Saturday, December 18, 2010

Fuck Healing

Healing is overrated. Cookies. I fucking HATE motherfucking goddamn fucking shit fucking cookies!

But it's not the cookies. It's the lack of sense of accomplishment, right?

No, it's the fucking cookies. Fucking those stupid fucking cookies!

What Jew motherfucker decided it was a good idea to make honey cut-outs? Seriously, WTF? And before I get accused of being an anti-Semite, they were fucking Hanukkah cookies!! OK?!?! Obviously that recipe was made by a Sadistic Jew, or someone who wants me to hate Jews. WTF EVER! I fucking hate those cookies with the passions (of the Christ). Jews killed Jesus, Mel Gibson said so. Fucking Jews, validating the Bible, WTF? Honey is fucking STICKY which is not conducive to rolling it out on a counter top or scooping up the star-shaped pieces with a fucking spatula, ok? Get me?

And I burned my hand. I think I may have burned off my goddamn fingerprint! For fuck's sake, what in Thor's name possessed me to make these fucking cookies?

Yeah, maybe you read my last post and you were thinking "Go, Trbo! Take back your fucking life!" (but maybe without the fucking because maybe you don't have a friggin sailor-mouth like me).

Yeah, I thought the same thing, and we are Disappoint together.

If cookies were the metaphor for my life, if anyone smelled what I was cooking with the last post, then I am fucking doomed. I suck at cookies and I suck at life. There is no redemption here. No epiphany. Just some fucked up cookies, an aching back and a shitty mood.

I told myself I wouldn't do this. I am more than a little tired and I have a buzz going. I'm not, and by not I mean NEVER, an angry drunk. Something, many things, clicked tonight. And here I am, seething like a fat lady cheated out of a couple double cheeseburgers. So I told myself I wouldn't post a blog. After all, I felt the last post was insanely inspirational (for those of you who actually fucking got it for what it was) and I was hoping for a happy ending.

We all hope for these stupid fucking romantic comedy happy endings. This is real life, there are no happy endings. There are death and taxes. That's it, fuckers. No prince charming that falls in love with you despite you acting like an emotional douchebag and we all live happily ever after blah blah blah. Doesn't happen. You keep trucking, taking "one day at a time" until the days pile up on your to-do list like dirty diapers until you can't stand the stench and move out of your house leaving the mess for the landlord. And you keep running. Ok, maybe not you, let's be real here because we're talking about me. You keep acting like the charming bitch with a mouth that may be a bit too big and outspoken, yet has it all fucking together.

Guess what? It's not all together. It's been FAAAARRR from all together for a long time. And there is only so much pretending you can do, bitches, before it all comes back and bites you in the proverbial ass. I'm not going to lay out my gripes. I am going to let you chew on my convoluted metaphors til you choke.

Schadenfreude!

************REAL TEXT EDIT:***************

I text my mom:

Me: I will clean up tbhe rest of my mess in the morning. And if you so much as look at me like you wanna bitch at me I will shove a tray of goddamn cookies up ur ass... love ya mom.

Mom: Ok!

I literally rolled on the floor laughing hysterically and crying at the same time. I need help. for realz.

Friday, December 17, 2010

The Cookies

One of my favorite adult memories of Xmas is baking cookies. Coincidentally, one of my favorite childhood memories is helping my mom bake cookies. I guess it's not so coincidental. You see, I have this need for perfection, and I was naturally good at baking, so one year I decided to make my own cookies that would blow everyone away, and I am pretty sure they did.

It was a testament to my freedom, my independence from my parents, my creativity and my skills, all rolled into one, and I loved every fucking minute of it. Maybe that's why it's been so hard for me the past couple of years. I haven't made cookies since my husband left me. It's been three years since I've made cookies. This might not seem like anything to you, but it's a big deal to me... and I will tell you why.

Every year, since the first year I started making cookies, I had a routine. That routine was mine, my kitchen was mine, my cookies were mine. I owned it. I would look up recipes online and decide which cookies to make. They were usually the most ridiculously involved ones, because, again, I was a perfectionist who would not be outdone. I had one simple recipe, and those were the best, the peanut butter thumbprints with a hershey kiss in the middle. Everyone loved them, after I stopped making them, for a few years, everyone asked for them. I even made some for a wedding 2 years ago, but not for the holidays. Eventually, everyone stopped asking. This saddens me (again, I will get to that and why this is such a big deal to me that I am going off my obnoxious beaten path of humor writing).

I would plan for days when I was going to bake cookies, and everyone was to leave me alone. On cookie day, I would go to the grocery store and purchase my ingredients, one of the rare times that the grocery store doesn't make me an anxious, frustrated mess, capable of homicide with a shopping cart. I'd then stop at the liquor store for a bottle of champagne. When I got home, I would set everything up, then I would put the Trans-Siberian Orchestra on the kitchen CD player, pour my champagne into a ludicrously fancy etched, iridescent blue flute (I remember always filling the glass too much and having to suck the foamy bubbles off the top) and get to work. Every now and then, while cookies were in the oven, I would wander out into the dining room to admire the white-lighted tree with the burgundy velvet bows at the end of its boughs, woodsy, rustic ornaments, golden bulbs and aromatic pine scent.

That was always my favorite part of the Holidays: the decorations. My husband and I coordinated everything. A rustic, gold and burgundy theme with rich fabrics and sparkling metallic trims. It turned our little cape cod into a slightly magical retreat. And it was mine.

Actually baking the cookies was a serious chore. Oftentimes, I would be up until all hours of the night before finally crumpling into bed with achy feet and back, but not before I admired all of my handy work, beautifully laid out in huge aluminum turkey pans and eventually covered in tinfoil. There were usually 3 of these pans, filled to the brim with assorted cookies.

I always felt accomplished. ALWAYS. This is, sadly, one of the fews things in my life that has ever given me that feeling, without fail.

The next day, I would wake and clean my mess, without a hint of dread or complaint. That mess was the result of a huge accomplishment, there was no need of complaint. And everyone always loved those damned cookies. It's almost like childbirth, lots of pain, a huge mess, but completely worth every push and stitch (or dishes and mopping, if you will).

When my marriage fell apart, I felt completely defeated. I stop baking cookies, bought a fake tree and always hated cleaning. You see, I had my own little domestic routine. I was the one who made the best goddamn cookies and everyone wanted them. I made them with my own hands, with ingredients that I purchased, in my own kitchen of my own house that I worked my ass off to buy and keep. I had my own family. I was the wife who made the best friggin cookies in the family. Even though people asked me for them after that, I could never bring myself to go through the motions, because I knew it would hurt too bad, to be doing it on my own, even though I had always forbade my husband to help me or even come near me while I was making The Cookies.

Since my divorce, and the death of my father in the same year, I feel like my life, and my drive to accomplish, has gone downhill. I felt like I was no longer normal. I felt like I had the white fucking picket fence and someone came in with a fucking bulldozer and smashed it to pieces.

A friend invited me to a party this weekend. Usually, I just pick something up, but he told me not to bring anything. Then I thought about The Cookies. It turns out, this group of friends has become very much like family to me. I was driven to make The Cookies. Instead of looking upon this task with dread, I found myself wanting my old routine, my old tradition, that was solely my own.

So here I am, ingredients on the counter of my mother's house, glass of champagne (in a less pretentious glass, because the flutes are packed, but don't think for a moment I didn't contemplate popping over to Target to see if they had any) The Trans-Siberian Orchestra on the kitchen CD player, and the same feeling of excited determination to make the best goddamn cookies.

I don't need a husband or a "traditional" family to be happy. I don't need to own my own little cape cod with hardwood floors. I don't need, nor do I want, to be "normal".

I am going to make The motherfucking Cookies, and they are going to kick ass.


Happy Solstice, my Fellow Cohorts in World Domination.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Proud Mary - I Love You!

So my sister-in-law graduated from nursing school last night. Evidently this school is something akin to Hitler's Concentration Camps and getting through it is a miracle (getting through it with your marriage intact is like the immaculate conception), instead of a tattoo, you will forever bear the emotional scars of Abu Ghraib pyramid sessions. This was made very evident by the first nursing graduate who got up to "speak". I use the term speak loosely because it was more like squeaking out a barely intelligible word or two in between sobs. I mean, seriously, chicky... You're graduating, not giving a eulogy. It's even more unsettling that this emotionally unbalanced woman may one day be tasked with saving my life. If she's crying because she's graduating, what's going to happen if she sees my half split open body and brains seeping out of the side of my head from a horrible car crash with a semi-truck??

Thankfully, that part of the evening didn't last long.

We then end up at some hillbilly bar in Bum Fuck Egypt. I swear, I have never seen so many rusty pick-up trucks with over-sized wheels (with Confederate Flags in the windows, no doubt) packed into one parking lot. Compared with those and the occasional early 90's beater sedans, my brother's black Subaru STI, sparkling clean and sporty, looked quite out of place. As did all of us who still had all of our teeth in tact.

As the nurses pile into the bar with their cute little nurse hats, there was many a call for the need for CPR by the locals (whom you couldn't pay me all the money in the world to put my mouth on). This made me infinitely glad that I choose to fix computers instead of people, because I would have left most of those morons laying on the street dying... Regardless of the fact that it took about 15 minutes to get a drink, causing us all to wise up and double fist, the bartender was a nice guy with several facial piercings who took to calling me "love".

We were accompanied by my mother and my sister-in-law's gay boyfriend who, as it turns out, was my boyfriend for a short period of time in 7th grade. After many accusations of turning him gay and discussions of the dorky photo of the two of us, I was well into my third or fourth vodka tonic. Things started getting interesting when I was having a discussion with a chubby bearded guy at the bar who was somehow part of this nursing graduate party. I remember him bitching about the bartender and me loudly exclaiming that the bartender was awesome and busting his ass to do his job that night, to which chubby beard guy looked a bit embarrassed and scolded me for announcing his displeasure so loudly. It was quite evident that me and this guy were going to clash and, being the instigator that I am, I of course took it to the next level by letting the bartender know, in front of chubby guy, how awesome he was.

It was soon revealed by SIL's gay boyfriend that chubby guy and I were going to clash because of our political views. That's when he started trying to argue politics with me. Knowing better, I just continually taunted him with the fact that I would PWN him in any argument, instead of actually saying anything political. He kept trying to actually argue with me and the SIL stepped in. It was one of those scenes that was completely amusing, but might look like an actual heated argument to an outsider. That's when the pussy whipping started. His wife came over in a fury and dragged him away from the conversation. I chuckled to myself as they sat in a corner and "talked" for an extended period of time. Needless to say, he didn't talk to me for the rest of the night and even abandoned his beer instead of coming near me to collect it. His wife also refused to engage in conversation with me and pretty much shunned any attempt I made at being cool with her, as if I wanted to hook up with her man-boob husband (admitted my him, I don't want to seem like a total asshole here)... (actually, he seemed like a pretty nice guy, despite our differences of opinion and I would have gladly engaged in a political discussion with him under different circumstances and relished in owning his ass).

Then the dancing started... Fortunately, I can handle my liquor and never got drunk enough to actually repeat my last failed attempt at dancing. All I remember from that time was ending up in a headlock by some guy who had the unfortunate desire to engage me in some sort of swing dance maneuver. It was followed by an annoyed glare from him at my inability to twirl around on a dance floor while drunk, lack or rhythm and complete clumsiness and the statement "I'm not supposed to be choking you". No shit, Sherlock. Ever since then, I have preemptively refused to dance, for any reason whatsoever. Even when hot guys ask. Though, I did engage in singing a horrible rendition of some Hootie and The Blowfish song, thankfully not on a microphone.

Things start getting a little fuzzy at this point. One of my SIL's reads my blog and I remember, distinctly, mentioning several times that I was going to put whatever funny thing that was just said or occurred in my blog and how epic it was going to be... Regrettably, I don't actually remember any of those funny things. I do remember where I got the title for this post, and only because my SIL posted it on my wall. It was, however, one of those things you just had to be there for. It involved horribly loud singing on our part to the Proud Mary song which was met with irked gazes from some hot bald guy and his friend. I also distinctly remember being very loud. Actually, it may be more that I know my volume levels are directly proportional to my blood-alcohol level and because everything was fairly fuzzy at this point, I must have been really loud.

Now things really get blurry... I remember having a conversation about sex with one of the gay guys (who happened to be bald) and another guy (who, I remember thinking was pretty damn hot and told me I had a nice smile, which I evidently took as an offer to buy me a drink and took him up on it, much to his dismay). Something about "throwing her legs over your shoulders". I remember being accused by the bald gay guy of thinking he (the gay guy) was hot and being "moist" in his presence. And I remember me and the bald gay guy scoping out some dude in a flannel and a hat (that may or may not have had a John Deere logo on it).

We were discussing whether or not he'd be good in bed. I pointed out the fact that he was a redneck, as obviously indicated by his flannel shirt (which was not being worn in the ever-popular "grunge" style). Gay guy stated that he was good looking (he was) and could probably go home with anyone he wanted in this bar. To which I pointed out that most of the "regulars" in this particular bar were probably toothless trailer trash. He said something about toothless being a benefit and we kind of left it at that. This conversation prompted the next memorable scene.

As we are leaving the bar, I approach Mr. Flannel Shirt with a mischievous grin on my face and proceed to explain, rather poorly, that me and the gay guy were talking about his "abilities" in "certain situations". (Now, I feel the need to reiterate that I just said "gay friend" to a dude in a flannel in a redneck bar) He was smiling, but there was a gleam in his eyes that indicated trouble. Being the badass that I am, I totally ignored this and continued to prod him about how he felt about said abilities. To which he responded "ask her" and pointed to the stereotypical redneck, straw-haired, nasty toothed (ok, I am assuming on that one, because believe me, she wasn't smiling), muffin-topped chick. Rather than leave well enough alone and make a dignified exit, I proceed to go over to her, put my arm around her and explain the conversation me and my "gay friend" had... Trailer-trash was not amused. With a homicidal look in her eye, she ordered me to "get the fuck out of here". I didn't need to be told twice. With the same mischievous grin on my face, I walked ran out of the bar.

We proceeded to cause more drunken mayhem at Kings. There was talk of nipples and being stabbed twice. These might be very painful memories for some (aka my brother/chauffeur, who doesn't drink), so I will not reopen old wounds. Let's just say, despite pissing off at least 2 women, I managed to get through the night with my awesome face still intact.

Thursday, December 9, 2010

Letter to Santa

Dear Santa,

Listen, you're a cool guy, but we need to talk. You see, I'm having some issues with the whole concept of me shelling out hundreds and you getting all the credit. That being said, I have told my offspring that you are not real. I'm sorry, but it had to be done. To make up for all the years of me not getting credit for the debt I have put myself in, in your name, I am sending you my list of demands wish list. I have carefully calculated, and the following should, at least partially, make up for all the money I have spent on gifts from you:

1. A year's supply of vodka. 182.5 fifths should do it. Don't be cheap either. Get the good stuff: Rain Organic, preferably, if not, then Gray Goose will do. Also, throw in a bottle of that Crystal Skull stuff, I really want one of those skull-shaped bottles.

2. A tummy tuck. That 8lbs 10oz thing that I popped out, who gave you many years of credit, has caused my abdomen to have a striking resemblance to a deflated balloon. You can help me fix it.

3. A Mitsubishi Lancer EVO... EVO. Don't think you're gonna pull off the lesser model on me. Make sure it has a sunroof.

4. Heroin. Yes, you heard me. I really want to try some heroin and since I don't know any shady drug dealers (and if I did, I wouldn't want them to know I actually want to try heroin, because they would turn my into a drug addict prostitute and I would be stuck with all of the toothless, old and/or stinky clients because of my deflated belly), you seem to be my last hope of fulfilling this wish. If you can't pull that off, maybe some shrooms?

5. Sweetmeats. Just find them and bring me some.

6. One night with David Draiman. Make it happen. We'll need to time this before my tummy tuck in case I become impregnated with his love child.

7. Front row tickets (and backstage passes, like 10 of them) to a Pink Floyd concert. You're Santa, you can bring Richard Wright back from the dead, right?

I think that should do it. Please note that I expect these on or before December 25th. (That's the day we celebrate Jesus' birth, even though he wasn't really born then.) Actually, I celebrate the Solstice, so have these to me by December 21st. You can't discriminate based on religious beliefs, the Constitution says so. No need to bother with the reindeer, goofy costume and all that. You can come in sweats or just mail it. If you send it UPS, please let them know they are not allowed to hold my shit in New Stanton for a day or two, k?

Yours truly,
Trbobitch

P.S. If you can't pull any of that off, for whatever reason, just make Ron Paul president and we'll call it even.

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Open Letters: Vol. 1

When you write Open Letters to people like Brett Favre (Faaaaahhhh-v), they deserve their own post. Sometimes, though, things piss you off and you just need a quickie to express your vexation. Since I like to keep my posts fairly long, I decided to condense several open letters into volumes. Why am I even explaining this? It's MY blog! If you don't like it, go play in traffic.



Dear UPS,

Let me start by saying that I love you for delivering my many packages in a timely manner and not using them to play hacky-sack or dodgeball (as I am convinced the assholes at USPS do, because they are always late and wrapped in that plastic that says, "Gee, we're sorry we fucked up your stuff. We certainly hope it wasn't anything valuable, or fragile - as the box indicates with the big FRAGILE sticker, though we're sure that's just decoration. We'll be more careful next time. Maybe.").

However, I do have a HUGE gripe with you... Why, UPS? Why do you insist upon holding my package in New Stanton for a day (sometimes 2!!)?? You do understand that New Stanton is less than an hour away from me, right? I mean, I could see if it got there at 5:00pm... but they get there at 2:00 or 3:00am. You mean to tell me that you can't throw that bad boy on a truck (not really throw it) and deliver it to me that day?

I understand what you're trying to do. You don't want my expectations to be too high, because you guys are so fucking fast, but come ON... One more day isn't going to have me expecting to receive my packages an hour after they're shipped! Besides, you do realize that your tracking page shows me where my shit is, right? When I consistently see it sitting in New Stanton for a day or two, it makes me sad - and angry. Whatever awesome thing I am anticipating is sitting in the armpit of Pennsylvania, so close, yet so far away, instead of in my hands where I can admire it. How would it make you feel if I died that day, without ever getting to see whatever awesome thing I purchased, all because you decided to hold it in New fucking Stanton for an extra day? Not too good, I suspect (or maybe you would...).

I want to also add that I especially hate when you do this on Friday, because my package inevitably sits until Monday. Even though you do deliver packages on Saturday, evidently you feel whatever paltry thing I have is not worthy of being delivered until Monday. I am pretty sure it's a conspiracy to torture me. I get all excited seeing that my stuff made it to New Stanton by Friday until I look at the estimated delivery date and it's not until Monday. Then I spend the entire weekend in anxious anticipation of the item and distressed by the fact that I am spending my entire 2 days off without it when it is sitting in some shithole less than an hour away from me.

Why do you enjoy torturing me? Schadenfreude?

Going forward, please just drive the extra 40 minutes and bring me my stuff, k?

Sincerely,
Trbobitch

--------------------------------------------------------

Dear Coworker (you know who you are),

Please work from home. Every day. If you can't do that, please stop turning up the A/C in summer and turning down the heat in winter. Seriously, I know you're old and chubby, but I thought old people were supposed to be cold all the time? Maybe if you would stop eating all that questionable Chinese Food, you wouldn't be hot all the time? Just please stop making me wear gloves at work, it's hard to type.

Sincerely,
Trbobitch

P.S. Please stop breathing like Darth Vader. I will buy you breathe right strips.

--------------------------------------------------



Dear Vodka,


I love you, don't ever change (being on sale doesn't count as change).

Your loyal consumer,
Trbobitch

Tuesday, December 7, 2010

Real Text: The Teenager Went Down to Georgia

So you've heard of real sex, right? Tell me I am not the only on who remembers that!?! Anyway, I thought it might be funny to post real text messages I receive, because I am too lazy to write... Trust me people, I can't make this shit up!

So you all know my mom went to Georgia to see her boyfriend... This was the text conversation we had after she got there...

It was around 6:00 on the day she went, she was supposed to get there early afternoon and I gave her very specific instructions to call/text me when she got there. I hadn't heard from her and visions of psychotic axe murders were running through my head (some of you may wonder why I wasn't concerned sooner... I am too self-absorbed to care about such things until hours after I should care...) Anyway, I finally realized I hadn't heard from her and texted:

Me: U get there ok?? Everything good?

(she didn't answer)

Me: MOM!!!

Mom: What?

Mom: I'm doing fine! having a good time. Is zach ok?

Me: All is well glad ur having fun and that Eugene* is not a psychotic axe murderer.

Mom: Oh my hes chasing me around the room with an axe and i give him 30 min to stop . Help!

Me: Dammit woman don't make me fly down there with my samurai dagger of doom!!!

Mom: Already been stuck twice. Thank u!


OMFG... Yeah. That's it. I don't need to write a closing paragraph, that speaks for itself... Help?


*Names once again changed to protect the elderly

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

TSA Story Update

***If you don't read my blog or you're not interested in the satire piece I did on a TSA suing a passenger for farting, please skip this post***


For those of you familiar, you may be interested to know that I got well over 500 hits on that post in the 6 days since I've posted it. One of the major referring URLs was http://912communique.ning.com/page/vent-34I went there, intending to see what context it was posted in and what kind of feedback it was getting (more like, to see if more fucktards believed it was a real story). Turns out, this is a private forum... (oo_OoOo!) So I applied, with a fake name of course, one that's not the one that shows up when I send emails, and even through the super secure acceptance process where I had to check a box that said I agree to 912 principles (LMFAO!) and reply to an email, I was accepted.


Now, I wish I had all the comments for you, but you'll see why I don't. What I do have is my response to these fucktards:


Are you retarded? No wonder this country is in such horrible shape... People can't even discern satire from real new. Jesus H. 
"bloody insane asylum this country has become!" - I was thinking more like a home for retarded people, but close enough. 
sat·ire     
[sat-ahyuhr] 
–noun 
1. 
the use of irony, sarcasm, ridicule, or the like, in exposing, denouncing, or deriding vice, folly, etc. 
2. 
a literary composition, in verse or prose, in which human folly and vice are held up to scorn, derision, or ridicule. 
3. 
a literary genre comprising such compositions.



And the response I got to that:


justfolk replied to your comment on Vent 3.4 - 912 Communique\' / 912 Communique' - Better Communication for 912ers
trboBITCH........................ 
Don't quit your day job.... a satirist you aren't 
Jerk wad seems to fit tho....LOL  


Ooooo! Jerk wad I am! That's a new one for me. I have to admit, I am a bit Disappoint "justfolk", I have been called so much worse and I was hoping to get something a little more colorful. 


Unfortunately, the original comment with the link to my blog and all of the replies have been deleted, so I could not point out that until I made my comment, everyone of those asshats thought my story was real, so evidently I didn't fail entirely.


Now, your mission, should you choose to accept it, my fellow cohorts in World Domination, is to join this site and post your own satirical story about the TSA and see how many stupid Beck-heads fall for it.

Face It, You're Severely Out of Shape, Fatty

Sometimes life kind of bitch slaps you in the face with not-so-wonderful revelations. Like the fact that you're pretty much a lazy fat-ass. My realization came yesterday when I used my new Xbox Kinect (Ok, it's not really mine... sure, I paid for it, but I bought it for my kids, and when I say I bought it for my kids, that means that I wanted it, and since Xmas is fast approaching, the kids were a perfect excuse for me to blow $300 on a video game system on my Best Buy card and get out of mugging several little old ladies to buy toys for them**). In addition, I also purchased, for my children of course, EA Active. It's basically an interactive workout game (cause, you know, I don't want my kids to be lazy fatties).

I was all psyched to try this out last night when I got home from work (after being up since 5:30 am and going grocery shopping after work). So I open the plastic wrap on the box, pry off the tape keeping the box closed (because, apparently, the plastic wrapping wasn't enough to keep the box closed), then remove the various twist ties, cardboard separators and the remove the further layer of plastic wrap and tape from the game case in addition to putting batteries (which were wrapped in plastic) in the heart rate monitor (which now seems like a very appropriate and necessary accessory). You'd think by now I'd be thoroughly pissed, but I knew these one-time obstacles would be absolutely worth it, considering the soreness of my arms from playing the Kinect Sports boxing game at my brother's on Thanksgiving. I was about to become a fit, sexy fucking superhero... Maybe I will enter a female bodybuilding competition (or just actaully be able to wear a bikini).

I finally got everything unwrapped, connected, put together and working. In my sweats, sports bra and headband, I was ready to kick some ass. Figuring that, since I can do 30 minutes on a moderate resistance on the elliptical and 90 minutes of intermediate Pilates, this would be a breeze, so I put it on intermediate. Piece of fucking cake, let's go! After my warm up and some adjusting of the Kinect sensor, I was still very optimistic about how easy this was going to be (I didn't even let the fact that it gave my in game avatar a gigantic ass, despite the fact that I chose "average" for body shape, get me down). Once the actual exercising started, I realized that my "personal trainer" was actually a sadistic dominatrix. She smiled and gave encouraging phrases such as "you can do it! Just follow my moves!" as she did things that I figured were only possible if you were a professional contortionist with a body made of 20% silly putty. She had no regard for the fact that I couldn't breathe and felt like my legs were going to collapse beneath me.

You seriously underestimate the difficulty of jumping from a squat until someone makes you do it 45 times in your own living room. The 20/28 exercises remaining seemed daunting and impossible by this point and I was wondering who would call an ambulance if I had a heart attack right there? I made sure my cell phone was close by, but I have never had a heart attack and I don't know if it's possible to actually operate a phone while having one or if I would just fall over dead at the indirect hands of Bill Gates. By the second round of "mountain biking", which was a series of squatting, jumping and running in place, all I could think of was how much I wanted the brand new bottle of organic vodka sitting on the kitchen counter, then I remembered that vodka (and other types of alcohol) probably take at least 80% of the blame for why I can't do simple things like jumping without feeling like Michael Moore is sitting on top of me, starving me of oxygen and will to live.

That being said, I felt like I should probably finish the workout before devouring half of that bottle so that I could at least avoid turning into Rosie O'Donnell (even though I am pretty sure she has a fairly hot girlfriend, although I could be mistaken about that - I figured maybe her girlfriend is into bigger women because they are more manly which would never work for me because I am the very essence of feminine beauty and that wouldn't change, even +300 lbs). Honestly, I think these games should totally go Drill Sergeant on you. I think phrases such as:

"Move your ass, fatty!"

"My 80 year old grandmother can run faster than you!"

"Just pretend like there are twinkies at the finish line, lard-ass!"

"You are going to die a 1200 lbs disgusting blob festering in your own bodily fluids and chicken bones on a mattress in the basement and they are going to have to knock walls out of your house to get you out and your family will be bankrupted having to purchase 3 burial plots and a super-sized coffin, you loathsome piece of elephant shit!"

This would motivate me to engage in this torture. Since no one has yet capitalized on the boot-camp workout game, I will have to continue bribing myself with vodka.

I actually did get through the entire work out (celebrated with several vodka-and-a-splash-of drinks and  hot bath). The result? Well, let's put it this way, my coworker came to get me for a break today and I had a bit of difficulty getting out of my chair and walking with her... I asked her to guess what I bought and she said, "a new vibrator?". Don't I wish that was the the reason I am walking around like a robotic turkey.


** Which, judging by how much I suck at simple jumping, I probably couldn't even do anyway and then my kids would be stuck with dollar store army men and cardboard liquor boxes for Xmas.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Adventures in Ohio

So I spent some time this weekend in a small town near Youngstown, Ohio. If you're not privy to how much Ohio sucks, I invite you to come to Pittsburgh. You haven't experienced retarded drivers until you've encountered an Ohioan driving in Pittsburgh. It reminds me of a great story so pardon me while I go off on a tangent here for a moment (I promise it is relevant to demonstrating the pure retardedness of Ohio drivers).

I was driving to work one day in my Trailblazer (yes, MY Trailblazer that I was nice enough to let Dickfur have after the divorce). I was merging onto the parkway, into basically standstill traffic. I had my turn signal on and was creeping my way in front of a black Sunfire. The driver of said Sunfire decided they didn't want another car in front of them in the horrendous Pittsburgh traffic, because that would no doubt delay them by another 3 seconds and we just can't have that at 7:00 am. This person completely refused to let me in and laid on the horn relentlessly. I got in behind them (noticing the Ohio license plate which sufficiently explained the situation for me) and they proceeded to slam on their brakes and stop in the middle of the road.

Now, you'll remember that I said this person was driving a Sunfire. I have nothing against Sunfires, I have owned 2 of them, but let's face it, Sunfires are chick cars. I was expecting a girl to get out (not that I was expecting this person to even stop or actually get out of the car at all), maybe a large, toothless thing with a bleach blond mullet... Nope, it was a dude (and I use the term "dude" loosely). I'm not exactly sure what kind of look he was going for, it was somewhat of a cross between grunge hipster/popped-collar guido wannabe/I'm-a-white-boy-badass-gangsta-and-I'll-bust-a-cap-in-yo-ass-biotch. He was about my height (5'6") and I probably had about 20 lbs on him. He proceeded to walk menacingly towards my car, doing his best to look intimidating despite his slight stature and obvious fashion/identity confusion.

At this point, far from being afraid and intimidated, I couldn't help but bust out laughing (and he saw me, which pissed him off even more, I'm sure). As he approached, I waved him away, still laughing. He was standing outside my window yelling, which made me laugh even harder because he wasn't exactly tall enough to make eye level with me in the Trailblazer, so I felt like I was being yelled at by a disgruntled circus midget named Slim Shorty. Unfortunately, I was so amused and completely baffled by this person, I missed my chance to pass his parked car on the shoulder and get in front of him (which, thinking back, is probably a good thing, because he probably would have followed me so he could bust a cap in my ass). Once he got back in his car, having achieved nothing but wasting 30 seconds instead of the 3 it would have cost him to let me in, we started moving and for the next mile, he would slam on his brakes at regular intervals.

Now, if this doesn't demonstrate how confused, retarded, fashion-impaired and gay people from Ohio are, I don't know what else to tell you.

The only thing worse than people from Ohio are people from Pittsburgh in Ohio (except for me, and Hot Bald Guy, because we're awesome no matter where we are). Especially if said people are drunken Steelers fans. Case in point, Crazy Blond Lady.

Hot Bald Guy and I went to a Steelers bar (yes, there is such a thing, they exist in pretty much every city in the country, Steelers fans are crazy and everywhere) to watch the game, since we were in gay-ass Ohio and they don't broadcast the Steelers games when the Clowns Browns are playing (except in the Vietnamese restaurant where we had lunch. They know a good football team when they see one). Crazy Blond Lady was sitting across from us at the bar, until we moved because, for some reason, in a Steelers bar, the Browns game was also playing and we were right under the TV blaring the audio from that game (by the way, if you have ADD, don't ever go to a sports bar... 30 TVs playing 3 different stations is very distracting). Older women in Pittsburgh have a thing for bad 80's hairdos and being obnoxious.

I'm not sure if she was already drunk at 1:30 in the afternoon or if she was just completely insane, but one of the first outbursts we witnessed was her yelling at the guy across from her to shut up and quit looking at her, that she wasn't talking to him and his Browns shirt.

The next incident involved me going into the one toilet bathroom, locking the door behind me and being greeted by big yellow hair and expressions of "we're WINNING!!!" while washing my hands as Crazy Blond Lady busted through the locked door. She then proceeded to drop drawer and pee before I had left the room. Thank goodness there was a short stall wall separating me from seeing whatever horror was beneath her skin tight stretchy jeans.

At some point towards the end of the game, it started to get exciting and, with inclined alcohol levels, Hot Bald Guy started encouraging Crazy Blond Lady by helping her sing some sort of Steelers song from across the bar. From that point on, she expected us to join in her crazy screaming and ramblings, and she scolded us loudly when we didn't. Unfortunately for her, we were too busy discussing the mechanics of drinking beer via your ass and blowing smoke rings from your nether regions.

Um, yeah, I'm just gonna end there.

Friday, November 26, 2010

Sheeple

I have to laugh every time I hear this term. It's used by Truthers, Libertarians, Constitutionalists and other "enlightened people". They use it to refer to people who believe everything they read or hear in the" Main Stream Media". These same people usually state that it is their goal to "educate" people as to "what is really going on". I'm not disagreeing that many people don't grasp what's happening in the world today, how we're being overrun by Reptilian Freemason Illuminatis, headed by Overlord Cheney and his soul-sucking pussy (cat). However, using a derogatory term to describe the people you are trying to "save" (this is starting to feel like a Jehovah's Witness campaign) seems to me to be a bit counterproductive.

Now to the funny part... I posted a blog on Wednesday. It was a "story" about a TSA worker suing a passenger for farting in his face (unintentionally of course). I would say probably 80% of the people who read it thought it was real (and will probably continue to think so, even after I post this). If Ricardo Cráneo was not enough to give it away, maybe the fact that it's posted on a satire/hyperbole blog would give it away. Maybe the fact that appears with posts about Hot Bald Guys and acrobatic monkey sex would clue them in??? 


Does anyone see the irony in people, who call others "sheeple" for blindly following, believing a story that has absolutely no basis in truth and cannot be verified through other sources? Troofers, I am Disappoint. You're just as bad as the Beck-heads you rip on every single day of your pathetic lives. If you want to save humanity, you'd better work on saving yourselves from your completely retarded gullibility first. And this isn't the first time you did it, you all believed a completely satirical story from THE DAILY (FUCKING) SQUIB!!!


squib  (skwib)
n.
1.
a. A small firecracker.
b. A broken firecracker that burns but does not explode.
2.
a. A brief satirical or witty writing or speech, such as a lampoon.
b. A short, sometimes humorous piece in a newspaper or magazine, usually used as a filler.


Congrats, you "truth seekers". You Fail. Epically.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

TSA Worker Sues Flatulent Passenger

Los Angeles International Airport, USA - Breaking news- Sources have reported that a man was arrested earlier today at LAX for breaking wind in the face of a TSA worker while said worker was administering an "enhanced pat down" procedure on him.


(11/24/2010) Early Wednesday morning, 43 year old chef, Ricardo Cráneo, was arrested on simple assault charges at LAX airport. It is alleged that Mr. Cráneo passed gas during an enhanced pat down procedure, directly into the face of a TSA worker who has asked to remain anonymous. He was later released on his own recognizance and is due to appear in court after the first of the year, an exact date remains to be set.

Calls to LAX and TSA have not yet been returned, however, in a brief interview, Mr. Cráneo told the press the following:


"I am a chef in a restaurant that serves Mexican food. I have very bad digestive problems and I try to eat very healthy, so I normally pack my own lunch to take to work. I was so busy packing yesterday for my trip, that I forgot to take food to work with me and ended up eating some of my own cooking, which proved not to be a very good idea!" laughed Cráneo, who was in surprisingly good spirits after his ordeal.


"I was selected out of the line to received extra security checks. I guess they thought I was Arab!" he joked.


"I was not feeling very well this morning and was already running late for my flight, but I did not want to be x-rayed because of health concerns." Mr. Cráneo informed us that he is a prostate cancer survivor and has been cancer free for 7 years. 


"I did what they asked and went over to the searching area. A man came over and explained the procedure and I told him it was fine. He began patting me down when I felt a rumble in my stomach and I though to myself 'I should not have eaten that burrito last night!!' He kind of squatted down and started patting up my legs and I could not hold it any longer, it just came out, I guess right in his face! I felt very bad and apologized to him, but he was not having it. His face turned beet red and he started cussing and yelling at me."


"His supervisor came over and I thought she was going to reprimand him for speaking to me that way, in front of children! There were children there! And she picked up her radio thing and I heard her say police. I still thought it was the guy who searched me who would be getting in trouble - never in a hundred years did I imagine that I would be the one being arrested for this!"


According to witnesses and Mr. Cráneo, six armed police officers in uniform showed up at the scene, where the unnamed TSA worker was still yelling and cussing at Mr. Cráneo. He allegedly explained to the police what had transpired and the police asked what he would like them to do. 

Several eye witnesses claim that the TSA worker said something to the affect of, "arrest that f***ing Beaner for assault!". 

The police tried to calm the TSA worker down, but he insisted on pressing charges.

Mr. Cráneo says, "I told the police, after the jerk said he wanted to press charges on me, I says "this man feels people up for a living! I have a hard time believing he feels assaulted my my involuntary action. Can I press charges on him for grabbing my junk?"

When asked if he was going to counter-sue, Cráneo stated, "that option is not off the table." This could be a breaking point for both the TSA and anti-radiation/anti-groping activists.  


A hearing date will be set within the week.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

Trbobitch Lives To Fight Another Day

I got home a bit early yesterday and my mom says "Oh! You're home already?"

Me: Yes, and I am alive.

Mom: Why wouldn't you be alive?

Me: Because I almost got murdered. I would have totally been on one of those goofy shows you like to watch, maybe even Nancy Grace!

Mom: What are you talking about?!?!?!

It all started at work. The day was as uneventful as usual (work-wise anyway) and consisted of my boss letting one of the contractors on my team (we'll refer to him as Troll, because if you took his shirt off and stuck a gigantic rhinestone in his beer gut, he'd totally look like a treasure troll) know that his contract was not going to be extended. Because my boss is such an awesome guy, he was nice enough to give Troll 2 weeks notice.

Now let me give you a little background on Troll. Not only is he scary to look at, he's the most ridiculously enthusiastic person you will ever meet. He will say "HELLO!!" (with his eyes opened wider than should be possible and a psychotic grin on his face) to you and wave every single time he sees you. NO ONE is this fucking happy. NO ONE. It's not natural, which leads me to the conclusion that he is, at the very least, moderately psychotic. This would also be a good time to mention that he has a spiderweb tattooed on his elbow... For those of you that don't know what that means, it typically signifies that the wearer has done hard time in the slammer or is a gang member, or has done time in the slammer for being a gang member. Now, I don't think any man who wears smaller shoes than I do has done hard time, or has been in a gang (D&D circles do NOT qualify as gangs), which means he is a poser. So what's worse? Having been in jail or a gang or wanting everyone to think that?

So today, he disappears around 3:30. Which means he had to have been in the office at 7:30, which is highly unlikely. I go out to my car around 5:20 to get something and I see his gay ass PT Cruiser pull up (by the way, chrome trim on a PT Cruiser is gay enough, but spray painted matte black rims takes it to a whole new level of douchebaggery). He gets out, looking more than moderately psychotic and he is carrying a bag. I begin to get a little freaked out. What is he doing back so late? Does he have a semi-automatic weapon in the bag? Was he really a gang member?? I was imagining sitting at my desk - well, laying slumped over on the keyboard - with my brains spattered across the screen of my laptop.

I happened to be on the phone with Hot Bald Guy at the time and alerted him to the situation. I advised that if he heard screaming, gunshots or scuffling, to call the police immediately. He seemed pretty unimpressed. I grabbed my pocket knife from the car (as if that would save me from the machine gun or uzi that he was no doubt wielding) When I walked back into the office, I held back a coworker who was leaving. He also seemed unimpressed. No one realized the seriousness of my situation. The imminent danger I was in. I hurried to my desk and grabbed my laptop as quickly as possible.

Once I got safely to my car, I called my boss, who indirectly confirmed my suspicions. It seems that Troll called his desk phone to let him know he needed some info about a paycheck he was waiting to receive. He disguised his obviously murderous trip back to the office as a need to get some info about his paycheck. Oh, yeah, mullet-boy? Then why did you carry a rather large bag back into the office? I'm on to you, you psychotic murderer. Thank goodness I have ninja-like instincts.

You call it paranoia, I call it superior intuition.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Congrats, Retard, You Have Butchered The English Language

Ok, before you get sand in your vaginas (which spell check says is not a word... Vaginai?? Vagini? Vaginis? Vaginuses? Whatever spell check, you suck, vagina CAN be plural!! What do gynies look at all day? VAGINAS!), I know that every person on the face of this planet has bitched about this. Every comedian and opinion writer has covered the topic. I'm not being original here, I get it. The difference is, these people aren't me and they probably have not incorporated female genitalia into their rants. That's all I need to say.

I also understand that this makes me fair game for grammar nazis in their parents' basements all over the world... But I will gladly take one for the team. I will just send Dick Cheney's Reptilian demon cat to suck their souls.

We'll start out by making fun of the fact that I used to say pinoculars instead of binoculars. I was also 5 years old at the time. There was also the time, much more recently, that I said "mazel tov cocktail" instead of "molotov cocktail", but let's just pretend like I was talking about a Jewish alcoholic beverage instead of an incendiary device, k? (A bottle filled with petrol probably won't bring good luck but a martini glass filled with absinthe just might... Unless you plan to use it as an incendiary device, in which case I beg you not to use absinthe, that would be a waste of good alcohol) I am not immune to making the occasional spelling/grammar error or Freudian slip, but there are wonderful things in this age of technology that can prevent that.

Spell checker is a not-so-recent invention, yet so many people seem to not know of it's existence. You see, "vaginas" is not underlined in red when I am typing because Blogger thinks it's cute (or offensive), it's underlined in red because, evidently, there is no plural for the word "vagina" and the application thinks the word is misspelled. Now, I am smart enough to know that "vagina" absolutely must have some plural form, so I am ignoring the bastards who created this particular spell check dictionary and moving on with life. That being said, when your spell check underlines "rediculous", it's because the word is spelled RIDICULOUS - you know, as in: deserving of RIDICULE (much like the people who continually type rediculous). I don't care how much you think the word is spelled with an "e" and looks better that way, you are wrong. (Incidentally, the correct plural form of vaginas is vaginae and spell check confirms this, who knew? The Internets does indicate that vaginas is also an acceptable form of the word, so fuck you, spell check!)

There is no better way to make yourself look like a complete idiot than to fuck up the use of their/there/they're. It's amazing how many educated, intelligent grown men and women do this, consistently. It's very simple: If you're referring to a place, it's there. If you're referring to people, it's their. If you can substitute the words they are, then you're safe to use they're. Please carefully ponder the fact that I just taught you first grade English and contemplate the worth of your life. Now that you know this, do you understand how completely retarded it sounds when you say "I'm not going in their!!"?? Not going in their what?? Their house? Their sadistic chamber of torture? Their vaginae??

Unfortunately, in the case of such word misuse, spell check cannot help. There are only so many things spell check can fix, and your retardedness is not one of them. Just like when you say thing like "that don't make no sense" and "I seen that last Nascar race" (similarly, if you watch Nascar, that's enough reason for you to seriously question your own existence). Now, I'm not an English teacher so I am not going to get into why these things are wrong, I'll only tell you that if you actually say something like that and it doesn't make your ears bleed, you should probably move to West Virginia and find yourself a nice trailer.

If you are guilty of these things, please find the nearest elementary school and ask them if you can be enrolled in some English classes. Chances are, they will probably think you're a pedophile, but once they hear you say "I ain't be no pedo!", they'll surely realize that you are just retarded and get you in ASAP.

Friday, November 12, 2010

On Being a VIB

Ok, let's get this out of the way first. You're thinking that VIB is some hysterically witty spin on VIP that I made up... Your first thought was probably Very Important Bitch. You're wrong. I'd never call myself a bitch. It would be VIT and if you don't know what that stands for, think about it, while I continue with my story.

VIB stands for Very Important Beauty Insider (which means it should probably be VIBI but that doesn't really sound right so I guess the Insider part is just implied for those of us in the know). It's a rewards program from Sephora. Sephora is a gigantic beauty product store. In case you didn't know, I have a slight obsession with makeup (not quite as bad as my obsession with bald heads, but close). Sephora is a veritable wonderland of over-priced goods for the vain and self-absorbed woman (or man).

If you happen to be an artist, imagine a store where every shelf is stocked with any and every kind of drawing, writing and painting implement imaginable. Now imagine that there are "testers" in front of every shelf, along with blank canvases everywhere that allow you to test the products before you buy them. Imagine the endless fun and creative enjoyment you could exercise and you'd probably leave happy even if you didn't buy anything. However, you know damn well, given this situation, that you would be completely unable to resist buying something. (This same scenario can be imagined by my male readers who like (I said like not are) power tools... Just imagine going into Home Depot and they have lumber samples set up for you to test out that power saw, hedges in the middle of the isles where you can test your super-deluxe chainsaw and in the back, your wife can try out her new washer with piles of dirty laundry provided by the store... Does anyone else think I am totally on to something here???)

So, getting back to me being a VIB... That means that I have spent an exorbitant amount of money on makeup in the past year and to thank me for handing over a double-digit percentage of my income, Sephora gives me a super cool status and some "bonuses" from time to time. Yesterday, one of the bonuses was an exclusive VIB party at the store. So my coworker (and cohort in makeup obsession) and I went for a girl's night. We started out at the bar, which means we had a pretty good buzz by the time we walked over to Sephora. We were first met with the sounds of some super fantastic 80's Madonna blaring from somewhere. Turns out, Sephora went all out and hired a DJ to stand in front of the store for this party. If that wasn't awesome enough, he was bald. This was going to be a good night...

We are standing outside, finishing our pre-game cigarettes (for those of you who know I am quitting, yes, I smoked last night, but I am back on the wagon and I haven't touched a cigarette since I got home. And mind your own business!!! Dammit!), when out walks another bald guy with a bottle of champagne. Just the image of a cute bald guy holding champagne is enough to double my heart rate. Even better, he was totally gay. I love gay guys, they hit on you shamelessly, their compliments are 100% sincere and you know that, if you hit on them back, they are not going to try to rape you later. So now I am surrounded by bald men, makeup and alcohol... Now that I think about it, I'm pretty sure I was not in Shadyside but, in fact, had a brief venture to Valhalla. I have seen heaven and know what it's like, praise jeebus!!

To make it even better, while bald gay guy was popping the bottle of champagne, he looked longingly at our cigarettes and told us he hated us and was totally jealous. Not to miss an opportunity, I offered him a drag of my cigarette, which he accepted with great (practically orgasmic) relish. Heather and I both contended that this was possibly the hottest thing EVER. *shiver*

Getting into the store was another adventure entirely, less like Valhalla and more like Hades. First order of business was to get some champagne. The food table was completely packed, but I managed to elbow my way in... Pretty impressive too, champagne, chocolates, some weird meat substance that starts with a B which Heather was pretty excited about. I don't know if it was good food or good champagne, but it was free and, by that point, it hardly mattered as I had already eaten and the champagne was the only item of interest to me and because I had already had 3 beers, the quality of the champagne would have been lost on me anyway.

As it turns out, Heather is somewhat of a quasi-celebrity with the employees of this particular Sephora. It's no surprise, as she is the Queen of Makeup and All Things Chic and Awesome. So we walked around Sephora like the rulers of the world, rubbing eye shadow on the backs of our hands and schmoozing with the staff. After about 45 minutes of this, hands covered in various shades of shadow, eyeliner and lipstick, as well as the insane purple gloss on my lips (which Heather somehow convinced me to actually buy), we get in the 3 mile line to pay (they were totally out of champagne and my buzz was wearing off, and I had to pee like a mofo - there are no bathrooms in Sephora, it turns out).

One of the saleswomen recognizes Heather and Heather asks her if she is stashing any Urban Decay Naked Palettes in the back. Because Heather is a quasi-celebrity, the woman immediately promises to check and dashes off. This palette has been for sale by Urban Decay for months, and without going into too much detail about why it is so awesome (because I'm sure you really don't give a rat's ass and only people who are complete freaks actually know that there is an eyeshadow palette selling for a 300% markup on the ebay black market) I'll just say that it is my strong suspicion that Urban Decay cranks out about 10 of these things a month to create all this hype purposely, they are probably running said black market and are more than likely convincing women to sell their souls to get their hands on the Naked Palette. Of course Heather has one, but she asked for me, because she is awesome.

While we're standing in line, barely resisting the urge to buy the stuff we are staring at and playing with while waiting, another woman in black appears and asks Heather if she had someone "looking for something" for her. It was a scene straight out of a high-end drug deal with the Greek mafia. Heather, in her fedora and pin striped suit jacket, gives the look of someone in the know, someone you don't say no to, and says, "Yes, a Naked Palette" (which could have totally been code words for China White). Then, like a scene out of some big-time spy movie, the saleswoman speaks into her stealthy headset and lets Heather know that the woman has gone upstairs in search of her goods.

It's almost our turn to check out when the saleswoman returns with Naked Palette in hand. The squeals and longing jealous looks from the other ladies standing around me commence as I take into my hands the holy grail of makeup. There was much excited jumping up and down and hugging of the saleswoman on my part, because not only was I getting quite possibly the most awesome thing ever, I was getting it for 20% off!!!!!!

I assure Heather that I will not only buy her a vodka tonic, but that I will pony up for some Kettle One vodka because she is my hero. We pay for our hauls and as I am walking away from the counter, Heather holds up the free goodie bag that she got and says "where's yours?" When I turn around and demand not to be cheated out of free stuff, the cashier looks at me as if I were not entitled to a free goodie bag and was a total asshole for even asking (I'm sure she was just jealous of my hot, purple lips) and begrudgingly hands over the bag with nary a word of apology for her attempt at denying me my VIB right to free goods.

We go to the bar, singing "Don't leave me swinging in the wind until November. Until November!" (see video below), which is quite fitting, as it is November and our bags were totally swinging in the wind. Sensing our consumerist success and sheer force of awesomeness, probably because I graduated from Guinness to Kettle One, the bartender graciously put very little tonic in our drinks. After we finished, we needed a "The gentleman will sit!" fix and, on the street corner, sang along (horribly) to the following, in front of all of Shadyside:



This is why it is awesome to be a VIB and why men should never want to come along on a girl's night out or even wonder about what goes on when girls have them. We're only cheating on you with gay men and spending all your money, it's cool. (Of course, Heather and I are badass breadwinners and spent our own money).

*****UPDATE*****
As requested, purple gloss pic:


I look like I am in pain. I assure you I am not, I'm just a little tipsy.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Teenager Went Down to Georgia

So my mom left on Monday morning to go see Loverboy. This is good, because it means that I have a week to myself. No mom, no kids... I want to paint my face, lift up my kilt and yell "FREEEEEEEDOM!!!" And I paid for that freedom. Oh yes, yes I did.

So mom needs a ride to the viewing center for pedophiles and voyeurs airport on Monday morning. What actually happened is funnier than any stream of consciousness I can come up with, so I am just going to give it to you as it went down:

6:30 am. I am sleeping. I like love to sleep. I milk every precious second out of morning via The Snooze. I even set my alarm for an hour and a half before I actually need to get up, always, of course, with the intention of getting up that early, but it seldom plays out that way (except when Sam Rohrer calls and I treat him like a telemarketer). Anyway... I am in the midst of some awesome morning snoozing (which always produces the most fascinating dreams, which is probably why I never want to get up) when I hear, "Amanda... Amanda! AMANDA!"

Me: mmmuuuuuhhhhhggjugga.... whaaaaaaaaat??

Mom: It's 6:30

Me: soo??

Mom: We need to get to the airport!!!!

Me: mmmmmppphhhhh bbbbaahhhhhnnnn.... noooo.... your flight is at 11:00.

Mom: Well I want to make sure we don't get stuck in traffic(/raped by polar bears/abducted by aliens and turned into intergalactic sex slaves)

Me: We're leaving at 8:00, let me sleep.

Needless to say, there wasn't much sleep beyond that point. I took a shower and went downstairs. This is a good time to mention that I am not a morning person. I hate birds and sunshine and traffic. Mom is waiting at the door, suitcase in hand, ready to rock and roll. She asked me some random questions about what was allowed on the plane, said she measured her purse and it was too big and pointed out that (she was so fucking badass) she was wearing jeans on the plane.

(7:53)
Mom: It's almost 8:00, we're not going to get there on time.

Me: We'll be fine.

 (7:55)
I get in the left lane when we get into town to turn into a fast food complex.

Mom: What are you DOING?!?!?!

Me: Turning left.

Mom: WHY?!?!?!

Me: To get coffee.

Mom: WE DON'T HAVE TIIIIIIIME!!!!!!!!!

Me: Mom, the airport is a half an hour away. It's 8:00. Your flight is at 11.

Mom: But there might be traffic! And you don't know how traffic is. Traffic varies from day to day!

(this is a good time to point out that this woman has never driven on a highway, won't drive into the city and goes the speed limit as religiously as Irishman drinking on St. Patty's Day)

Me: Yes, that's why I gave us an extra half hour.

Mom: I think we should have left earlier.

At this point, she shuts up for a minute. Until we get to Starbucks anyway.

(7:59)
Mom: OH MY GAAAAWD, LOOK AT THAT LINE!

Me: It's fine, it will go fast.

Mom: I am going to miss my plane!!!

Me: No, mom, it's fine, we'll be fine.

Mom: (Some flurry of panicked non-sense. At this point, I had stopped listening).

I order my coffee.

(8:03)
Mom: How long does it take to make coffee!!! This line isn't MOVING!!!

Me: Chill out.

Mom: I am going to miss my plane.

Me: You're not going to miss your plane, we have plenty of time.

(8:05 - We're next in line. A Disturbed song comes on in my car)
Mom: What is this crap?

Me: Disturbed.

Mom: This guy is just screaming! This isn't music! I could do that! Does this guy make money doing this???

Me: Yeah, mom, they've sold quite a few albums, they make more money than you or I will ever see.

Mom: (Does something that appears to be an impression of a primate, which shakes my whole car) See?!?! I can do that! I should be rich.

If I had the interest or the Internets, I would have said: "Mom, you don't look like this..."

(excuse me while I *drooool*)

"...which is why, among a vast host of other reasons, you're not rich and famous".

But I didn't.

Me: My car, my radio.

(8:08 - I get my coffee and we're off.)

(8:09 - I turn left to get onto the highway)
Mom: AMANDA!! OH MY GAAWD!!

Me: (thinking something happened, maybe she forgot her meds) WHAT???

Mom: You're going to kill us!!!

Me: What the fuck are you talking about??

Mom: You turned right in front of that car! (And I saw my life flash before my eyes in a horrible fireball of twisted metal!)

Me: (getting a little irritated) Mom, I have made this drive for the past 7 years... Successfully... Almost every goddamn day. I am still here. You're fine, calm down.

Mom: Well, not with your mother in the car! (That's right, thank god, because I seem to remember the one time she came along when my dad was teaching me how to drive and she had me so nervous I damn near crashed into a fence).

I don't drive on the highway. Your dad was the only one I ever trusted on the highway (because millions of people don't drive on highways every second of every day without incident).

How fast are you going!?!?! Your speedometer says 110!!

Me: Mom, my speedometer hasn't worked for years, you know that.

Mom: Well, how do you know how fast you are going? I think you're driving too fast! How do you know how fast you're going!?!?!

Me: We're going about 85.

Mom: You can't drive that fast! You're going to wreck!

Me: I drive this fast every single freaking day! I get to work in one-piece, ticket free and if you don't SHUT UP I am going to turn this car around and take you home! Do you understand me! You can drive yourself to the airport! I swear to god, I will stop this car right now if you don't chill the fuck out!!


Once again, I caught myself yelling cliche parent phrases at my own mother. There is something just not fucking right about this situation.

We got to the airport at 8:45. Mom got her boarding pass, got in the security line and all was well. She's in Georgia having the time of her life and I am home without anyone bitching at me! It was a price I was willing to pay.

Monday, November 8, 2010

It's The End of The World (As We Know It...) No, Really, The World Is Going TO END!

First, watch this...



(Confession: Some of you who aren't friends with me on Facecrack may be wondering about my "unladylike obsession with politics" - at least, I assume you would wonder because I assume you actually read that part, which is probably completely wrong, not to mention self-absorbed and so now you're probably wondering WTF I am talking about. My Name Is Amanda And I Am A Nine-Eleven TRUTHER. I know this might bother some of you, but I promise this post is actually making fun of conspiracy theories and not pushing them, so read on.

To my Conspiracy FACT friends: You know I love you, but remember that it's awesome to make fun of yourself. Don't send me hatemail or I will send Freemasons after you. They will sacrifice you to Reptilian Overlord Cheney.)

So I get a call from Hot Bald Guy, he informed me that he was just calling because it might be the last time he ever talked to me (he may have even said something sweet or romantic, but it was lost on me because I was trying to figure out WTF he was talking about and how I wanted to spend my final hours and how I was going to leave this Earth not having posted a blog about it). Then he asked if I saw "The Simpsons thing on Youtube". That's when I found out the world was ending. I have to admit, I was kind of relieved. I mean, am I the only person who sometimes thinks this whole "life" thing is getting old? Work, sleep, Facecrack... One can only do that for so long before it gets painfully monotonous.

I decided that the best way to die would be in the midst of drunken debauchery and since the world was ending, naturally there would be parties. I was even thinking that maybe I would try acid or even heroin, why not? It was going to be FAN. TAS. TIC. Unfortunately for me, Hot Bald Guy and I were the only ones who actually believed the world was going to end, consequently, there were no parties. It seems that, even in the midst of the end of the world, people still were doing things like helping people move and getting married. Is this what our lives have boiled down to? This is WAAAY too much responsibility for my taste.

I mean, this was quite possibly the last day we had to live and people were so concerned about being responsible that they attended the enslavement marriage of two people they probably barely know (or like) and I'm sure they also spent a ridiculous amount of money on a super-deluxe crockpot (which will be returned, possibly for crack money), all because they thought that maybe there was a chance that the world wouldn't end. They could have been drunk doing heroin with me instead of getting hit on by the bride's middle-aged aunt who thinks she's a cougar but is actually an alcoholic insomniac who looks to be about 67 and has bulges coming out of her too-short leopard print dress where normal people shouldn't have bulges. It sucks to be them.

As it turns out, I couldn't actually get my hands on any heroin (or acid), but there was mead. LOTS of mead. And we watched (part of) Excalibur, which happens to be the greatest movie of all time. How many other movies do you know of where a chick is getting banged by a dude in a full suit of plate mail armor? Zero, that's how many. The only thing that could possibly be more awesome than watching Excalibur would be doing so while tripping on acid (I don't know about heroin, I've always kind of figured you get totally FUBARed on heroin and can't actually understand or enjoy anything... except maybe cutting yourself or some other thing that probably sounds like a good idea when you're high on heroin but really actually isn't a good idea?).

So we had a total End of The World two person geekfest. And the fucking world didn't end (and now I'm glad I didn't do heroin because I would probably have been sitting at my desk "tweaking" for a "fix", then I'd eventually start putting needles in my own arm and nothing freaks me out more than needles except maybe clowns and cicadas).

But guess what???

The End of the World is STILL ON! Yes, you heard me! Evidently, the person who made that video didn't take into account how clever and sneaky and downright tricksy those Illuminati Freemason Satanic Reptilians can be:

"Tuesday 11-09-10 would be the perfect bookend to Tuesday 09-11-01...watch the simpsons clip again, turn the clock upside down...one hand still points at the 11, the other hand now points at a 9...not out of the woods yet. The Illuminati LOVE Tuesdays..."

And it makes sense. See, they're not just going to put it right out there this time. No, no, this time, they expect you to do a little thinking and while you were busy being hypnotized by the Masonic checkerboard, you forgot to use your critical thinking skills. See, if you turn the clock upside down the date becomes 11/9, which is just 9/11 but backwards!! I know what you're going to say... "but then the year becomes 01 instead of 10!" Yes, exactly! This is where you further take advantage of those critical thinking skills and say to yourself "but wait, 2001 has already passed. Certainly the Simpsons aren't that Nostradamus (I totally spelled that right the first time without spell check, because I am awesome!) to predict something that will happen in 91 years. So, they must want me to turn the clock over again!".

I'm still trying to figure out why Tuesday is significant. It's Senior Citizen discount day, so maybe they will be nuking the Eat n Parks?? I wonder what the Illuminati have against old people? I mean, I don't particularly care for them... They blow their noses loudly and smell like moth balls, but that's really no reason to nuke them...

So, my purely platonic fellow accomplices in world domination, the End of the World is BACK ON! Anyone know where I can purchase some heroin (and/or sweetmeats)?

Wednesday, November 3, 2010

Trbobitch: The Younger Years

You'd never know it now, because I am sexy and awesome and totally badass, but I was a very awkward child. Not only was I painfully shy, I was also quite chubby. My loserishness was further augmented by the fact that I wore "stretchy" jeans and cut my own bangs (the fact that I even had bangs still makes me cringe). To what little friends I did have, I was a bossy, know-it-all, little bitchface. My middle school memories consist of being referred to, on a daily basis, as Amanda "Piggins" and coming to school worried about which "friends" were "mad at me" this week. I was so pathetic, I even failed at being a band nerd. I "played" the saxophone. The problem was, I never actually learned how to play it and just pretended to play in band practice. Spot check day consisted of a note on the band director's desk that I was quitting band.

There are many stories from this time of my life that would probably have us all enjoying a good laugh at my childhood self, but there is only so much making fun of myself that I can take for one day. So let's fast forward to the magical summer before high school when I dropped 15 lbs and grew breasts, shall we? I went to high school believing that I was still as dorky and funky as I was in middle school, so imagine my surprise to have Seniors hitting on me! I had a hard time discerning that the GI Jane cat-calls (brought on because I thought it was infinitely cool to wear my brother's army shirt as a jacket) were actually feeble teenage boy attempts at getting my attention versus actually making fun of me. Because no one had ever snapped my training bra or pulled on my pig-tails, I had no idea that this was actually a young human male mating ritual. By this time, however, I had learned to not get upset over being made fun of, or I would have probably made a total ass of myself. (To this day, I still have a crippling awkwardness about getting hit on. I usually either say something stupid or act like a total bitch.)

This new found non-dorkiness eventually caught on in my self-esteemless psyche and I started to make real friends and do real teenage things. Like smoke, drink and get high. I was cool. One of my fondest (well, not necessarily fondest, more like nostalgic in the same way the old guy down the street who smelled like bacon and old feet who tried to lure you in his house with butterscotch candies was) memories from my Stoner Phase was sitting at my friend's house, smoking $5 worth of pot (which usually was the last $5 either of us had), watching The Wall and trying to figure out, in all of our stoned philosophical genius, what Roger Waters was actually trying to portray in this film (incidentally, we always had an Earth-shattering epiphany whereby we discovered not only the meaning behind Rogers Waters' creative genius, but also the secrets of the Universe).

We'd then decide we were absolutely starving and, since we spent all of our money on the cause of said starvation, we would raid any and all sources of loose change until we found enough silver (colored, not actual silver) coins to order our usual from Pizza Outlet. The "usual" consisted of one Italian hoagie, no onions and an order of breadsticks with ranch dressing. Each time, we paid the poor man who came to feed us in a varied assortment of nickels, dimes, quarters (and, eventually, pennies, which is probably when they stopped answering the phone when we tried to order) and the never-ending source of laughing hysterics that was his "tip". Yes, every day, this poor sucker's tip was a hand written note with some tragically juvenile "tip", like PB4UGO2BED (bwahahahahahaha!!). We'd pig out, then we'd both end up falling asleep (unfortunately, due to short-term memory loss, we completely forgot the previously mentioned revelations of the Universe when we woke up).

Is anyone now surprised that I turned out the way I did?