Like a Drunk Betty Crocker W/ More Cleavage...

Today was potluck at work, and although these events have a high occurrence for craptasticness, we manage to avoid it. I’ll still never understand the appeal of a green bean casserole. It looks and tastes like someone else already ate it, and threw it up. It’s the kind of food that should be regulated to a “two girls one cup” type of situation. So, we had a sign up sheet, but we had to periodically hide it, because one of our coworkers who sells for the lesser of the three magazines we produce is a heinous beast. She treats us all like she knows how to do our jobs better than us, and is just an overall a distinct displeasure to work with. Granted she had some questions when she came in.
Q: “Why is the kitchen full of food and dirty dishes” A: “Well it IS the kitchen!”
Q: “Why is their a crock pot full of chili dip in the copy room?” A: :Why wouldn’t there be a crock pot in the copy room?”
Q: “Why is there a hibachi grill outside?” A: “uhh we were just burning old copies of the magazines…”

Last night to prepare for said potluck, I made cupcakes, Tequila Mockingbird style. The most key ingredient in my strawberry shortcake cupcakes is not love, but a glass with three fingers ketel one, the rest sugar free cranberry, and then a splash of diet ginger ale. Now, normally I would prefer to make my cupcakes from scratch, buuut some of us have more important things to do, like drink and look at porn, so this was not possible. Instead, I got the yellow cake mix, added a spoonful of strawberry preserves, then added more strawberry preserves to the buttercream frosting, and fresh strawberries on top. It’s like I’m Betty Crocker, only with more cleavage and the smell of vodka on my breath.

My cupcakes were a success, and I’ll say this… making hamburger patties at work made me feel like I worked at Mcdonald’s. It was sweet; my job was low pressure and the I didn’t have a care in the world, other than hoping my shift manager didn’t find out I was beating off in the meat (that’s what they do at those places, right?)

Thundercats vs. Squid

My sugar-free red bull addiction has me all hyped up this morning, so this post might be a little scattered. First of all, my deepest, darkest fears are coming true. Not too long ago I wrote about how squid scare the bejesus out of me. Now, it seems they have found a 1,089 lb, 26 foot long squid; you laugh now, but when they evolve to have bones in their body and come ashore to fuck you up with their acid-ink, it wont be so funny. So, it’s time to take some action, and eat more calamari.


Second order of business is to attend to this meme that I inadvertently started when asking one of my bizarre questions on a comment on Malach’s blog. “If you could go back in time, and combine your genes with any non-human animal, to create a super race, what would it be and why?” Well, this has already been somewhat done for me by a children’s television show, The Thundercats. I would combine my superior Irish seed with a cheetah, because of their speed and stealth. Unfortunately, they aren't so good adapting to new environments, but as proven when I adapted to a new climate with a move from Florida to MN, my genetics would iron that out. Also, just like cheetahs, I am spotted as well. See what an awesome thundercat Cheetara I make! Not to mention, a Thundercat could totally whip the ass of bony squid...



And finally, last night was a sad night at Uptown Old Chicago; it was my favorite waiter James' final night working there. He's moving on to bigger and better things, and I wish him the best of luck, but it's still a sad occurence. Thanks for overlooking my flask action, and forcing me to eat pizza when I'm too drunk. I'll definitely come visit you at your new digs in downtown.

Mucho Bacon, A Corset, and Negroville

The weekend was a bit more sedate compared to weekends that have come before. Friday we went to La Fonda, and I was pissed I didn’t get to see the mariachi band. Although, they had the perfect sized margaritas… Tequila Mockingbird size, in fact. After a couple of them, I did not care there was no mariachi band, nor did I care that one of the waitresses had a distracting tractor ass.
Saturday there was some awesome Mall of America shopping that culminated in a corset of “win”. After that we had some afternoon Guinness and watched “The Assassination of Jesse James, By The Coward Robert Ford,” which legitimately sucked balls. It was disjointed, and kept going off on rabbit trails. It reminded me of when my slightly senile Grandfather from the old country would get drunk and try to tell a story. You sort of knew what he was talking about, but overall it was confusing and hard to follow.

That night I ended up at Famous Dave’s where my corset of win got me into a bit of trouble. See, I tend to talk to random people when I drink, especially if there’s something about them that catches my attention. So I go up to this guy, and I’m like “I totally love your jacket, can I get a pic with you?” and he’s like “Sure; you know, I really love your shirt…”

Where is Negroville? I’m still not quite sure… I didn’t see it on a map. Anyway, the weird look on my face is because although you can’t see it, Mr Negroville put his hand on my ass. I was torn between drunken hysterical laughing and wanting to sodomize his eye socket with my elbow. I decided I did not want to go to jail, so I opted for disengaging his hand and scurrying away quickly.

Sunday, Landon and I were too lazy to yell at each other through the walls, so we just texted each other about getting ourselves to the Chinee Buffet. Afterwards we went shopping so he had some decent clothes to wear to his new job (before he had been ok with looking like a boxcar kid). He was actually unemployed for part of this week, and he made the most of his time by doing the following:

• Cooking 2 lbs of bacon (my arteries clogged from just smelling the greasy goodness!)


• Did his taxes (hey, better late than never)


• Pirated more dvd's


• Cleaned out his car, and found his slingshot inside (WTF? What, are you dennis the menace?)

Overall, a good weekend despite the light snowing. Thanks Minnesota... that's what the end of my April reeeeeallly needed!

An Open Letter To Those Who Walk Past My Apt:

Dear Passers-by,
I understand that my apartment is located on a heavily traveled street in Uptown. Trust me, that has not been lost upon me; when I hear car alarms going off in the middle of the night because juvenile delinquents are shaking them, how can I forget? Don’t get me wrong, I love my location, I’m within walking distance from a myriad of awesome places, many of them bars, and being able to walk to them (and stumble home) has kept me from getting multiple DUI’s.

Anyway, I’d just like to say a few things to those pedestrians that pass by my windows. Just because you can see in, does NOT make it ok for you to watch me on the elliptical. Seriously, I’m sweating off yesterday’s boozing to some Black Sabbath, and you’re just standing there like Creepy McStalkerson. You’re fucking lucky I didn’t have Landon shit in a paper bag and put it under the hood of your VW. He would’ve probably done it with glee.

Also, I can hear the shit you say when the windows are open. What, you think you smell weed? Great job Scooby Doo, you’ve solved the mystery!!! However, those plants in the window are not weed, dumbass; it’s goddamn cilantro and chives.

So you don’t like “Walk Hard: The Dewey Cox Story”? Well, I wasn't tickled pink by it either, but we had already gone to the trouble of downloading and burning it, so fucking a, we were going to finish it. But, when you, asshat-of-discriminate-tastes walks by and criticizes it, it makes me want to go outside and deliver a Christpunch to your taint.

Thanks for keeping this in mind when and if you walk down my street. It’s as much for your benefit as it is to mine, because you never know when some big guy in a ski mask might jump out of an alley to scare the shit out of you for annoying him and/or his roommate.

Sincerely Yours In Douchebaggery,
Tequila Mockingbird

My Dream Job

I was in a bit of a foul mood while driving to work today. and I thought about my dream job and what it would be. Granted I’ve toyed around with the idea of how awesome being a panhandler would be, but it was raining today, so that was out. And I started thinking about what I do best, my hobbies, interests etc… I LOVE BEING AN ASSHOLE, wouldn’t it be great if I could get paid for it? You may be thinking, who would pay you to be an asshole to people? Well, dear reader, I think there’s a bigger market than you may think for this service.

For example, your ex boyfriend is getting married. You pay me to stand up in the middle of the wedding and start screaming out “THIS PIECE OF SHIT GAVE ME GENITAL WARTS!!!!!” and start sobbing as I run out of the church. Did a resteraunt give you poor service or food? Well, hire me and I’ll go there with a purse full of rats, let them go and then stand on my chair, screeching about vermin and throw in some false fear of getting rabies. It’ll clear that place out in no time.

I could even employ the help of my obviously pregnant friends. We almost did it to Jason last week, but thougth better of it. Nothing really ruins the magic of a first date as much as having a pregnant girl come to your table, upset about her “baby daddy.” There are just so many awesome options for my asshole-for-hire business. Got a coworker you hate? Well, planting a flask or some drug paraphanalia in their desk and then sending an anonymous note to the boss will take care of that right quick!

Do you have people telling you that youre acting like a dick all of the time? Youre just the kind of person we are looking for to commit some douchebaggery for hire. And look at how much money that assbag Dr. Phil makes from being an asshole? That can be you!

Yard O Beef For Your Soul

Often I have wondered how and why they name products the way they do. Some names make me think the marketing team is either asleep at the wheel or coming up with them at the bar. For example, Sam’s Club offers Hilshire Farm’s Yard o Beef. MMmmm doesn’t that just sound appetizing? Fuck, I can feel my arteries clogging just typing it. It sounds like a bad, gay porno movie as opposed to something to eat.

Going along those same lines is Jig-a-loo, another product apropos for pornos. Instead of lube, it’s more like WD-40. They call it the “can of all trades,” which seems like they are just begging for someone to use it in the sack. It DOES say it’s “ideal for wood, metal, glass, rubber, leather, fabrics, most plastics, and a number of other surfaces…” So, strap on your chaps, lay down the rubber sheets, and lube up like a pro!

Some product names come from someone’s name. My ultimate favorite is Otis Spunkmeyer cookies. Yeah, maybe that’s the guys name, but it makes me wonder what OTHER ingredients are in his cookies… seems like something not quite kosher; they are indeed salty. About the only name for a cookie that might rival it would be “Cleatus Jizzmeyer.” It still gives the mental picture of some guy in overalls beating off into a bowl of cookie dough behind the shed.

Dick Blick’s actually changed their name when kids kept stealing the “B” (making it say “DICK LICKS” in large letters) which oddly enough, I can’t seem to find a picture of. Granted, I put in “Dick Licks” into google images, and I get all kinds of findings, but not quite what I’m looking for.

I’ve figured out what I would name a product if I had it. “Vodka for the Soul.” It would totally kick the ass of those heartwarming, sappy, religious-based stories. And honestly, I think vodka, tequila, whiskey, or rum for the soul might do more good than those piece of shit books.

Nose Fisting and Overindulgence in Jello Shots

Normally I try to keep posts brief, but sometimes a weekend of awesomeness is too much to be contained in a few paragraphs; so bear with me. Friday we made smores in the park. FYI- hot marshmallows feel like napalm. Saturday was a whirlwind, with me rushing back to Uptown to make over 100 jello shots at Hart’s house (these were significantly stronger than the last weekend's.. so much so the steam coming off of them burned my eyes). During the process, I slammed three Guinness in preparation for going to the museum for the “Deadly Medicine” exhibit with the gays. Granted, all of the Jew anhilation was a buzzkill, but Nazi douchebaggery is best dulled by chemicals.


















Before we saw that part of the museum, we looked at the displays about different viruses, immune systems etc… FYI- West Nile Virus is pretty (I felt like I could hollow it out and make a nice vase and/or bong) and I learned not to open the little door that on the asian girl’s face—she sneezes out water; Gross. Fisting the giant nose was probably the highlight of my science museum excursion.


















After the museum I had just enough time to run home, change, eat some mac n cheese and run next door. Calvin Crustitron made this awesome shot concoction he called "strip and go nakeds", with half OJ, half midori, and then a shot of beer. The highlight of the party is when someone brought swords; hilarity ensued. Once midnight rolled around, it was officially 420, we celebrated in the little room painted black with the glow in the dark stars. I used a new variation of my jello shot recipe, and I’ll admit they snuck up on me. Some people’s mediums are clay or paint… mine is jello, and I definitely refined my craft this weekend. Eventually, the room started to spin, and I was grateful I wasn’t on the roof with some of the others. It was indeed time to stumble next door to home.


I woke up fully clothed (including my boots), dried jello in my hair, and a headache (that’s a real shocker). A text message at 9:30am from someone who knows me better than I’d like to admit: “The good lord says it must be time for wake and bake.” My response: “The lord knows his shit!” Landon and I went to chinee buffet, and then met Hart, Jason, Troy and the chick he brought with him at Stella’s rooftop for two-4-one blue moons. Being the classy fellows that they were, they came in with a stack of 12 Uptown bar glasses that they had partially purchased and partially stolen. It was a chore trying to keep the staff from clearing the Uptown Bar glasses instead of just theirs. Some random guy came up and asked me what my shirt said and when I told him “If I had balls, they’d be bigger than yours” he said “ok, now I’m going to walk away emasculated.”

We went back to Jason and Hart’s to finish up the 25 or so jello shots left and to celebrate 420 while watching Superbad. We were going to get out on the roof and scream at people walking by, but I’m glad we thought better of it. Jason had told me that if I could sneak-thieve an Uptown bar glass from them and get it home, it was mine. That sounded like a challenge to me. So, Jason, I know you read this, and if you hadn't already noticed your count was off, now you know... I GOT ONE!

It was the kind of weekend that caused me to take and extra helping of vitamins and go to bed last night at 9:30.

Even Out The Evening With Thievery

Last night I met my friend Andrew out for drinks and to watch the Wild game at O’Gara’s. It’s a nice old place, with lots of character, so much so you can almost hear the carousing and drunken mick fights echoing from the walls. The bartenders were great. Jill, even bartended in Ireland for a few years; that’s the holy fucking grail of bartending! Both knew how to pour a Guinness properly, one even poured it with a shamrock on it. This may not seem like a great feat, but there was one bar I went to where my Guinness was all head, and although normally I like a lot of head, this bad pour earned the bartender a “LEARN HOW TO POUR GUINNESS CORRECTLY” in his tip line.

Unfortunately, they hid their chicken all the way at the bottom of their nachos. An appetizer shouldn’t be like a goddamn easter egg hunt. This was outweighed by their offering of candy in the bathroom. Thanks O’Gara’s, for helping my breath smell cinnamon-y fresh and not at all like booze! However, they had advertising on the bathroom door. Now, I work in advertising, BUT when I’m going to the bathroom, I want to be left alone. Instead, I was forced to look at a obese pasty white man, nipping out because he was doing a polar bear swim to support some affliction or special cause. Like most women, I do the hover method on public toilets because I’m paranoid of STD’s lurking on the toilet seat. Looking at this flaccid, hairy beast of a man with nipples large enough for a baby to suckle upon, I almost lost my balance, which could’ve meant bad news bears.

So far, there had been two positives and two negatives for this bar. I felt the only way to tip the scales was to bring home a new glass for my collection of pilfered bar glasses. A tear almost came to my eye when I saw this Widmer’s “hops and hoops” glass. It may just be my favorite acquisition!

Booze Infused Wisdom

Some of the wisdom that comes out of a night of drinking can be simply astounding. Usually, since my memory isn’t as clear, I need to write it down… this has led to me waking up with barely decipherable scrawls across my hands and arms. But, now we have a chalkboard in the kitchen to capture those sparkling gems that have been produced when the stars and drinks align to form brilliance. Here are some:

• “You know you’re on a date with the wrong person when you make out with them with one eye open, scanning the club for someone better…”


• “One refill does not a tip make” (this was after a drunken Chinese buffet excursion)


• “Best hit the books… No one wants to fellate a dullard”


• “Goatse is our generations walk on the moon… everyone will always remember where they were when they first saw him”

Yesterday it was finally nice enough to do some grilling, so Landon and I brought some drumsticks that I had soaked all day in three kinds of BBQ sauce, mesquite, and garlic powder, and then Hart, his girlfriend, and Jason had pasta salad and spicy brats. We played some cards, and Jason went on a date. We actually had a decent idea of where he was taking her in Uptown, and we toyed with the idea of finding him and having Nicole, Hart’s very very pregnant girlfriend, go up to him on his date and being like “I THOUGHT YOU LOVED US! WHO IS THIS WHORE?!?” but we aren’t totally douchebags.

Instead we went to Bar Abaleine for some two-for-one action and to watch the Wild game. Jason joined back up with us, and I’m not even sure what it was in reference to, but Landon came up with “No need to milk the prostate when you can get the clown for free..” but he said it with such conviction, it SEEMED like a golden nugget of wisdom. And sometimes presentation is everything; the appearance of knowledge can be more valuable than the knowledge itself. So next time a friend of yours is having a bad day, and needs some words of encouragement, take their hand in yours, look at them deep in the eyes, and say: “No need to milk that prostate when you can get the clown for free” and then walk away quickly, before they can ask you any questions.

Boot and Rally

What is boot and rally, you may ask.

Boot and Rally (n): to continue drinking steadily and heartily, even when you feel like passing out or getting sick; that’s the time to cowboy up and finish out the night in good form, without being a burden on others around you.

This was the quintessential boot and rally weekend. Friday, I burned 600 calories when I got home from work, then met Jason at Green Mill for a warm up with Absolut Pear and red bull. Luckily, the bartender I pissed off when he was a patron at another bar didn’t recognize me, or maybe just didn’t hold a grudge.

Landon personified the “boot and rally” spirit, as he had been ill all weekend, so much so he had missed a few days of work, and was hopped up on cold meds… yet he still managed to man up and came out with us. Hart, Jason, Landon and I snagged a cab to downtown, had a few at the Local, then went back to Uptown to Williams. I was drunk, to the point that I was failing at darts and spilled popcorn in the fooseball table. But after a text from Landon, telling me I needed to buck up because I was being a disgrace to the Irish, I managed in total boot and rally fashion, to become aware enough to notice when some chick was about to steal my coat. We finished the night off with some Ramen and pizza rolls, because HEY, why wouldn’t they go together?

I thought the party the gays were throwing was next weekend, but when I found out it was Saturday night, it was time to boot and rally yet again. It was a Caribbean-Hawaiian party, so of course I used it as an excuse to wear my pirate costume from Halloween. I couldn’t figure out why people were staring at me on the drive over, but then I realized that it IS a bit odd to see someone in a pirate costume in the middle of April…

I got there early, at 4 , so I could make Jello shots (I made double batches of grape, blue raspberry, red raspberry and peach), they turned out well, but I got Martha Stewart’d when someone else brought their jello shots in a hollowed out orange. However, because I did get there so early, I needed to take a time-out and drink water for an hour so I wasnt passed out by the time the majority of hte people arrived... HOWEVER, if you show up at 10pm and there are already people passed out, you KNOW you've come to a good party!

We made special brownies, but they weren’t like pants-on-head-special, more like different-classes-special (but not for lack of trying). We had two blenders out on the deck, and my blender leftovers of both margaritas and rummy fruity drinks the gays wanted me to make them drinks… as the night wore on, my proportions got a little fucked up, to where the last couple weren’t as fantastic as the first three or four batches.

I’m not sure how with 80-some people there, the majority of my pics had Timmy in them
We weren’t sure what to do with the coconut (we ended up pouring the milk into chocolate shot glasses), BUT we did get to find out how many drunk pirates it took to crack open a coconut.

Hey, Hey, Hey, Burrito Lady

It’s April, and I had the treat yesterday of experiencing every form of precipitation possible. At lunch, it was raining, at about 3 it started snowing, as I left work it was hailing and then on the way to my destination the slush action started. My commute this morning was pretty craptastic too! Anyway, I’m in a bit of a foul mood, as I only welcome nature giving me a hot carl when it gets me out of work. This did not happen.

As many people who work in an office environment know, there are a lot of bullshit phrases that get thrown around the way a monkey flings poo. They are usually tools of micromanaging, obfuscation, and overall occupational douchebaggery. Here are some of the all-stars:

• “Going forward…”- This is unnecessary and a waste of breath. What, are we going to go backwards instead? You aren’t Marty McFly, where it’s important to distinguish that shit.
• “Touch base”- We are not playing baseball, although when I hear it, I DO want to fuck someone in the face with a baseball bat. It’s also vague… am I to be expecting an email (those are my fave! I LOVE paper trails) or is it a phone call that I need to avoid so you are forced to email me?
• “Someone has a case of the Mondays!”- No, I just HATE you and would rather be spending the morning sleeping, getting head, working out, plucking my eyebrows, or almost anything else than being at work, pretending not to be hungover.
• Using "dub dub dub" in lieu of the "www" at the beginning of the website - This does not make you seem like any more hip or any less of a tool.
• "Thinking outside the box"-Frankly, I'm surprised when I find anyone thinking at all. Most of my thinking isnt so much in the box or outside of the box as thinking about boxes. Whether mine, or someone elses...
• “Team building exercise”- You’re kidding, right? Unless it’s happy hour, I doubt it will make me appreciate your subtle asinine sense of humor or tolerate your incompetence more.
• "I think we’ve had a bit of disconnect”- No, you are just a dumbass and have gotten yourself confused. Or, you are low priority, so I’m ignoring you.
• And my personal favorite: “Where are you with this”- Well, Chief, I’d be a lot further if you’d quit pestering me and let me do my job. And no, it’s not necessary to CC everyone and their goddamn mother when asking me this. I am very good at what I do, and you CCing people only annoys them because it fills up their inbox and makes you look like an uptight jackass. Way to go!

I Need More Dick

I don't feel like doing a legitimate post today, so I figure I'll plug some stuff instead.

First of all, Capt. Flak PaperPants has been doing awesome things with his webcomic, Dick Biggman. I have never plugged anything on here, because I'm not a tool. But, this is so fanfuckingtastic, that I must let the hillarity ensue for you as well. Besides, who WOULDNT want more dick? Just the fact I am plugging it should tell you how amused I am by it.

Secondly, I want to plug the guy outside my apartment building who gave me a dirty look when I was walking across the street with my bottle of Guinness last night. And by plug, I mean cap him in the ass, Charlton-Heston-shooting-some-goddamn-ghost-apes style.


Thirdly, here is one of my awesome birthday presents I received. I look good in it, but I might possibly look better out of it. Anyway, Thanks.


And then I leave you with this bomb ass remix of two of my favorite songs. Even if you aren't a whippersnapper, you should be able to appreciate it. If you cant, well then maybe you need to crack open a can of malt liquor and chill the fuck out.

Skeet Skeet Skeet

First of all, I want to thank everyone who left me birthday comments (whether here or on myspace), presents on their blogs, sent me texts/emails, AND a special thanks goes to the awesome person who sent me a tiara (I cause a ruckus enough when I go out, but the tiara really made the night). You all contributed to me having a fanfuckingtastic birthday. I got off work at 3, Landon was home because he had just got back from Oshkosh, and off we went to Stella’s (where they no longer have free shrimp on Friday’s, which seems a little bait n switchy to me…), then Chino Latino’s and finally Old Chicago. It was then about 6, so we took an intermission while Landon napped, and I worked out and re-hydrated. The Novice came over about 9, so we did pre drinking and got ready to hit downtown Minneapolis. I went out prepared, with a note that had my address on it, and a ten dollar bill (to cover the cab ride from downtown back home to uptown).

The cab driver was sufficiently amused with our chatter on the way there, specifically Landon’s desire to bend this hot milf with a broken foot over her walker and bang her hard. We went to Harvey’s first, where we met up with Camaroon, who hadn’t been out with us for a few months because he’s running for Congress. I won’t link him or use his real name, because I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be efficacious. Also, he’s doing well enough on his own, and he should officially get Democratic endorsement next week.

Anyway, next we went to Bella Notte, where I saw some bachelorette chick who also had a tiara on. I briefly considered fighting her for the honor of who gets to keep their tiara on, but we left soon after. Then we went to The Local, where I met some randoms who bought me shots and kept going on about birthday spankings. This offer was met with adamant refusal. From there we went to Brits, Chambers, and finally Jimmy Johns, and by then I was almost comatose on the cab ride back. It was sweet... I didnt buy any drinks for myself the entire night. But then, who DOESNT love a drunk girl in a tiara??

Saturday was an perfect day to have a birthday, being that it was beautiful and sunny, unlike the rest of the week that had been rainy, windy, and sometimes snowy. So Landon and I walked down to Figlios, then to Stella’s where they had their roof top café open finally. Calvin Crustitron came down to make up for douching out and not showing up for the previous night’s shenanigans. Sarah and Joe came joined us, and I got so into the two-for-one honeyweiss with orange slices inside, that I lost track of time and had to run the 4 blocks home to get ready for my evening plans at the Acme Comedy Club. Dinner, drinks and a comedian that didn’t incite my heckling made for an awesome night. Birthday spankings ensued afterwards. If I have more birthdays like this, maybe getting old isn’t so awful.

Birthday Bitch!

So tomorrow I hit the ripe old age of 24. Jesus pigraping Christ; I really don’t dig birthdays all that much because unfortunately, women only go downhill with age… at least guys can look “distinguished” or some bullshit. I guess I just need to hope that because I take good care of myself (heavy drinking notwithstanding), I'll age gracefully like my Aunt did and look like a cougar.

Despite not totally being enamored with my birthday, there are festivities planned that I’m totally psyched for. Also, Landon made me birthday pickles; unfortunately he put too much dill in them so they hurt your face with the sourness. I had to take them out of the fridge because they were making other food taste like goddamn pickles.

As I embark upon my agedness, I leave you with these lists--

Things I know:

• Do not pluck eyebrows while drunk
• Ninjas do not wear corduroy
• When bananas have more freckles than me, it's time to eat them or throw them out
• Lady mullets mean my plumbing will be fixed the first time
• If they come out with a new CSI show, The Who will be singing during the intro
• Don't watch colon cleansing infomercial while high; you'll get paranoid about the parasites and filth inside of you
• If you are a female in your 30's and have Nickleback's "Rockstar" as your ringtone, you probably will take it in the pooper.

Things I have yet to learn:

• Why would they make my wine fridge in such a way that a box of Franzia wont fit?
• Why can I not stop staring at someone with googly eyes? I never know where they are looking...
• I should not send emails while drunk, they are never flattering
• Why more businesses don't hire the mentally handicapped; they are funny as hell to watch try to work

Do you know what I want for my birthday? Well, besides a pony, I want a tampon taser. The fresh floral scent helps eliminate fear, not just cover it up!

UPDATE: now i want this for my birthday too (my tits would look GREAT in it):

April's Douchebag of The Month

Snow is melting, the sun is shining, birds are chirping… but douchebaggery doesn’t quit for spring; it’s always the right season! Now before I get into the meat (and I know I love meatiness, DON’T YOU?!?), I’d like to give an honorary douchebag runner up award to all of the people who said they were quitting blogging. Yes, haha, yesterday was April fools, BUT, to all of the ones who have threatened to swear off blogging forever, don’t just talk about it, do it. And if it’s being said to get people to pander to you and say: “Oh please don’t quit, you are a blogging rockstar,” you can suck a dumpster full of dicks.

Moving right along, the real douchebag heroes that have won this month are the Hookah smoking hipsters. Personally, I don’t get the idea of wanting to put smoke and filth in your lungs if you aren’t going to get high. If these were opium dens and not hookah lounges, I would be in full support of them. It’s almost akin to the scam of non-alcoholic beer. Why not just smoke something out of a light bulb that doesn’t get you high (but still makes your teeth rot out), so you can FEEL like you’re smoking meth. My main point is, why would you do something that gives you the negative aspects but yet gyps you over on the positive, pleasurable benefits? Who the fuck do you think you are, that blue caterpiller from Alice and Wonderland?


How about you shove those hookah mouthpieces up your ass (hell, you might get more pleasure out of it that way)? Blowing smoke up your ass is in essence what your friends and whomever else has done by convincing you going to these places is a quality idea. Not only are these goddamn hookah lounges a waste of fucking effort, but they are taking up prime realty in my trendy Uptown Minneapolis neighborhood. Yes, there are already a shit ton of bars within walking distance, but I’ve managed to piss off a bartender at one of my favorite places (THAT was a whole bag of fail on my part), so a new bar would be welcome at this juncture.

When being hip becomes more important than common sense, it’s time to put down the starbucks, take off your ipod, and think for yourself. If you cant do that, I hope you get raging mouth herpes from the hookah mouthpeice, as sort of a scarlet letter to warn everyone of your douchebagtitude.