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.
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