; it's a hardcore bar, that has FREEEEEEE fried chicken for happy hour, and like any true southerner, I can appreciate fried food.
Midgets; One of my life goals is to wrestle one in lime jello. I came close one night.
Ninja Pirate; seriously, it's my occupation.
Orange Groves; I spent a lot of time in my family's while growing up.
Penis; if I had one, it would be freakin' ginormous.
Queens; they really love my boobs and hair; and enjoy petting both.
Red Bull; it tastes great mixed with mandarin vodka, and is my drink of choice usually.
Shnapps; I've never met a flavor I didn't like.
Tom Selleck; after starting to watch reruns of Magnum PI, I really appreciate the power of his 'stache, and believe it is one of the reasons he kicks so much ass.
Uptown Minneapolis; I live here and do most of my partying here.
Vodka; it's what usually fills my flask.
Wookie; I really want a pet wookie.
Xanex; need I even say anymore?
Yoga; it keeps me from being a fat ass.
Zeitgeist; The title of Smashing Pumpkin's new CD. I honestly have a raging hard on for it.
I'm supposed to tag other people, but that seems like a lot of work, and I know the majority of the people in our little blogosphere have already done something similar not too long ago.
Absolut Vodka; it always makes my night Absolutely fanfuckingtastic.
Boonesfarm; the Colt 45 of wine... it's reaaal classy!
Carlton Meowpants; my cat that I left in Fla with my Aunt.
Douchebaggery; I encounter this many places: at work, the bar, while driving etc...
Eggs; I prefer them over-easy.
Freckles; I have a whole metric ass ton of them.
Gansta' Rap; gets me to a zen-like state at work, and allows me to ignore the banal chatter of my cowokers.
Hanjob Pink; my favorite color of nail polish.
Irish; it makes up the entirety of my ethnicity.
Jansen, Famke; she is delicious and hot, and if it were possible, I would bear her children (full-term too, no 2nd trimester abortions for OUR fetus!)
Kool-aide: always a great mixer when you are on a budget.
Liquor Lyles; it's a hardcore bar, that has FREEEEEEE fried chicken for happy hour, and like any true southerner, I can appreciate fried food.
Midgets; One of my life goals is to wrestle one in lime jello. I came close one night.
Ninja Pirate; seriously, it's my occupation.
Orange Groves; I spent a lot of time in my family's while growing up.
Penis; if I had one, it would be freakin' ginormous.
Queens; they really love my boobs and hair; and enjoy petting both.
Red Bull; it tastes great mixed with mandarin vodka, and is my drink of choice usually.
Shnapps; I've never met a flavor I didn't like.
Tom Selleck; after starting to watch reruns of Magnum PI, I really appreciate the power of his 'stache, and believe it is one of the reasons he kicks so much ass.
Uptown Minneapolis; I live here and do most of my partying here.
Vodka; it's what usually fills my flask.
Wookie; I really want a pet wookie.
Xanex; need I even say anymore?
Yoga; it keeps me from being a fat ass.
Zeitgeist; The title of Smashing Pumpkin's new CD. I honestly have a raging hard on for it.
I'm supposed to tag other people, but that seems like a lot of work, and I know the majority of the people in our little blogosphere have already done something similar not too long ago.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Pam, Rick, Homos and Nazi's
As we come upon the monumental 2 week anniversary of Pam Anderson and Rick Salomon’s wedding I contemplate a few things. First of all, it wasn’t that long ago Kid Rock and Tommy Lee were fighting over her, and now she’s marrying someone else? I wasn’t aware that so many people enjoyed the taste of Hepatitis C.
What mindfucks me, is they allow two people, both with sex tapes, each with divorces to unbalanced people and obviously very poor judgment to get married. Although, I must admit, it was a classy event, her in denim dress, and pigs in a blanket on the menu (I think they should’ve filmed the wedding in green night vision, like the kind they use to catch Mexicans hopping the border and in the Paris Hilton sex tape). It’s legal for this SlutBag and UeberTool to get married, when it’s almost certainly doomed, yet homosexuals can’t legally marry. That logic is more than a little skewed. If it’s a concern about morality, the gays certainly seem to have more of a legitimate “right” to be married.
There was another group of people who had a problem with gay people too. The Nazi’s. Many people gloss over their occupation of the concentration camps and subsequent deaths. The figures that usually get thrown around are 6 million deaths in the Holocaust, but in actuality it was 11 million total, with 6 million being Jews. I’m surprised the Republicans haven’t started tossing around “final solutions” to gay marriage yet, with their nazi-like intolerance.
Bottom line, if skeezy-weasels are allowed to get married, two people of the same sex who are in love (or just want the same healthcare and other benefits heterosexual’s garner when they marry) should be afforded the same rights.
What mindfucks me, is they allow two people, both with sex tapes, each with divorces to unbalanced people and obviously very poor judgment to get married. Although, I must admit, it was a classy event, her in denim dress, and pigs in a blanket on the menu (I think they should’ve filmed the wedding in green night vision, like the kind they use to catch Mexicans hopping the border and in the Paris Hilton sex tape). It’s legal for this SlutBag and UeberTool to get married, when it’s almost certainly doomed, yet homosexuals can’t legally marry. That logic is more than a little skewed. If it’s a concern about morality, the gays certainly seem to have more of a legitimate “right” to be married.
There was another group of people who had a problem with gay people too. The Nazi’s. Many people gloss over their occupation of the concentration camps and subsequent deaths. The figures that usually get thrown around are 6 million deaths in the Holocaust, but in actuality it was 11 million total, with 6 million being Jews. I’m surprised the Republicans haven’t started tossing around “final solutions” to gay marriage yet, with their nazi-like intolerance.
Bottom line, if skeezy-weasels are allowed to get married, two people of the same sex who are in love (or just want the same healthcare and other benefits heterosexual’s garner when they marry) should be afforded the same rights.
Thursday, October 18, 2007
The Mortality of My Boobs
Last night, well pleasantly enjoying some cocktails, I was confronted with the mortality of my boobs. Granted, I know that I will grow old and die eventually, but to be confronted with the ocular horror of what my fanfuckintastic rack will look like 40 years from now shook me to my core.
It happened when I was avidly watching HBO’s “Tell me you love me”, which is usually full of copious amounts of sex and youthful, perky breasts. Unfortunately, they showed one of the characters, Dr May Foster, straddling her husband and much to my dismay, also showed her 60 year old boobs. I was instantly seized with an icy hot fear of what my own cans will look like one day. Why would this show want to add that into the mix; it’s supposed to be a sexy show. It would have sufficed to show them under the covers (away from my now scarred retinas), making sweaty, KY-infused, geriatric love.
So I have decided to treat them like people treat houseplants; I will talk to them positively, and it will help them thrive. Perhaps if I stay positive about the life of my jugs, then that optimism will defy gravity and they will be spectacular when I am older. If that fails to work, then I go to option two, and see a cosmetic surgery. It just seems a shame to give up on them... they've never given up on me; they snag me free drinks, made me great tips when I worked at hooters, and even won me a wet t shirt contest once or twice.
It happened when I was avidly watching HBO’s “Tell me you love me”, which is usually full of copious amounts of sex and youthful, perky breasts. Unfortunately, they showed one of the characters, Dr May Foster, straddling her husband and much to my dismay, also showed her 60 year old boobs. I was instantly seized with an icy hot fear of what my own cans will look like one day. Why would this show want to add that into the mix; it’s supposed to be a sexy show. It would have sufficed to show them under the covers (away from my now scarred retinas), making sweaty, KY-infused, geriatric love.
So I have decided to treat them like people treat houseplants; I will talk to them positively, and it will help them thrive. Perhaps if I stay positive about the life of my jugs, then that optimism will defy gravity and they will be spectacular when I am older. If that fails to work, then I go to option two, and see a cosmetic surgery. It just seems a shame to give up on them... they've never given up on me; they snag me free drinks, made me great tips when I worked at hooters, and even won me a wet t shirt contest once or twice.
I understand some people get their rocks off looking at old ladies, and everyone is entitled to their own personal kink. But just like scat fetishes, it’s something better left behind closed doors and special magazines and websites. I don’t deserve to be confronted with how my sweet chariots will one day swing low.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Cam Whores, My Big Ol' Dick, and Jesus Spam
Anyone with an email address is familiar with the bombardment of sexually related spam. One of my favorites is the Penis Cream/Pill that would make my schlong get three inches bigger. Well HOT DAMN! Does that mean if I took three doses, I would have a nine inch cock? Actually, I think if I was a guy, I would probably have a huge dick. I figure, I’m tall and have long arms and legs, with decent sized feet, I would probably be packing AT LEAST an 8 incher. I’ve always thought I would whip it out at inappropriate times, smack girls in the face with it, and pee on people’s shoes who angered/annoyed me.
Another type of favorite spam of mine to receive is from cam whores. They are always so enthusiastic, barely legal, willing to do ANYTHING!!!!!! and usually have slutty friends who want to “experiment”. I’ve been disappointed lately, that they aren’t as hot as they once were. Especially on myspace; back in the day, they was this smokin’ asian chick who wanted to be my friend. I don’t see much of her or the Russian girl with poor spelling but a killer rack. Sadly, now it’s all blonde bimbos, one of which has a chancre on her lip. I deny that friend request.
Weight loss drugs are also a common form of spam. Anyone who believes magical pills can help them slough off the weight they’ve spent a lifetime putting on, deserve to lose their money. Anyway, I once responded to one of the advertisements, asking how quickly I would lose the weight if I crushed it up and snorted it. I never got an answer back. I guess it didn’t work for Anna Nicole, so I should probably let go of my delusions.
When I took over for my predecessor, all of her work emails were dumped into my work account, just in case someone emailed her about something that I would need to take care of. Unfortunately, she had been using her work email for personal shit, and was a hardcore christer. Which meant I interited Jesus Spam. It might just be my least favorite spam. There is no nudity, they always want me to feed starving children (I know, what a buzzkill when I’m trying to eat my 8 dollar sandwich), and they use scripture verses to attempt to guilt me into buying porcelain figurines of Jesus and his homies. Not cool. So I started forwarding my porn and dick enhancing spam to them. The emails stopped with the quickness.
Another type of favorite spam of mine to receive is from cam whores. They are always so enthusiastic, barely legal, willing to do ANYTHING!!!!!! and usually have slutty friends who want to “experiment”. I’ve been disappointed lately, that they aren’t as hot as they once were. Especially on myspace; back in the day, they was this smokin’ asian chick who wanted to be my friend. I don’t see much of her or the Russian girl with poor spelling but a killer rack. Sadly, now it’s all blonde bimbos, one of which has a chancre on her lip. I deny that friend request.
Weight loss drugs are also a common form of spam. Anyone who believes magical pills can help them slough off the weight they’ve spent a lifetime putting on, deserve to lose their money. Anyway, I once responded to one of the advertisements, asking how quickly I would lose the weight if I crushed it up and snorted it. I never got an answer back. I guess it didn’t work for Anna Nicole, so I should probably let go of my delusions.
When I took over for my predecessor, all of her work emails were dumped into my work account, just in case someone emailed her about something that I would need to take care of. Unfortunately, she had been using her work email for personal shit, and was a hardcore christer. Which meant I interited Jesus Spam. It might just be my least favorite spam. There is no nudity, they always want me to feed starving children (I know, what a buzzkill when I’m trying to eat my 8 dollar sandwich), and they use scripture verses to attempt to guilt me into buying porcelain figurines of Jesus and his homies. Not cool. So I started forwarding my porn and dick enhancing spam to them. The emails stopped with the quickness.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Why I Should Be Stealing From Target
Last week I went to the new super Target they opened up near my work, and I’ve had something nagging at me ever since. The guard they had there was an old lady. And I’m not just being an ass, and calling someone in the middle of their life old, this woman had to be in her 60’s. Granted, my grandma is quite hearty, and still roller blades, but the majority of older women aren’t in that good of shape. This was not an exception. She was quite portly, had yellow skin and teeth like she smoked, so I doubt she could’ve even ran that fast even if she was the picture of health.
So I wonder, what IF I had stolen something? I almost wanted to, just to see if she could catch me. I have pins and a plate in my leg, and even as cripplicious as I am, I think I could’ve out ran her. She looked as if she would run at the same pace as an Allman Brothers song. Why would this newly opened Target hire an old woman? What REAL security is she going to provide? I understand businesses can’t discriminate upon age, but why not make her a greeter handing out shopping carts like Walmart does? Let one of the whippersnappers get his shiny meaningless badge and run after thieving bastards.
Even in Fla, where the majority of the populace is the elderly, we never let them be security guards. We at least had the decency to put them in a home, where they could rest and wonder why their children and grandchildren never visit them.
I hope they at least gave her some weapons. I doubt it. Although, it would be 32 flavors of hilarious to see a youtube video of a old lady tasering some whippersnapper.
Maybe if we gave senior citizens decent social security they wouldn't need to work as a security guard, when they would much rather be playing bingo or spraying the garden hose at children who get on their lawn.
So I wonder, what IF I had stolen something? I almost wanted to, just to see if she could catch me. I have pins and a plate in my leg, and even as cripplicious as I am, I think I could’ve out ran her. She looked as if she would run at the same pace as an Allman Brothers song. Why would this newly opened Target hire an old woman? What REAL security is she going to provide? I understand businesses can’t discriminate upon age, but why not make her a greeter handing out shopping carts like Walmart does? Let one of the whippersnappers get his shiny meaningless badge and run after thieving bastards.
Even in Fla, where the majority of the populace is the elderly, we never let them be security guards. We at least had the decency to put them in a home, where they could rest and wonder why their children and grandchildren never visit them.
I hope they at least gave her some weapons. I doubt it. Although, it would be 32 flavors of hilarious to see a youtube video of a old lady tasering some whippersnapper.
Maybe if we gave senior citizens decent social security they wouldn't need to work as a security guard, when they would much rather be playing bingo or spraying the garden hose at children who get on their lawn.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Pirates, Toliet Sandwiches, and Amazon Women
Friday wasn’t really notable, but Saturday night more than made up for it. Went out with my boys, The Novice (my “project”, as he needs assistance getting laid), Landon (his room mate), and Camaroon. Before we met up with Camaroon in downtown (he was at the insufferable Bella Notte, with its pretentious crowd, and expensive drinks), we stopped at Liquor Lyles in Uptown. Everyone knows the phrase “man’s man” well, this place was a “bar’s bar”. It has two happy hours, one in the afternoon and then another one at night, and is filled to the brim with used up stripper types and full blown alcoholics. Buuuuut, they have two for one specials, with extra potent drinks. I also met the first of three pirates there. He wasn’t dressed up like a pirate to be funny, like the second one I met who was part of a bachelorette party, I think he was just a little “off”. Notice the anchor prison-style tattoo on his cheek.
At Bella Notte, the only really interesting thing that happened was the population of Amazon Women. I’m kind of tall for a chick, almost 5’10”, and these broads had to be 6 foot. Like, they were so ginormous, I would not have been surprised to see William Shatner beaming down to their planet.
We stayed the remainder of the night at The Local, a great irish pub. I managed to piss off the bartender, which sucked because he made me a Cran-Vodka that was redder than the blood of a Scotsman. Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought my flask to top it off with, so I regulated myself to getting drinks from the other side of the bar.
I almost got into a fight with some douchebag playing the piano. He kept playing the same John Lennon song, “Imagine”, which I like, but not 11 times in a row. I told him I would rather suck off an AIDS patient than hear that goddamn song again. He then challenged me to play, and I knew I was drunk enough I should not accept that challenge. The Novice’s piano talents rival, if not exceed mine, and so he tried to defend my honor and accept the challenge, and the Dbag was not letting him play. I threatened to punch him in the throat, and although I was with four guys, the PianoDouche was with a bunch of friends too, so Camaroon wisely tried to simmer me down.
After bar close, we went to Jimmy Johns, for some boozed up sandwich action. Granted, I didn’t expect the employees to be friendly, but they were downright rude. I know it sucks to work at a sandwich place in downtown after bar close, and deal with a bunch of drunks, but there’s no need to be an asshole about it. Somehow half of my sandwich fell on the ground, so I took it with me to the restroom, and arranged it (artfully, I thought) upon the toilet. If they were happy about their station in life, I doubt they were when they came in later to clean the bathrooms and saw this:
Sunday, when I was looking in my wallet to see how much money I invested in getting drunk the night before, I found a dollar with “I’ve got enough cum in my eye to know I don’t like it” scrawled in my handwriting. I don’t recall the conversation that inspired me to write that, but I can only imagine the curiosity of the person who receives that dollar down the road.
A special congratulations goes out to Camaroon for bagging a Cougar.
At Bella Notte, the only really interesting thing that happened was the population of Amazon Women. I’m kind of tall for a chick, almost 5’10”, and these broads had to be 6 foot. Like, they were so ginormous, I would not have been surprised to see William Shatner beaming down to their planet.
We stayed the remainder of the night at The Local, a great irish pub. I managed to piss off the bartender, which sucked because he made me a Cran-Vodka that was redder than the blood of a Scotsman. Unfortunately, I hadn’t brought my flask to top it off with, so I regulated myself to getting drinks from the other side of the bar.
I almost got into a fight with some douchebag playing the piano. He kept playing the same John Lennon song, “Imagine”, which I like, but not 11 times in a row. I told him I would rather suck off an AIDS patient than hear that goddamn song again. He then challenged me to play, and I knew I was drunk enough I should not accept that challenge. The Novice’s piano talents rival, if not exceed mine, and so he tried to defend my honor and accept the challenge, and the Dbag was not letting him play. I threatened to punch him in the throat, and although I was with four guys, the PianoDouche was with a bunch of friends too, so Camaroon wisely tried to simmer me down.
After bar close, we went to Jimmy Johns, for some boozed up sandwich action. Granted, I didn’t expect the employees to be friendly, but they were downright rude. I know it sucks to work at a sandwich place in downtown after bar close, and deal with a bunch of drunks, but there’s no need to be an asshole about it. Somehow half of my sandwich fell on the ground, so I took it with me to the restroom, and arranged it (artfully, I thought) upon the toilet. If they were happy about their station in life, I doubt they were when they came in later to clean the bathrooms and saw this:
Sunday, when I was looking in my wallet to see how much money I invested in getting drunk the night before, I found a dollar with “I’ve got enough cum in my eye to know I don’t like it” scrawled in my handwriting. I don’t recall the conversation that inspired me to write that, but I can only imagine the curiosity of the person who receives that dollar down the road.
A special congratulations goes out to Camaroon for bagging a Cougar.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
Drunkmaste Yoga
First of all, if you were not supposed to drink in the morning, then why do so many drinks have orange juice in them? We all know orange juice is a breakfast beverage. My morning cocktail of choice is a mimosa. I like to get a middle of the road champagne, Korbel, and then some Tropicana OJ (because it's made in the same town I grew up in), and I am ready to start my day with a smile.
On Saturday and Sunday mornings, when I am not too hungover from the previous night's shenanigans, I like to exercise. Just like baking, I like to incorporate drinking into my work out, because I feel it enhances it. During the week, because of my pesky office job, I am regulated to non-drinking Namaste Yoga, which although helpful, it's not as rewarding as my Drunkmaste Yoga.
The main purpose of namaste yoga is to center you and bring the flow of divine love at the beginning and end of each yoga session. I do all that good stuff AND bring the flow of alcohol to my bloodstream. Granted my balance is a little off, and I can't hold the positions as long as I do during sober namaste yoga, but it is still a productive endeavor.
I think many types of physical activities could benefit from adding liquor to it. I know my friends who participate in beer kickball, they get exercise and drunk, all while helping their team "Salvation Through Coleslaw" to victory. I think that's why so many Americans are fat asses; exercise became a chore and not something that is fun. Booze can help put the desire back into people's hearts to get active. Especially with such zippy energy drinks like Red Bull being mixed with vodka, it sounds like a recipe for burning off the calories.
I understand booze has a lot of sugar in it, which make losing weight difficult. I have come up with my own unique solution; sometimes, I like to hide the alcohol when I'm drunk. Then the next day, when I want to imbibe again, I am forced to hunt for it like Easter eggs, before I can get my drink on. All of the energy expended in looking for my liquor makes it not only gratifying when I finally find it, but it allows me to find a balance.
On Saturday and Sunday mornings, when I am not too hungover from the previous night's shenanigans, I like to exercise. Just like baking, I like to incorporate drinking into my work out, because I feel it enhances it. During the week, because of my pesky office job, I am regulated to non-drinking Namaste Yoga, which although helpful, it's not as rewarding as my Drunkmaste Yoga.
The main purpose of namaste yoga is to center you and bring the flow of divine love at the beginning and end of each yoga session. I do all that good stuff AND bring the flow of alcohol to my bloodstream. Granted my balance is a little off, and I can't hold the positions as long as I do during sober namaste yoga, but it is still a productive endeavor.
I think many types of physical activities could benefit from adding liquor to it. I know my friends who participate in beer kickball, they get exercise and drunk, all while helping their team "Salvation Through Coleslaw" to victory. I think that's why so many Americans are fat asses; exercise became a chore and not something that is fun. Booze can help put the desire back into people's hearts to get active. Especially with such zippy energy drinks like Red Bull being mixed with vodka, it sounds like a recipe for burning off the calories.
I understand booze has a lot of sugar in it, which make losing weight difficult. I have come up with my own unique solution; sometimes, I like to hide the alcohol when I'm drunk. Then the next day, when I want to imbibe again, I am forced to hunt for it like Easter eggs, before I can get my drink on. All of the energy expended in looking for my liquor makes it not only gratifying when I finally find it, but it allows me to find a balance.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Just like Rachel Ray, Only Drunk
Not to infringe on C.rag’s territory by blogging about cooking, but last night I made some fanfuckingtastic oatmeal cookies.
Like many activities I do, I baked while drunk. I almost added some booze to the cookies, but I didn’t want to fuck them up and be forced to start over. Although, once I considered the idea of adding liquor to baked goods, I saw some culinary projects in my future. Like some mint chocolate chip cookies with baileys irish cream. What better way to celebrate my heritage in a way that DOESN’T include blacking out? Kahlua brownies sound pretty goddamn tasty too. I know rum is added to tiramisu, but honestly, what COULDN’T benefit from some rum?
Even without alcohol in them, my oatmeal raisin cookies were spectacular. Even this morning, when I was sober, they STILL tasted goddamn good. They taste as good as your first thai hooker. And the anticipation for the next bite, it’s like that of fundamentalists, anticipating Christ’s return. But with these cookies, there is tangible proof, so you know it is real and will happen.
I did my cooking in LawyerMan’s kitchen, partially because I don’t have the right tools and partially because one of my room mates is a fat man who would probably eat the cookies faster than I could bake them. It would look like one of those “I Love Lucy” skits, with cookies being shoveled into his mouth and me busting ass to bake more. The drunker I got, the more the batter was strewn around the kitchen, and the more misshapen my cookies became. There’s one cookie that is shaped like the state of Texas. I also kept slurring something about “NOT ENOUGH RAISINS!” and towards the end LawyerMan asked me if I was going to have any cookies with those raisins.
I think people take cooking too seriously. If you aren’t having fun while doing it, then don’t bother. When I saw how stiff and rigid Martha Stewart was with cooking, it made me want to punch her. If you can’t become borderline shitfaced while baking, then you might as well just be a tool, and buy cookies from the store.
My dad’s birthday is Saturday, and I don’t want to be an asshole daughter (with me being an only child, there isn’t any other siblings to bear the weight of gift giving on holidays and birthdays),so what's a cheaper more loving way to show my love from 1400 miles away?
Like many activities I do, I baked while drunk. I almost added some booze to the cookies, but I didn’t want to fuck them up and be forced to start over. Although, once I considered the idea of adding liquor to baked goods, I saw some culinary projects in my future. Like some mint chocolate chip cookies with baileys irish cream. What better way to celebrate my heritage in a way that DOESN’T include blacking out? Kahlua brownies sound pretty goddamn tasty too. I know rum is added to tiramisu, but honestly, what COULDN’T benefit from some rum?
Even without alcohol in them, my oatmeal raisin cookies were spectacular. Even this morning, when I was sober, they STILL tasted goddamn good. They taste as good as your first thai hooker. And the anticipation for the next bite, it’s like that of fundamentalists, anticipating Christ’s return. But with these cookies, there is tangible proof, so you know it is real and will happen.
I did my cooking in LawyerMan’s kitchen, partially because I don’t have the right tools and partially because one of my room mates is a fat man who would probably eat the cookies faster than I could bake them. It would look like one of those “I Love Lucy” skits, with cookies being shoveled into his mouth and me busting ass to bake more. The drunker I got, the more the batter was strewn around the kitchen, and the more misshapen my cookies became. There’s one cookie that is shaped like the state of Texas. I also kept slurring something about “NOT ENOUGH RAISINS!” and towards the end LawyerMan asked me if I was going to have any cookies with those raisins.
I think people take cooking too seriously. If you aren’t having fun while doing it, then don’t bother. When I saw how stiff and rigid Martha Stewart was with cooking, it made me want to punch her. If you can’t become borderline shitfaced while baking, then you might as well just be a tool, and buy cookies from the store.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
When Clowns Go Bad...
When did clowns go from being something that brought children joy, so a source of fear and misery? I know I never trusted clowns, and not just because of being a kid when Stephen King’s movie “IT” came out (come on, it’s a grown man wearing makeup and going out of his way to hang out with children). Today my suspicions are once again confirmed when I hear about Klutzo, a “Christian Clown”, who was found with a bunch of naked pictures of Filipino boys on his camera by airport security. Boy, was his nose red! Seems like he was spreading more than just God’s love to the orphanage…
Why do they even still let clowns visit children in hospitals? Don't these children have enough problems, with their leukemia and other life threatening illnesses, without having a possible child predator welcomed into their ward to play 'doctor'? And what dumbass parent is still hiring a clown for their child's birthday party? Why not just look up registered child molesters on the internet and ask them to come on over; the end result is usually the same. Even the creepy guy that does 'magic' tricks and is letting his 'wand' disappear into little Timmy's mouth is probably a better choice that Pervy the Clown.
At least Ouchy the S&M Clown is honest about being a sexual deviant. He will tie you up, beat your ass, and show you which clown is boss. It's the clowns that pretend they are happy-go-lucky and squirt you in the eye with water from their flower that we should be careful of. Besides, how do we even KNOW it's water that they shoot from their lapel? It could be more than their over sized novelty shoes poking you....
I think we should listen to Captain Spaulding from “The Devil’s Rejects” when he says: “never turn your back on a fucking clown!” Which means, YOU ARE ON FUCKING NOTICE RONALD MCDONALD! Keep it in your pants, because we don't need you making the meals any more happy.
Why do they even still let clowns visit children in hospitals? Don't these children have enough problems, with their leukemia and other life threatening illnesses, without having a possible child predator welcomed into their ward to play 'doctor'? And what dumbass parent is still hiring a clown for their child's birthday party? Why not just look up registered child molesters on the internet and ask them to come on over; the end result is usually the same. Even the creepy guy that does 'magic' tricks and is letting his 'wand' disappear into little Timmy's mouth is probably a better choice that Pervy the Clown.
At least Ouchy the S&M Clown is honest about being a sexual deviant. He will tie you up, beat your ass, and show you which clown is boss. It's the clowns that pretend they are happy-go-lucky and squirt you in the eye with water from their flower that we should be careful of. Besides, how do we even KNOW it's water that they shoot from their lapel? It could be more than their over sized novelty shoes poking you....
I think we should listen to Captain Spaulding from “The Devil’s Rejects” when he says: “never turn your back on a fucking clown!” Which means, YOU ARE ON FUCKING NOTICE RONALD MCDONALD! Keep it in your pants, because we don't need you making the meals any more happy.
Wednesday, October 10, 2007
Let the Games Begin!
Yesterday I heard about a kangaroo who hopped into a NASCAR-like race in Australia, and it got me to thinking: many of the sports we have involving animals are entirely too pussified. For example, think about cattle roping… those poor horsies! At least with bull riding, the bull has horns so he can gore the assholes trying to ride him. Fox hunting pisses me off too, because it seems like a bunch of guys trying to prove they can still get an erection by lazily using dogs to hunt another animal. I can somewhat respect crocodile wrestling because of the slight propensity for a crocodile or alligator to rise from its tranquilizer-induced lethargy to bite the wrestler.
Going with that line of thinking that I always enjoy sports more when someone can and does get seriously injured, I thought, why not include other animals in sports? For example, a rhino during football; rhinos are aggravated by sound, so with the marching band going and all that grunting, a rhinoceros would be sufficiently pissed off to do some damage. For those interested in winter sports, not only would a polar bear on the ice hockey rink be cute, but I think it would encourage the hockey players to skate faster. Animals could only improve the quality of a sport and would weed out athletic pretenders. Such as, we all know wrestling is fake (U.F.C. not included), but if they had some rabid pit bulls in the wrestling ring, the viewers would find out who actually had skills and who was just following the script and throwing around chairs. It would appeal to their core audience of rednecks too, and might curb dog fighting if drunken hillbillies could train their pit bulls to fight humans instead of another dog.
Water sports that would be much more entertaining with the addition of an animal would be piranhas in water polo (does anyone actually watch that?) and vicious sharks (I can decide whether the old stand-by white sharks would be best, or if maybe we should switch it up and include tiger sharks since they have the most human kills under their sharky belts). I think almost everyone can agree that tennis is boring as hell to watch, but with the addition of porcupines, it would be like the players were hopping around on a mine field (because we would force them to wear thin-soled shoes of course), once again improving their skills. Another boooooring sport that would be made watchable by adding a creature to the mix would be chess. I would almost rather have another wisdom tooth pulled than watch chess, but if there were scorpions on the ground (and possibly on the board, I haven’t worked out the specifics yet), not only would there be some legitimate drama and suspense, the games would go faster.
Yes, I understand animal rights people will be upset about this. But since we already include animals in sports, then we should at least level the playing field so it’s not almost entirely animals getting injured.
Going with that line of thinking that I always enjoy sports more when someone can and does get seriously injured, I thought, why not include other animals in sports? For example, a rhino during football; rhinos are aggravated by sound, so with the marching band going and all that grunting, a rhinoceros would be sufficiently pissed off to do some damage. For those interested in winter sports, not only would a polar bear on the ice hockey rink be cute, but I think it would encourage the hockey players to skate faster. Animals could only improve the quality of a sport and would weed out athletic pretenders. Such as, we all know wrestling is fake (U.F.C. not included), but if they had some rabid pit bulls in the wrestling ring, the viewers would find out who actually had skills and who was just following the script and throwing around chairs. It would appeal to their core audience of rednecks too, and might curb dog fighting if drunken hillbillies could train their pit bulls to fight humans instead of another dog.
Water sports that would be much more entertaining with the addition of an animal would be piranhas in water polo (does anyone actually watch that?) and vicious sharks (I can decide whether the old stand-by white sharks would be best, or if maybe we should switch it up and include tiger sharks since they have the most human kills under their sharky belts). I think almost everyone can agree that tennis is boring as hell to watch, but with the addition of porcupines, it would be like the players were hopping around on a mine field (because we would force them to wear thin-soled shoes of course), once again improving their skills. Another boooooring sport that would be made watchable by adding a creature to the mix would be chess. I would almost rather have another wisdom tooth pulled than watch chess, but if there were scorpions on the ground (and possibly on the board, I haven’t worked out the specifics yet), not only would there be some legitimate drama and suspense, the games would go faster.
Yes, I understand animal rights people will be upset about this. But since we already include animals in sports, then we should at least level the playing field so it’s not almost entirely animals getting injured.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
SPARKLY VAGINAS!
Anyone who has ever been awake late knows the bombardment of “Girls Gone Wild” commercials that are on. After much thought on this subject, I pondered these fine young ladies sparkly vaginas. I’ve never seen a vagina that sparkles and shines in real life like I do in these advertisements. In every commercial, the girls have stars shooting from their poons; I wasn’t sure whether to make a wish (such as, they get some self-respect) or call a gynecologist to ask if this “sparkly vagina condition” is something every woman should look out for.
Which makes me think about the girls on these movies; of course they are bastions of purity, so what makes them take it all off? It’s that powerful combination of booze, cheering, cameras, and spring break that brings out the Inner Fucking Slut or I.F.S. Florida is one of the spring break capitals of the world, and the Girls Gone Wild bus rolls through there every spring and summer, looking for girls drunk on low self esteem and desperate for attention. A few years ago, I actually had a friend end up on one of these movies. She wasn’t even THAT rowdy, but she happened to be at a beach party in Clearwater, and here comes this bus, showering the girls with booze, as if to wash away their better judgment. So there she is, facilitating her personal desires with a phallic shaped shower head attachment giggling and burping up rum. What a proud moment for her.
She’s now a school teacher, and vows to stick to elementary school education, as opposed to middle school or high school where her students might see her at the pinnacle of grace. I assured her that the students may never see her being an I.F.S., however what about the fathers of the children? She now lives in a constant state of paranoia, and I tried to convince her to gain 50 lbs so she would be unrecognizable. For some reason, she did not feel this was a helpful suggestion. Ohhhh the comedy of youthful indiscretions; thanks to modern technology, I think about 70% of the chicks of my generation will be unable to run for any political office because they have some disgraceful half-naked picture of them floating around on the internet. That’s the awesome aspect of the internet, ANYONE can be a pornstar.
Which makes me think about the girls on these movies; of course they are bastions of purity, so what makes them take it all off? It’s that powerful combination of booze, cheering, cameras, and spring break that brings out the Inner Fucking Slut or I.F.S. Florida is one of the spring break capitals of the world, and the Girls Gone Wild bus rolls through there every spring and summer, looking for girls drunk on low self esteem and desperate for attention. A few years ago, I actually had a friend end up on one of these movies. She wasn’t even THAT rowdy, but she happened to be at a beach party in Clearwater, and here comes this bus, showering the girls with booze, as if to wash away their better judgment. So there she is, facilitating her personal desires with a phallic shaped shower head attachment giggling and burping up rum. What a proud moment for her.
She’s now a school teacher, and vows to stick to elementary school education, as opposed to middle school or high school where her students might see her at the pinnacle of grace. I assured her that the students may never see her being an I.F.S., however what about the fathers of the children? She now lives in a constant state of paranoia, and I tried to convince her to gain 50 lbs so she would be unrecognizable. For some reason, she did not feel this was a helpful suggestion. Ohhhh the comedy of youthful indiscretions; thanks to modern technology, I think about 70% of the chicks of my generation will be unable to run for any political office because they have some disgraceful half-naked picture of them floating around on the internet. That’s the awesome aspect of the internet, ANYONE can be a pornstar.
SPARKLY VAGINAS!
Anyone who has ever been awake late knows the bombardment of “Girls Gone Wild” commercials that are on. After much thought on this subject, I pondered these fine young ladies sparkly vaginas. I’ve never seen a vagina that sparkles and shines in real life like I do in these advertisements. In every commercial, the girls have stars shooting from their poons; I wasn’t sure whether to make a wish (such as, they get some self-respect) or call a gynecologist to ask if this “sparkly vagina condition” is something every woman should look out for.
Which makes me think about the girls on these movies; of course they are bastions of purity, so what makes them take it all off? It’s that powerful combination of booze, cheering, cameras, and spring break that brings out the Inner Fucking Slut or I.F.S. Florida is one of the spring break capitals of the world, and the Girls Gone Wild bus rolls through there every spring and summer, looking for girls drunk on low self esteem and desperate for attention. A few years ago, I actually had a friend end up on one of these movies. She wasn’t even THAT rowdy, but she happened to be at a beach party in Clearwater, and here comes this bus, showering the girls with booze, as if to wash away their better judgment. So there she is, facilitating her personal desires with a phallic shaped shower head attachment giggling and burping up rum. What a proud moment for her.
She’s now a school teacher, and vows to stick to elementary school education, as opposed to middle school or high school where her students might see her at the pinnacle of grace. I assured her that the students may never see her being an I.F.S., however what about the fathers of the children? She now lives in a constant state of paranoia, and I tried to convince her to gain 50 lbs so she would be unrecognizable. For some reason, she did not feel this was a helpful suggestion. Ohhhh the comedy of youthful indiscretions; thanks to modern technology, I think about 70% of the chicks of my generation will be unable to run for any political office because they have some disgraceful half-naked picture of them floating around on the internet. That’s the awesome aspect of the internet, ANYONE can be a pornstar.
Which makes me think about the girls on these movies; of course they are bastions of purity, so what makes them take it all off? It’s that powerful combination of booze, cheering, cameras, and spring break that brings out the Inner Fucking Slut or I.F.S. Florida is one of the spring break capitals of the world, and the Girls Gone Wild bus rolls through there every spring and summer, looking for girls drunk on low self esteem and desperate for attention. A few years ago, I actually had a friend end up on one of these movies. She wasn’t even THAT rowdy, but she happened to be at a beach party in Clearwater, and here comes this bus, showering the girls with booze, as if to wash away their better judgment. So there she is, facilitating her personal desires with a phallic shaped shower head attachment giggling and burping up rum. What a proud moment for her.
She’s now a school teacher, and vows to stick to elementary school education, as opposed to middle school or high school where her students might see her at the pinnacle of grace. I assured her that the students may never see her being an I.F.S., however what about the fathers of the children? She now lives in a constant state of paranoia, and I tried to convince her to gain 50 lbs so she would be unrecognizable. For some reason, she did not feel this was a helpful suggestion. Ohhhh the comedy of youthful indiscretions; thanks to modern technology, I think about 70% of the chicks of my generation will be unable to run for any political office because they have some disgraceful half-naked picture of them floating around on the internet. That’s the awesome aspect of the internet, ANYONE can be a pornstar.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Kenny G, Grinch Eyes, and a House Party
It was definitely a binge-tastic weekend, which means I got absolutely nothing accomplished except for damaging my liver (hey, I’m growing it BIG n STRONG!) and making some cornbread (no, seriously, and it turned out quite well).
Friday night: I start out with some pre-drinking at home (I’m a boozer on a budget) then meet up with some friends at The Drink in Uptown because they gave us a free drink coupon. It was a good thing, because it solved the dilemma of where to go first. The waitress with the grinch eyes and the who-ville face was there, and it seems she is getting ready for winter, because she had packed on at least 20 lbs since we last saw her a couple months ago. The Novice was a douchebag and told her I wanted a picture of her, instead of just being James Bond about it and letting me sneak one.
So, we head on over to The Independent, where I saw a guy that looked like Kenny G. Me being the asshole that I am, I felt the overwhelming need to announce in my loud, drunken voice “OHHHHHHH MAAAH FUCKING GAWD!!! IT’S KENNY G!!!” He was not amused, but because I had my boobs pressed up against him and my arm around him, being offended did not keep him from being a tool, and allowing me to take a picture with him.
Saturday night: Once I recovered from being hungover, I went to Sarah and Joe’s housewarming party. I wasn’t quite sure which house was theirs because I left the house number at home. I figured if I knocked on enough doors, because I had a sack of liquor, SOMEONE would let me in. Anyway, when I get there, because it is a new place, I immediately look around for a place to vomit later (I like to plan ahead).
Bill showed up with a medal on, for some Tae Kwon Do thing he had just gone to. Of course I want to wear it around. I threaten to steal it, he threatens to kick me. Even more fantastic, when Dorf shows up ALSO WITH A MEDAL (it was almost too good to be true), I promptly take it from him and challenge Bill to some kung fu fighting. Sadly, the battle never happened. But I did almost get into a fight. My friend’s girlfriend, who shall remain nameless, kept running her mouth, and practically BEGGING me to hit her in the face. Keeping in mind, she is only a few inches taller than most standard midgets, and I am almost 5’10”, it would not have been a fair fight. Soooooo I laughed. A lot, in her face, and sometimes while pointing. Although, vodka blurred my vision, I’m pretty sure other people were laughing at her too. I told my friend that any acts of douchebaggery I may have committed upon him in the past, we were now ‘even stevens’.
At a certain point, I was so drunk that even when I stopped drinking, I was still becoming more inebriated. It was time to “tap out”. Like an animal that knows it will soon die and finds a quiet place to die, I found the airbeds and passed out. The next morning, I left the remaining bottle of vodka I had brought there, as a housewarming present (it’s the gift that keeps giving). On the drive home, I was concerned about getting stopped by the law, because I still felt drunk. That’s when you know you have a quality evening… when you still feel drunk the next day. I even met a new drinking buddy, April. What a grand night!
Friday night: I start out with some pre-drinking at home (I’m a boozer on a budget) then meet up with some friends at The Drink in Uptown because they gave us a free drink coupon. It was a good thing, because it solved the dilemma of where to go first. The waitress with the grinch eyes and the who-ville face was there, and it seems she is getting ready for winter, because she had packed on at least 20 lbs since we last saw her a couple months ago. The Novice was a douchebag and told her I wanted a picture of her, instead of just being James Bond about it and letting me sneak one.
So, we head on over to The Independent, where I saw a guy that looked like Kenny G. Me being the asshole that I am, I felt the overwhelming need to announce in my loud, drunken voice “OHHHHHHH MAAAH FUCKING GAWD!!! IT’S KENNY G!!!” He was not amused, but because I had my boobs pressed up against him and my arm around him, being offended did not keep him from being a tool, and allowing me to take a picture with him.
Saturday night: Once I recovered from being hungover, I went to Sarah and Joe’s housewarming party. I wasn’t quite sure which house was theirs because I left the house number at home. I figured if I knocked on enough doors, because I had a sack of liquor, SOMEONE would let me in. Anyway, when I get there, because it is a new place, I immediately look around for a place to vomit later (I like to plan ahead).
Bill showed up with a medal on, for some Tae Kwon Do thing he had just gone to. Of course I want to wear it around. I threaten to steal it, he threatens to kick me. Even more fantastic, when Dorf shows up ALSO WITH A MEDAL (it was almost too good to be true), I promptly take it from him and challenge Bill to some kung fu fighting. Sadly, the battle never happened. But I did almost get into a fight. My friend’s girlfriend, who shall remain nameless, kept running her mouth, and practically BEGGING me to hit her in the face. Keeping in mind, she is only a few inches taller than most standard midgets, and I am almost 5’10”, it would not have been a fair fight. Soooooo I laughed. A lot, in her face, and sometimes while pointing. Although, vodka blurred my vision, I’m pretty sure other people were laughing at her too. I told my friend that any acts of douchebaggery I may have committed upon him in the past, we were now ‘even stevens’.
At a certain point, I was so drunk that even when I stopped drinking, I was still becoming more inebriated. It was time to “tap out”. Like an animal that knows it will soon die and finds a quiet place to die, I found the airbeds and passed out. The next morning, I left the remaining bottle of vodka I had brought there, as a housewarming present (it’s the gift that keeps giving). On the drive home, I was concerned about getting stopped by the law, because I still felt drunk. That’s when you know you have a quality evening… when you still feel drunk the next day. I even met a new drinking buddy, April. What a grand night!
Friday, October 5, 2007
7 True Things About Me
During the trials and tribulations of my wisdom tooth, I was tagged by Here Today, Gone Tomorrow. I'm just now getting around to finally responding to the gaunlet that was thrown down... here are 7 true things about myself; I shit you not about any of this, it’s too bizarre to make up.
1. I never saw snow until I was 21. I was fourth generation Floridian, and I have family members who feel about snow the way some feminists feel about men… Floridians need snow like a fish needs a bike. They have no want or need to see snow. I was curious about it, but when I saw it for the first time, it was almost thanksgiving the first year I had moved up here, and I went buck nutty. Running around the parking lot, catching it on my tongue, etc… I imagine passersby’s thought I had escaped from my group home.
2. At the ripe old age of 21, I was almost a step mom to a then-four year old. To make a very long story short, I was moved up here by a lawyer man 15 years older than me. Because I was 16 years older than his kid, I was more like a big sister than a step mom. It was an odd dynamic. The kid and I had much in common; we liked the same kind of candy, video games, cartoons and poptarts. I taught the kid some cool stuff, for example he would say in his little kid voice “you gotta keep your pimpin’ hand strong!” and then you would ask him why, and he would respond: “because pimpin’ aint easy!” Isn’t THAT just the truth? His mom loved that little nugget of golden wisdom I passed on to him.
3. I like to get drunk and watch Antiques Roadshow. I bet on how old the items people bring in are and how much they are worth. If I am wrong I take a shot. If I am correct, I take two shots. By the time the show ends, I am screaming at the television, calling the people who bring in Grandma’s favorite painting “dumb whores” and ‘outbidding’ the experts who say they know what an item would sell for.
4. I once assisted the placing of a dead squirrel in an old lady’s mailbox. I was 15, and it was New Year’s Eve 2000. We had a metric ass ton of illegal fireworks, and accidentally set my friend’s neighbor’s palm tree on fire with a roman candle. She called the cops, they took away our fireworks. A few days later, we were in the same neighborhood, and we saw a dead squirrel on the road, and Crazy Fat Nicole, who was the cousin of my best friend’s boyfriend, had the bright idea to put it in the old lady’s mailbox. She was about to pick it up, and I’m like “NO, that’s gross. Here, use this plastic bag to handle it…” We positioned it so its little squirrely head and paws looked like they were ready to jump out at whoever opened the mailbox. I only wish I had been there when she opened the mailbox.
5. I absolutely HATE onions. They are not only slimy, but they smell awful. They remind me of filthy, sweaty hobos. Up here, there isn’t a year-round hobo population like in Fla. My first winter up here, I noticed there wasn’t very many hobos around, and I figured out they migrated to warmer climates (like Florida) like geese. Soooo, growing up I was exposed more often than I would’ve liked to hobos, and make the smell connection.
6. I once played strip cribbage. Native Floridians don’t take hurricanes under a class three seriously, so we had hurricane parties. One particular hurricane we were in my friend’s high rise apartment building, drinking it up, which was good times until the windows started blowing in. So we went down to the underground parking/basement area, and the only thing we could find to amuse ourselves was cribbage. Being drunken whippersnappers, why NOT make it strip cribbage?
7. I can play the shit out of the piano. I’ve been playing since I was 8, and can play pretty much anything if I have the sheet music. As a hobby, it’s more relaxing that throwing water balloons at prostitutes.
Unfortuntely, many of the bloggers in our blogosphere have already been tagged, so my selection is limited. Moooog, MatchChatter, Old Fish and Lemonade, Hot4Angryman (that should be interesting), The Fonz, Ted Velvet, and finally Jon.
1. I never saw snow until I was 21. I was fourth generation Floridian, and I have family members who feel about snow the way some feminists feel about men… Floridians need snow like a fish needs a bike. They have no want or need to see snow. I was curious about it, but when I saw it for the first time, it was almost thanksgiving the first year I had moved up here, and I went buck nutty. Running around the parking lot, catching it on my tongue, etc… I imagine passersby’s thought I had escaped from my group home.
2. At the ripe old age of 21, I was almost a step mom to a then-four year old. To make a very long story short, I was moved up here by a lawyer man 15 years older than me. Because I was 16 years older than his kid, I was more like a big sister than a step mom. It was an odd dynamic. The kid and I had much in common; we liked the same kind of candy, video games, cartoons and poptarts. I taught the kid some cool stuff, for example he would say in his little kid voice “you gotta keep your pimpin’ hand strong!” and then you would ask him why, and he would respond: “because pimpin’ aint easy!” Isn’t THAT just the truth? His mom loved that little nugget of golden wisdom I passed on to him.
3. I like to get drunk and watch Antiques Roadshow. I bet on how old the items people bring in are and how much they are worth. If I am wrong I take a shot. If I am correct, I take two shots. By the time the show ends, I am screaming at the television, calling the people who bring in Grandma’s favorite painting “dumb whores” and ‘outbidding’ the experts who say they know what an item would sell for.
4. I once assisted the placing of a dead squirrel in an old lady’s mailbox. I was 15, and it was New Year’s Eve 2000. We had a metric ass ton of illegal fireworks, and accidentally set my friend’s neighbor’s palm tree on fire with a roman candle. She called the cops, they took away our fireworks. A few days later, we were in the same neighborhood, and we saw a dead squirrel on the road, and Crazy Fat Nicole, who was the cousin of my best friend’s boyfriend, had the bright idea to put it in the old lady’s mailbox. She was about to pick it up, and I’m like “NO, that’s gross. Here, use this plastic bag to handle it…” We positioned it so its little squirrely head and paws looked like they were ready to jump out at whoever opened the mailbox. I only wish I had been there when she opened the mailbox.
5. I absolutely HATE onions. They are not only slimy, but they smell awful. They remind me of filthy, sweaty hobos. Up here, there isn’t a year-round hobo population like in Fla. My first winter up here, I noticed there wasn’t very many hobos around, and I figured out they migrated to warmer climates (like Florida) like geese. Soooo, growing up I was exposed more often than I would’ve liked to hobos, and make the smell connection.
6. I once played strip cribbage. Native Floridians don’t take hurricanes under a class three seriously, so we had hurricane parties. One particular hurricane we were in my friend’s high rise apartment building, drinking it up, which was good times until the windows started blowing in. So we went down to the underground parking/basement area, and the only thing we could find to amuse ourselves was cribbage. Being drunken whippersnappers, why NOT make it strip cribbage?
7. I can play the shit out of the piano. I’ve been playing since I was 8, and can play pretty much anything if I have the sheet music. As a hobby, it’s more relaxing that throwing water balloons at prostitutes.
Unfortuntely, many of the bloggers in our blogosphere have already been tagged, so my selection is limited. Moooog, MatchChatter, Old Fish and Lemonade, Hot4Angryman (that should be interesting), The Fonz, Ted Velvet, and finally Jon.
Thursday, October 4, 2007
Nothing funny about nitrous oxide
Yesterday was officially bad times. It went better than the last wisdom tooth I had pulled; it was around Christmas time, and the dentists office had Jolly Jesus music piped in, which was almost worse that having Dr. Dan wrenching out a tooth that had “exceptionally long roots”.
Anyway, I don’t get why anyone would want to be in a profession where everyone dreads coming to see them. It rivals (if not surpasses) IRS agents… I’m thinking the only reason he is so cheerful, is because he’s hitting that medical grade nitrous. And on the subject of nitrous oxide, I didn’t find anything to laugh about. Maybe he gave me less because I came in reeking of bourbon, but when he had the pliers and other god-awful tools in my mouth digging around, laughter was the last thing on my mind.
On a not so positive note, I have another one that needs to come out on the other side, but he said he wanted to wait a little while because he wants this one to have a chance to heal, which happens quicker when there is one side to chew on. I think he just wanted me to be able to give a blowjob if I needed/wanted to. Dr. Dan warned against dry sockets, and I told him that if he just packed it with percocet, we could avoid that predicament altogether. I got a resounding “no” on that request.
Not even Magnum PI could comfort me last night. I know I’m in a bad place when I forgo mixers and drink straight out of the bottle (classy, I know). Rum and blood taste pretty gross together. Although, I think the straight alcohol will ensure I don’t get an infection.
Anyway, I don’t get why anyone would want to be in a profession where everyone dreads coming to see them. It rivals (if not surpasses) IRS agents… I’m thinking the only reason he is so cheerful, is because he’s hitting that medical grade nitrous. And on the subject of nitrous oxide, I didn’t find anything to laugh about. Maybe he gave me less because I came in reeking of bourbon, but when he had the pliers and other god-awful tools in my mouth digging around, laughter was the last thing on my mind.
On a not so positive note, I have another one that needs to come out on the other side, but he said he wanted to wait a little while because he wants this one to have a chance to heal, which happens quicker when there is one side to chew on. I think he just wanted me to be able to give a blowjob if I needed/wanted to. Dr. Dan warned against dry sockets, and I told him that if he just packed it with percocet, we could avoid that predicament altogether. I got a resounding “no” on that request.
Not even Magnum PI could comfort me last night. I know I’m in a bad place when I forgo mixers and drink straight out of the bottle (classy, I know). Rum and blood taste pretty gross together. Although, I think the straight alcohol will ensure I don’t get an infection.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
I know why they call them wisdom teeth...
So, I’m about to get a wisdom tooth pulled, and I can honestly say I’m not anticipating it. However, I do know why these are called wisdom teeth. The last time I had one of these pulled, I had procrastinated so much it became infected. This sucked for two reasons: 1) my face was swollen (I still looked super hot, of course, and got many offers to make out. 2) The Novocain didn’t work and I remember screaming a lot (sure scared the 7 year old waiting to get his teeth cleaned). What makes these wisdom teeth worthy of their name, is that this time, when they started to become sensitive, I went to see the dentist and get it taken care of before it looked like I had a wad of dirty toilet paper in my cheek. I am becoming more wise indeed.
When I was on the phone with Alysa, a friend of mine from Florida about this upcoming removal she had some sage advice. Keep in mind, I don’t have much of a southern accent, except when I am super tired or especially drunk, but hers is heavy. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, because we grew up in the same town, only a few miles away from each other. It’s just one of those peculiar facets of Florida , possibly a product of all of the Northern people coming to Florida to die, vacation or sometimes both. Anyway, so she says in her southern debutante voice: “Yah need tah rub sum ol granddad on yer gumz to make it fil better. When I hayud mah root can’l done I rubb’d sum ol granddad on mah teeth and felt lotz bettuh.” Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so freaked out if I was from the ‘glades, where playing spank and tickle with your cousin is not only accepted, but expected. Once I stopped sputtering and making disgusted sounds, she explained that Ol Granddad was a type of bourbon, and it numbed her gums up.
Off I go, Ol Granddad on my gums, ready to have a tooth ripped out. I’m not looking forward to it, but when there is nitrous involved with me, hilarity usually ensues.
When I was on the phone with Alysa, a friend of mine from Florida about this upcoming removal she had some sage advice. Keep in mind, I don’t have much of a southern accent, except when I am super tired or especially drunk, but hers is heavy. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, because we grew up in the same town, only a few miles away from each other. It’s just one of those peculiar facets of Florida , possibly a product of all of the Northern people coming to Florida to die, vacation or sometimes both. Anyway, so she says in her southern debutante voice: “Yah need tah rub sum ol granddad on yer gumz to make it fil better. When I hayud mah root can’l done I rubb’d sum ol granddad on mah teeth and felt lotz bettuh.” Perhaps I wouldn’t have been so freaked out if I was from the ‘glades, where playing spank and tickle with your cousin is not only accepted, but expected. Once I stopped sputtering and making disgusted sounds, she explained that Ol Granddad was a type of bourbon, and it numbed her gums up.
Off I go, Ol Granddad on my gums, ready to have a tooth ripped out. I’m not looking forward to it, but when there is nitrous involved with me, hilarity usually ensues.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Douchebag Of The Month Award
After careful consideration at the many worthy nominees, I chose Kato Kaelin for my Douchebag Of The Month award. The close runner up was Bob Sagat, who is possibly the anti-christ for invading my dreams last night. It wasn’t the current older, more lecherous looking Bob Sagat, but the one from America’s Funniest Home Videos and Full House, and although I am a bit hazy on the particulars, I think he was trying to steal my soul. I am somewhat ashamed to admit it was almost an erotic dream.
Anyway, the main reason Kato Kaelin deserves this illustrious award is for his stealth douchebaggery. Some people are overt, blatant and undeniable d-bags. Kato is one that flies somewhat below the radar, and even sometimes disappears. He came to his notoriety during his testimony in the OJ Simpson murder trial, and soaked every possible drop of ‘celeb-by-proxy’ from that, much like a maggot will suck every bit of dead rotting flesh from a carcass. I really can’t fault him for that, seeing as how he was only a houseguest of a murderer away from giving handjobs to truckers and sleeping on a park bench.
I think Kato went wrong by not finding himself a Cougar to take care of his lazy, often unemployed ass. With his lack of intelligence, California Tool smile, and gay male stripper physique, he would’ve been just what most Cougars are looking for. Instead, he popped up in the entertainment world, on the radio, playing poker on TV, hosting this or that. Where I saw him last week is what made me positive he earned Douchebag of the Month award; he was on some regurgitated news show weighing in his opinion on OJ stealing his memorabilia back. I understand people maybe giving a rat’s ass what he thought in the OJ murder trial, but unless he was staying as a guest (free of charge obviously) of the hotel where OJ was stealing from, what can he possibly offer that is of any substance? And that is why he deserves this award, for continuing to suckle upon the teat of OJ Simpson, even when it has long been dried up.
Anyway, the main reason Kato Kaelin deserves this illustrious award is for his stealth douchebaggery. Some people are overt, blatant and undeniable d-bags. Kato is one that flies somewhat below the radar, and even sometimes disappears. He came to his notoriety during his testimony in the OJ Simpson murder trial, and soaked every possible drop of ‘celeb-by-proxy’ from that, much like a maggot will suck every bit of dead rotting flesh from a carcass. I really can’t fault him for that, seeing as how he was only a houseguest of a murderer away from giving handjobs to truckers and sleeping on a park bench.
I think Kato went wrong by not finding himself a Cougar to take care of his lazy, often unemployed ass. With his lack of intelligence, California Tool smile, and gay male stripper physique, he would’ve been just what most Cougars are looking for. Instead, he popped up in the entertainment world, on the radio, playing poker on TV, hosting this or that. Where I saw him last week is what made me positive he earned Douchebag of the Month award; he was on some regurgitated news show weighing in his opinion on OJ stealing his memorabilia back. I understand people maybe giving a rat’s ass what he thought in the OJ murder trial, but unless he was staying as a guest (free of charge obviously) of the hotel where OJ was stealing from, what can he possibly offer that is of any substance? And that is why he deserves this award, for continuing to suckle upon the teat of OJ Simpson, even when it has long been dried up.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Impatient for the Rapture
I’ve been hearing quite a bit about the rapture lately. On TV in the middle of the night when I am drunk and surfing for scramble porn to watch “for a challenge”, on bumper stickers (but always on shitty cars, WTF?), church signs to advertise their coming sermon, the crazy hobo outside of the Uptown Mcdonalds (that guy is legitimately hillfuckinlarious, with his signs and chanting at the sky!)… I kind of understand how the Christians must feel, impatient. I know I am impatient. My car and living arrangements are decent and suitable, but frankly when I hear about how much loot these televangelists are making and see the awesome shit they own, I get all antsy and excited for the rapture concept because I would certainly not mind trading up in the area of worldly posessions.
Hell, if I believed in god, I would probably be praying to him, asking him to hurry the fuck up (Pope, can you help me with getting the message to the big man?), because I am ready to get on with the show, and get to raiding the raptured people’s stuff. Perhaps it’s just my “Florida Hurricane Mentality” that translates into looting through people who have vacated the area’s property, but hey, I am a pragmatist.
If anyone knows any religious zealots that continue to ‘cry wolf’ and say that the rapture will happen on a certain date, tell them to STFU, because they keep getting my hopes up. I want it to be like my 16th birthday party… I knew it was coming, but the exact date of the party itself was a surprise!
Other benefits to the rapture: traffic will be better, thus the saved time on my commute can be spent sleeping. Those beautiful old churches with picturesque architecture can be turned into something worthwhile, like a library or a casino (not to mention, no church bells making my Saturday or Sunday morning hangover worse). No more dry counties or states because their aren’t Christers to complain how booze keeps people from going to church (riiiiiiiiight, that’s what it is) AND the bars will be open on Christmas!!! Strippers and hookers can sell their flesh in peace (or is it piece?), without holier-than-thou types standing in their way. The religious stations can be freed up for more Magnum P.I. reruns (can't have too much of that). I could buy my dirty gangsta' rap at walmart and target without worrying it would be edited. Perhaps after the rapture we can stop killing Muslims with such military precision.
Hell, if I believed in god, I would probably be praying to him, asking him to hurry the fuck up (Pope, can you help me with getting the message to the big man?), because I am ready to get on with the show, and get to raiding the raptured people’s stuff. Perhaps it’s just my “Florida Hurricane Mentality” that translates into looting through people who have vacated the area’s property, but hey, I am a pragmatist.
If anyone knows any religious zealots that continue to ‘cry wolf’ and say that the rapture will happen on a certain date, tell them to STFU, because they keep getting my hopes up. I want it to be like my 16th birthday party… I knew it was coming, but the exact date of the party itself was a surprise!
Other benefits to the rapture: traffic will be better, thus the saved time on my commute can be spent sleeping. Those beautiful old churches with picturesque architecture can be turned into something worthwhile, like a library or a casino (not to mention, no church bells making my Saturday or Sunday morning hangover worse). No more dry counties or states because their aren’t Christers to complain how booze keeps people from going to church (riiiiiiiiight, that’s what it is) AND the bars will be open on Christmas!!! Strippers and hookers can sell their flesh in peace (or is it piece?), without holier-than-thou types standing in their way. The religious stations can be freed up for more Magnum P.I. reruns (can't have too much of that). I could buy my dirty gangsta' rap at walmart and target without worrying it would be edited. Perhaps after the rapture we can stop killing Muslims with such military precision.
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