This past weekend I got to fulfill what I hope is a small beginning of a dream many years in the making. I performed with my fellow writers from the Comedy Shrine of Naperville's writing workshop. We busted our asses writing short sketches, jokes, and black-outs. We edited and memorized our scenes. We performed to a sold-out house. Fucking-A, it was good stuff.
Was I nervous? Sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to have explosive diarrhea or anything. Our teacher, Nate Herman, used to write for Saturday Night Live back during the really funny era, with Martin Short, Billy Crystal, Eddie Murphy. I idolized the SHIT out of SNL and it's writers and cast members back then. Sure, I was probably a little young to be watching some of it but thanks to cool parents, I got to see what GOOD funny is all about. If someone would have told me I'd take a class from Nate and then write and perform at an improv theater, well THEN I might have shit myself.
I have enjoyed making people laugh with my shock value, in-your-face humor in all it's crudeness, since I was a teen. I recall a day when my dance company director called me in because a parent complained about my sense of humor. Fucking born-again douche rag.... What I say and think is hard to stifle. I guess I say what so many think but are afraid to verbalize or can't quite articulate with the proper array of "fucktards", "cocksucking stink star-lickers", or plain ol' "douche bags". I don't apologize for my humor. I will never be clean enough to perform in a family show because I think swearing is extremely funny. Really fucking funny. So gosh golly gee, saying "freakin'" or "darnit all" or "cheese and rice" doesn't happen in my house, even in front of my kids. Do I think I'm a good mom? Fuck yeah I am a good mother. Do I think swearing in front of them is good? Well, no, not really. But they are fully aware what I say is not acceptable for them to say. My oldest sometimes cringes when I go off on a bender. Then I tell her maybe I wouldn't swear so God damn much if she wasn't such a fucking smart ass...
I wrote two short sketches which I performed in and also performed in 4 more that other people wrote. I got to read two of my jokes and do two short black-out style jokes as well. Many of the writers are already improv actors who perform regularly at the Comedy Shrine. This made me slightly intimidated. I sometimes think I can hold my own but didn't know if I was just hoping for a giant fucking miracle and that when I actually ACT out what I write, I can be just as funny. That's a giant fucking crap shoot, folks. I learned when I first stepped into class, to write funny is not the same thing as readable funny. I had to figure out how to write concise, get-to-the-fucking-point jokes. Sure, my blog is funny but when read out loud it can be really looooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnggggg. So I figured it out, got a shit load of pointers and advice, and fast forward to Saturday night.
We tried as best we could to memorize lines. When you are doing a scene, it doesn't matter if you have it all memorized backwards, forwards, up your ass, what-have-you. If the person in your scene drops a line or jacks it up, you have to think on your toes and go with the flow. I believe this, in its simplest element, is IMPROV acting. So in a sense, this is what I did Saturday. It is not as hard as I thought but I highly doubt I'm anywhere ready for a "Whose Line is it Anyway?" style show just yet. Mama wants to actually take some real classes first. And welcome another element of my dream. I don't know exactly HOW my funny is going to fulfill me, but it will. I fucking LOVE writing and being clever with words. But I discovered Saturday night as I was pitting out like a guilty thief in a line-up in my black tight sweater, skirt, and hooker boots under the stage lights, I also really love performing like that. I think I CAN do it.
So for now, I'll write and maybe take some classes and figure out this funny-ass journey I am traveling on. Who knows where in the hell it will take me? All I can tell you is I am at my utmost happiest of happy when I am making you laugh. And if I offend you, well then fuck off, the family-friendly comedian doesn't reside here. I like being the funny fucking bitch. I am really good at it, too.
Monday, November 23, 2009
Friday, November 6, 2009
Reality Check
I think the nation's current obsession with reality shows is seriously fucking us up. There is hardly anything realistic about these God damn shows. Many of them are scripted or have added dramas to make things more interesting. Who wants to see boring real-life reality? Isn't it so much more fun when you throw a skinhead from the South together with a brotha' from the Bronx and give them copious amounts of BOOZE?! That's good TV, yo!!! And try as I may, I get lured in with their sneaky bullshit reality every fucking season to more and more shows. Sons of bitches....
I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.
As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.
My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.
Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.
As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.
My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?
I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.
As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.
My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.
Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.
As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.
My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?
Monday, November 2, 2009
Bathroom Attendants
When you hit a bar or nightclub you will often find a helpful little lady in your restroom when you go to break the seal. As seen in posted photos, often times you might not be in your right mind (Patron)and may actually NEED some assistance in locating paper towels or even finding the door. This tends to be an increasing challenge as a particularly thirst-inducing (drunken) evening wears on. Not long ago I found myself at Martini Park in Chicago with a cluster of my girls in Chicago. We were having a riotous time (crazy shots) and soon enough I found it necessary to visit the little girls' room. Upon entering the miniscule john I noticed it was crowded with stumbling girls in too high heels, trying helplessly to reapply lipgloss that had been sucked off by various members of Tool Academy. (Oddly, there actually WERE two dudes from that actual show at the bar that night, hoping we would know they were celebrities. I thought they were Will Ferrell and Chris Kattan from the "What is Love" SNL skit... Too much hair gel, Abercrombie cologne, and shitty tribal tattoos..) I was not one of those stumbling ladies at this point. Just a casual observer with a full bladder.
I entered stall #1 and noticed they were approximately 3 1/2 sheets of TP left, just enough to wipe HOWEVER there was also a monsoon worth of piss covering my toilet seat. What the fuck?! It was like the produce department when that voice comes over the intercom, "Fresh produce misters are about to start!" and your hand gets soaked as you go to grab a head of red leaf lettuce. Except it WASN'T fresh water misters. It was stinky girl piss from someone who hadn't washed their twat since last weekend when she had a three way with Tool Academy. Smelled like a German cheese festival. Covered in piss because she tried the straddle and squat maneuver but pretty much did a simple hover piss. This is only excusable if you are paralyzed, win the lottery, or run into David Hasselhoff in a Speedo in a dark alley. Next stall please!!!! Stall #2 had a dry seat, three unfinished beverages resting on the floor, TP holder, and toilet as well as a giant puddle of water beneath my feet. Thank God for monster tranny heels. Comes in handy when you want to avoid messy ladies' rooms. Fuck what they say about mens' rooms being cesspools of piss and grime. Drunk bitches are WAY more messy.
After exiting my stall I noticed the lone lady working the john was in a bit of a frenzy as the drunken hoochies outnumbered her 10 to 1. She was flurrying about, trying to wipe down countertops, pass out paper towels, and turn off faucets. Her bowl of mints was askew and almost empty. Her array of hair sprays and perfumes were disheveled. She clearly had no time to examine the assortment of half-empty of beverages that littered the stalls, let alone squeegee up the puddles on the floor. Had she handed out a few less paper towels in hopes of a dollar tip or two she would have noticed the piss monsoon in stall #1. I am betting my tranny heels there might have been similar situations behind other doors of adventure. Later in the evening my friend stepped into a pile of vomit on the floor. Classy. A wee turd was spied on the ground begging us to ask the question, were farm animals allowed in the club or were midgets taking mini shits on the ground because the toilet was too high? Was there a day care behind the wall we weren't aware of and all the sloven behavior should have been blamed on the children running amuck? Whatever the excuse, this woman had bitten off more than she could chew that night in the Martini Park ladies' room. She needed help stat but there was no tag team action to come to her aid. Poor thing.
I have been privy to many a restroom in nightclubs, bars, and restaurants where things are under control. You can pee in a clean stall that doesn't smell like a shrimp net in August. You can wash your hands and rest your purse atop a dry counter, after which you dry your hands with a fresh paper towel handed to you by a smiling bathroom attendant. You can choose a mint or gum, spray on perfume, hell even re-flat iron your hair since some beer got spilled on your head. Taking a piss or tossing your cookies after that 4th Jaeger Bomb should be a pleasant experience, not one where you might need to don you Hazmat suit. And for this you will earn a dollar tip from me.
Friday, October 30, 2009
I'd Be Suicidal, Too
This rain is getting to me. Fuck, it has given me sinus pressure and migraines for three God damn days now. And I don't give a shit if it's the misty, fuck-up-your-hair-but-only-need-your-windshield-wipers-on-low-speed type of rain or the bullshit that has blown every leaf off my trees and knocked my beautiful potted mums over, it just sucks ass. I seriously thought I looked outside my window and saw that crazy wicked witch on her bicycle riding past my bedroom window, a la' Wizard of Oz. But then I figured it was one of those kids they pay $20 to stand on the corner near a Halloween superstore and wave hopped up on Mountain Dew Slurpees and a couple of hits of shitty acid jumping on the neighbors mini trampoline. Either way, I think some sunshine would be in order here.
We got pretty much fucked last winter with the bitter-ass cold and loads of snow. I hate winter sports. I have skied a handful of times in my life and always end up swearing and falling on my ass. I hate driving in, shoveling, or playing outside in the snow so forgive me for my winter wonderland disdain. Then came our "summer" which barely made it to 80 degrees during the day. The water at the local pool might as well have been lake Michigan in mid-May because it never fucking warmed up. I love taking my kids to a pool in the middle of summer where they swim for 15 minutes then bitch about it being too cold.
"We're bored! Can we have some ice cream?"
Kiss my ass, I pay for this membership so the kids can enjoy something besides the germ utopia daycare. When you raise my dues next time, how's about installing a heater in the fucking pool instead of shrinking the field greens salad size, adding imported pesto jiz sauce to my black bean burger, treating my family like Nazi Germany for eating fucking Goldfish crackers in your cafe, and doubling the prices of your mediocre meals. Okay? Praise the Lord for my dear friend who has a heated pool and ALCOHOL so we can really enjoy summer. And our group is a load of fun, hot bitches, so who's missing out NOW? See if I ever order your holistic, honey-based organic orange banana smoothie poolside again. Whose turn was it to jerk off in that mix this week? Give me regular, high fructose corn syrup-based, unnatural food coloring slushies that make my kids smile and not gag, then maybe I'll revisit your pool. And put some fucking tequila in in next time.
Fall lasted all of about two days. Where the fuck was my "Indian summer"? We had TWO days of nice, maybe 70 degree weather and then BAM!!!! A giant "fuck you!" worth of cold and rain and rain and rain.... Guess what, it's STILL fucking raining? I am beyond pissy about this. There's nothing I can do, don't blame God, blah blah, blah... Fuck all you freaks who wake up with your "Praise the Lord it's a NEW DAY!" t-shirts and bumper stickers and always see the bright side of things. How the hell can you see the bright side when it's always fucking dark and gloomy?!!! All I see now is soggy shit-land of leaves. I would rake if it ever dries out for more than 2 hours. By the time this shit stops I will either have leaf gravy sloshing through my entire lawn as if Boston market yacked on my property or it will freeze over and I will have a brownish orange tie dyed skating rink to skitter over and probably slip and break my hip over. Never in my life has weather made me such a raging bitch. I feel like a 80 year-old bitty living in Boca, complaining about the early bird special being raised to $10.95.
Is it so much to ask for my kids to actually wear their fucking Halloween costumes for one simple lap around the school? Can it stop mother fucking POURING for those 15 minutes? Why do you have to fuck up my KIDS' day? That's when I get all ghetto mom apeshit. Fuck this bullshit. As I am typing it is actually raining HARDER. Fuck you, Mother nature, you dirty weather whore cunt. You are a usless hag who needs to be replaced by someone who is not bitter and takes out her frustration by giving the fucking clouds dysentery for weeks on end. if I wanted to live in this shit I would have moved to Seattle by now. If the weather is anything like this I bet they sell fucking straight razors with their Starbucks lattes.
We got pretty much fucked last winter with the bitter-ass cold and loads of snow. I hate winter sports. I have skied a handful of times in my life and always end up swearing and falling on my ass. I hate driving in, shoveling, or playing outside in the snow so forgive me for my winter wonderland disdain. Then came our "summer" which barely made it to 80 degrees during the day. The water at the local pool might as well have been lake Michigan in mid-May because it never fucking warmed up. I love taking my kids to a pool in the middle of summer where they swim for 15 minutes then bitch about it being too cold.
"We're bored! Can we have some ice cream?"
Kiss my ass, I pay for this membership so the kids can enjoy something besides the germ utopia daycare. When you raise my dues next time, how's about installing a heater in the fucking pool instead of shrinking the field greens salad size, adding imported pesto jiz sauce to my black bean burger, treating my family like Nazi Germany for eating fucking Goldfish crackers in your cafe, and doubling the prices of your mediocre meals. Okay? Praise the Lord for my dear friend who has a heated pool and ALCOHOL so we can really enjoy summer. And our group is a load of fun, hot bitches, so who's missing out NOW? See if I ever order your holistic, honey-based organic orange banana smoothie poolside again. Whose turn was it to jerk off in that mix this week? Give me regular, high fructose corn syrup-based, unnatural food coloring slushies that make my kids smile and not gag, then maybe I'll revisit your pool. And put some fucking tequila in in next time.
Fall lasted all of about two days. Where the fuck was my "Indian summer"? We had TWO days of nice, maybe 70 degree weather and then BAM!!!! A giant "fuck you!" worth of cold and rain and rain and rain.... Guess what, it's STILL fucking raining? I am beyond pissy about this. There's nothing I can do, don't blame God, blah blah, blah... Fuck all you freaks who wake up with your "Praise the Lord it's a NEW DAY!" t-shirts and bumper stickers and always see the bright side of things. How the hell can you see the bright side when it's always fucking dark and gloomy?!!! All I see now is soggy shit-land of leaves. I would rake if it ever dries out for more than 2 hours. By the time this shit stops I will either have leaf gravy sloshing through my entire lawn as if Boston market yacked on my property or it will freeze over and I will have a brownish orange tie dyed skating rink to skitter over and probably slip and break my hip over. Never in my life has weather made me such a raging bitch. I feel like a 80 year-old bitty living in Boca, complaining about the early bird special being raised to $10.95.
Is it so much to ask for my kids to actually wear their fucking Halloween costumes for one simple lap around the school? Can it stop mother fucking POURING for those 15 minutes? Why do you have to fuck up my KIDS' day? That's when I get all ghetto mom apeshit. Fuck this bullshit. As I am typing it is actually raining HARDER. Fuck you, Mother nature, you dirty weather whore cunt. You are a usless hag who needs to be replaced by someone who is not bitter and takes out her frustration by giving the fucking clouds dysentery for weeks on end. if I wanted to live in this shit I would have moved to Seattle by now. If the weather is anything like this I bet they sell fucking straight razors with their Starbucks lattes.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Tape and Tuck Tina Turner
Have you ever been to The Baton Club in Chicago? It is a musical revue show where drag queens impersonate famous singers and lip sync their songs in gaudy outfits, St. Tropez tan pantyhose, and one hell of a bikini wax. These "ladies" have breasts, some better than the others. Many of the man titties enhanced by a daily estrogen smoothie or two are apparently still very male. Just because your chest is hairless, greased up like a pig at the county fair, and glamorized by a little gold lame, I still see your pecs--your flabby, pushed up pecs. Victoria's Secret called and would like to remind you that that one-size-fits-all lace thong has lost the wrestling match with your schlong. Either buck up and buy some bikini briefs or super glue that trouser snake a little better when you sashay down the stage.
There were "ladies" of all shapes and sizes. The anorexic black girl who had implants that looked like PB&J Crustables under her translucent skin was scarier than the thought of Jon Gosselin getting a reality show with Michael Lohan. I could play her clavicle and ribs like a xylophone. A skinny, black, glittery xylophone. She really wasn't very good, had terrible rhythm and dance moves, and I think was very fucking hungry. Do they lock her in the naughty drag queen dressing room with only Tic Tacs to eat? Is she rationed 1/2 a crust of stale bread until her hip sways and step ball changes are on tempo? My friend and I each gave her some singles out of pity. Not because she deserved them, but maybe she could slam those Tic Tacs and use the energy to drag her skin and bones to McDonald's for a little dollar menu value after the show. Poor thing.
The grand dame of the show was a robust,....... oh fuck it, she was a God damn HEFFER. At least pushing three FITTY (Not a typo, like FITTY CENT..), this lady came out in a animal print caftan that very well could have displayed a true-to-scale map of the fucking Serengeti. Lions and tigers and fat rolls, OH MY! Her intro but wasn't even the worst of it. Remember "If I Could Turn Back Time" when Cher sang in that semi-sheer black mesh unitard on that giant air freighter with all the soldiers? Well Porkarella Deville apparently ATE the soldiers, fuck, maybe even the ship, and had the balls (though they were magically hidden) to come out in the same size 28 unitard and wig. Fucking Christ, I didn't know whether to laugh, vomit, cry, or take a Xanax. If I could turn back time I wouldn't have gone fucking BLIND from this routine. Clearly done for shock value, this bitch was sporting a FUPA like none I have ever seen. For those of you who have never heard of a FUPA, it means Fat Upper Pussy Area, in which said victim has a mound of fleshy flab that protrudes below the belly, hanging over the cooch like a dough curtain. But now that I look back to this unitard-clad, man FUPA, I wonder if it is really considered a FUDA (Fat Upper Dick Area)? Are perhaps a FUWPA (Fat Upper Wannabe Pussy Area)? This chick with a dick I will dub FAFUWPA (Fat As Fuck Upper Wannabe Pussy Area). It was something to behold.
"Chili Pepper" was as spicy as ketchup. This bitch had more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. From 8 tables away I could count her individually caked eyelashes. She looked like Joan Rivers hocking her line of Jewtastic Jewels on QVC. White pantsuit, fur stole, white pumps, hair reminiscent of Linda Evans on Dynasty. She came out initially in a leather mini skirt and fringy jacket, thrashing around and attempting to dance. Here's a tip. If you are a dude who really, really likes to wear women's clothes and makeup and can moves in heels, TAKE SOME FUCKING DANCE LESSONS. Arthur Murray studios could maybe at least give you a sense of rhythm. Maybe she was ugly AND deaf because bitch done looked like she was vacillating between having a grand mal seizure and trying not to let loose her explosive diarrhea. Frantic and clueless. Her last number was an homage to the fucking Golden Girls because she looked like Bea Arthur. And that bitch probably had a dick, too.
The Beyonce "Single Ladies" was excellent. Great moves, no exposed cock, energy. The one "lady" from Hawaii was beautiful. The blonde bombshell had us all dropping our jaws in disbelief that she was a dude. Boobs, hips, tiny nose, female facial features, no man hands. Crazy. Tape and Tuck Tina Turner rocked it in her Oprah-style wig. But then we surmised maybe it WAS Oprah up there. 'Tis an unsolvable mystery. The waiters were hustling our two drink minimums about while simultaneously blocking our view as they shimmied in between wasted bachelorette parties. These ladies took turns depositing single dollar bills into the "cleavage" of the performers. They all had fucked up penis headbands, penis wands, feather boas, and/or super wasted friends who thought it was funny to grind up against anyone who they passed. I myself never had the joy of having a bachelorette party but I sure as fuck can tell you I would not be sporting any cock accessories on a night on the town with my girlfriends. Your drunken, stumbling stupor and shot-slamming cronies are enough of a give-away that you are about to be married. Put the dick jewelry away. Take a tip from the Single Ladies onstage, sometimes hiding it enhances the mystery. Mantra for the night? Put those dicks away.
There were "ladies" of all shapes and sizes. The anorexic black girl who had implants that looked like PB&J Crustables under her translucent skin was scarier than the thought of Jon Gosselin getting a reality show with Michael Lohan. I could play her clavicle and ribs like a xylophone. A skinny, black, glittery xylophone. She really wasn't very good, had terrible rhythm and dance moves, and I think was very fucking hungry. Do they lock her in the naughty drag queen dressing room with only Tic Tacs to eat? Is she rationed 1/2 a crust of stale bread until her hip sways and step ball changes are on tempo? My friend and I each gave her some singles out of pity. Not because she deserved them, but maybe she could slam those Tic Tacs and use the energy to drag her skin and bones to McDonald's for a little dollar menu value after the show. Poor thing.
The grand dame of the show was a robust,....... oh fuck it, she was a God damn HEFFER. At least pushing three FITTY (Not a typo, like FITTY CENT..), this lady came out in a animal print caftan that very well could have displayed a true-to-scale map of the fucking Serengeti. Lions and tigers and fat rolls, OH MY! Her intro but wasn't even the worst of it. Remember "If I Could Turn Back Time" when Cher sang in that semi-sheer black mesh unitard on that giant air freighter with all the soldiers? Well Porkarella Deville apparently ATE the soldiers, fuck, maybe even the ship, and had the balls (though they were magically hidden) to come out in the same size 28 unitard and wig. Fucking Christ, I didn't know whether to laugh, vomit, cry, or take a Xanax. If I could turn back time I wouldn't have gone fucking BLIND from this routine. Clearly done for shock value, this bitch was sporting a FUPA like none I have ever seen. For those of you who have never heard of a FUPA, it means Fat Upper Pussy Area, in which said victim has a mound of fleshy flab that protrudes below the belly, hanging over the cooch like a dough curtain. But now that I look back to this unitard-clad, man FUPA, I wonder if it is really considered a FUDA (Fat Upper Dick Area)? Are perhaps a FUWPA (Fat Upper Wannabe Pussy Area)? This chick with a dick I will dub FAFUWPA (Fat As Fuck Upper Wannabe Pussy Area). It was something to behold.
"Chili Pepper" was as spicy as ketchup. This bitch had more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. From 8 tables away I could count her individually caked eyelashes. She looked like Joan Rivers hocking her line of Jewtastic Jewels on QVC. White pantsuit, fur stole, white pumps, hair reminiscent of Linda Evans on Dynasty. She came out initially in a leather mini skirt and fringy jacket, thrashing around and attempting to dance. Here's a tip. If you are a dude who really, really likes to wear women's clothes and makeup and can moves in heels, TAKE SOME FUCKING DANCE LESSONS. Arthur Murray studios could maybe at least give you a sense of rhythm. Maybe she was ugly AND deaf because bitch done looked like she was vacillating between having a grand mal seizure and trying not to let loose her explosive diarrhea. Frantic and clueless. Her last number was an homage to the fucking Golden Girls because she looked like Bea Arthur. And that bitch probably had a dick, too.
The Beyonce "Single Ladies" was excellent. Great moves, no exposed cock, energy. The one "lady" from Hawaii was beautiful. The blonde bombshell had us all dropping our jaws in disbelief that she was a dude. Boobs, hips, tiny nose, female facial features, no man hands. Crazy. Tape and Tuck Tina Turner rocked it in her Oprah-style wig. But then we surmised maybe it WAS Oprah up there. 'Tis an unsolvable mystery. The waiters were hustling our two drink minimums about while simultaneously blocking our view as they shimmied in between wasted bachelorette parties. These ladies took turns depositing single dollar bills into the "cleavage" of the performers. They all had fucked up penis headbands, penis wands, feather boas, and/or super wasted friends who thought it was funny to grind up against anyone who they passed. I myself never had the joy of having a bachelorette party but I sure as fuck can tell you I would not be sporting any cock accessories on a night on the town with my girlfriends. Your drunken, stumbling stupor and shot-slamming cronies are enough of a give-away that you are about to be married. Put the dick jewelry away. Take a tip from the Single Ladies onstage, sometimes hiding it enhances the mystery. Mantra for the night? Put those dicks away.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Trim That Shit
Though my last post referred to bush trimming (and the innuendos were many I am sure...), this one is about trimming the bush that resides in your pants. It is a debate and personal choice, one which has become more and more practiced, some to the point of baldness, as the trends have changed. If you ever had the chance to look at a Playboy magazine from the 70's or early 80's, a woman's pubes were au natural. The bigger and bushier the better. It was like a bonsai tree of muff, a perfectly mounded afro that probably had to be combed down to fit into those Jordache jeans. The hubby and I watched a Russ Meyer movie when we were in Paris. (It seriously happened to be the only channel not in French or German so I succumbed.) The lead "actress" had a glorious mountain of hair on her box, she was fluffing it out with a pick it was so robust. As a kid who snuck a peek at my Grandpa's Playboys stolen by my brother or my parents' Joy of Sex book, I remember thinking it was quite normal to imagine that when I would become a woman, I would have a Michael Jackson afro on my cooch. Alas, this does not have to be the case.
I hate pussy hair. I think it is annoying. I am not trying to keep my twat cozy warm like it's hanging out, waiting for the bus in the rain, that's what fucking PANTS are for. So why does a woman's shit have to grow out, longer, and thicker, and WIDER every year she ages? If I went balls out and decided to forgo shaving, waxing, or trimming my poon for, let's say for the sake of argument, a year, I'm afraid I would have pubic hot pants. Is is really, really necessary to have that much hair growth down there? And what man likes that? It's like Indiana Jones trying to find the lost pussy cave if you don't maintain your muff. A nice bikini wax to keep your pubes neat and in line, maybe get out the scissors to trim them nice and short. Get it together, ladies. When I see you at the pool, in your mumu swimsuit, reaching for the Pringles can for your whiney kids, I don't want to mistakenly glance over and see Chewbacca peeking out between your legs. If it's too much to tuck up in there, get out the God damn weed whacker and go to town.
On the extremist opposite side, there is the school of thought that bald is better. A "Brazilian" leaves a small Hitler-looking mustache on your labes. Like a miniature landing strip at the O'Muff International Pussyport. Everywhere else, including your asshole, is hairless. Squeaky clean. Nary a pube in sight. Is it creepy to have no hair and feel like you did before you went through puberty? Naah. Unless you are wearing your daughter's Hannah Montana panties. Is it creepy to ask your esthetician to slap some wax on your stink star and rip it clean? Maybe. Depends on your relationship I guess. I say less is more. Less shit to get tangled in like a God damn boobie trap. I am anti-pube.
If you are a man you need to be responsible for maintaining your jungle, too. If you are flexible enough to bend over after a long day at the office and can take a whiff of your own balls, there are two things I am thinking. One, you are quite flexible and probably prefer Danny's Swingin' Salami Lounge to Hooters. And two, you now know what we women lovingly refer to as "swamp crotch". Not only does your nutsack need to be thoroughly washed before I even contemplate venturing South of the border but please, for the love of God, keep those nuggets pruned like Martha Stewart's vegetable garden, got it? We don't mind a few sprouts but if we need to de-thatch, aerate, and pull weeds just to find your zucchini, guess what? The ladies are gonna shop in another vegetable garden. Just don't think that because you have the Almighty Penis that your little Garden Fairy is supposed to drop over in awe and amazement at it. Please, at least make it palatable so we don't cough up a God damn hairball.
If you are a vegan beast who is anti-deodorant, anti-meat, anti-razor, you are whore-ganic. That is just fucking rank and nasty. Don't get me wrong, I am all about the tofu, but Jesus Christ, you fucking STINK! Please stop standing by me and my posse at the gym. Wanna know why? Because your bush and your pits look like you are wrestling squirrels, that's why. I am going to razor-rape you in the parking lot of Whole Foods so watch out. I'll be the hairless one who smells like Kukui Nuts and vanilla. Don't be afraid, you will thank me when your husband can actually see your twat and it doesn't smell like a red onion salad. You're welcome.
I hate pussy hair. I think it is annoying. I am not trying to keep my twat cozy warm like it's hanging out, waiting for the bus in the rain, that's what fucking PANTS are for. So why does a woman's shit have to grow out, longer, and thicker, and WIDER every year she ages? If I went balls out and decided to forgo shaving, waxing, or trimming my poon for, let's say for the sake of argument, a year, I'm afraid I would have pubic hot pants. Is is really, really necessary to have that much hair growth down there? And what man likes that? It's like Indiana Jones trying to find the lost pussy cave if you don't maintain your muff. A nice bikini wax to keep your pubes neat and in line, maybe get out the scissors to trim them nice and short. Get it together, ladies. When I see you at the pool, in your mumu swimsuit, reaching for the Pringles can for your whiney kids, I don't want to mistakenly glance over and see Chewbacca peeking out between your legs. If it's too much to tuck up in there, get out the God damn weed whacker and go to town.
On the extremist opposite side, there is the school of thought that bald is better. A "Brazilian" leaves a small Hitler-looking mustache on your labes. Like a miniature landing strip at the O'Muff International Pussyport. Everywhere else, including your asshole, is hairless. Squeaky clean. Nary a pube in sight. Is it creepy to have no hair and feel like you did before you went through puberty? Naah. Unless you are wearing your daughter's Hannah Montana panties. Is it creepy to ask your esthetician to slap some wax on your stink star and rip it clean? Maybe. Depends on your relationship I guess. I say less is more. Less shit to get tangled in like a God damn boobie trap. I am anti-pube.
If you are a man you need to be responsible for maintaining your jungle, too. If you are flexible enough to bend over after a long day at the office and can take a whiff of your own balls, there are two things I am thinking. One, you are quite flexible and probably prefer Danny's Swingin' Salami Lounge to Hooters. And two, you now know what we women lovingly refer to as "swamp crotch". Not only does your nutsack need to be thoroughly washed before I even contemplate venturing South of the border but please, for the love of God, keep those nuggets pruned like Martha Stewart's vegetable garden, got it? We don't mind a few sprouts but if we need to de-thatch, aerate, and pull weeds just to find your zucchini, guess what? The ladies are gonna shop in another vegetable garden. Just don't think that because you have the Almighty Penis that your little Garden Fairy is supposed to drop over in awe and amazement at it. Please, at least make it palatable so we don't cough up a God damn hairball.
If you are a vegan beast who is anti-deodorant, anti-meat, anti-razor, you are whore-ganic. That is just fucking rank and nasty. Don't get me wrong, I am all about the tofu, but Jesus Christ, you fucking STINK! Please stop standing by me and my posse at the gym. Wanna know why? Because your bush and your pits look like you are wrestling squirrels, that's why. I am going to razor-rape you in the parking lot of Whole Foods so watch out. I'll be the hairless one who smells like Kukui Nuts and vanilla. Don't be afraid, you will thank me when your husband can actually see your twat and it doesn't smell like a red onion salad. You're welcome.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Yardwork Sucks Balls
To all of you out there who are either smart enough or rich enough to hire a professional to not only mow your lawn but trim your bushes and trees and weed all the nasty prickly shit that grows in like annoying ingrown pubes, kudos to you. Hell if you are "trading services" by fucking your gardener so he licks your bush while he trims the one outside, fucking brilliant I say. Maintaining one's yard suck ass. If someone is sucker enough to do it for you, have at it.
I loathe weeding. It's like dusting, every time you do it once the shit just comes back!! Pruning bushes and trees is hard-as-shit work that always results in multiple flesh wounds and a pile up of giant paper yard bags overflowing with unnecessary foliage. Why are weeds so God damn nasty?! Those little bitches have sharp as fuck prickers that poke through my SUEDE yard gloves. What the fuck did I ever do to you, ugly bitch-ass weed?! You take over my neatly mulched flower beds and fuck it up with your trashy, unkempt leaves. You are like the jackass redneck I seem to see at Meijer every week, with your permed mullet and trench coat in summer, who gets caught for shoplifting something gay, like deodorant. Weeds and rednecks are plain menaces to society. And the roots apparently reach China because I can never seem to pull them all the way from the ground without them breaking off. So the little cocksuckers can grow back.
I used my giant pruning shears which actually lengthen to reach into trees if I want. Yay! This makes them about 40 pounds heavier and harder to manage. Using these fuckers to trim my trees and bushes is like trying to control a 150-pound Pitbull on Ecstasy. They kind of have a mind of their own. These bitches are sharp enough to cut the balls off a rhinoceros with elephantiasis in his engorged nutsack. I wished to God I was more like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid with my bonsai tree trimming skills. I take more of a "whack this fucking bush to shreds so it doesn't hang over my neighbors fucking yard" approach. They now resemble the jacked Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Sad, really sad. So there I was, whacking my bush (uhh-huhhh), and there are mounds of branches and leaves falling to the ground. I felt like a food-deprived member of Survivor on day 39 when I have dementia and dysentery from eating lizards and ants. I could have made a damn fine bed or hut or miniature cabin with the amount of branches I cut down. Instead I had to put all that bullshit into the 6-foot tall, 1-foot wide yard bags. To whoever invented these, thank you for making them so easy to open and stand upright. It would be easier to get inside a pre-op tranny's pussy than shove your wood into one of these.
Bugs were biting me, branches were scratching me to shit, I was getting sunburned in 55 degree weather, I smelled like a fucking deodorant-free vegan convention, and guess what?! I only finished HALF of my fucking front yard! What the FUCK?! I still have a weedy mess of shit in the backyard. There are more weeds than decorative bushes. (And I like some decorative bush, sometimes with glitter...) Our Birch tree which is like that fucking tree in Poltergeist that eats that little kid, it scratches at my dining room window as if to say, "Trim my shit, you lazy twat! I am more overgrown than Rosie O'Donnell's cunt!" I have another massive bush that is literally blocking my side gate. The fact that the crew of Mexican lawn mowers can even get into the back yard to mow is probably because they are so short. Or maybe they crawl under the rabbit hole that Peter Rabbit and His Busy Pecker have dug so he can hit that bunny poon on my weed patch. Great, another reason I need to yank that shit up. I am running a bunny brothel and I am the pimp of my weed patch. I feel like busting out the napalm and just going for a desert theme. Bunnies won't fuck in the sand.
P.S. If you're panties are in a wad over my Mexican comment, chill. They ARE in fact Mexican, they ARE short, and you are jealous because you are still mowing your own lawn. At least I was smart enough to hire someone out for SOMETHING. Anyone into bush trimming?
I loathe weeding. It's like dusting, every time you do it once the shit just comes back!! Pruning bushes and trees is hard-as-shit work that always results in multiple flesh wounds and a pile up of giant paper yard bags overflowing with unnecessary foliage. Why are weeds so God damn nasty?! Those little bitches have sharp as fuck prickers that poke through my SUEDE yard gloves. What the fuck did I ever do to you, ugly bitch-ass weed?! You take over my neatly mulched flower beds and fuck it up with your trashy, unkempt leaves. You are like the jackass redneck I seem to see at Meijer every week, with your permed mullet and trench coat in summer, who gets caught for shoplifting something gay, like deodorant. Weeds and rednecks are plain menaces to society. And the roots apparently reach China because I can never seem to pull them all the way from the ground without them breaking off. So the little cocksuckers can grow back.
I used my giant pruning shears which actually lengthen to reach into trees if I want. Yay! This makes them about 40 pounds heavier and harder to manage. Using these fuckers to trim my trees and bushes is like trying to control a 150-pound Pitbull on Ecstasy. They kind of have a mind of their own. These bitches are sharp enough to cut the balls off a rhinoceros with elephantiasis in his engorged nutsack. I wished to God I was more like Mr. Miyagi in Karate Kid with my bonsai tree trimming skills. I take more of a "whack this fucking bush to shreds so it doesn't hang over my neighbors fucking yard" approach. They now resemble the jacked Christmas tree in the Charlie Brown Christmas special. Sad, really sad. So there I was, whacking my bush (uhh-huhhh), and there are mounds of branches and leaves falling to the ground. I felt like a food-deprived member of Survivor on day 39 when I have dementia and dysentery from eating lizards and ants. I could have made a damn fine bed or hut or miniature cabin with the amount of branches I cut down. Instead I had to put all that bullshit into the 6-foot tall, 1-foot wide yard bags. To whoever invented these, thank you for making them so easy to open and stand upright. It would be easier to get inside a pre-op tranny's pussy than shove your wood into one of these.
Bugs were biting me, branches were scratching me to shit, I was getting sunburned in 55 degree weather, I smelled like a fucking deodorant-free vegan convention, and guess what?! I only finished HALF of my fucking front yard! What the FUCK?! I still have a weedy mess of shit in the backyard. There are more weeds than decorative bushes. (And I like some decorative bush, sometimes with glitter...) Our Birch tree which is like that fucking tree in Poltergeist that eats that little kid, it scratches at my dining room window as if to say, "Trim my shit, you lazy twat! I am more overgrown than Rosie O'Donnell's cunt!" I have another massive bush that is literally blocking my side gate. The fact that the crew of Mexican lawn mowers can even get into the back yard to mow is probably because they are so short. Or maybe they crawl under the rabbit hole that Peter Rabbit and His Busy Pecker have dug so he can hit that bunny poon on my weed patch. Great, another reason I need to yank that shit up. I am running a bunny brothel and I am the pimp of my weed patch. I feel like busting out the napalm and just going for a desert theme. Bunnies won't fuck in the sand.
P.S. If you're panties are in a wad over my Mexican comment, chill. They ARE in fact Mexican, they ARE short, and you are jealous because you are still mowing your own lawn. At least I was smart enough to hire someone out for SOMETHING. Anyone into bush trimming?
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