Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Everyone's so technologically obsessed these days, you sort of can't blame the thief for being psyched to take pictures of her family and her ass and stuff with her new T-Mobile Sidekick and flashing it around and being seen with it. You don't see a celebrity ever without their trusty Sidekick at their side, blabbing away or texting away with ferocity. It's obnoxious. No offense to the T-Mobile Sidekick obsessed, but I wouldn't be bummed to know that one of the side-effects they discover down the line is that you grow uncontrollable ear and finger hair or whatnot and it cannot be cured. Be in the moment, already, and not always communicating with where you aren't.
People who don't return crap they find are jerks. Granted, if there's no way of knowing who the person is, that's one thing (like my iPod, ahem), but I always return things to their owners. I found two cell phones and 2 work ID's this winter and returned all four to their rightful owners.
None of those a-holes thanked me with a ten spot or a fin or even a lousy note, but whatevs.
The point of this story? People are a-holes.
Dr. Harry Fingerman Proctologist - SORRY SOLD OUT
Dr. Harry Fingerman Proctologist - Costume Includes: White Poly-Cotton lab coat with two pockets and the Doctor's funny name imprinted. Simply add your own rubber gloves and the look is complete. One size fits most. Machine washable. MOR - GC7208
You gotta love these clever novelty costumes! And you ordered yours in August, so it'd be here in time for Halloween, thinkin' "I'm gonna have the BEST costume!" And here's what probably happened. you introduced yourself as the full costume character, Dr. Harry Fingerman Proctologist, and for those who were too drunk to get the reference and just said, "Hey, Jimmy! What are you supposed to be, a doctor?" You'd were like, "Yes, but..."And you explained by snapping the rubber on your gloved fingertips and saying with an evil grin that you're not just a doctor, but the kind that has his hands up the ass all the time, which would imply that not only do you love your job because you're saving lives, but because you're saving lives and also getting to stick your hand up butt holes because you equally love that.
And it's be awkward when you blurt out "I'm a Proctologist!" for the obvious reasons, and then of course for the added reason that it's always a buzzkill to have to explain your Halloween costume and all. I know this trouble all to well. My dear friend Liz (Expert on Taco Bell and Grey's Anatomy) dressed as a Deviled Egg this Halloween and was mistook for an Abortion. That certainly drove the vibe of the evening, with Liz screaming, "It's not blood, it's paprika!" and "If I were an abortion, I would have done a better job!"
"Yeah, bitches, with plastic baby dolls and ketchup!" I'd add.
So far only 1/3 of the Triple Play Package is working, and that is this here internet on which I am communicating with you now. Far be it from me to communicate with you via digital telephone, because well, that shit ain't working, I just like to pay for the idea. Awesome considering that they cancelled my regular phone service in great anticipation of the Digital Revolution over a week ago. I'm not even a phone person and I must declare, this shit is totally annoying! He goes, "Are you calling from your home phone?" Jackass, I just told you that it doesn't work. How would I call you from it? And that HBO On Demand? Lies. I've got a couple of service technicians coming over to my house next week to prove it.
All this because I need to have my Robin Byrd.
I generate a lot of form letters at my job in which copying and pasting really saves me a lot of time. Reminder to those who abuse this clever lil' feature like I do, always remember to proof your work before sending something in which you've copied and pasted. Had I not checked my reply, someone was going to be very confused and someone else was going to be very unemployed.
"Thank you for your RSVP. We look forward to seeing you at the reception on June 1."
Disaster averted just in time. Phew! Exhilarating!
(Sue me, I didn't know what it meant, so I had to look it up. I think that makes me a lady. A stupid lady.)
Oh yes yes yes yes yes yes it 'tis!
"Sending you forget-me-nots...to help me to remember..." which runs right into
"One Love...One Heart...Let's Get Together and Feel Alright..."
And suddenly the flourescence doesn't seem to bright. Alright, that's a lie, but I was hoping the tunes might take my mind off of my crushing debt and bleak future.
"Everday is a winding road..."
Sure, things happen for reasons. And sometimes they seem unreasonable, so let's take reason out of the equation. It's called "Cause" and "Effect".
You didn't get fired from your job because you were too comfortable and needed a nudge into greener pastures. You were fired because you had a terrible attitude and were caught stealing office supplies.
"Cause and effect."
His pose is natural 'cause he's in nature! Naturally, it's not his natural habitat or he wouldn't be sporting the Polo his wife got for a song at TJ Maxx (along with a great set of sheets, I might add) before they were separated. Anyway, we're doing the long distance thing (he's outside of Philly and we meet in the Poconos at that Mount Airy Lodge place) until things are finalized with the divorce and we decide where Ashleigh and Brianna will attend school in the fall. Thank you, eHarmony!
* This is an actual photo of an actual fella from philly who is separated w/ two kids and is interested in making my acquaintance. He is not aware that I am a huge bitch.
Tuesday, May 30, 2006
But here's the thing, I just looked for something that I can't find and in the meantime realized how much stuff I don't need to have, but have a hard time throwing out! I can't put Snoopy in the garbage? I know he's only a Christmas ornament free with a box of chocolates you got at last year's Secret Santa, but what if he starves? I know he's plastic, but he's a dog. With a face. You can't throw something with a face away! It looks at you! So I sit with this ornament I don't need, nor want, yet I can't dump without massive guilt, and it is killing me. Anyone want a free plastic Snoopy Christmas tree ornament? TAKE IT, BITCHES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Ok, so here's what I'm afraid of, plus 60 cats or so. You do the math. I smell pee.
Oh, my future was supposed to be better!
- I simply can't help the behavior; it was severely beaten into me by good parenting.
- It is a total setup to see if you will reciprocate with a "Thank you." If you don't thank me in time, I will let it slam in your face if possible. And, of course, talk shit about you the rest of the day, you know, about what a bitch you are with no manners. Then I'll tell myself that I won't hold the door for you ever again. Until I do. Lather, rinse, repeat.
"Doctors said sexually transmitted diseases among senior citizens are running rampant at a popular Central Florida retirement community, according to a Local 6 News report."
As if you needed another reason: Do not share diapers!
Monday, May 29, 2006
I awoke at 3 this morning with food poisoning. AWESOME! Must have been some bad cock in Fire Island. I jest. The cock was fine, the burger was not. Yesterday my friends and I spent a glorious day at the beach, swimming, sunning, laughing, and most importantly, making fun of people. The Pines beach on Fire Island is the prettiest place to watch the prettiest boys stroll by. And of course, some not so pretty. My friends are picky, as am I, and we tend to have the same taste in men, a man's man. "No 90 lb Weakling Redheads with Hamster Hands Need Apply" is my credo. Theirs is "No fats, No fems, No Asians".
I'm not sure which was more fun, scoping out the hot ones or ragging on the terrible ones. Ok, no doubt, the latter was more fun for me. After awhile, a straight broad's gonna get bored with that kind of cock n' balls show, and at some point we're going to want a little unwanted attention, for someone to stare at us like a hot piece of ass, look at our tits, instead as a fag hag cock blockers we are. Unless of course, you're a 300 lb fag hag with no self-esteem who has given up hope of ever finding a man, but that's another story. Anway, we had a blast, high up on our beach towels, behind our sunglasses and hats, ripping them to shreds.
"Some people are too comfortable with themselves," Tuna said. "Sure, it's all great that we've learned to love ourselves despite our imperfections, but it's just gone too far."
"It's all about realizing when to settle," Dave said. "That couple knew it a long time ago."
I always forget that gays come in all the horrible shapes and sizes that the straights do, which is a shame really. Life can be so cruel. After a few good hours we took our Male Critique Roadshow on shore and to the outside bar for a few more brews, boy spectating, and dinner. And dinner is where unbeknownst to me, the trouble started.
All I will say about food poisoning is that your body says "Evacuate!" and it means business, and business means, you sleep in the bathroom because you are exploding from north to south.
Then I awoke from my business to hear Bush on the radio for his Memorial Day speech and the Iraq war and the soldiers who have given their lives and then works 9/11 into it somehow, you know, because Saddam Hussein was behind the whole thing and all. Jackass! He's using liberally enough that I have decided that the next time I am spoken to at work about my chronic 15-minute tardiness I will reply simply "9/11. " And they will pardon me because that is the American thing to do.
Ok, so, I slept on the tile floor, and Doodle was at first interested with my choice of bed chamber and then almost immediately as annoyed that I was sick as a dog and not paying her any mind, and not happy with Fancy Feast's Fish Medley. Sure, it looked gross, but that's exactly why I thought she'd like it. Whatever. So anyway, she thought she'd busy herself with a little creative and persistent door opening, and a little piss festival on the runner in the hallway that has been a bone of contention in this household for three years now. Ha Ha! AWESOME!
Then today got still more interesting when I was forced into a gauche shouting match over the phone with my upstairs neighbor about some money* he owes me for his kid leaving the water on and ruining my apartment. Who doesn't love a shouting match when one was just hours earlier pissing out her nostrils? What better time to fight than en route to her morning coffee? Just pay me the money, assshole! Your kid's retarded and he fucked up. Now pay up.
Top all that shit off with a refrigerator that is leaking and me dealing with thousands of paper towels and rubber gloves and a bucket--to a cat who has disappeared down the back stairs to go hunt mice and bring them back here, and I'd say:
*I'll say it's some money--it's close to 4 friggin' grand! And what about the pain and suffering?
Saturday, May 27, 2006
Ruthe Alayne: Are you ok?
Brayan Green: Have the best meds at hand.
Truth is, I was ignoring Pansy, and Ruthe could tell I wasn't ok. That is, until Brayan saved the day.
My spam friends care, people. They care.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Thursday, May 25, 2006
Aye, tell someone where to stick their hook Pirate style!
And he will friggin' house you. Don't be fooled by that 26 year old baby face, he is a cold-blooded snake. Totally not human. Reptilian, actually, and not to be underestimated. You've got to work your ass off to gain this dude's respect; I could see several awkward silences over a beer with a cat as serious as he. He cannot be rattled; he does not fuck around. A veritable Chucky Doll on the mound, a faint grin on his chipmunk cheeks whilst he slits your throat, remorseless. He makes you look like the baby. Even you, greasy Giambi. Who's the baby now, huh, bitch? You know that's what he's thinking. Ever see the way he powers off the field after he shuts em down 1, 2, 3? That shit will give you goose bumps. And not in the gay way. In the holy shit, that son of a bitch can pitch! way. Red Sox 4, Tampa Bay 1.
I'm totally into citrus as a rule, but there's nothing like the refreshing taste of a lime. I squeeze a lime on everything and it makes it better*. If I were a doctor I'd say "Take two limes and call me in the morning."
And then I'd screen the call, but I do really believe in the power of limes.
*not unlike a snow machine
Last night I went to the Dave Hill Explosion at UCB to see my man Dave Hill explode all over the place. He had Malcolm Gladwell (author of Blink, The Tipping Point) and Fred Armisen from SNL and it was a good show. For me, the best part of the night was Dave's new snow machine.
Especially when he shot the snow at all the UCB groupies who were sitting on the floor at the edge of the stage. Take that, indian-style sitters!
The worst part of the night for me was backstage. That's right, people--I went backstage. Done it before, will do it again. Is it all that it's cracked up to be? You'd better believe it. All the awkward mingling of huge celebrities like myself with the lesser knowns, and the requisite entourage of hangers on--it's incredible. Anyway, I digress. Here's why it was terrible. I ran into a comic I know from "the scene". That's right, people, I said "the scene". Why? Because there is one, and I know people from it. So we're chatting, he pretends he doesn't know who I am again, like he does every time (good one! love it!), and all of a sudden a piece of spit flies out of his mouth.
Things now are in slow motion. ---Sllllllooooooooowwwwwwwwww mmmmmmooooooooooootionnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn---
And I'm not listening to a thing he's saying now, I'm completely focused on the spittle and where it's going to land.
Where's it going to land?
It sure is taking a long time to land! And here I'm thinking, my cheek, maybe my shirt, maybe the floor if I'm lucky, he's so focused on himself that I'll have no trouble clandestinely wiping it off...
But it landed in neither of those three places. It landed right on my tongue.
OH MY GOD! So it just melted right there on my tongue, like a snowflake, and now I'm super grossed out and definitely totally not listening even more than before, and when he excused himself, I couldn't get to the closest bar fast enough to whet my whistle with a little disinfecting whiskey. We swapped spit, so to speak. But he only swapped with me, so it was technically not a swap, no reciprocation, and though he's not a bad looking guy and I'm no germaphobe, I can't say I was prepared for the whole experience, and it really bummed me out.
The moral of this story is: Keep your mouth closed when you're having a conversation with someone you don't know well enough to want to make out with.
Oh, and a snow machine makes everything better.
When you leave your iron on from 11 am 'til 2 am?
If you're lucky like I am, that is!
Almost burned the place down!!!! HAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHA So close to killing a hundred people plus pets HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHA could have been slightly embarrassing HAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA!!!!!
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Doll up your upright vacuum with whimsical covers. Handcrafted with plush heads and hands. Keep your vacuum handy and hidden*, free up room in closets. Dress is made of polyester/cotton. Imported.
Easy On & Off! (Creepy)
Save Closet Space!
Fits most Upright Vacuums!
Turn Any Upright Vacuum into a Great Conversation Piece! (Hey, you put a tacky dress on your vacuum cleaner. What a freak!)
*Throwing a cat/bear/bunny/maid-in-a-dress costume on your vacuum makes it disappear?
All I'm sayin' is, if you come home to find your husband with his hand up the vacuum's dress, you only have yourself to blame. Of course, if he accidentally sweeps when humping it across the room, maybe these things aren't a bad idea.
In addition to his classic "You can't make honey out of pigshit" my wonderful Uncle Stumpy also used to say, "Never trust a man who don't drink or don't smoke." Words to live by. (He's smoking at the pump in this photo folks, so I trusted him implicitly).
At my job at a law firm, I sit out in the satellite of office stations designed for the legal secretaries. Our desks are positioned directly across from whom we support, and quite public, so there's no place for surreptitous nosepicking or anything, as it's like "TA DA!!!! HERE I AM!" The only thing is, I'm not a legal secretary, I don't support the person who has the office right in front of my grill, I'm too busy at my job to play Solitaire, but I do have respect for the majority of these secretaries because of the caste system here perpetuated by a certain number of attorneys that constantly undermines their intelligence. Anyway, this just happens to be my desk, because I'm what they call a temp, and frankly, I'm just happy to be employed.
What's generally annoying, but quite interesting at times, is the how the attorneys who don't know who I am or what I do, just assume their asses off and reveal their selective incompetence. So I'm sitting here, by myself, as all the secretaries are gone out to lunch. An attorney about 5 years or so younger than I walks up to me and asks, "Is Cathy here?" (Cathy sits next to me). "Is Cathy here?" is legalease for "I need help." Of course, Cathy isn't here, because if she was, Cathy would say, "Hey, I'm right here!". So, I looked to my left and replied, "I don't see her." And then mustered up a "Can I help you with something?"
"Oh, yes," the attorney answered. "The light is off in my office."
"Ok. I'd dial 0 and ask for maintenance and say "The light is off in my office. Anything else?"
"Well, I burned my hand on my flatiron this morning, and might you send a few ice packs to my office?"
"We have ice packs?"
"Oh. Well, I'd dial 0 and maybe they can direct you. Last week when I burned my hand on scalding hot water, I made an ice pack myself using the ice from the panty and a paper towel. Worked wonders."
"You might want to do that instead of wait on something interoffice mail--they say you should immediately ice a burn."
"No, I'm fine."
Then she left. A woman who went through 4 years of undergrad, 3 years of law school, passed the New York State Bar, and knows how to use a flatiron on that afro of hers can't dial 0 or use the ice machine? Please. Selective knowledge. I once worked at Comedy Central for an dumb ad saleswoman who would be gabbin' it up with other office gabbers right next to the fax machine and only finally include me in the conversation with a, "Can you fax this document for me please?" and then back to BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH Bergdorfs BLAH BLAH Barneys BLAH BLAH..."
"Sure, once you take your tits off the fax machine, I'll get right to it."
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
In the spirit of trying to be positive (a Red Sox Lover versus a Yankee Hater), I want the record to show that I did resist buying the Gay-Rod t-shirt after the game, so I'm not all bad. Just a little bad.
But to my chagrin, here is my ass today in those same snappy slacks, out of the store. Just as it looks in your regular, run of the mill mirror, just as it appears in real damn life. I think it's obvious that Ann Taylor lies! What a bitch! I was deceived into purchasing a pair of extremely unflattering pants*!
* Don't hate on my new boots, belt and hat. All my idea. I already had the coat--it's Papagallo. Isn't it fantastic? I know several fashionable people-in-the-know who would shoot their grandmother in the face for that coat.
- A woman with her 3-year old who were behind me at the security line at JFK. Let's call them Mommy A-hole and A-hole Junior. A-hole Junior was such a beautiful genius, that he didn't have to stay by his mother's side, he was privileged to run around like the little a-hole that he was, "helping" with the bins, and not getting in anyone's way at all, no, not at all, so, so, adorable, that nobody wanted to punch him in his little a-hole face. Not even me.
- Ms. A-hole TSA Agent, who barked at us as we went through the bins and laptops and keys and shoes (thanks to bitch Richard Reid) and the whole bit. When she said "ALL JACKETS OFF (but pronounced it AWWWWWFF) I REPEAT, ALL JACKETS OFF" and I didn't flinch, I knew she was talking to me when she said "IT DOESN'T MATTER WHAT TYPE JACKET" (I was wearing a blazer). Heh heh. I didn't take that shit off.
- Whoa! Look who is sitting directly behind me on the plane, but Mommy A-hole and who's that little bundle of A-hole? Oh, it's A-hole Junior? Right behind my seat? Yay! Do we get to hear him run his mouth while you run yours on your cellphone? Double Yay! Wait, the best part is to come when the flight attendant tells Mommy A-Hole that she has to put A-hole Jr. in a seat with his belt on and she replies, "But all the other airlines let me hold my little A-hole in my arms" and then A-hole screams "I WANT TO LOOK OUT THE WINDOW" and then Mommy A-hole says, "I know, I know, but the lady said no. I'm sorry, A-hole, but Mommy can't let you look out of the window because the lady said no." If that's not a full-on A-hole in the making, I don't know what is! Can't wait to meet A-Hole Junior all grown up in society! In a few years, you'll recognize him berating a waiter somewhere, so stay tuned!
- At Fenway, I was blessed with an encounter with Missy A-hole Yankee Fan, who delighted in tapping me on the shoulder and smugly barking, "You're in my seat." With her slutty maroon lipstick, pink Yankee hat, trampy denim skirt and flip flops, traipsing in with another Yankee fan in the 5th inning. "Well, where have you been?" I asked, feigning concern. The only reason we (season ticket holders) were not sitting in our seats, is because the row was empty, and we were letting a little kid sit in ours until the "guests of honor" arrived. Then her escort, tapped me on the shoulder with an "We are expecting two more, so I just want to make that clear, so there's no problem." Yeah, got it, a-hole. Your problem is going to be that the underdressed broad isn't going to bang you tonight, great seats at Fenway or not. Sure, she's turning 31 tomorrow. Funny thing is, the broad was freezing her ass off and poorly dressed for the 45 degree weather, and I was about to ask her if she wanted to use my extra fleece until I realized that I wasn't big enough a person to lend something to someone who was just a huge a-hole to me.
- And finally, Mr. A-Hole TSA Agent at Logan this morning, who hates his job so much that he has to be a huge a-hole to everyone he meets, confronting me about the blazer. Of course, I didn't take it off, and he made me take it off. I crammed it into a bin, pulled it out on the other side, and as I walked away, he said "You're welcome." What an a-hole! For what? For saving me from putting a weapon in my coat and being able to shoot him in the crotch with it? What, for being a totally grumpy a-hole at 5:00 a.m.? You're welcome. Ridiculous. He said it to the person before me and the person after me. It was his a-hole schtick. People don't get to say "You're welcome" if they didn't do anything for you. I replied, "I didn't say 'thank you', but thanks."
Wow. It was like A-hole Asteroids! And I survived. I know the next a-hole is but 'round the bend, but until then: Go Bosox!
Let's say you buy a coat, suit jacket or blazer with a slit/pleat in the back. A pleat is a cut in the fabric formed into two flaps. 9 times out of 10, the manufacturers put a loose stitch that tacks the pleat sections together so they don't get wrinkled or smushed in shipment or storage at the store. Don't fall victim to this temporary "X" stitch and walk around in public with the "X" stitch still in, the pleat puckering around your huge ass. As you can see from the diagram I have sketched for you here, it is a TEMPORARY STITCH, for you to remove once you get the garment home. Not unlike the cardboard in a shirt collar. In other words, TAKE OUT THE STITCH IN THE PLEAT, because IT IS A PLEAT AND NOT SUPPOSED TO BE STITCHED. Sometimes it's referred to as the kick pleat, and how are you going to kick in your jacket with your pleat stitched together? You're not.
Get your shit together.
Saturday, May 20, 2006
I wonder if I'll miss the minutes that used to tick by while waiting for a page to reload; I used to do most of my quality hypothesizing and grey hair growing during those moments, but...progress, progress. I suppose we must all yield to progress at some point.
I asked of the guys replacing my old equipment, "Have you ever seen a more ancient cable box?"
One of 'em goes, "Nope. This one was before my time. I was still playing in the street when these were around."
I'm said, "Alright, dude, take it easy. Get back to work, Grandma's tired."
In the interest of time, the engagement will be brief, seriously cutting into my opportunity to say "my Beyonce". But believe you me, on that plane to Vegas, I'll make up for that lost time and will "my Beyonce" my ass off to the annoyance of everyone including my Beyonce.
Friday, May 19, 2006
- I start air violining to "Juke Box Hero"
- I switch it up to the air flute
- I start spelling people's names out loud
- I start talking to the D.J.
- I blow air into the palms of my hands to create huge fart noises
- I fall down
- I answer every redhead in the room with "Whatever, Fire bush!"
- I pull an Irish Goodbye*
*We don't say goodbye. We just bolt.
Death by Netflix works similarly to that of lethal injection and also involves a 3-step process.
First, the powerful anesthetic:
And finally, the cardiac arrest trigger:
Each step, viewed by itself, is sufficient to kill a person. 13 Going on 30 is known to induce unconsiousness quickly, but if not viewed properly, one might awaken later, fully conscious, paralyzed by the Baby Geniuses, and unable to communicate. Worst case scenario being that you would experience the torment of 13 Going on 30, the conscious paralysis of Baby Geniuses, and then the agony of the burning SuperBabies Baby Geniuses 2.
With this method, most likely you'll be deader than a doornail before Jennifer Garner's credit rolls by. Just make sure your friend leaves the room after pushing Play each time.
Good luck, and see you on the other side!
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I get sick!
Don't look! Not recommended! Sometimes they eat it!
I hear Tom Hanks and his attempt at sexy leading man role was one of the major reasons reviewers gave the DaVinci Code the back 9. Apparently the lead in the book is supposedly a hottie (what do I know, I didn't read the book), and apparently people don't think a slicked back afro on a billboard-sized forehead transforms ol' Bosom Buddy into Cary Grant.
Like my dad says, "You can't make honey out of pigshit!"
I just spilled scalding hot water onto my right hand! It's hilarious how much it hurts! In fact, I'm feeling suddenly nauseated from the pain! Makes you feel alive! HAHAHAHAHA! What a fantastic week I'm having! Can't wait until I choke on a chicken bone at lunch! It was nice knowing you all! Bye!
BEEEP BEEEP BEEEEEP BEEEEEEEP !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
More beeping. I turn around only to realize that a HUMVEE, an H2 to be exact, is doing the beeping.
I propose the following legislation:
- You are unallowed to drive a Humvee anywhere else but Iraq or another desert.
- If you owned a Humvee prior to this legislation, you are not allowed to beep. Humvee owners get to be Humvee owners, they may not exercise the privilege of exacerbating their obnoxiousness with beeping.
- If you must honk, horn honking is only allowed unless they are alerting someone to their imminent danger. As in: HONK! My brakes are out! HONK HONK! And I can't stop, so you might die! HONK HONK HONK!
- To ensure that honking is used in emergency situations only, all cars and their horns will be wired to the drivers' genitalia and upon use of the horn, an electric shock will be inflicted with each honk.
I propose the following legislation:
- If you're a single person carrying an obnoxious golf umbrella on a city street, you are required to also be lugging a set of clubs and eating a pimento cheese sandwich.
- If you're not carrying a set of clubs or eating a pimento cheese sandwich, then you will be fined no less than $250 and up to $500 for carrying an oversized umbrella. UNLESS you are sheltering 6 or more people, and you must use the H. O. U. Lane designated for high occupancy umbrellas.
- Get the hell out of my way, you witch. If you're that afraid of rain, stay home.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
I read in the news yesterday that a double amputee climbed to the top of a mountain, and of course, that story made me depressed and feel even more like a lazy fuck. Don't get me wrong, I'm excited for him, but then there's me.
Just now, newbluebaby sent this fantastic clip regarding another mountain climber.
The gays can climb?
In the spirit of douche things to say, let's have a little fun:
- "I have three agents."
- "I'm friends with the band." (That one's mine. Said it this afternoon. Douche!)
- "My Rolex is scratched."
- "This is decidedly the nicest weather we've had since we got back from Switzerland."
Come on, join the fun! It's douche-tastic!
Black Jack, didn't you see Rosie O'Donnell's HBO special where she had a whole cruise ship o' queers sail around the world? Gay families with children? It was awesome. I bawled my eyes out. Does this mean the dog is out on the street in Black Jack too? What if he was never officially adopted?
What's wrong with mixed families? They mind their own business, what are they afraid of? Do they think mixed families are reefer dens? Yes. And they're scared of fags. It always comes down to fag hate.
St. Louis launched a new slogan this year:
"St. Louis: Perfectly Centered. Remarkably Connected."
I've designed Black Jack's new slogan:
"Black Jack: Terrified of Dope Fiends. And Butt Sex."
Rumor has it Paul McCartney and Stephanie Mills are separating after four years of marriage. Oh, and that I'm a bitch. Here's the conversation between me and my colleagues that ensued once I discovered the juice on www.perezhilton.com:
Me: Paul and Stephanie are splitting!
Christina: He didn't even wait five minutes after his wife* died before marrying that skank.
Me: One-legged skank.
Claudia: She's going to walk away with a lot of money.
Me: Hobble away.
* I liked Linda. Only her fake British accent (which Madonna has borrowed) and profuse use of the word "veggie" got on my nerves.
Tuesday, May 16, 2006
Yet it doesn't last.
Because in the morning?
I hate rides. Not mustache rides, but your everyday, carnival, midway, amusement park rides. Now, I don't hate them because I want to hate them, I hate them because I actually physically hate them, have to hate them, forced to hate them because they hate me. My aversion to rides surprises most people, I guess it's incongruous with my free spirited personality, but I'm a ringer. Hate rides. Again, don't want to, have to. I've always been desperate to be one of those daredevils who gets on rides with reckless abandon, takes the bull by the horns (maybe runs with 'em), sky dives and jet skis all that exciting adventure crap. But I'm not. I'm the person who is not only scared shitless on any ride that goes like this (I'm now motioning left to right) or like this (I'm now motioning up and down) or this (I'm now motioning round and round) but even the baby roller coaster freaks me out and it goes in damn circle with one small "hill" which is more like a slope. Can't deal. Yet people don't want to hear it. They want me to like rides.
I blame it on an inner ear imbalance. I can't read in the car without feeling like I'm going to vomit, airplane turbulence gives me an anxiety attack, and people want me to get on a goddamned roller coaster? Please! People, I cannot. My mom says that even when I was a little kid and I begged to go on the Tilt-A-Whirl at Salem Willows, I'd end up burrowing my head into her abdomen the entire time. When the Junior High School class of 1983 went on the annual trip to that amusement park near Hampton Beach, NH and I was bullied into getting onto the roller coaster even though I knew I was waiting in a long line only to die, it was absolutely worse than I had prepared myself for. After when I was green and shaking did I squeak out an "I told you so..." and nobody gave a shit, they were onto the next ride. I believe I was also forced onto the Turkish Twist that day, the ride where it spins around so fast that the centrifugal force makes you stick to the sides and somebody pukes. And that rock n' roll ride where they blare the music really loud and you go forwards and backwards and round and round and round? Not a chance. But the cool kids? Always go on that ride, like bums on baloney, lovin' life, havin' the best time! And I'm holding the coats.
But I'll gladly hold the coats. Don't even get me started on that broken elevator Tower of Terror horseshit ride at Disney World. Once they drop you 250 feet a few times in the dark, they then have the balls to shoot you out of the thing 250 feet in the air and snap your picture, mid-ride. I knew we had to spend the $15 on the picture just so I'd have a keepsake of how terrified I looked. And also in the picture? A baby. On the ride. With a smile on it's face! A baby! My mother, father, sister? All fine. Me? I've got my eyes closed, mouth agape, pleading for my life, convinced it's my last ride. Not last ride for the day, but last ride like "read-about- it -in -the- paper- how- she- was- flung -to -her- death- into -the -parking- lot-and/or had-a-heart-attack" last ride.
All this ride hating doesn't mean I don't like amusement parks. I kick ass at Skee-Ball, and I'm fascinated with carneys. Fried dough? Love it. And I will go on some rides. Take the Haunted House for example. I'll go on that shit, I ain't a-scared of black light! I've also been on Coney Island's Wonder Wheel a few times (stationary car, of course). And although I think I'm totally lame for not loving rides, I do believe that extreme ride lovers must be missing out on something themselves. Their constant thrill seeking prevents them from being really in the moment. Instead of enjoying the last ride they took, they're already onto the next ride, skimming through life looking for adventure instead of looking at what's in front of them. That can't be good for you. Those people don't ponder life's terror and sorrow like I truly can, they're too busy smiling all the time. Do people who love rides love rainy days? No. Do they wonder what their fellow riders on the subway would look like without their skin and hair? Doubtful.
I arrived at my building and once the elevator got to my floor, I made a dramatic exit by tripping on my way out. The obstruction revealed itself to be my left pantleg cuff which had come unstitched and dragged through 25 blocks of street slime.
I've since hemmed it with packing tape.
In summary, while I was checking out that dirty broad, someone else was checking me out and thinking "Tsk tsk, dirty broad." But I bet she had something else wrong with her, like price tag stickers on the bottom of her shoes or something.
As the saying goes, "Thou with slimy pantleg shall not make fun of slimy pantlegs."
Last night on Grey's Anatomy (the show which bitch slapped me into sobbing last night) the Meredith character had sex with the hot one named Derek in an unused examination room whilst the prom was going on downstairs (if you didn't see it, don't ask), and afterwards as they hastily dressed themselves, she said "Where are my panties? I had black panties on. Do you see them?"
A lady does not say the word panties.
Perverts say panties. Porn stars say panties. "Where are my black panties?" was written for the male viewers of Grey's Anatomy last night. Pull your head out of the pornos for one second, fellas, would you?
A lady says underwear. Strips the sexual connotation out of the cooter coveralls altogether.