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Last night I went to a MADD panel with my friend that has driving restrictions do to a DUI (yes, it’s the same friend I took to probation). I considered going slightly “festive”, but she said if they smelled alcohol on a person, they wouldn’t let them in, and this was required for my friend. I wondered if I kept the certificate they give out at the end for attendance, if I was able to use it later on if I got a DUI (Lawyerman said I could not… what a rip off).
The first guy that spoke was this old hootenanny, and I’m pretty sure he was doing it as part of his community service. One of my favorite lines from him was “The dangers of drinking and driving are really bad;” well no shit. When is the last time you heard about a GOOD danger? He kept telling everyone how expensive and crappy DUI’s are, which I don’t think was a news flash since almost everyone there actually had at least one. He told us that his first DUI where he was driving in the ditch, but he had a quality lawyer that got him out of it (how does that discourage people from drinking and driving? It just teaches them to get a better attorney).
Before the hate mail starts, I’ll say that I am not ridiculing the people who spoke about their dead family members. Losing someone you care about is terrible, whether or not it is through a drunk driving accident. However, I don’t think wallowing in anger and bitterness is helping these people cope with their loss, and I think they would be better served going to therapy. More than one of those speakers seemed to have other issues not related to their dead loved ones, and I can see how it would be hard for them to focus on their other problems if they are emotionally constipated.
What I found to be bothersome was how the director brought up the Iraq war, and statistics of the casualties compared to drunk driving statistics. It was in poor taste and even though I agree that the Iraq war is shitty, it was distracting. It was not the place or the forum to bring that up, and as serious as they may feel drunk driving is, it is in no way as detrimental as the Iraq war.
Perhaps this is what fueled some of my answers on the anonymous survey they gave out at the end. When they asked why I was driving drunk I wrote “because Jesus is my co-pilot”. And for the question about how serious I thought drunk driving was, I put “it depends on how drunk I am, and how serious I am about getting home.” To the question of how do I want my family to be told of my death when I die while driving drunk, I didn’t like the answers of ‘by phone’ or ‘in person,’ so I wrote “singing telegram.” I doubt they will be very amused.
Through all of the pictures of mangled cars, granddaughters in caskets, and other killjoy paraphernalia, the guy behind me still tries to stare down my shirt; I know I have great tits, but how can you possibly be getting a boner while hearing about people’s loved ones dying in horrible fiery crashes? To me it was definitely a turn-off. It was so heavy, that while walking out, another woman told the guy beside her “ugh, I need a drink now.” Totally understandable. I need to admit that the drink I had afterwards didn’t taste as good; but that was because my friend added too much triple sec to our kamikaze shots.
It is commonly known that sex sells. However, I was surprised to find out what they were using it to sell; raisins. The new sunmaid raisin’s girl is so hot, she caught Lawyerman’s 7-year-old son’s attention in a recent commercial. I heard him say “that’s yummy!” which confused me, because I know he isn’t that big of a fan of raisins. So I asked him about it and he clarified that he was talking about the girl, not the raisins. It seems an bit of a oxymoron, youthful perkiness to sell a product that is withered and dried up. Maybe nursing homes should take a cue and have Hooters girls doing their commericals.
What is next, having some hot broad in the denture cream commercials? Some used-up stripper that lost all of her teeth from doing too much coke, talking about how Polidgrip helps her give better blowjobs because of the suction… Sure as hell beats the appeal factor of Florence Henderson from The Brady Bunch doing the commercials! 
Commercials in general can be filthy teases. I’ve previously discussed the sparkly vaginas on the Girls Gone Wild commercials and how I couldn’t seem to find them either in real life or on the DVD's themselves. Then there is the Got Milk advertisements, with their cum covered upper lips (although, they need to stop having ugly people do those ads, because when I see some pig-faced actor with a white mustache, it doesn’t make me want to drink milk or give anyone head).
Using sex to sell things isn’t a new concept. Just look at this old ivory soap ad; it looks like they are teasing 1920’s males with the promise of wet, slippery, gay sex to get them to buy their soap.
Everyone says that the holidays are the worst time to be alone. Seeing all of those happy couples holding each other close to keep warm is enough to make some lonely people take a bath with the hair dryer. Well, I have a solution to stave away the aching that an empty hole in the heart causes; Prison dating sites!!!
Ladies, there are some wonderful men out there, who have all of the time in the world (at least for the next 5-10 years) to make you their everything. Are you sick of not knowing where your man is? Well, with these guys there will never be a question in your mind. Most of these men are in great shape too, and it doesn’t matter what YOU look like because anything that isn’t ass raping them is an attractive option. Some of the highlights I found on the site was this gem with this quote on his profile: “A window of opportunity won’t open itself" (was that what he was thinking when he opened the window to commit burglary? This guy considers himself to be a good friend, despite being convicted of homicide. He sounds like he would do ANYTHING to win your heart. This family man is a wounded soul, being convicted of a murder he says he didn't commit; he's even a bit of a star, having a book/movie created about him and his estranged, murdered wife.
Guys, don’t worry, if the gay portion of this site doesn’t rock your dock, there are plenty of women behind bars in need of something besides their cellmate Bertha’s mop handle. The big problem with the women’s site is that it doesn’t tell you what crime they committed, which is something I’m sure everyone would like to know before they add a lady to their cart (yes, this is a pay site, but a few dollars is a small price to pay for quality).
While browsing the site, I found Wheezy from the Jeffersons, and I’m totally interested in her because it says she’s a cosmetologist, and I AM a sucker for cornrows and manicured toes! Some are just looking for their prince charming (perhaps because they killed the last one), some need to be tamed, but this one only need a hammock. This hot tamale is not only magnanimous, but I can honestly say I would let her eat crackers on my cot any day!
So, if you don't want to warm your chestnuts by the fire alone this season, get to writing! I'm sure there is much these wayward souls could teach you, like how to make a shank out of a plastic spoon or how to make a delicious batch of toliet hooch. They might just incarcerate you in their prison of love...
Yesterday I had the misfortune of eating at Sbarro's. I guess there is a reason they are almost solely limited to shopping mall food courts. I was craving a calzone, and mistakenly thought that they could help me with my need. About two bites in, I could no longer deny that the chicken-broccoli calzone tasted like raccoon vomit wrapped in cardboard. Usually I don’t complain about food, especially if I can’t see where they make it (I certainly don’t want someone beating off onto my chicken fillet), but it was legitimately vile and the beauty of the Sbarro’s layout allows me to view the food preparation.
At first I approach the swarthy, hairy, foreigner with polite dissatisfaction, letting him know it was cold and tasted poorly. He offers to re-heat it. That would be a valid offer if I had only said it was cold, but no, I said it tasted awful. I would think that the statement infers I want something else. I tell him this, and he starts going on about he’s been selling it all day, and no one complained. Maybe that’s because it was edible 4 hours ago when he made it, and so I demand something else. I am in business dress, and obviously not needing to beg for food like a street urchin. It’s not like it comes out of HIS paycheck. What kind of fucking customer service is this? I’m still debating on whether I should make an anonymous complaint to the manager, telling them that I’m 15, and this sonofabitch offered me free pizza outside by the dumpster if I would give him a BJ.
I think the reason people don’t take legitimate complaints seriously is because people bitch about ridiculous shit too much. Granted, I go off on rants, but they are about valid concerns and solid issues that need to be bitched about. It’s the unnecessary shit that ruins it for the rest of us. For example I was at LawyerMan’s Spamville Thanksgiving, and one of his relatives bitched about getting their pumpkin smashed. WTF? I asked what time and where it happened. They said it was about 9 at night, the day after Halloween, and in the street…. What were they planning on doing with it? They were going to THROW IT OUT… Seems to me that those kids did you a public service. Hell, they are fortunate their lame-tarded blow up lawn ornaments didn’t get deflated. Even then, I’m not sure they should be able to complain; those herpe-like sores that scar the lawns of America are practically begging for some hooligan activity to be perpetrated upon them.UPDATE: how little my readers seem to know me.... I've been getting comments insinuating I was ok with having a shitty calzone or that I might not have made a scene. Goddamn right I made a scene, and though the pizzia that I got instead wasn't much better, at least it didn't taste like raccoon vomit wrapped in cardboard.
So I spent the holiday in Austin, MN, which is the home to not only Lawyerman’s family, but to Hormel… Unfortunately, one of Hormel’s biggest products is spam, and they have many processing plants there, so the entire town reeks of spam. It is legitimately vile.
His family is so big (his dad had 9 brothers and sisters, the majority of them having children and grandchildren), they rent a church to hold the main dinner. I have made it my mission the past few years to rearrange the ‘last supper’ figurines to where they are performing various sex acts upon each other, except for Judas who is servicing a donkey.
They always have a hippy handholding thing before it’s time to eat, and it always takes more time to get the 70 or so people into a circle than it does to do the actual prayer. But I’ve used this to my advantage, and always make sure I am in the part of the circle by the kitchen so I am one of the first to hit the buffet, before the obese relatives eat all of the cheesy mashed potatoes.
I never know quite who to hang out with, the people around my age or the generation before them that is Lawyerman’s age. I usually go for his relatives that are my age, because all of the people his age don’t quite take me seriously because of the 15 year age difference, or their fondness for his beast of an ex wife (who should be thankful I’ve never given her a kick in the cunt). Despite the change in my living arrangements, no one gave me any shit, possibly because they liked my pumpkin cheesecake so well.
I was talking to LM’s white gangsta’ cousin that sports a Justin Timberlake hat, and I was asking who some of the people I didn’t recognize were, and him and some of the other cousin’s conferred that they might be randoms, who saw the feast (one large enough to feed an Afrikaan nation) through the window. The family is so ginormous that not everyone knows everyone else’s name, and wouldn’t flat out ask a person how they are related. So I think if I ever don’t have plans for the holidays, I’ll just start crashing people’s large Thanksgiving celebrations.
I ended up playing poker with one of the 80 year old aunts, who I wasn’t quite sure if she was cheating or just senile, but I was too drunk on pinot noir to care. I don’t usually drink wine, but any port in a storm, right? His family is pretty hardcore Norwegian, as are many indigenous Minnesota families, and I was thankful they served lefsa and NOT lutefisk, which smells worse than spam ever could.
I am reflection upon what I am thankful for, since it seems it’s that time of the year AND all the cool kids are doing it; what can I say, I’m still a sucker for peer pressure, guess it’s the spirit of a child (and baboon heart) that resides within me.
The biggest thing I am thankful for is the cocktail of drugs I’m on to kill this cold: Amoxicillin, Sudafed, and robatussin. Yes, it makes me slightly dizzy, but it’s so strong I think it’s not only killing the cold, but whatever else might have been plaguing me that I wasn’t aware of.
Coming in a close second to drugs would definitely be cranberry juice with calcium in it. I need my bones to be as strong as possible for any falling down I might be doing, and because one of my favorite drinks is cranberry vodka, I drink a decent amount of cranberry juice. Thanks ocean spray for helping me not become a cripple!
A solid third is the myriad of sites dedicated to showing pictures of peoples cats dressed up or just with misspelled captions (because cats have horrible grammar, right?) in a comical way. Without these, I would need to fill a large chunk of my workday with actual work. There is even a blogger site with LOLcats and their secrets. You dont even need a cat to appreciate it.
It may not seem like something to be thankful for, but it is something I no longer need to scream at the skys about; The “Snakes on a Plane” ringtones have finally been put away. It’s taken over a year, but I can say that it’s been a couple months since I heard Samuel Jackson’s voice scream “GET THESE MOTHERFUCKING SNAKES OFF THIS MOTHERFUCKING PLANE” while in public. It was cute the first couple of times I heard it, but I quickly grew weary of it.
Coming in last, but still deserving note, is the plastic spiders that my coworker Calvin Crustitron and I throw at each other over the top of the wall we share. I cannot count how many times these have saved me, right in the nick of time from a boregasm.
There are many more things I’m thankful for, like for example that my face does not resemble a shoe like Sarah Jessica Parker’s (why do you think Mathew Broderick has packed on the pounds? He’s been trying to eat away the pain). But I will leave it at these few things and wish everyone a Happy, gluttontastic, Thanksgiving. I’ll be off the grid until Monday.
So this weekend, I unfortunately left my phone charger at the cabin, granted I WAS sick with a cold, but still, I should’ve grabbed it. Because it is a solid 3+ hour drive, I had resigned myself to pay the dumbass fee that sprint charges to get a new charger, especially since it would’ve probably been cheaper than the gas it would take to get to Brainerd. Today, when I went to the Sprint store I was told that they do not have a charger for my cell phone type. I would totally understand if my phone was so archaic that they no longer carried it, but the whore weasels at Sprint sent me this phone LAST FUCKING WEEK when I lost mine, and it is one of the newest models samsung has.
They sell my phone there, a car charger but no separate wall charger. I was forced to get a car charger to hold me over until I make other arrangements. What good is my phone without battery power? It’s like getting a massage from one of those seedy places in a strip mall and not getting a handjob afterwards. I don’t want a paperweight that looks like a cell phone, I want a cell phone to make calls, send drunken texts and take bizarre and often embarrassing pictures of myself. As it is, I will now ration how I spend my battery power, wondering do I REALLY need to call 911 when I see that guy with his car on fire on the side of the road. And who is responsible for that, THE WHORE WEASELS AT SPRINT!
It’s not really a mobile phone if I can only effectively use it while in my car or just coming from my car. I am not a goddamn gypsy that hangs out in my car all of the time. Why not just give me one of those brick-like phones that were as big as a center console of a car that they had back in the 80’s? Fuck, why not just give me two paper cups and some string? I hope when I was there at the store, coughing and spraying my cold-infected mucus all over the place, I managed to spread my awful cold to the rat bastards at Sprint. I have never hoped so much in my life that I have the bubonic plague.
I went to the cabin in Breezy Point this weekend, which was father north than the halfway point to the north pole. I got excited by some of the signs I saw along the way, like about reservations being nearby. I figured hey, if the cabin didn’t work out for good times, we could always get some casino and firewater action going. Until I was told that these weren’t THOSE type of reservations, but instead the kind that hate whitey for all the acts of douchebaggery we committed upon them; who knew they’d still be pissed for the smallpox blankets? Another quality sign was “STOP MILFOIL” and I don’t get why anyone would want to stop MILF oil. That was further clarified for me when I found out they weren’t talking about Terry Snatcher, and that milfoil was a plant from the water that grabbed on to boats and was transported to other lakes. The best sign was the one that said “HAVING SEXUAL THOUGHTS ABOUT CHILDREN?” WTF? If I was a pedophile and wasn’t having those thoughts, as soon as I saw that sign I would be. What kind of town was I passing through that they had to have a sign like that up? It was almost as tasteless at the giant headstone for “unborn children” next to the cemetery.
Friday night when everyone arrived was chock full of jello shots and liquor flowing as freely as the public urination of hobos. Joe decided whiskey and vodka were the ultimate alliance, and somehow he managed to outlast us all, and was the final one to be voted off the island by the alcohol tribunal. I woke up aching all over. First, I attributed it to falling down, and just because I didn’t remember it, doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. The line of unseen bruising on my forehead was from slamming it into the bar (that’s nothing compared to Skoalfaces head dives into the chairs/floor). So when they asked what I wanted in my omelet, I said “advil.” I started off the morning drinking mimosas, while others drank bloody marys. Once again, Joe outdid us all with Michael Collins, “the spirit of the hero”, irish whiskey. But the spirit did not stop him from needing to take a nap.
We all recovered at our own paces, and after food we were all ready to hit the bar. I mentioned before that I woke up with a body ache. I started thinking that I might be coming down with a cold. My first instinct is to drink through it (alcohol is sterile, right?); some people say to feed a cold, starve a fever, but I like to drown both. I even drank red bull and mandarin vodka, hoping it would pep me up. Other than the sickness creeping up on me, we had the recipe for a fanfuckingtastic night, me and the four other women wearing our candy penis necklaces, sporting cleavage, and at a bar where we could all pretend to be Canadians and play “Slap ass” (the year prior Skoalface’s wife and WineOnWheels almost got in two fights and kicked out of the bar for slapping random people’s asses).
Anyway, I started shivering, and couldn’t get warm, despite wearing my wool pea coat; the ceiling fans in the bar being on didn’t help (seriously, was that necessary? It’s 28 fucking degrees outside). My throat started closing up to where it hurt to drink and yell at the band (they were wearing hearing aids, how classic is that?); but I need to give them credit, they sounded pretty good, playing other people’s songs. But since they had been a band since 1985, they should be decent. After the shivering started, I began going downhill quickly (it's hard to drink when you shiver so hard you worry about chipping a tooth on the glass), even the offer of free drinks from DevilRay (named so because of his stint playing for the Devil Rays), did not perk me up. When I am turning down free drinks and looking to leave the bar early, I know I am legitimately sick.
Many of you who read this even the slightest amount know how I feel about midgets; my aspirations, and how enamored I was when I saw a midget with big cans. Last night while hanging out with Lawyerman’s kid, DragonBoy, we watched Little People, Big World. From being around me for almost three years, I have given him the gift of an interest in midgets… Some people pass down disgusting habits of sucking on toothpicks or picking their nose, I feel proud that I can pass this rewarding and healthy fascination on to him at such a young age.Anyway, so we’re watching the midget show, and he busts out with: "Can I have a pet midget for Christmas?" After first telling him that it’s a request best taken up with Santa, I explained that they are people and we it isn’t good manners or legal to own them. He was confused, and I understand why; they are always calling themselves "dwarves", which makes me think (and DragonBoy as well) of them as mythical creatures, Snow White style. What is so wrong with calling them midgets? I understand it isn’t politically correct, but if you had the choice between calling yourself a midget, dwarf or little people, I would go with midget. 
The episode we were watching was about the dwarf version of the Olympics, the DAAA. Granted, I am not very athletic, but watching them play basketball and volleyball, I thought if I joined the game, I might have a fighting chance of winning. I’m tall, but I’m a bit slow because of the plate and pins in my knee; so competing with people around 4 feet tall, I could best accentuate my strengths. I would be like Gulliver, kicking them around while they tried to hold me back, and drop kicking them like the Jolly Green Giant would green beans. So I think I will add this to my list of stuff that I want to do involving midgets. Wrestling with one in lime jello is still my number 1, but ultimately aspire to be a combination of Snow White and Gulliver.
So today at the market across the street from work, while sipping lattes, two of my coworkers and I discussed funeral preferences. It seems morbid, but it really was all in good fun. Sarah is 24, and Calvin Crustitron and I are both 23, so it’s not like we are on our deathbeds. It started when Calvin Crustitron looked at me and asked in a somber tone: “when I die, will you stand up and in between wracking sobs, moan ‘I SHOULD’VE BOUGHT HIM A HOOOOOOOOOKER!!!!’ at my funeral?” At first I was confused as to if he was trying to hint around that he wanted me to buy him a hooker while he was alive. He said he didn’t, he just wanted to cause a scene. I’m all about causing scenes, and after all what are friends for? We are tight like Redd Foxx and Ripple, so now I’m seriously hoping to outlive Calvin Crustitron.
First we established we could only do these things if we died young and in a spectacular way. Hey, it’s not just for rockstars these days! Sarah thinks she wants to have some random people in bagpipes (hey, here is your chance Angry Piper!!!) playing Slayer or some other death metal. That would definitely be memorable and sure beats the hell out of “Amazing Grace.
I like the idea of having music at my funeral, but I want to add a twist, by having the usual sad organ music, but then in the middle of the not so festive festivities, I want to have a super happy clown come in. He can offer to make balloon hats (of course, he would ONLY have black balloons, because it IS a funeral, after all) and then when people sob, he can shoot them in the eyes with water from his flower and tell them to “dry your eyes, silly mourner!” I think it will go over well.
Landon wants to be shot out of a cannon into his funeral plot, and after further discussion with Calvin Crustitron over instant messenger, he decided he wants to have a voice recorder of his voice inside his casket that screams “LET ME OUT YOU SONS OF BITCHES, I’M NOT FUCKING DEAD YET!” Honestly, I want to have a traditional irish wake, held at a pub, with everyone getting shitfaced, telling their favorite stories of me. That seems to be the healthiest way to grieve, to remember the good times, instead of focusing on the fact that this person is gone. Dying is a part of life, and when we make it too serious of an ordeal is when we become hung up on it and are unable to move on.
This weekend I managed to lose my cell phone while drunk (I know, imagine that?) in downtown. Unfortunately the bastards at Sprint, feel that charging me a $50 deductible and making me wait four business days is should be worth the extra charge a month for cell phone insurance. It should probably be some kind of character building experience for me, where I learn to throw down the crutch of a cellular phone, and I suddenly feel unburdened by the constant stream of phone calls, email checking, phone and text messages, but instead I feel awful. I haven’t been without a cell phone since I first got one when I was 16. I’m not sure how people managed without it. Like those amputees who feel the itching and tingling even after their limb is gone, I still hear my Dropkick Murphy’s ringtone even though I have no phone. 
How dare those d-bags at Sprint make me go this long without a phone. It’s not 19fucking82. At least if it was, there would be a pay phone on every corner. But because businesses like gas stations and shopping centers have gotten in trouble from drug activity being done from a phone on their premises, many of them have taken the phones out. So today, while driving, I NEEDED to make a call like a jonesing addict needs their fix (my veins were itching and everything!) I had to drive all over east jesus to find a phone. At first, I gave up easily, which is par for my apathetic generation, and went inside to a gas station to ask to use their phone. A portly woman, who looked as if her face caught fire and was reconstructed using the mole-ridden skin from her ass, told me it wasn’t for customers. I responded that it was a good thing I hadn’t bought anything because I technically wasn’t a customer. She closed her taint-skin eyelids to tiny little slits of annoyance. I could see I wasn’t going to get anywhere with her, so I told her I hoped someone would one day rob her at gun point and locked her in the freezer.After wasting more time and gas looking around, I finally found a pay phone that smelled like a seat cushion at the DMV. I worried just by touching it that I would get scabies. There is not enough anti bacterial hand gel to rid the unseen filth from my hands. Thanks Sprint.
Usually I don’t like telling a 2nd hand story, but in this case, I will make a special exception because of how legitimately awesome it is. Lawyerman went to a party on Friday night for the birthday of a new acquaintance, and even though he only stayed for roughly 20 minutes, it was action packed.
It was held in the basement of this acquaintance, McCreepy, and at first when he told me there were strippers there and described them as two D’s, two C’s and a B, I was excited because I thought he meant cupsize, but he corrected that assumption by telling me that’s how he rated them quality-wise. Despite it being a small basement, there was a shower curtained partition for handy-j’s, which I am told could be heard, despite the playing of Earth Wind and Fire.
More disturbingly, was that the old, fat men (at 38 years old, Lawyerman was the youngest there) were wearing the strippers clothing, guts hanging prominently out. Usually, where there it’s a birthday party for the host, there is an assistant host, to make sure that nothing gets broken, stolen etc… there was none of that, but instead this group of misanthropes lurking about, placid like toadstools from Alice and Wonderland, tripping on their own decrepitude.
As for the strippers, the one decent looking one, the B, got all freaked out by this and oh so much more and refused to get naked. She said something about her mom calling and needing to take care of her kids. I think she was concerned they would rape her or steal her clothes, and possibly wear her skin. One of the C’s, who sounded like Stevie Nicks gargling a rhino, was arguing with the other C about who had to get behind the curtain next to assist with lap dances. Despite being one carton away from a trach pipe, she was smoking two cigarettes at a time, with a third one being inhaled from her back tattoo.
Despite pictures of women on the walls (au natural, circa 1975), there was a lot of homosexual references being made, and the other 3 obviously straight guys were uncomfortable as well. There wasn’t a keg (“sipping beer from a glass is not something men with penises do” –Lawyerman). The fighting strippers were clomping around like Clydesdales, in their ridiculous platform heels like Halloween leftovers who had dressed up as Elvira. When they started to all argue over who gets to wear the red Chinese dress, and one exceptionally fat man draped it over his shoulders like a cape, making himself look like Superman’s great grandpa, flying faster than the speed of liquid farts, Lawyerman decided to make his exit.
The Nordic hatchet display, which is somewhat normal for Minnesota, was creepy in this situation, especially because they seemed to have been handmade, also hastened his decision to leave.
So I went to the probation office last night. No, not for me, surprisingly I’ve never been arrested despite all of the drunken shenanigans and youthful indiscretions. I was actually taking a friend there for her DUI requirements. She has driving restrictions and I was wooed by her promises of drinks and dinner afterwards… isn’t that ironic, being taken out for drinks after going to the probation for DUI issues?
Anyway, not everyone at the probation office is like my white collar, suburbanite friend. I kind of assumed so, but even going in there with that assumption, I was still taken aback. It brought a lot of unanswered questions to mind, such as, why is that greasy guy giggling, clenching and unclenching his hands? Then there was a guy in overalls reeking of drywall and bad decisions, outside screaming at his girlfriend or wife on the phone telling her she needed to get rid of “it” all, RIGHT NOW. Hmmm, me thinks whatever he’s trying to dispose of might not be legal.
My favorite character was this man was like a cross between Willy Nelson and Kramer from Seinfeld. He looked like his face had caught on fire and been beaten out with a pitchfork. This man was transfixed by a duffel bag that he had brought with him. He started out with his hand on it, and quickly moved to caressing it. He was practically getting a boner just stroking the canvassy-goodness of the bag. What was in there, drugs or body parts? I swear I thought I saw his eyes roll back in his head a little bit, with orgasmic bliss, all from a goddamn duffel bag. Maybe it's that elusive bag of dicks I hear everyone talking about and telling other people to suck.
I also liked the obese black lady that couldn’t stop tapping her foot, and it made ripples go across her unfortunately exposed flesh that were much like that of a boulder being dropped into a pond. I think she drank a lot of water to cleanse her system to be ready for the drug test and now had to go to the bathroom REALLY BAD. The white gangsta’ who was whistling what I thought to be Wu tang Clan’s classic song “Wu tang Clan Aint Nuttin’ to Fuck Wit” was not making her discomfort better, and she told him to “Cut that shit out, before I backhand your honkey ass.” Truly classic; I never guessed tensions would run this high at probation.
It has been brought to my attention that I have been remiss in giving out the Douchebag Of the Month Award for November. Thank you loyal reader, and I will be sure to remedy this. Although there were many worthy candidates, Landon (my partner in crime and drinking buddy) wrote a post yesterday, that makes me feel like an entire County of douchebags deserves this illustrious award.
The big winner is Collier County, of course it is in Fla, the freakshow state. Apparently, there was a bulletin sent out by the sheriffs there about Jenkem, and inhalant that gives euphoric high. I fully support people getting higher than a goddamn kite, but it’s the way they are doing it. Jenkem is called “butthash” because it is made from fermenting urine and fecies… that is the active ingredient. If the spectrum of drugs that are already out there are not enough for you, I think it is time to consider tapping out and either wrapping your toe around the trigger of a shotgun while listening to Alice in Chains, or go to rehab.
What is most vile about this drug, is the taste of sewage remains in your mouth for days. How desperate to get high do people need to be to want the taste of ass in their mouth for a week? I’ve smelled people’s breath before that I thought had been sucking on a bag of smashed assholes. I can honestly say that I would not want to make out with someone who smelled like raw sewage, and most people would probably agree, so I’m thinking smoking “fruit from the crack pipe” would seriously inhibit a dating life.
The people who most deserve the Douchebag of the Month award is the officials who released this bulletin, because now it gave the idea to all of the rednecks living in squalor (and that makes up the bulk of Collier County, as I know for a fact, from having the misfortune to drive through that town once or twice when I lived in Florida). As much as it hurts my mind's eye to picture this, I know that every toothless, bumbling idiot is now shitting in a bucket, waiting for the magical moment when their crap turns into something that can get them high. Congratulations Collier County, you have earned it!
We had our first snowfall this week, very light, didn’t even accumulate. It marks the passage into winter, and also brings out the heartiness in us all, even prostitutes. Keeping in mind I do not have much respect for hookers (does anyone really?), I must give what little of respect I do have to the Frostitutes.
Frostitutes are the most hardcore of those that sell their body for money/drugs, and will go out in inclement weather, sometimes 20 degrees below zero. That is some serious work ethic. Hell, I don’t know why they don’t put it to a use that wouldn’t involve them getting ass beatings, STD’s, and drug addictions; like selling vacuums (although, I do feel the urge to beat down traveling salesmen). Who better to sell a vacuum that someone who REALLY knows about suction power? If they can walk their track marked asses down the street, peddling flesh, to random people, why would they be unable to knock on doors to wrangle strangers into pyramid schemes; they can be really convincing, whether it’s to deceive you into thinking those bumps are just from crotch shaving or that putting it in their butt is special.
The people who really benefit from Frostitutes are the johns. Sometimes these whores are so cold, they’ll fuck you at a discount rate just to keep warm. I like to think of it as fire sale poon, where they are trying to sell all the goods (I use that word loosely) quick as possible, at a discounted rate.
So next time you see a workin’ girl out there, tip your hat or give her some loose change to buy some meth, to warm her hands and heart with. It’s a filthy job (that sometimes ends with a fat man named Earl crapping on your chest) but someone has to do it.
By popular demand, and my brief mention of it yesterday, I felt I needed to share the story of my bowling alley fight. I will preface this by saying I am not a violent person, and the last fight I had got in before this was when I was 15. I am a happy drunk, one that spreads joy and humor like a prostitute spreads her legs (and ultimately STD’s).
Anyway, I was leaving Elsie’s with a group of friends, and we were waiting for the crosswalk sign to light up. When it did, the group of black girls behind us were impatient and told us to “Move out tha’ way.” Keeping in mind I am little feisty even while sober, much less when I’ve had a solid four hours of quality drinking in, I responded with a polite: “GO FUCK YOURSELF!” They were not as amused as my friends were. Next thing I know, I am flying through the street like Superman, because I had been pushed from behind. I was fortunate there weren’t cars coming because I would’ve been hit.
When I got up, I was not in a particularly charitable mood, because I am relatively tall for a chick, I usually don’t have people starting shit with me. So, I did the reasonable thing, and punched her in the throat. People have asked me why I didn’t punch her in the face… the answer seems obvious: it’s really hard to hit someone back when you are trying to breathe. People have also asked me what she said after that; she wasn’t doing a whole lot of talking, as she was concentrating on not swallowing her tongue. Her friends were shocked and laughing at her, saying something about “OHHHhhh SNAP WHITE GIRL HIT YOU.” My friends were scared and saying something like “OH FUCK THEY ARE GOING TO SHOOT US” and hustled me away before the situation could escalate. They now refer to it as “The Night We Could’ve Died.”
My elbow was all bloody and gross, and I had hit the ground hard enough to tear my jeans and still bust up my knee. Overall, I think I still won, because I got the last hit in. And if anyone disagrees, we can fight about it.
I went to a wine tasting this weekend, and was pleasantly surprised it wasn’t one of those pretentious, stuffy events that wine tastings usually are. It was out in Elk River, which for those not familiar with the twin cities area, it is out in B.F.E., almost an hour away from Minneapolis. Honestly, if I had known it was that far away, I would’ve probably brought the flask for some in-transit drinking.
This was honestly the first wine tasting I’ve been to that had Led Zepplin playing in the background (I KNOW! I was impressed too!) and a cooler full of beer for the guys that came with their significant others. Not to mention the Swedish meatballs in the crock pot (which, makes even more sense, because it IS Minnesota, where those are considered a staple at all functions). All the people that came were great, and laid back, which is also not typical of wine tastings. It’s not very often people ask me to tell the story of when I got into a fight outside of a bowling alley when I’m at wine tasting.
Which reminds me, my new friend Cardi, inspired a new analogy for me; she was telling me about her sister, that has a four year old, and some of the issues of poor behavior and whatnot from the kid. Anyway, this got me thinking of when I first moved in with Lawyerman, his son was four, and honestly, four year olds are like crackheads. Everything they want, be it pokeman cards or candy, they think they need it or they will instantly die. Just like crackheads, they will lie, cheat and steal to get whatever it is they want. It is imperative you deal with a four year old like a crackhead, telling yourself that the decision you’re making is in their best interest, and also like a crackhead, their judgment is flawed, thus you must stick to your guns . Oh, the wisdom brought on by merlot!
Anyway, the wine tasting was put on by The Traveling Vineyard, which to me seems to be a better idea than selling cosmetics, pink Cadillacs aside. Also, I like their idea of getting people drunk, and then having them fill out sales info. Perhaps if Mary Kay got the people boozed up, they would have better success.
I had an interesting conversation with my new coworker yesterday. Granted, at the beginning of the discussion we laid down the ground rules, that we were tabling all sexual harassment issues and such. He starts out by asking me and my other laid back coworker if we take shits at work. After the laughter stopped, we said, “of course.” It’s a proven fact that when you take a crap on the clock it always is more satisfying.
He explained the reason for asking is because our walls are paper thin, and when he is filing, he can hear people taking a dump. I asked if it was some sort of fetish, but he said no, but he was scared to take the Cosby kids to the pool because he didn’t want people to hear him. He said he can’t just go in there and do his business, he puts on a show, complete with the sounding of “trumpets.” Sarah, who sits nearest to the bathroom said that she turns on her radio to mask the sounds of the browns going to the super bowl (or sometimes to cover up me getting sick from a hangover); she calls it her “Shit Radio.” I told him he just needs to try to be more stealth about it if it bothers him… Ninja Crapping!
This brought to mind an anecdote LawyerMan told me of when he was in law school, that when they were remodeling the men’s bathrooms, they removed the dividers but kept the stall doors. So you could sit on the throne, and look down at a line of guys taking the hobbits to Isengard. Why bother to leave up the doors? Were they encouraging the guys to hold hands, in a sort of a men’s Lamaze while they took the brownies out of the oven?
You never really know how much shit you have until you are forced to move it. Then, you are given a religious-like experience where you find out what is actually important to you… important enough to wrap in bubble wrap, pack into a box, struggle with tape and then load into a truck, only to be forced to unload it and eventually unpack it. You ask yourself questions like “Do I REALLY need a Dolly Parton snow-globe? Hmmm, her top DOES come off…”
Yesterday I took the day off work to help LawyerMan finish moving into his new house, and it wasn’t so much an act of goodwill, as the fact that a good percentage of the crap needing to be moved was mine and I did not want it left behind for the squatters. The beginning stages of moving are always calm, well organized, and somewhat lackadaisical. The end is not; you’re just throwing random shit in a box (why wouldn’t a bathroom plunger, batteries, and coasters belong together?) so at the end, you’re left with your trashcans stacked inside each other, like Russian dolls, with the smallest of the three containing beanie babies and oven mitts.
Rather than move the contents of the liquor cabinet (hey, why add the extra stress?), I decided to take it upon myself to finish them off. I started off with alcohol that made sense to mix, like peach shnapps and banana rum. Towards the end, I was rethinking my decision, but made the best of the dregs of a bottle of kahlua and goldshlagger. This did make the moving experience more bearable. However, as the trick-or-treaters started to arrive last night, and I ran out of candy (Easter candy, if you were curious… kids are totally suspicious when you give them chocolate rabbits and marshmallow eggs for Halloween), I decided to start getting rid of some of the shit that Lawyerman and I didn’t need. Those ungrateful bastards… can you believe they weren’t interested in warped Tupperware and excess packaging tape? Hell, it's better than candy corn. They are lucky I didn't vomit in their bags of smarminess.
