Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Things that make me stabby: Ryan Seacrest

Ponder this: millions of Americans are unemployed, yet Ryan Seacrest is a millionaire just for being a jerkfaced schlong monger.  Forget child abuse, forget animal cruelty.  Ryan Seacrest's success is the greatest injustice to plague our country since slavery.  From his boy band frosted tips to his signature Ed Hardy shirt-and-blazer ensemble, Seacrest reminds us that if you work hard enough at being a colossal ass camper, great success and loads of money will surely follow. And apparently, gorgeous women like Julianne Hough.

Now I admit that I used to be a closet American Idol-head back in the day.  I enjoyed American Idol for the wealth of talent of its contestants, Randy’s disco ball-inspired wardrobe, Simon’s acid insults, and Paula’s Vicodin-fueled love-rants.  I needed nothing else to make my AI experience complete.  So WHY, American Idol, do you force us to watch Ryan Seacrest’s smarmy self as he builds unnecessary suspense, dishes out fake sympathy for departing contestants, and exchanges homoerotic banter with Simon Cowell?  Everyone else on the show has some modicum of talent; anything with arms to hold a microphone can replace Seacrest.  I encourage Seacrest to take up a new career in cricket farming.  Or something.

Who has two thumbs and is a giant douche spigot?!!

Wednesday, November 23, 2011


You know how sometimes you're blogging late at night and you're all, "If only I had some plastic rats to stick on my fingers in order to illuminate them whilst I blog"? Well search no more. I give you Party Rats, the colorful rodent lights for your fingers.

Maybe I'm lazy for just using a lamp instead.

Monday, November 14, 2011

The severed heads of Asian men will adorn my new home

I'm moving.  Did I tell you that?  Despite the fact that there's nothing sexier to men than a 30 year old woman who lives with her mommy, I have decided to venture out into the real world again and cultivate my own space.  This, of course, will end tragically.

My mother doubles as my own personal chef and live-in ironing wench.  When left to my own devices, I tend to set things on fire while cooking and slice gashes into my hands when wielding a knife. So for everyone's sake, I tend to nuke things instead.  My dinner guests will choose from a delicious menu of Lean Cuisine Mac and Cheese and Stauffer's Lasagna.  Because I care.  I am certain they will salivate like Pavlov's dogs.

And since I burn myself every other time I attempt to iron, I"ll end up just foregoing the ironing all together and wearing clothes that look like they've been languishing in a mountainous pile of clean-but-unfolded laundry for like 6 weeks. Because they probably have. My boss, in all her rigidly starched glory, will be so pleased when I start rolling into work looking like I just survived an F-5 tornado.

Aside from those unfortunate consequences, living on my own will be stellar. I've spent the last couple of weekends "unpacking" the mounds of bags from my old house (before I moved back in with my mom) that I stored in my garage four years ago.  And by "unpacking", I mean sifting through the random garbage bags full of crumpled-up shit I forgot I had and praying that spiders and bats don't jump out at me and that I don't stick my hand in something squishy.

I feel like my garage finds would translate well into a Christmas carol set to the tune of "The Twelve Days of Christmas."  Don't steal my idea.  This will make me rich and then I will have the funds to pay movers to move all of my disgusting cobwebby crap.
 So far in my unpacking and re-packing efforts, I have uncovered:

* super-webby cobwebs
* like 20 sticks of deodorant  Guess I was a stinky woman 4 years ago.
* 7 melted Tootsie Roll Pops (Which, incidentally, are stronger than super glue. And they RUIN towels, FYI.)
* 4 dismembered spiders
* 3 cockroach carcasses
* 2 Janet Jackson cassette tapes (WTF?)
* and a partridge in a pear tree

Tootsie Roll Pop aftermath.

Anyway, upon assessing my *ahem* home goods situation, I realized that I need to do some serious shopping to buy some home decor and, you know, towels without melty, crusty, cherry Tootsie Roll Pops stuck to them.  Which is doubly sad because not only did the lollipops ruin my towels, but I really, really like cherry Tootsie Roll Pops and now they're all wasted.  *violins*

So I drove out to this backwoods home goods store called Val's Basket Warehouse because I insist on nothing but the finest furnishings and decor for my new abode. 

It's every bit as classy as it looks.

I was met with things I didn't expect.  Like this:

For all of your ceramic parrot needs.
Naturally, I was stoked to find such a fine flock of parrots.  Then, no sooner had I thought "Man, if only I had some giant, creepy toads to greet my visitors as they walk in," did I happen upon THIS:

 Ask and you shall receive!

Just when everything was going well, *this* happened:

This will haunt my dreams.
 They had an aisle of Asian man heads propped up on sticks. Let me repeat that: an entire aisle devoted solely to displaying these ceramic heads of Asian men impaled by sticks. Because sometimes just one severed Asian man head statue isn't enough. Sometimes you need an entire arsenal to really make your decorative statement.  I suppose the Asian man head aisle was for people who want Lord of the Flies-inspired home decor?

 *fetal position*  Please make it stop.

I've never fancied myself an accomplished interior designer or anything, but with the help of the fine folks at Val's Basket Warehouse, I think my new apartment is really coming together.  Pics of my new ceramic reptile family to follow...

Friday, November 4, 2011

Things that make me stabby: Nickelback

Has there ever been a band that just made you want to peel off your own face and divide it into four equal pieces and shove one of those pieces down each of the throats of the band members so they can never ever make "music" again? Me too. For me, that band is Nickelback.

Chad Kroeger is like if Satan and Hitler had a hate child.
 Seriously, folks. Have you ever actually listened to their lyrics?  I tried to avoid it, but I was forced to listen as Nickelback unleashed their song vomit on me today. Here's an excerpt:

If everyone cared and nobody cried
If everyone loved and nobody lied
If everyone shared and swallowed their pride
Then we'd see the day when nobody died.

I beg to differ, Nickelback. Even if everyone cared and nobody cried and everyone loved and nobody lied, people would still die.  Wait, lemme check my math. YEAH. Last I checked, lies and tears don't cause death, asshats. Check your facts, Nickelback.

Better yet, stop assaulting our delicate ears and go back to Canada, you ludicrous turd monkeys.

Friday, October 28, 2011

My friend is trying to kill me.

Not to toot my own horn or anything, but I am completely awesome at injuring myself. I am a complete and total walking disaster. Let me sketch you a quick background:

People who know me well lovingly remember me as the girl who once knocked herself out cold while skiing. (See what I did there? Skiing? Out cold?  Arngh, forget it. *shame*)  No lie, though. When I finally regained consciousness, there was a crowd of people surrounding me and the paramedics had already cut off my ski pants.  Cut. Off. My. Pants. It wasn't embarrassing at all. Luckily for me, I wasn't really injured. And luckily for everyone involved, I was wearing jeans under the ski pants. 

I have a true talent for falling down and bumping my head. I gather scrapes and bruises like it's my job. So my friends shouldn't have been too surprised when I damn near sliced my foot off.

Let me back up.  I live in Florida.  Did I tell you that?  Well anyway, usually it's around Octobertime when we say goodbye to the beach to face the cruel, harsh Florida winter that lies ahead. Last weekend, my friend Stef and I decided to visit the beach for one last tanning session of the season.  Okay, SHE went to get a tan.  On the other hand, *I* just come along for the ride because if I were one shade paler, I would be transparent and I have abandoned all hope that I will ever have a decent tan.

Getting a late start on the day *cough* because Stef is incessantly late *cough*, we decided that we didn't have time to drive all the way to the white, sandy, utopia beach we had planned to visit:

Instead, we went to a closer beach that is twice as beautiful.

Did I say twice as beautiful?  Because what I meant was "twice as disgusting as a sewage treatment plant".

The universe tried to tell me this was a bad idea.  The broken bottles in the parking lot should have been my first clue. After we parked we noticed that the sky had instantly changed from a brilliant blue to a "get the hell out of here" gray.  This, my stranger friends, is what we call foreshadowing.

Then as we unloaded the car, we found that our drinks had spilled all over the back seat, creating a slushy mess.  Mayday.  Litter was everywhere. With an environment like this, we thought, surely the water is crystal clear and free from debris.*

* denotes sarcasm

Despite the beach's junky appearance, Stef and I remained undeterred. We set up camp and I got my "tan" on. After a while, I ventured into the water to pee cool off. No sooner had I called out to Stef to join me than I stepped on the biggest, sharpest, MEANEST fucking barnacle ever to set barnacle in Tampa Bay. I screeched like a banshee. I did a hoppy dance. I shouted obscenities with no regard for the children nearby. Out of the 300 people in the water, *I* was the one person to get injured. Of course I was.

As I hippity-hopped back to shore, Stef glared at me with disdain. This conversation followed:

Stef:  Oh, stop whining. It's probably not that bad.

I look like a Civil War amputee. Pre-amputation.

Me: (*death glare*) Yeah, I'll just rub some dirt in it. (grabs towel to soak up blood)

Stef:  You don't need stitches.

Me: (pretty sure Stef is trying to kill me with gangrene) Sure I don't, Doctor Stef. I have shells and seaweed INSIDE my foot. I might die. Here, hold this. (tosses bloody towel to Stef)

Stef: Eeeeeeeeeeewwwwwwwww!!!!! Ew Ew Ew Ew Ew!

Me: Sorry. It's just a little blood. I can't stop bleeding. I'm going to bleed out on the ghetto beach.

Stef:  It's okay.  Here, lemme help you. (pours fucking antibacterial hand sanitizer into my sliced off foot)


Nearby children and parents: *shock and disbelief*

I don't know if you've ever had someone pour straight alcohol onto one of YOUR foot, but I don't advise it. It feels like someone is trying to saw off your foot with a rusty butter knife circa 1863. And then they spit into your open wound for good measure.  And then they set it on fire.  And then they insult your mother.

When I got home and my foot had finally stopped dumping the contents of my body on the the beach, my foot looked like this.

Despite the very real possibility of succumbing to gangrene or tetanus, I decided to forego the stitches on account of the hefty price tag. $300 for stitches?  pssshaww!  I can heal myself for free. I'm not cheap; I just prefer to spend my money on more important things, like vodka and Extra Sugarfree Gum.

In the end, though, my body healed the shit out of my heel.  I WIN THIS BATTLE, GANGRENE!!!! But my rockstar recovery begs the question: how will Stef try to kill me next?

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Fuck Abraham Lincoln.

Who was it that said, "Better to remain silent and be thought a fool than to speak out and remove all doubt"?  It was Abraham Lincoln, right?  Yeah, fuck that guy.  He died in 1865 when talking was frowned upon apparently, and therefore his advice is completely irrelevant in today's world. Where would we be if we listened to Lincoln (who, by the way, SPOKE OUT to give us that advice, the hypocritical jackass)? We'd be in a world full of frustrated mimes, that's where.

Abraham Lincoln gives Ford's Theater 2 stars. If I got shot and killed somewhere, I might go ahead and opt for the one star, but hey - maybe I'm being overly critical. This is supposed to be a caption, but I haven't figured out how to insert captions yet, so deal with it.

Anyway, my new philosophy goes something like this: I have an insatiable urge to stay stupid things, so I'm gonna indulge myself.  I have my reasons.  I say stupid shit all the time unintentionally, but I try to limit the unintentional stupidity to strangers if possible. My real-life pals get all judgey when I tell dead baby jokes. And my work colleagues get all judgey when I use words like "judgey."  That's where you, my stranger friends, come in. I can offend you until the Cubs win the World Series (which, in case you aren't a sports nut, will happen forever from now) and I'll probably never even know you hate me. Unless you send me hate mail.  Then I'll know, and I'll probably deserve it.  But it'll be just fine, because I will be super excited to get any mail associated with this blog and I will probably invite you to be my best friend despite your death threats.

It should be evident by now that I have no fucking clue how to write a blog, but my therapist friends said a blog would be an excellent creative outlet for me, so here goes. I can't guarantee this will be entertaining to anyone but me. I can't promise that I'll even learn how to add pictures or proper captions to my posts. But what I CAN promise is this: I will be my jackass self . I'll give you a heaping helping of gratuitous profanity. I'll provide you with liberal doses of obnoxious insight and sprinkle in healthy portions of self deprecation. I will teach you things. I'm lying; I'll teach you nothing. You'll probably be dumber just for reading this. In fact, you'll lose 10 IQ points just for finishing this post.  Let's spiral into mental retardation together, shall we?

On a wildly unrelated note, I have already learned something from writing this post. I smugly thought I was a stellar speller, which I'm quickly realizing isn't true at all.  Apparently I am incapable of spelling "deprecation" and "obsolete."  Aye caramba.

What next? Oh! I should probably tell you a smidge about myself.

1.  I hate onions.
2.  I really like chocolate.
3.  I'm pretty hungry right now.
4.  I totally judge people who don't acknowledge the difference between "you're" and "your".
5.  I am borderline brain dead where technology is concerned.
6.  I am painfully clumsy.  (Both figuratively and literally.)
7.  Boom-shaka-laka.
8.  I am a lawyer.  Yeah, I'm surprised too.
9.  I have guilty pleasures. Wanna hear some? Of course you do. I like Nsync, the smell of rubber, an old Nickelodeon show called Salute Your Shorts, and swizzle straws in my vodka drinks.  Also, I was a Girl Scout until I was 18, and I'm a whore for the holiday season and decorations and the Christmas spirit.
10. I have two orange cats named Pumpkin and Tang and I will most certainly blog about them immediately, if not sooner.

So there you have it.  Now that we're acquainted, I hope you'll stop in from time to time to make sure I haven't fallen down a manhole or something.  Because I would totally do that.  No, really.

PS:  Yes, I know Mark Twain is known for the whole "Remain silent" quote too, so fuck him too.  But fuck Lincoln more.

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