Thursday, April 28, 2011

Open Letter to Covert Celeb Watchers

Dear People Who "Don't Care" About the Royal Wedding,

Evidently, you care more than the average person, like me, because up until a few days ago, I had only a vague notion about some "royal" (I mean, they're not even real monarchs anymore, are they? It's all just for ceremonial purposes and so the Brits can keep saying "God save the Queen" (from what exactly, no one knows... Poisoned sweetmeats, perhaps?)) wedding taking place somewhere in Europe between some royal dude and some chick who I am not sure is royalty (whatever the fuck that even means any more... Maybe she's a Duke or some shit). Now, however, my Facebook  feed is littered with crap about how much people "don't care" about the royal wedding and people who do are "stupid sheeples" or whatever. Seems like the people who "don't care" are talking about it more than anyone else.

Anyway, I get it. You really do care but you don't want people to know you're a secret celebrity stalker with a subscription to People magazine ("it's my wife's" ain't cuttin it, honey, because we all know you're a fat 44 year old loser sitting in your mom's basement). This is like the latest trend in being cool, totally pretend like you're not into whatever you keep talking about, so you look way cooler than the people who are all about it and also the people who really don't care because you can be all like, "yeah, I'm worldly, I know everything that's going on in the world, but I actually know what things are important and what things aren't. Like, you know how the Reptilian Freemason Illuminati headed by Dick Cheney and his demon cat have fabricated Obama's birth certificate and if you argue, your ass is going in a FEMA CAMP motherfucker!! The fact that Kate is springing for a $3.5 million Vera Wang gown and $1.8 million Prada shoes is totally unimportant and I totally don't care because I am cool like that!"

And now I just wrote an entire blog post about it! See, you fuckers turned me into one of you! And this is why I fucking hate people (cue the anarcho-hippies singing some stupid Peter, Paul and Mary song and trying to hug me while I beat them with their "Love Police" bullhorns).

Please just go read some tabloids and stop posting on Facebook about how much you "don't care".


P.S. Here's a wedding I care about:

Monday, April 25, 2011

Trbo Needs a New Ride

So I went to Philly this weekend.

Wait a sec, that's the most boring statement ever. First of all, none of you give a flying fuck what I did this weekend unless it involved strippers and heroin (if I tell you it did, will you keep reading? Because it may have involved drugs (not heroin) and/or panty flashes and butt cheeks (not mine)... so yeah, you probably don't care). So maybe if I rephrase that...

So I jumped in the End The Fed mobile and drove 90 miles an hour (or so) down the Tyranny Pike to an epic event in a city that is the epitome of all that is wrong with the state of Pennsylvania. (Not perfect, but better.) I was a bit nervous about making this trip because the ETFmobile isn't exactly a spring chicken any more. Plus, I was too lazy to get an oil change and get her inspected... I mean, never mind the fact that the oil hasn't been changed for about 4000 7000 10000 miles and the inspection was due last month, I was also travelling with my e-cigarette tackle box personal vaporizer supplies (so much cooler sounding) which include hypodermic needles and enough nicotine liquid to kill several orphanages worth of small children (meh, who would miss them?). I also never wear a seat belt and talk on my cell phone.

I can imagine, had I gotten pulled over (which I didn't because I have a fucking radar detector because I am fucking badass and every time I pass a cop I say "Trbobitch 1 - piggies cops Tyrants in uniform Guys who were bullied in highschool and use their position to exact revenge on innocent people Officers of the "law" 0 ZE-RO!") it would have gone something like this:

Officer of the "law": Ma'am, do you know why I pulled you over?

Me: Nope, I sure don't officer. It couldn't possibly be because my inspection has expired, I was going somewhere around 95 in a 55 - I'm not entirely sure because my speedometer always says I'm going either 115 or 20 mph - and/or I am on some sort of government watch list... By the way officer, you look dashing in that uniform, do you press it yourself?

Officer: Actually, I clocked you at 105 mph.

Me: Well, now that is interesting, because my radar detector didn't pick up your radar, so you obviously used some kind of unapproved "clocking" method which makes this entire situation null and void. Thanks for your time officer, glad I could help, I'll be going now.

Cop: Actually, your radar detector probably didn't go off in time to warn you because you were going so fast. Can I see your license and registration please?

Me: Well of course! You're in luck because I am a licensed driver without a stain on my record and I just so happen to have renewed my registration yesterday! It cost me extra because it was 6 months overdue, but I paid it because I am a good, law-abiding citizen like that! I even spend my days visiting old people! Well, my mom's not really old, she's only 56, but that still makes her a Senior Citizen, and I'm not really visiting her, because I live with her...

Cop: I will be right back, you just stay right here, ok?

Me: Considering my car is about to fall apart and yours is one of them there fancy "Police Interceptors", I don't think I can outrun you, so yeah, I guess I'm not going anywhere. Is it ok if I pick my nose while I am waiting?

Cop: *looks disturbed and walks away*

10 minutes later...

Oinker: Ma'am, I ran your plates and it appears you have a bench warrant for some parking tickets from 2005...

Me: What exactly is a bench warrant? Are you going to like, bench press me or something? Because I hate to tell you, I'm pretty heavy and your arms don't exactly look like you've been doing more than lifting coffee and donuts into your mouth, ya know?

Piggy: Ma'am I am going to let you go with a warning on the bench warrant, but I am going to have to give you a ticket for speeding...

Me: I don't really think I was doing 105.

Swine: You were.

Me: Ok well, we're pals, can we say I was doing like, I dunno, 70?

Kid who was bullied in high school: No, I don't think so... What do you have in that tackle box there?

Me: It's not a tackle box... It's a case of supplies.

Bacon boy: Supplies for what?

Me: My personal vaporizer?

Piggy: Are you asking me?

Me: Why are you answering my question with a question?

Oinker: Are those hypodermic needles?

Me: I'm diabetic?

Hammy: *sigh* Ok, look, here's what I am giving you, a ticket for a high speed offense, driving without a seatbelt, driving an uninspected vehicle and I won't bother with one for talking on your cell phone.

Me: Gee, you're awfully kind *bats eyelashes*

Officer: Well, I can see that you are obviously the most awesome person in the world and any chick with a tattoo like that is OK by me... Now just promise you'll pay your parking tickets, ok? Oh, and here's my Facebook, add me *creepy smile*.

Me: Uh, right....

Well, that didn't go too bad I guess...

So anyway, the ETFmobile is not in the best shape and considering the lack of preventative maintenance, it probably wasn't the most genius plan I have ever come up with to drive it 600 miles in the span of a weekend. It was actually going ok until I got to a stretch of the Tyranny Pike and my car started doing this bouncing thing. Like, I'm talking I felt like I should have been wearing a sports bra because I am doing jumping jacks on a trampoline kind of bouncing. I started getting nervous and looking at the other cars ahead of me to see if their cars were also bounding like Kenyan hurdlers over the asphalt. Unfortunately, no cars stayed ahead of me long enough for me to gauge their level of springing... I slowed to 80 mph. I saw other cars behaving like Chinese bobbleheads, so I figured I was ok.

When I arrived at my destination and actually had to make 90 degree turns, I realized that my car sounded like a medieval dungeon with all the fixins... There was a grinding sound that bore a striking auditory resemblance to a stretching rack, complete with a squealing, screaming prisoner (who was being tortured for high treason, naturally). I noticed these sounds were the worst when turning or stopping... So I figured I could make it back home ok, because there really isn't a lot of turning or stopping on the highway, especially at 97 mph.

Of course, I was right, and my car made it home. As soon as I pulled up to the curb, it collapsed in a heap of unrecognizable parts and twisted hunks of metal:

Ooops! Wrong one:

Ok, yeah, I totally made that up. Come on, would I really drive a gay ass car like that? Look at that thing! It's got, "my parents live in a trailer but still got me a car for my 16th birthday 9 years ago because I am a trailer park princess" written all over it... (Yes, NINE years!! Dammit! Shut the fuck up! I'm 25, motherfuckers!)

So anyway, ETFmobile gets looked at tomorrow. Might be time to retire her.... But it was totally worth it, because now I know how truly sexy grapefruits can be....

....I totally ninja'd this picture...

...and I look really hot in this one:

Even that guy in the background is like "Damn! Who is that lucky dude who looks like Adam Kokesh with his arm around that super HAWT chick?!?!?"

Thursday, April 7, 2011

Open Letters: Vol. 2

Dear bald Rent-a-Cop at O'Shea's in Vegas,

Rubbing your bald head does not mean I want to sleep with your grody ass. In fact, when you start throwing your weight around and acting like a douchebag, no amount of baldness would even make me want to look at you. Look, I understand that you're a Rent-a-Cop, but seriously, that doesn't make you anything but a loser who couldn't find a real job (no offense to other rent-a-cops). I only flirted with you because a. you're bald and I just can't resist a clean, smooth head and b. it's always tactical to be in good standing with the folks who can throw you out (not that I have ever been thrown out of a bar before *ahem*).

Thing is, I know no man can resist putting his hands all over me, but you can't even use the excuse that you were drunk (and if you were, I hope you get fired), and no one hits on a security guard expecting (or wanting) to get laid. To further augment your douchebaggery, you proceeded to give my friends a hard time after I left (for reasons that cannot be disclosed without full security clearance), knowing by then that I would not be going back to your one bedroom "efficiency" slum-hole somewhere in the armpit of Vegas. Do everyone a favor and quit pretending like your job gives you any authority or social clout.



Dear Drunk Girls in Skimpy Dresses,

You got nothin' on me ;-) (But please continue to make me look even hotter by comparison)



Dear Swimsuit Manufacturers,

Please make a swimsuit that covers my boobs sufficiently. Seriously, this is getting ridiculous. It's one thing that I can't find shirts that fit properly, but surely there are swimsuits that will cover at least most of the side boob without hanging loosely from the rest of me...? Evidently not. You see, I like to leave a little something to the imagination, I like to reserve the knowledge of the color of my mammilla for special people, but apparently you think everyone wants to be like the girls mentioned above. Either that or you, like the shirt manufacturers, think that everyone under a size 20 has B cups or has silicone bosoms that don't give way to the pressure of tight synthetic fabric biting into them. WTF? All I want is a bathing suit fit for a 20 year old that covers my damn boobs! Please attend to this matter promptly and send me a free prototype.



Dear Voice,

Ok, this was funny for a minute, especially when I sounded like a phone sex operator. It's not funny any more. I can't yell at my kids, I can't talk on the phone, I can't sing in the shower and I can't tell myself how awesome I am when I look in the mirror. Come back. Please?

Missing you,


Dear Brain,

Stop getting fantastically bright and insanely labor intensive ideas. I know we could go far if we stuck to just one, but all this jumping around is leaving projects half-finished. I would appreciate if you didn't get any more "great ideas" until I finish the 200 things on your list.

Yours in genius,