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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.
