Sometimes a bitch just wants some chicken and sometimes the only place to get it is at the Wal Mart because every other place is closed. Now, if you have ever seen my ass, you know this girl loves me some fried chicken and in some moods, I'm willing to stab a bitch for it. But there is something about going into Wal Mart that is simply magical. Come all ye bloated, ye tired, ye cankled....and you walk out feeling like the skinniest, prettiest, most classy (er, KLASSY) chick on two slender legs to ever walk through automatic double doors.
Now, one would think the double doors are for getting that big screen from electronics that is on roll back through the mercantile's foyer: but, ye.
Ye does not knoweth the kansuffalos that squeeze their way sideways to get through those doors. Generally, they are on a huffy puffy mad dash to get to the hover rounds stashed next to the carts. Oh yes, the Wal Mart hover round; the engineers of which should get mad props for. That is one fine piece of structurally sound motorized engineering. The next time tornado sirens go off, I'm going to go all incredible she hulk with a raging case of PMS (we turn pink rather than green, honey buns *wink*), stack those fuckers up and hide from the cyclone with one dainty hand poking out the top flipping the wind off screaming F-5 THIS, MOTHAFUCKAH!
I digress. So, on this particular venture for some chicken wangs and gahlic mashed potatoes and brown gravy. Yes, brown. (Suck it, Trebek) I noted the woman ahead of me in her halter and feeling quite guilty for thinking, "Bitch, go put a bra on. They're 200 feet that way, and probably some on roll back", then I realized the tube sock titties (aka pendulous bresticles) were, in fact, pendulous backfaticles. In shock, and perhaps needing a nap, I found myself entranced as the back fat began to sing to me in a Dora the Explorer voice.
Backfat, Backfat
Back fat, Back fat
I'm the Back fat!
Loaded up with adipose and cellulite too
All your missing things, hidden in folds for you.
Backfat back fat
Back fat, back fat
YEAH!
and then....
If there's no place you got to go
I'm the one you need to know
I'm the fat
I'm the fat
I'm the fat
If there's a place you got to get
I can stop you there I bet
I'm the fat, (12 times)
IM THE BACK FAT
I blame my NEED for chicken wangs and subliminal Dora messages. Chicken wangs=bat wings and I'm going to fly away on mine. On a jet powered Wal Mart hover round. Now give a girl some damn chicken wangs, hand me those napkins I know you have stashed under that back fat and shut the fuck up Dora.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Monday, May 7, 2012
Whoremoanalness: Never Fuck With A Woman's Quest For Food
For the most part I am a 14 year old nerdy boy trapped in a woman's body. I love fantasy books with a lot of walking (ex: Tolkien, Song of Ice and Fire series aka Game of Thrones etc.) and pontificate the philosophies behind the fiction. I can turn any sentence into a double entendre, I think fart jokes are HILARIOUS and if you want to watch SpaceBalls, Starwars (not that prequel bullshit),any zombie genre movie or spend an evening watching old reruns of Star Trek or Quantum Leap, I'm your girl. Especially if there is a case of beer involved. Yet every 28 days or so, that theory goes completely out the window and I experience a metamorphosis into an estrogen surged, emotional over halmark commercials with a beast like carb craving that is only slightly worse in pregnancy. God help anyone who gets in my way. I will make the Incredible Hulk look like a beaten puppy, especially if that mother fucker is blocking my path to Chinese Food.
So in this whormoanal state and woebegone over the complete lack of chicken lo Mein, fried rice and crab rangoon in my life, I began to fantasize (in my poor craving Chinese food induced psychosis) what I was willing to do to remedy this situation. I actually made a list, and it goes as follows:
If there was a little old lady who resembles my sweet, wonderful grandmother blocking my path to lo mein, I would kick her cane out from under her and steal her life alert bracelet while standing over her and yelling THAT WHAT YOU GET! and then pawn the bracelet to the pedophile that hangs out outside of grocery store to get my lo mein
I would stab a nun to get my lo mein.
If there was a long line of people at the establishment and after a quick scan of my purse, I did not have enough ammo to take them out, I would stand on a table and scream about fried maggots, roaches, and pit bull on a stick and e. coli before those mother fuckers could eat all of my lo mein.
I would consider an orgy with Rick Santorum, Rick Perry, and Sam Brownback. I am fairly certain they would be the easiest blow jobs ever. Not even a jaw cramp. But only if it's completely dark. And if they brought extra crab rangoon. A girl has standards, for fucks sake.
If the Dalai Lama were holding my lo mein, I would sneak behind him, throw his robes over his head and steal it out of his hands. Because with the lo mein in my hands, I would be happy in that happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want. And I want some God.Damned.Lo mein.
I would steal an old lady's hover round and mow over small children to get my low mein.
I would declare the Jersey Shore a documentary of class and how society should be. Their skin is yellowie orange like duck sauce. MMMMMM....duck sauce. I would lick duck sauce off of snooki's thigh for some lo mein.
I would mud wrassle Fred Phelps for some lo mein, with the caveat that if I break his hip, I get double portions.
When I am pregnant the same applies, but only to chocolate milkshakes and those fantasies are much more violent. I wouldn't want to elaborate on how crazy that list gets for fear of completely ruining my reputation. Men think PMSing women are batshit crazy....really they have no idea. Be afraid. Be very afraid. And go get me some fucking lo mein.
So in this whormoanal state and woebegone over the complete lack of chicken lo Mein, fried rice and crab rangoon in my life, I began to fantasize (in my poor craving Chinese food induced psychosis) what I was willing to do to remedy this situation. I actually made a list, and it goes as follows:
If there was a little old lady who resembles my sweet, wonderful grandmother blocking my path to lo mein, I would kick her cane out from under her and steal her life alert bracelet while standing over her and yelling THAT WHAT YOU GET! and then pawn the bracelet to the pedophile that hangs out outside of grocery store to get my lo mein
I would stab a nun to get my lo mein.
If there was a long line of people at the establishment and after a quick scan of my purse, I did not have enough ammo to take them out, I would stand on a table and scream about fried maggots, roaches, and pit bull on a stick and e. coli before those mother fuckers could eat all of my lo mein.
I would consider an orgy with Rick Santorum, Rick Perry, and Sam Brownback. I am fairly certain they would be the easiest blow jobs ever. Not even a jaw cramp. But only if it's completely dark. And if they brought extra crab rangoon. A girl has standards, for fucks sake.
If the Dalai Lama were holding my lo mein, I would sneak behind him, throw his robes over his head and steal it out of his hands. Because with the lo mein in my hands, I would be happy in that happiness is wanting what you have, not having what you want. And I want some God.Damned.Lo mein.
I would steal an old lady's hover round and mow over small children to get my low mein.
I would declare the Jersey Shore a documentary of class and how society should be. Their skin is yellowie orange like duck sauce. MMMMMM....duck sauce. I would lick duck sauce off of snooki's thigh for some lo mein.
I would mud wrassle Fred Phelps for some lo mein, with the caveat that if I break his hip, I get double portions.
When I am pregnant the same applies, but only to chocolate milkshakes and those fantasies are much more violent. I wouldn't want to elaborate on how crazy that list gets for fear of completely ruining my reputation. Men think PMSing women are batshit crazy....really they have no idea. Be afraid. Be very afraid. And go get me some fucking lo mein.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Ah, Summer Time
It's that time of year again. The signs of impending midwestern summer are evident: orange cones, construction, tornado parties, boats on trailers and young girls running around dressed like day shift strippers. It's the time of year for back yard grilling, weekend parties and pub crawling. The newly 18 are hitting Old Town and their parents pray they don't see their daughters on a late night infomercial earning beads...minus the beads. As an aside, Mardi Gras beads belong at Mardi Gras, which last I checked, was not a year round event. So you! Yes, YOU orange skankbot wearing "clothes" 3 sizes too small in the 2 door Saturn, take that shit off your rear view. I'm assuming your horrendous driving is directly related to that shit reflecting off your ginormous bitch glasses and blinding you. Drunk+acting like a whore does not = beads. I'm all about Public Service Announcements. I digress. So, I've put together a list of things to help with summer break and attire because I'm super helpful like that.
1.)You may be celebrating graduating high school on mommy and daddy's dime but no matter how many Joe Francis payrolled camera crews are around you, no matter how much you regret your drunken escapades, you cannot time travel back to that time when you were 6 to make your daddy love you.
2.) Ladies: order beer at the bar. The bottled kind. The bar tender pops the top right in front of you and that little hole at the top is much easier to keep covered with a thumb to avoid a roofie martini. Unless you have no realistic expectation of getting laid and liquor goggles are your only hope...in which case rock on with your rum laden self. But remember, condoms are more useful than just making balloon animals.
3.)You may be 18 but that doesn't mean you are a size 2. please stop subjecting the rest of the population into staring at your ass cleavage. We can see just how much you frequent McDonalds. Our stares do not mean what you think it means. Your ass dimples are merely a real life personification of the Jerry Springer show; we stare but we can't help it. What is appropriate at Wal Mart is not appropriate in the rest of civilization.
4.) Orange is not flattering. On anyone. And especially not on your skin. Unless you have green hair, white sunglasses, striped socks and work at a chocolate factory.
6.) It is warm out, the sun is shining. Raids can wait until night time. Put down the game controller. I'm concerned about your potential for Ricketts. Soak up some vitamin D, I promise you will not glitter in the sunlight.
7.) Nipple pasties DO NOT COUNT AS CLOTHING. And if I see 'juicy' written across anything, I am assuming that meat is USDA approved to throw on my grill.
8.)Baby ducks need good role models but ever since they hit the interwebs thanks to the aflac duck, they are all posing for pictures trying to look like a teen whorebot. Be ecologically friendly, be a role model for the poor impressionable ducks.
9.)One would think Axe body spray would double as mosquito repellent. Alas, it does not. So there is no need to take a bath in it. Definintely don't stand next to a grill while wearing that either; inevitably it will give a whole new meaning to 'Great Balls On Fire'. Yes, I am aware it's of but on is much more appropriate in this context.
10.) Stretching out your ears to the point you can fit D batteries in there, ICP tats, facial tats, general excessive hardware in your face....let me help you, sweetie. Put all the money you would spend into a college fund and I will make you a tshirt in big glittery poofy paint that says "I HATE MY DAD". It sends the same message, is much cheaper and I am a puff paint MASTER. Can I have those D batteries, by the way? I have something much more useful to put them in.
11.)We get it, you don't give a FUCK about anything. But, hey, lazy ass. You can put some pants and real shoes on. They are called 'house shoes' because you wear them IN YOUR HOUSE.
12.)You were born in the 90s, have a grand total of 1.5 life experiences but you have the entire world figured out. Please, enlighten me. I wish I were so all powerful and all knowing. *sigh*
13.) If you ever feel badly about yourself, just go to Wal Mart. Either you will walk out feeling thin and pretty, or you will have a sense of community. Either way, it's a win.
1.)You may be celebrating graduating high school on mommy and daddy's dime but no matter how many Joe Francis payrolled camera crews are around you, no matter how much you regret your drunken escapades, you cannot time travel back to that time when you were 6 to make your daddy love you.
2.) Ladies: order beer at the bar. The bottled kind. The bar tender pops the top right in front of you and that little hole at the top is much easier to keep covered with a thumb to avoid a roofie martini. Unless you have no realistic expectation of getting laid and liquor goggles are your only hope...in which case rock on with your rum laden self. But remember, condoms are more useful than just making balloon animals.
3.)You may be 18 but that doesn't mean you are a size 2. please stop subjecting the rest of the population into staring at your ass cleavage. We can see just how much you frequent McDonalds. Our stares do not mean what you think it means. Your ass dimples are merely a real life personification of the Jerry Springer show; we stare but we can't help it. What is appropriate at Wal Mart is not appropriate in the rest of civilization.
4.) Orange is not flattering. On anyone. And especially not on your skin. Unless you have green hair, white sunglasses, striped socks and work at a chocolate factory.
6.) It is warm out, the sun is shining. Raids can wait until night time. Put down the game controller. I'm concerned about your potential for Ricketts. Soak up some vitamin D, I promise you will not glitter in the sunlight.
7.) Nipple pasties DO NOT COUNT AS CLOTHING. And if I see 'juicy' written across anything, I am assuming that meat is USDA approved to throw on my grill.
8.)Baby ducks need good role models but ever since they hit the interwebs thanks to the aflac duck, they are all posing for pictures trying to look like a teen whorebot. Be ecologically friendly, be a role model for the poor impressionable ducks.
9.)One would think Axe body spray would double as mosquito repellent. Alas, it does not. So there is no need to take a bath in it. Definintely don't stand next to a grill while wearing that either; inevitably it will give a whole new meaning to 'Great Balls On Fire'. Yes, I am aware it's of but on is much more appropriate in this context.
10.) Stretching out your ears to the point you can fit D batteries in there, ICP tats, facial tats, general excessive hardware in your face....let me help you, sweetie. Put all the money you would spend into a college fund and I will make you a tshirt in big glittery poofy paint that says "I HATE MY DAD". It sends the same message, is much cheaper and I am a puff paint MASTER. Can I have those D batteries, by the way? I have something much more useful to put them in.
11.)We get it, you don't give a FUCK about anything. But, hey, lazy ass. You can put some pants and real shoes on. They are called 'house shoes' because you wear them IN YOUR HOUSE.
12.)You were born in the 90s, have a grand total of 1.5 life experiences but you have the entire world figured out. Please, enlighten me. I wish I were so all powerful and all knowing. *sigh*
13.) If you ever feel badly about yourself, just go to Wal Mart. Either you will walk out feeling thin and pretty, or you will have a sense of community. Either way, it's a win.
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Yet Another Adventure In Bad Mommy Land
Over the years I have tried and failed at being a "good mom". I did the bleached blonde, sweater set wearing, dinner on the table (3 courses with sides) every night with a cool crafty corner and play dates but it was about as comfortable as Vincent D'Onofrio wearing the Edgar Suit in Men In Black. When it comes to being a good mom and good wife, the only stereotyped chore I do well is vacuuming in 5 inch fuck me heels (and pearls.) I have a mouth that could make a trucker blush, my favorite hour is bedtime for the kids aka cocktail hour, and I enjoy a good tobacco product with said cocktails. I am pissed off that wrinkle cream is now in my skin care regimen, that my cocktails make my thighs bigger and that I can't hide behind ignorance to chain smoke a soccer mom's face off. I am not the sweet motherly type and I hold out little hope for growing up to be the sweet grandmotherly type. The best I can hope for is to have enough in savings to cover my children's therapy bills since, as Freud would tell you, everything that will go wrong in their lives will be solely due to riding an amniotic gloosh wave out of MY vagina.
So with all that said, imagine my excitement to attend yet another school program. Yes, I know, I should be excited to to watch my children shine along with 200 of their closest friends, rejoice in the other children learning how to play instruments and be utterly respectful of the hard work that went into creating that show all for parents and grandparents to enjoy. The nice part of me, that teeny tiny part somewhere in my grey matter does. But let's face it. Me nice is just not funny. Listening to twinkle twinkle little star off tempo, off key, with occasional screechiness is about as awesome for me as contemplating shoving bamboo chutes under my nails; my kid isn't even IN band. If given the choice, well, I have a nice bamboo plant sitting next to me here as I type; which reminds me, I need to water it.
So out of politeness, parents are forced to sit through 3 different grades of band, 3 different grades of orchestra (because we wouldn't want to, oh, combine that shit for adult mental health purposes) and then grades K-6 sing 3 songs individually. Now generally this happens twice a year that I grudingly go to out of parental obligation, hide the fact that I would rather practice S&M with my bamboo plant, whisper quietly in my husbands ear that there should at least be an open bar there, and console myself with the fact its only 2 blocks from my house so we will be home in time for Cocktail Hour. This particular program, however, the venue changed to the high school in the next town over. I figured we must be in for quite a treat (read CROWD, dripping sarcasm)to be at the high school. So, plotting out the schedule, it should turn out that I arrive right on time from work.
Life, as it happens, never goes as planned. This particular day ended up being 12 hours of occupational hell and chaos and knowing that I had not a cocktail to look forward to that evening, but my favorite event that goes a long with motherhood. I arrived nearly 50 minutes late and extremely hungry only to discover that although we were nearly an hour into the program, they just got done with the band portion. I was relieved to have not missed my kid's solo, but grimacing at the fact at this point said solo was at least an hour away. On a bad mood scale, at this point I was into negative numbers. At this point, thighs be damned, I had a one big mother of a cocktail and that bitch had my name all over it once I finally got home.
My grumbling stomach and my pissed off brain, all being carried on my sturdy fat thighs walked into the darkened auditorium and that's when I saw it on the program. There was going to be a drawing at the end of the program and we were all stuck, hearded like cattle in the slaughter house feed lot, with our offspring being held hostage until the end of this drawing. For pies. and a Kindle Fire. I could feel my brain spinning like my son's beyblade. All politeness I had left went flying out the window, if there had been a window in the auditorium. And the icing on the shit cake? This show did not really require it to be in the next town over, in fact I could not figure out why it was being held here.
What follows is an exact transcript of my brain at the time: I am starving, stuck in fucking TOWANDA, in a CROWD, with shrieky little kids everywhere. I think my kids are wonderful, sure. Other people's kids? Not so much. These people are rude bastards, possibly one of the most annoying of all parental obligations, and they don't even offer some complementary meth?! I mean, this IS the capitol for it. At least something disassociate us just long enough to tolerate these white kids singing multi ethnic songs. Oh, wait, I thought we were stereotypically singing songs from other countries and now kids bop is singing "'cuz we gonna rock this club, we gonna go all night, we gon' light it up, like it's dynamite!" I didn't realize we were clubbing with 10 year olds in the meth capitol. A good host always provides the right hors deurve to the meal; so, someone pass the X, the glow in the dark necklaces and glitter. How in the hell can I be expected to do my Kesha impression without some fucking glitter?!
So then this group of kids exits the stage, and the next arrive. With togas on. They begin to sing 'Faster, Higher, Stronger'. Aren't we a little young to be teaching the kids about Greek Style? Then, while still in the togas, they bust out "we go together like rama lama ka dinga dinga ding....and suddenly the togas are gone and it's poodle skirts. At this point I am cracking myself up so much I can't breathe from trying to stifle the laughter while still being cognizant of the complete inappropriateness of it all. It never would've happened if they'd had a damn open bar. And did I win a pie or a kindle fire? Fuck no. Because I am the anti-PTA mom. But, I can still vacuum in 5 inch fuck me heels and pearls, WELL. The end.
So with all that said, imagine my excitement to attend yet another school program. Yes, I know, I should be excited to to watch my children shine along with 200 of their closest friends, rejoice in the other children learning how to play instruments and be utterly respectful of the hard work that went into creating that show all for parents and grandparents to enjoy. The nice part of me, that teeny tiny part somewhere in my grey matter does. But let's face it. Me nice is just not funny. Listening to twinkle twinkle little star off tempo, off key, with occasional screechiness is about as awesome for me as contemplating shoving bamboo chutes under my nails; my kid isn't even IN band. If given the choice, well, I have a nice bamboo plant sitting next to me here as I type; which reminds me, I need to water it.
So out of politeness, parents are forced to sit through 3 different grades of band, 3 different grades of orchestra (because we wouldn't want to, oh, combine that shit for adult mental health purposes) and then grades K-6 sing 3 songs individually. Now generally this happens twice a year that I grudingly go to out of parental obligation, hide the fact that I would rather practice S&M with my bamboo plant, whisper quietly in my husbands ear that there should at least be an open bar there, and console myself with the fact its only 2 blocks from my house so we will be home in time for Cocktail Hour. This particular program, however, the venue changed to the high school in the next town over. I figured we must be in for quite a treat (read CROWD, dripping sarcasm)to be at the high school. So, plotting out the schedule, it should turn out that I arrive right on time from work.
Life, as it happens, never goes as planned. This particular day ended up being 12 hours of occupational hell and chaos and knowing that I had not a cocktail to look forward to that evening, but my favorite event that goes a long with motherhood. I arrived nearly 50 minutes late and extremely hungry only to discover that although we were nearly an hour into the program, they just got done with the band portion. I was relieved to have not missed my kid's solo, but grimacing at the fact at this point said solo was at least an hour away. On a bad mood scale, at this point I was into negative numbers. At this point, thighs be damned, I had a one big mother of a cocktail and that bitch had my name all over it once I finally got home.
My grumbling stomach and my pissed off brain, all being carried on my sturdy fat thighs walked into the darkened auditorium and that's when I saw it on the program. There was going to be a drawing at the end of the program and we were all stuck, hearded like cattle in the slaughter house feed lot, with our offspring being held hostage until the end of this drawing. For pies. and a Kindle Fire. I could feel my brain spinning like my son's beyblade. All politeness I had left went flying out the window, if there had been a window in the auditorium. And the icing on the shit cake? This show did not really require it to be in the next town over, in fact I could not figure out why it was being held here.
What follows is an exact transcript of my brain at the time: I am starving, stuck in fucking TOWANDA, in a CROWD, with shrieky little kids everywhere. I think my kids are wonderful, sure. Other people's kids? Not so much. These people are rude bastards, possibly one of the most annoying of all parental obligations, and they don't even offer some complementary meth?! I mean, this IS the capitol for it. At least something disassociate us just long enough to tolerate these white kids singing multi ethnic songs. Oh, wait, I thought we were stereotypically singing songs from other countries and now kids bop is singing "'cuz we gonna rock this club, we gonna go all night, we gon' light it up, like it's dynamite!" I didn't realize we were clubbing with 10 year olds in the meth capitol. A good host always provides the right hors deurve to the meal; so, someone pass the X, the glow in the dark necklaces and glitter. How in the hell can I be expected to do my Kesha impression without some fucking glitter?!
So then this group of kids exits the stage, and the next arrive. With togas on. They begin to sing 'Faster, Higher, Stronger'. Aren't we a little young to be teaching the kids about Greek Style? Then, while still in the togas, they bust out "we go together like rama lama ka dinga dinga ding....and suddenly the togas are gone and it's poodle skirts. At this point I am cracking myself up so much I can't breathe from trying to stifle the laughter while still being cognizant of the complete inappropriateness of it all. It never would've happened if they'd had a damn open bar. And did I win a pie or a kindle fire? Fuck no. Because I am the anti-PTA mom. But, I can still vacuum in 5 inch fuck me heels and pearls, WELL. The end.
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Alter Personalities: The Evolution of Betty Cracker
Everyone has some form of mental disorder but I choose to break it down into 3 stupid simple categories. Entitled Whimper Mcvictimy, Krazy with a Kapitol K, and Rock and Roll Crazy. Life would be a lot less stressful if people would just accept and embrace their particular brand of crazy; then again it wouldn't be quite so entertaining and magazine sales would plummet. Charlie Sheen has been the best thing that ever happened to the media since Michael Jackson died and OJ actually got convicted for something.
I personally have such an over abundance of personality that I had to split mine off into alters. It's a lot to contain in just one little ol skull and it's much more simple for people to just deal with one personality at a time. People feel more comfortable with predictability, so as long all the personalitites aren't having a party at the same time it makes for a pleasant, uncomplicated evening.
Betty Cracker is your typical 1950s housewife. Her hobbies include cooking, cleaning and making her man happy. She cooks in heels, vacuums with pearls on and believes a woman should always have back up sets of plates and silverware in case her husband comes home with a client that must be entertained. She is the perfect hostess with her wit and sensibilities. When Betty is running the show, the house is filled with the tastebudgasmic aroma of cooking food, the house is immaculate and her hair is always perfect. The cocktail hour starts at 5 pm and she meets her man at the door, nary a whore red hair out of place with a "How was your day, dear?" and an old fashioned (the drink, get your minds out of the gutter.) Nothing can rock her world...except for perhaps her husband.
Then There's Tequila Nunez and Vodka Mary, the twins.
The twins, well, they are rockstars. The party starts when they walk in the room. Not a drink nor a set of good boobs is safe when these two come out to play. They are prone to taking shots and climbing up on table tops and bars to dance while wearing Betty's four inch heels. They are fun and funny. They are stand up comedians with degrees in potty humor and are incapable of taking anything seriously. Slightly more classy and slightly less orange than the Jersey Shore crew, they promise not to vomit on Betty's carpet. They are still stuck in 1997 and can proove it by busting out into the Macarena upon request. They have standards, however. 1.) They do not drink screw top carbonated "wine" 2.) They reserve the right to randomly yell "OPAH!" and throw plastic cups on the ground while mimicking the sound of breaking glass whether Uzo is present or not 3.) Even when completely inebriated, they still will not eat guacomole because a.)it's gross and b.) it makes Sara want to vomit and Betty's soul dies a little.
Sara is kind of uptight and a perfectionist. She's competetive. She's always been responsible and goal oriented. She started college before she was finished with high school, she was offered art scholarships to go to college but turned down art school in favor of nursing because it was more practical and scrubs are comfortable. She over analyzes things to death and tends to stress out over what ifs. She has a certain OCD way of doing things and would prefer people get out of her way while she's doing it. Whatever "it" is. In short, she has a stick up her ass and it's a good thing her alters take over more often than not. If not for them, she'd probably still be *gasp* blonde. *insert violent wretching*.
Occasionally there are alters with smaller supporting roles, like Tempermental Tammy who completely loses her shit when her dog chews up her contact case and Naughty Nina who dresses up like Betty Cracker and drives to Dallas. The fact that there are others needn't concern you....the fact that they are all coparenting? Totally safe, all of them combined are significantly less crazy than the majority of those reading this particular blog.
I personally have such an over abundance of personality that I had to split mine off into alters. It's a lot to contain in just one little ol skull and it's much more simple for people to just deal with one personality at a time. People feel more comfortable with predictability, so as long all the personalitites aren't having a party at the same time it makes for a pleasant, uncomplicated evening.
Betty Cracker is your typical 1950s housewife. Her hobbies include cooking, cleaning and making her man happy. She cooks in heels, vacuums with pearls on and believes a woman should always have back up sets of plates and silverware in case her husband comes home with a client that must be entertained. She is the perfect hostess with her wit and sensibilities. When Betty is running the show, the house is filled with the tastebudgasmic aroma of cooking food, the house is immaculate and her hair is always perfect. The cocktail hour starts at 5 pm and she meets her man at the door, nary a whore red hair out of place with a "How was your day, dear?" and an old fashioned (the drink, get your minds out of the gutter.) Nothing can rock her world...except for perhaps her husband.
Then There's Tequila Nunez and Vodka Mary, the twins.
The twins, well, they are rockstars. The party starts when they walk in the room. Not a drink nor a set of good boobs is safe when these two come out to play. They are prone to taking shots and climbing up on table tops and bars to dance while wearing Betty's four inch heels. They are fun and funny. They are stand up comedians with degrees in potty humor and are incapable of taking anything seriously. Slightly more classy and slightly less orange than the Jersey Shore crew, they promise not to vomit on Betty's carpet. They are still stuck in 1997 and can proove it by busting out into the Macarena upon request. They have standards, however. 1.) They do not drink screw top carbonated "wine" 2.) They reserve the right to randomly yell "OPAH!" and throw plastic cups on the ground while mimicking the sound of breaking glass whether Uzo is present or not 3.) Even when completely inebriated, they still will not eat guacomole because a.)it's gross and b.) it makes Sara want to vomit and Betty's soul dies a little.
Sara is kind of uptight and a perfectionist. She's competetive. She's always been responsible and goal oriented. She started college before she was finished with high school, she was offered art scholarships to go to college but turned down art school in favor of nursing because it was more practical and scrubs are comfortable. She over analyzes things to death and tends to stress out over what ifs. She has a certain OCD way of doing things and would prefer people get out of her way while she's doing it. Whatever "it" is. In short, she has a stick up her ass and it's a good thing her alters take over more often than not. If not for them, she'd probably still be *gasp* blonde. *insert violent wretching*.
Occasionally there are alters with smaller supporting roles, like Tempermental Tammy who completely loses her shit when her dog chews up her contact case and Naughty Nina who dresses up like Betty Cracker and drives to Dallas. The fact that there are others needn't concern you....the fact that they are all coparenting? Totally safe, all of them combined are significantly less crazy than the majority of those reading this particular blog.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
"You're only as old as you feel". I call bullshit. That was my first thought as I rolled out of bed today, looked at my alarm clock and realized that this, my one day off, was sleeping in. At what point did 8 a.m. become sleeping in? I remember days when 8 a.m. was strolling in the front door to go to the bed not getting out of it. At what point did having a day off make me feel all warm and fuzzy, NOT because I don't have to go into work but because I can do my weekly day off deep clean of the house, dye my white trash roots AND try out a new labor intensive recipe to feed my family for dinner. WHAT.THE.FUCK.
Then I began pondering what else has changed and tried to pinpoint the historic timeline in which I went from young and carefree to old. This past weekend was a busy one. I had 3 parties to attend and a friend's house to paint. I woke up monday morning with my everything hurting, tired, wishing I could sleep in (until 8 a.m.) and thinking I needed a day off to recover from the weekend AND clean my house. College days of yor, we partied every night, well into the morning and an hour of sleep was a solid. Cleaning the house consisted of throwing beer cans and fast food wrappers in the trash and was not a chore I was super stoked about endeavoring upon.
At what point did Spanx become a mandatory buy? At what point did I get more excited about purchasing it's all encompassing fascade of making my ass defy gravity than buying some lacy, see through slutty lingerie from Victoria's Not So Secret? At what point did my ass STOP defying gravity? And what the crap is this cellulite bullshit?! I HAVE A BMI OF 23. 23. I am more physically fit and slimmer than I was in college (nay highschool for that matter) and I get not only an ass that does not defy gravity but I also get cellulite? Really? And speaking of bodies, at what point did pooping become the highlight and greatest relief of the day? Why does the world seem so much brighter after a cup of hot green tea and the morning constitutional?
I actually found myself grocery shopping the other day and watching a group of loud assed, vapid, IQ of a brick (sorry to insult you, brick) community college skank bots in their Juicy shorts (you know, the ones where their ass cheeks peek through the boottom) and knee high uggs and thinking "Damn kids, what is the world coming to? If this is the future, we are SCREWED" The look of horror on my face was not related to the circa Jersey Shore trainwreck before me but that the statement actually ran through my head and was genuine. Then THE SAME DAY I caught myself making statements to my children such as "SHUT THE DOOR! I AM NOT PAYING GOOD MONEY TO HEAT THE OUTSIDE!" "WERE YOU BORN IN A BARN? NO!" "ACT YOUR AGE, NOT YOUR SHOE SIZE!" "LET'S PLAY 'QUIET GAME'!" Someone, please shoot me now.
There are some things that have not changed. While I now find myself buying "skin firming" moisturizer and eye cream, I also still have to buy acne cack. Now, seriously, what is that? I don't get to keep my gravity defying ass, I don't get to keep my youthful energy but I DO get to keep zits and pothole pores? Fuck you, mother nature.
So, you're as old as you feel? Ok then. I'm 21 with an epic hangover. The end.
Then I began pondering what else has changed and tried to pinpoint the historic timeline in which I went from young and carefree to old. This past weekend was a busy one. I had 3 parties to attend and a friend's house to paint. I woke up monday morning with my everything hurting, tired, wishing I could sleep in (until 8 a.m.) and thinking I needed a day off to recover from the weekend AND clean my house. College days of yor, we partied every night, well into the morning and an hour of sleep was a solid. Cleaning the house consisted of throwing beer cans and fast food wrappers in the trash and was not a chore I was super stoked about endeavoring upon.
At what point did Spanx become a mandatory buy? At what point did I get more excited about purchasing it's all encompassing fascade of making my ass defy gravity than buying some lacy, see through slutty lingerie from Victoria's Not So Secret? At what point did my ass STOP defying gravity? And what the crap is this cellulite bullshit?! I HAVE A BMI OF 23. 23. I am more physically fit and slimmer than I was in college (nay highschool for that matter) and I get not only an ass that does not defy gravity but I also get cellulite? Really? And speaking of bodies, at what point did pooping become the highlight and greatest relief of the day? Why does the world seem so much brighter after a cup of hot green tea and the morning constitutional?
I actually found myself grocery shopping the other day and watching a group of loud assed, vapid, IQ of a brick (sorry to insult you, brick) community college skank bots in their Juicy shorts (you know, the ones where their ass cheeks peek through the boottom) and knee high uggs and thinking "Damn kids, what is the world coming to? If this is the future, we are SCREWED" The look of horror on my face was not related to the circa Jersey Shore trainwreck before me but that the statement actually ran through my head and was genuine. Then THE SAME DAY I caught myself making statements to my children such as "SHUT THE DOOR! I AM NOT PAYING GOOD MONEY TO HEAT THE OUTSIDE!" "WERE YOU BORN IN A BARN? NO!" "ACT YOUR AGE, NOT YOUR SHOE SIZE!" "LET'S PLAY 'QUIET GAME'!" Someone, please shoot me now.
There are some things that have not changed. While I now find myself buying "skin firming" moisturizer and eye cream, I also still have to buy acne cack. Now, seriously, what is that? I don't get to keep my gravity defying ass, I don't get to keep my youthful energy but I DO get to keep zits and pothole pores? Fuck you, mother nature.
So, you're as old as you feel? Ok then. I'm 21 with an epic hangover. The end.
Friday, September 4, 2009
Been A Long Time, Been A Long Time, Been A Long Lonely Lonely Tiiiiiiiiiime
Thank you for that intro Led Zeplin. So I was sitting at work discussing blogs and I realized that it has been over a year since I have blogged. I wish I could honestly say that it was because I've been too busy and that I've not had anything to rant about but we all know that would be a big fat lie. So work was the inspiration to take the opportunity to rant and stop surfing amazing sites like www.awkwardfamilyphotos.com, www.peopleofwalmart.com, fail blog, lol cats, facebook etcetera like an OCD kid on crack. Today's topic is a generalized critique of the lazy assed modern day society.
We'll start with phones. Everything is automated now. You can't talk to a real live person on the phone anymore and in the slim instance you do they are from Mumbai. Which reminds me, a slurpee sounds AMAZING. But anyhoo. People text as opposed to talking and to prevent us from being too terribly inconvenienced we have predictive text which leads to more WTF?! than actually predicting what we want to type. For example I was texting someone the other day with the determination of letting them know they were so old and whorey their pissflaps hang down to their knees to provide a curtain for their now inside out vagina. (Love you mom!) Here's what pretext tried to type out for me: "your so older wholly your pistol handsome downers grove to curtail your innard outs vaguely." I think predictive text takes Ambien before it "intuitively knows" what you want to say. I'm all about using my fingers for manual labor at this point so I turned off predictive texting (which, by the way, took 20 minutes to figure out. convenient my ass.) and *gasp* type out every single solitary letter in my messages. I know. So archaic.
In today's busy world, who has time to cook when the drive thru is so readily available? 30 minutes for a healthy, tasty, homecooked meal oooooorrrrr 5 minutes in a drivethru for cardboard deepfried in three week old grease with a superduper large carbonated sugary drink served to you by some random dude who probably didn't wash his hands after he used the facilities and has a booger hanging out of his nose. That super secret tasty sauce? Hmmmmmm. Then about an hour after eating this crap you are firmly lodged to the toilet, laptop on your lap, surfing the net and contemplating the potential need for handle bars to be installed on the toilet before Mt. Vesuvius offically explodes. For as much as fast food doubles as a full pack of exlax taken in one shot (or a whole pot of coffee and an entire pack of smokes), you'd think we, as a society, would be getting thinner, not fatter. Shitting your brains out apparently does not make you lose weight, so guess what laxative popping bulemics: YOU WERE WROOOOOOOONG!
And since we are on the topic of toilets, let us discuss automated toilets. Now, some may argue that it's more clean to have to toilet automatically flush for you. Maybe. I think you're a bunch of juicy rationalizationers and yes I just *totally* made up that word. Seriously though, why not have levers on the toilets still and if you're so worried about touching said lever, use your shoe? There's nothing more irritating to me than moving on the toilet ever so slightly only to have the damn thing flush and my bum getting a cold piss water swirly. It's a waste of water and after that happens I feel less than fresh and want a shower which only wastes more water. I'm not convinced these contraptions are more about hygeine and less about lazy assed people leaving ginormous logs in the bowl for some poor gas station attendant to flush and then bleach out the bowl.
Which brings me to automated sinks. WTF. I prefer to wash my hands after using the porcelain throne and it pisses (*snort*) me off when I stick my hands under the sink faucet of those stupid knobless sinks only to have no water run. They run on batteries which *gasp* corrode when exposed to water. Water, in a faucet? THE HELL YOU SAY! So either they don't work at all or you have to wave your hands under the faucet like a spasmodic parkinsons patient for it to spit exactly two drops on your hand and possibly onto your pants thus making it look like you pissed yourself. Just put the levers back on the damn sink so that you can meter out the appropriate amount of hot and cold and for goddess sake turn the damn thing off when you're finished using it.
Ahh. I feel better now. I think I'm all ranted out. For now. Oh and I was totally kidding about sending that particular text to my mother. We all know she's totally pristine, virginal, intact, doesn't text and reads my blogs. ahem.
We'll start with phones. Everything is automated now. You can't talk to a real live person on the phone anymore and in the slim instance you do they are from Mumbai. Which reminds me, a slurpee sounds AMAZING. But anyhoo. People text as opposed to talking and to prevent us from being too terribly inconvenienced we have predictive text which leads to more WTF?! than actually predicting what we want to type. For example I was texting someone the other day with the determination of letting them know they were so old and whorey their pissflaps hang down to their knees to provide a curtain for their now inside out vagina. (Love you mom!) Here's what pretext tried to type out for me: "your so older wholly your pistol handsome downers grove to curtail your innard outs vaguely." I think predictive text takes Ambien before it "intuitively knows" what you want to say. I'm all about using my fingers for manual labor at this point so I turned off predictive texting (which, by the way, took 20 minutes to figure out. convenient my ass.) and *gasp* type out every single solitary letter in my messages. I know. So archaic.
In today's busy world, who has time to cook when the drive thru is so readily available? 30 minutes for a healthy, tasty, homecooked meal oooooorrrrr 5 minutes in a drivethru for cardboard deepfried in three week old grease with a superduper large carbonated sugary drink served to you by some random dude who probably didn't wash his hands after he used the facilities and has a booger hanging out of his nose. That super secret tasty sauce? Hmmmmmm. Then about an hour after eating this crap you are firmly lodged to the toilet, laptop on your lap, surfing the net and contemplating the potential need for handle bars to be installed on the toilet before Mt. Vesuvius offically explodes. For as much as fast food doubles as a full pack of exlax taken in one shot (or a whole pot of coffee and an entire pack of smokes), you'd think we, as a society, would be getting thinner, not fatter. Shitting your brains out apparently does not make you lose weight, so guess what laxative popping bulemics: YOU WERE WROOOOOOOONG!
And since we are on the topic of toilets, let us discuss automated toilets. Now, some may argue that it's more clean to have to toilet automatically flush for you. Maybe. I think you're a bunch of juicy rationalizationers and yes I just *totally* made up that word. Seriously though, why not have levers on the toilets still and if you're so worried about touching said lever, use your shoe? There's nothing more irritating to me than moving on the toilet ever so slightly only to have the damn thing flush and my bum getting a cold piss water swirly. It's a waste of water and after that happens I feel less than fresh and want a shower which only wastes more water. I'm not convinced these contraptions are more about hygeine and less about lazy assed people leaving ginormous logs in the bowl for some poor gas station attendant to flush and then bleach out the bowl.
Which brings me to automated sinks. WTF. I prefer to wash my hands after using the porcelain throne and it pisses (*snort*) me off when I stick my hands under the sink faucet of those stupid knobless sinks only to have no water run. They run on batteries which *gasp* corrode when exposed to water. Water, in a faucet? THE HELL YOU SAY! So either they don't work at all or you have to wave your hands under the faucet like a spasmodic parkinsons patient for it to spit exactly two drops on your hand and possibly onto your pants thus making it look like you pissed yourself. Just put the levers back on the damn sink so that you can meter out the appropriate amount of hot and cold and for goddess sake turn the damn thing off when you're finished using it.
Ahh. I feel better now. I think I'm all ranted out. For now. Oh and I was totally kidding about sending that particular text to my mother. We all know she's totally pristine, virginal, intact, doesn't text and reads my blogs. ahem.
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