Excuse me but I believe that in order to receive a TREAT, whether it be a roll of Smarties or a full-size Hershey bar, you need to have put at least an incling of effort into your costume on Halloween. A black hooded sweatshirt, jeans, and a gnarly pillowcase to catch your loot does not qualify for diddly squat in my book. Also, if you are 14 years-old, you should be babysitting or passing out candy. Just my opinion. I think your greedy asses have had plenty of years collecting candy so give the little ones a chance.
We had the misfortune, due to my naivete, I suppose, of an entire huge spooky plastic cauldron of delicious candy disappearing in under 10 minutes. I left it out on my porch as I took the kiddos around from house to house, with a friendly little note asking for each kid to take one piece each. Not even four houses down I was informed I was out of candy. Little bastards. I returned home quickly to discover my cute cauldron flung upside down in my tree and not so much as a Snickers wrapper left on the sidewalk. That's what I get get for giving them the good stuff. That was a few years ago and I have learned since then. Or so I thought...
The little fuckers who were klepto maniacs with my candy even bragged about it on the bus. Grrr. So this year with the hubby being out of town (thank you to all the gay, childless asswipes who felt it was IMPERATIVE to have him in Orlando for the third fucking week in a row for some more "very important meetings". Away from his CHILDREN. On Halloween. And yes, I am pissed about it.), I had to either do the bucket on the porch routine or have no candy at all and leave the porch light off. I initially left a clever note and decent candy. It read, "Please take two pieces--Be honest, Santa is watching!" It was like taunting a bully in scholl by saying, "Nah-nah-nah-na-boo-boo!" Those little dillholes actually ran up to my door, not more than 1 minute after I taped the cocksucking sign up, and dumped handfuls of my shit into their bags. Within 5 kids visiting my house they must have nabbed 200 pieces of candy. Are you fucking serious?! Do your parents teach you any manners, you little 5th grade boys with bigger tits than the girls and little girls who aren't so little with your chub rub in your pirate costume that SOOOO does not fit you. Cover that gut, Chubella. Take two pieces and don't be such God damn greedy pigs!!!!!!!!!
Next year will be different. If you have a costume that includes makeup, a hat, or a mask, an actual outfit of some sort which matches the ensemble, and a candy receptacle that is not a plastic grocery bag from under your sink or a stained pillowcase, your score. You will get two pieces of decent candy from me. If you have a mask on that you've been wearing for the past three years and that is your only effort in costuming, I will offer you two shitty Dum Dums suckers in Mystery Flavor. If you are a complete asshole and are in a group of kids who have no costumes whatsoever, I will laugh at you and maybe have my dog poop on your shoe. If you are 14 or older and are not babysitting you little siblings, get your ass home and work on that Algebra. You don't need any candy. If my porch light is off, it is 9:30, and you decide to ring my doorbell anyways, I will punch you in your flabby gut with a broom handle because you just woke up my kids, made my dog bark his spastic little head off, and interrupted my Tivo'd episode of Oprah. Now pardon me while I dunk my Twix mini candy bar in Bailey's....
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Geese Gone Wild
It's spring break here in the mid-West. Even though the leaves are falling off the trees and the temperatures are plummeting, the geese migration resting spots are all over the place here in Bolingbrook, Illinois. They squack like a group of Jewish mothers at the Filene's Basement bridal sale, announcing their presence from miles away.
In cliched greeting cards and pictures you see birds hanging out in Florida, pina coladas in hand, wearing sunscreen on their beaks. Wait, birds don't even HAVE hands so how the hell can we think that's cute? Apparently my locale is considered far enough South to be vacation territory. It is like a goose convention here, they come in at all hours from the sky, shit all over the roads and sidewalks (and goose poop is pretty substantial bird dookie), and hang out in corn fields, next to water retention ponds, and wherever they can cluster in groups of 500 or more.
I have categorized their vacation spots. The primo locale is the man-made lake, surrounded by pretty nice homes. I liken this to perhaps Aruba or Cancun. It's exotic enough to be tropical and out of reach for many spring breakers parents' budgets. Lots of jealous geese who couldn't land here. Across the way is a small retention pond. Still on the water but a little seedier area. This reminds me of Daytona Beach. Warm, by the ocean, but plenty of cheesy guys who drink Coors Light trying to score. No dice, Rico Suave'. Down the road is an even bigger lake but no posh homes surrounding it. This is maybe Ft. Lauderdale. The majority of geese hang here. Then across the street there are several corn fields, no water, and lots of mud. These are for the geese who couldn't afford spring break so they take the bus to Chicago from Minnesota. It's still cold, not much to look at, but hey, they're away from home right?
These huge birds lay out in the sun, soaking up the rays. It's like an episode of MTV spring break but without 50 Cent or Rihanna coming to sing their new single to promote their album while getting pummeled by beach balls and empty beer cans. If geese could talk I think this might be what they talk about while on spring break..
Daytona Beach Pond:
Tammy Lee: Oh my God! Did you SEE how Bobby Dean was making out with Cindi Sue? She was getting her lipgloss all over his Dale Ernhardt beach towel! What a skank!
Ginny Rae: I know! Let's forget about them. I'm heading back to Motel 6 so I can freshen up before that jello wrestling contest. I am SO gonna win that shit this year!!
Ft. Lauderdale Pond
Britney: I soooo wish my whole sorority could have come. We totally would have won the "best jugs" contest by a landslide. And then Rick could see that my tits are definitely real!
Peyton: You are so right! Let's do a shot of Jaeger and make out!
Aruba Resort Beach
Kimora: I cannot even believe that Aubrey brought the same Prada clutch as me! She SO wants to be me. Excuse me but WHO was on "My Super Sweet Sixteen"? Yeah, that's right, bitches! Yours truly! Gaaawd! Her dad only could spend 5 G's on her lame ass birthday....
Anastasia: You are SO right on, baby. Hey, can I borrow your True Religion jeans tonight. They make my ass look HOT with that Gucci top I brought..
Cornfield Breakers
Beth: Chicago is so much fun! Who cares if it 29 degrees! I can't wait to go to Water Tower! Michigan Avenue is like the best shopping experience EVER!
Liz: Let's totally go to Hard Rock Cafe for dinner! We can wear our new Gap jeans and pretend like we live in the big city!!!
So as you can surmise, there is a lot of fucking geese hanging out near my home. And perhaps it is I who could really use a vacation for me to pontificate on all this madness. Jesus I need to get a life...
In cliched greeting cards and pictures you see birds hanging out in Florida, pina coladas in hand, wearing sunscreen on their beaks. Wait, birds don't even HAVE hands so how the hell can we think that's cute? Apparently my locale is considered far enough South to be vacation territory. It is like a goose convention here, they come in at all hours from the sky, shit all over the roads and sidewalks (and goose poop is pretty substantial bird dookie), and hang out in corn fields, next to water retention ponds, and wherever they can cluster in groups of 500 or more.
I have categorized their vacation spots. The primo locale is the man-made lake, surrounded by pretty nice homes. I liken this to perhaps Aruba or Cancun. It's exotic enough to be tropical and out of reach for many spring breakers parents' budgets. Lots of jealous geese who couldn't land here. Across the way is a small retention pond. Still on the water but a little seedier area. This reminds me of Daytona Beach. Warm, by the ocean, but plenty of cheesy guys who drink Coors Light trying to score. No dice, Rico Suave'. Down the road is an even bigger lake but no posh homes surrounding it. This is maybe Ft. Lauderdale. The majority of geese hang here. Then across the street there are several corn fields, no water, and lots of mud. These are for the geese who couldn't afford spring break so they take the bus to Chicago from Minnesota. It's still cold, not much to look at, but hey, they're away from home right?
These huge birds lay out in the sun, soaking up the rays. It's like an episode of MTV spring break but without 50 Cent or Rihanna coming to sing their new single to promote their album while getting pummeled by beach balls and empty beer cans. If geese could talk I think this might be what they talk about while on spring break..
Daytona Beach Pond:
Tammy Lee: Oh my God! Did you SEE how Bobby Dean was making out with Cindi Sue? She was getting her lipgloss all over his Dale Ernhardt beach towel! What a skank!
Ginny Rae: I know! Let's forget about them. I'm heading back to Motel 6 so I can freshen up before that jello wrestling contest. I am SO gonna win that shit this year!!
Ft. Lauderdale Pond
Britney: I soooo wish my whole sorority could have come. We totally would have won the "best jugs" contest by a landslide. And then Rick could see that my tits are definitely real!
Peyton: You are so right! Let's do a shot of Jaeger and make out!
Aruba Resort Beach
Kimora: I cannot even believe that Aubrey brought the same Prada clutch as me! She SO wants to be me. Excuse me but WHO was on "My Super Sweet Sixteen"? Yeah, that's right, bitches! Yours truly! Gaaawd! Her dad only could spend 5 G's on her lame ass birthday....
Anastasia: You are SO right on, baby. Hey, can I borrow your True Religion jeans tonight. They make my ass look HOT with that Gucci top I brought..
Cornfield Breakers
Beth: Chicago is so much fun! Who cares if it 29 degrees! I can't wait to go to Water Tower! Michigan Avenue is like the best shopping experience EVER!
Liz: Let's totally go to Hard Rock Cafe for dinner! We can wear our new Gap jeans and pretend like we live in the big city!!!
So as you can surmise, there is a lot of fucking geese hanging out near my home. And perhaps it is I who could really use a vacation for me to pontificate on all this madness. Jesus I need to get a life...
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
You Think You Look Cool?
For the life of me I cannot figure out what has happened to cars these days. People crap them up with bumper stickers, those douche-bag Calvin and Hobbes decals, graphics, giant all-American bald eagle murals, R.I.P. mantras for their lost (gang member) loves ones, fake bullet holes, and super shiny giant rims on their tires. You all look like huge assholes so pardon me while I laugh at you when I drive by.
I cannot stand these green, earth-loving, anti-Bush, anti-fur, anti-meat, anti-war, anti-disposable tampon folks who preach their 789 missions in life all over their mini, rusted out cars. Your hemp mobile looks like a cartoon. You have more bumper stickers than actual paint on your car. Go smoke a bowl of kind and chill. Don't get your bamboo undies in a wad. Don't take life so fucking seriously. I don't think you are wrong for having all these beliefs, I just don't need to read about them ALL or explain them to my kids when I'm waiting for the light to change behind you. Summarize in a T-shirt and if I have any questions, I'll ask, okay?
To those young guys who think it's so hot to put crazy-ass graphics all over their little cars, with those 2 foot-high air-foil spoilers on the back of their trunks, you look like bigger tools than I do driving a mini van. And I'm just assuming you have really, really small dicks, judging by the way you have to compensate by over-accessorizing your car. It looks like a retarded shark on wheels.Do you honestly think you'll get more pussy with that car?
And to you, Mr. Gangsta (livin' in the burbs), with your ridiculously expensive spinning rims, your tinted windows, your massive SUV, and your booty-pumping bass stereo system that almost gives me an orgasm when you are behind me in the left-hand turn lane (okay, THAT part's not bad), what are you trying to prove? Do you secretly think 50 Cent will be driving through BOLINGBROOK and think, "Hey, that is one bad-ass motherfucker. I think he'd be dope as hell to chill wit on my tour. Those rims is SICK!" Sigh. You poor, poor freak. Now that I am DEAF from you playing your rap music loud enough to register on the damn Richter Scale, I have to learn to sign to you, "Turn it the fuck down!!" By the way, you are white, wear khakis from the Gap, and enjoy watching Desperate Housewives. Gangsta you is NOT.
I am all about this war bullshit being over. The ribbon fad was good. But a plethora of magnets in every rainbow color and cause all over the back and sides of your car? Really? One or two, fine. If you already have the decal with the stick figure drawing of your family, along with their names, your daughters cheerleading squad, your son's football team, your college alma mater, your dog's groomer, and your plastic surgeon's website, you have too much fucking shit on your car. And if you can fit ALL that crap on your car, your SUV is way too big. Downsize to maybe a sedan then you won't be tempted to buy some nifty bullet holes and one of those fake baseball breaking the window things. Good God.
Aside from the over-crowded cause-worthy bumper stickers, because 90% of you are moms, the offensive car crapper-uppers are shitty drivers. Some of you moms drive like jackasses but I categorize myself into that group. I multi-task when I drive (screaming at the kids, turning on the AC, turning down Hannah Montana so I can think, chugging my Red Bull) so I get distracted and often drive below the speed limit. So sorry if you're ever behind me. Why must the rest of you go 75 miles an hour at 4pm? Is there really someplace that special to get to? In suburbia? Seriously? Is there a sale at Bed, Bath, and Beyond? A run on camping gear at Sportmart? Turkey jerky 5 for a dollar at Gas City? Get a life and slow down. Your magnets are flying off your car.
I cannot stand these green, earth-loving, anti-Bush, anti-fur, anti-meat, anti-war, anti-disposable tampon folks who preach their 789 missions in life all over their mini, rusted out cars. Your hemp mobile looks like a cartoon. You have more bumper stickers than actual paint on your car. Go smoke a bowl of kind and chill. Don't get your bamboo undies in a wad. Don't take life so fucking seriously. I don't think you are wrong for having all these beliefs, I just don't need to read about them ALL or explain them to my kids when I'm waiting for the light to change behind you. Summarize in a T-shirt and if I have any questions, I'll ask, okay?
To those young guys who think it's so hot to put crazy-ass graphics all over their little cars, with those 2 foot-high air-foil spoilers on the back of their trunks, you look like bigger tools than I do driving a mini van. And I'm just assuming you have really, really small dicks, judging by the way you have to compensate by over-accessorizing your car. It looks like a retarded shark on wheels.Do you honestly think you'll get more pussy with that car?
And to you, Mr. Gangsta (livin' in the burbs), with your ridiculously expensive spinning rims, your tinted windows, your massive SUV, and your booty-pumping bass stereo system that almost gives me an orgasm when you are behind me in the left-hand turn lane (okay, THAT part's not bad), what are you trying to prove? Do you secretly think 50 Cent will be driving through BOLINGBROOK and think, "Hey, that is one bad-ass motherfucker. I think he'd be dope as hell to chill wit on my tour. Those rims is SICK!" Sigh. You poor, poor freak. Now that I am DEAF from you playing your rap music loud enough to register on the damn Richter Scale, I have to learn to sign to you, "Turn it the fuck down!!" By the way, you are white, wear khakis from the Gap, and enjoy watching Desperate Housewives. Gangsta you is NOT.
I am all about this war bullshit being over. The ribbon fad was good. But a plethora of magnets in every rainbow color and cause all over the back and sides of your car? Really? One or two, fine. If you already have the decal with the stick figure drawing of your family, along with their names, your daughters cheerleading squad, your son's football team, your college alma mater, your dog's groomer, and your plastic surgeon's website, you have too much fucking shit on your car. And if you can fit ALL that crap on your car, your SUV is way too big. Downsize to maybe a sedan then you won't be tempted to buy some nifty bullet holes and one of those fake baseball breaking the window things. Good God.
Aside from the over-crowded cause-worthy bumper stickers, because 90% of you are moms, the offensive car crapper-uppers are shitty drivers. Some of you moms drive like jackasses but I categorize myself into that group. I multi-task when I drive (screaming at the kids, turning on the AC, turning down Hannah Montana so I can think, chugging my Red Bull) so I get distracted and often drive below the speed limit. So sorry if you're ever behind me. Why must the rest of you go 75 miles an hour at 4pm? Is there really someplace that special to get to? In suburbia? Seriously? Is there a sale at Bed, Bath, and Beyond? A run on camping gear at Sportmart? Turkey jerky 5 for a dollar at Gas City? Get a life and slow down. Your magnets are flying off your car.
Energy In a Can
I have to admit I succumbed to the latest craze of over-priced energy drinks that now take up half of the soda aisle at the grocery store. Although I am a gimmick whore, these little beverages pack a punch. And by punch I mean "wakin' my ass up so I have to drink 1/2 a pot less coffee today". At my age, I need all the legal chemical intervention I can get my hands on.
I remember when our old pal, Britney Spears, used to favor Red Bull and vodka and I had to see what all the hype was about. Okay, do any of you out there really drink Red Bull because it TASTES good to you? Really? 'Cause I think it's about as nasty as it comes. And the sugar free shit tastes worse than cough medicine. Rockstar also makes a sugar-free one that literally has to be gagged down because it is carbonated Robitussin, and that shit is the nastiest liquid medicine I can ever remember having to take. In fact, whenever my kids bitch and moan about having to take their grape-flavored shit (tastes like Kool-Aid to me), I make them take whiff of Robitussin and it shuts them up pretty damn quickly.
So why on earth would a discerning consumer such as myself not merely enjoy, say a latte from Starbucks or a few cans of diet Coke? Buzz factor, baby. If you can get past the flavor, and with some of these varieties it can be a spit or swallow situation, you will become as energized and agile as a tap-dancing monkey in the circus. Your heart is not pumping and you don't want to rob a liquor store like you're whacked out on meth (not speaking from experience, just saw enough episodes of Cops to get an idea of what that shit makes you do), but you do feel like you can accomplish your list of errands at least with a little zing in your step and enough energy to even smile at the lady who tells you your photographs are still not ready at Walgreen's...even though you e-mailed them your pics 5 days ago. No worries, I'll just have another can of (booty-flavored) crack juice!! And I gravitate to sassy cans (not the ones in my bra) the way I'm drawn to clever book covers at Barnes and Noble. Things that look good tend to be better all around. I liken it to going to the bar. Do you pick any random guy who makes eye contact with you? I hope not. You look for Mr. Hottie of The Month and figure out how to get him to buy you a drink, perhaps even a Red Bull and vodka!
I don't understand how these people can charge $2.50 PLUS per can for this shit, though. I know most of them contain taurine, which I'm sure the FDA will discover causes lip and earlobe cancer in a year or two so yet ANOTHER product will be banned from our shelves. Not sure what taurine is but I know what 1500 milligrams of it DOES to my exhausted self on any given day. It makes me want to dance a big Broadway number, with big feather boas, ball gown, diamond jewelry, lavish fountains, and 50 tap-dancing men in tuxedos. Or just be able to not drive off the road from another night of insomnia because Sultan's traveling, either choice is good with me. If the FDA does decide this shit is toxic, and I know it's gonna happen, I will be sad and confused. Ex-squeeze me but aren't CIGARETTES toxic? Don't they already know they cause cancer and emphysema? But hey, it's the consumers choice whether or not to buy them and consume them. Shit, I used to be a smoker many moons ago. I was aware they weren't exactly vitamins but did I care? Hell no. I had a gynocologist who was a Harley-riding, bad-ass who smoked a ton. Of all people HE knew that shit was bad. As grown adults, shouldn't we be able to make that choice on our own? I'm not asking that they openly carry ephedrine on the shelves again, Lord knows it's so much fun having to promise your first born child and identify you last 5 addresses, blood type, and favorite sexual position just to buy a box of 24 Sudefed these days. Just trust me, if I want to kill myself by pumping my body full of harmful, energy-inducing toxins, piss off. It's my (saggy/jiggly/wrinkled) body, dammit. As of yet the government doesn't own THAT.
So even though I consume many cups of coffee every morning, I will continue to embibe on "the juice" as it's known on the streets. If you see me cruising down the street in my Windstar, my over-sized Nicole Ritchie-esque sunglasses shining, and me belting out "All That Jazz", complete with jazz hands (I can steer with my knees), please wave and say hi. Although I do have enough energy to audition for Cirque de Soleil, I am simply going to Petsmart, the grocery store, Mailboxes, ETC., and Target...all in about 20 minutes. Who says efficiency doesn't come in a can?
I remember when our old pal, Britney Spears, used to favor Red Bull and vodka and I had to see what all the hype was about. Okay, do any of you out there really drink Red Bull because it TASTES good to you? Really? 'Cause I think it's about as nasty as it comes. And the sugar free shit tastes worse than cough medicine. Rockstar also makes a sugar-free one that literally has to be gagged down because it is carbonated Robitussin, and that shit is the nastiest liquid medicine I can ever remember having to take. In fact, whenever my kids bitch and moan about having to take their grape-flavored shit (tastes like Kool-Aid to me), I make them take whiff of Robitussin and it shuts them up pretty damn quickly.
So why on earth would a discerning consumer such as myself not merely enjoy, say a latte from Starbucks or a few cans of diet Coke? Buzz factor, baby. If you can get past the flavor, and with some of these varieties it can be a spit or swallow situation, you will become as energized and agile as a tap-dancing monkey in the circus. Your heart is not pumping and you don't want to rob a liquor store like you're whacked out on meth (not speaking from experience, just saw enough episodes of Cops to get an idea of what that shit makes you do), but you do feel like you can accomplish your list of errands at least with a little zing in your step and enough energy to even smile at the lady who tells you your photographs are still not ready at Walgreen's...even though you e-mailed them your pics 5 days ago. No worries, I'll just have another can of (booty-flavored) crack juice!! And I gravitate to sassy cans (not the ones in my bra) the way I'm drawn to clever book covers at Barnes and Noble. Things that look good tend to be better all around. I liken it to going to the bar. Do you pick any random guy who makes eye contact with you? I hope not. You look for Mr. Hottie of The Month and figure out how to get him to buy you a drink, perhaps even a Red Bull and vodka!
I don't understand how these people can charge $2.50 PLUS per can for this shit, though. I know most of them contain taurine, which I'm sure the FDA will discover causes lip and earlobe cancer in a year or two so yet ANOTHER product will be banned from our shelves. Not sure what taurine is but I know what 1500 milligrams of it DOES to my exhausted self on any given day. It makes me want to dance a big Broadway number, with big feather boas, ball gown, diamond jewelry, lavish fountains, and 50 tap-dancing men in tuxedos. Or just be able to not drive off the road from another night of insomnia because Sultan's traveling, either choice is good with me. If the FDA does decide this shit is toxic, and I know it's gonna happen, I will be sad and confused. Ex-squeeze me but aren't CIGARETTES toxic? Don't they already know they cause cancer and emphysema? But hey, it's the consumers choice whether or not to buy them and consume them. Shit, I used to be a smoker many moons ago. I was aware they weren't exactly vitamins but did I care? Hell no. I had a gynocologist who was a Harley-riding, bad-ass who smoked a ton. Of all people HE knew that shit was bad. As grown adults, shouldn't we be able to make that choice on our own? I'm not asking that they openly carry ephedrine on the shelves again, Lord knows it's so much fun having to promise your first born child and identify you last 5 addresses, blood type, and favorite sexual position just to buy a box of 24 Sudefed these days. Just trust me, if I want to kill myself by pumping my body full of harmful, energy-inducing toxins, piss off. It's my (saggy/jiggly/wrinkled) body, dammit. As of yet the government doesn't own THAT.
So even though I consume many cups of coffee every morning, I will continue to embibe on "the juice" as it's known on the streets. If you see me cruising down the street in my Windstar, my over-sized Nicole Ritchie-esque sunglasses shining, and me belting out "All That Jazz", complete with jazz hands (I can steer with my knees), please wave and say hi. Although I do have enough energy to audition for Cirque de Soleil, I am simply going to Petsmart, the grocery store, Mailboxes, ETC., and Target...all in about 20 minutes. Who says efficiency doesn't come in a can?
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Scrap This
Dear Scrapbook Magazine Editors,
I have been an avid scrapbooker for about 8 years now. I do not live in Utah, nor am I a Mormon. Please do not hold that against me since I am aware that a huge amount of you are. I appreciate your attempts to show us new ideas and products. Your ambition to create new techniques out of seemingly impossible substances blows my mind more than Janet Jackson's exposed nip and the Superbowl.
I do, however, have to critique a few things you do. When I take photos of a particular event, I tend to take alot. So when I get them developed I want to put many of them in my scrapbook. It irks me beyond belief when you come up with a fun color theme, embellishments flying out your ass, 3 different reversible papers, and a title made from hand-sewn mulberry paper only to showcase ONE FRIGGIN' PICTURE. I don't really care how cute you think your little Maybelle is, she is not cute enough to justify 2 1/2 hours of work to showcase one picture of her chubby little face. Seriously, to do some of the tedious, carpal tunnel-inducing techniques you choose, I'd say 2 1/2 hours is on the conservative side. Get a life.
Now let me also mention these nifty little "techniques" you come up with. Again, many of these are shown to highlight one picture. Unless it is the only actual paper photograph of your great, great, great Grandma Gladys, you must put more shit on that page. This is the law of the non-Mormon scrapbooker--ME. So you're asking me to take a piece of malleable metal,cut it into a frame shape, stencil my own creative pattern with my stylus onto the metal, paint it with a coat of translucent paint, wait for that bullshit to dry, sand it lightly, repaint it with a coat of lighter paint, wait some more, sand it some more, and finally decorate it with glittery flowers and metal tags? Even if someone paid me ridiculous amount of cash I would tell them to go to hell if they asked me to do this for their scrapbook. I would rather douche with battery acid than attempt this.
Can you also clarify the necessity for double-sided paper? Are you going to decorate one side of the page then say, "Screw it!" and decorate the other side instead? Do you have a crystal meth addiction? It's the same fault I find with double-sided wrapping paper. If my daughter's fundraiser is selling wrapping paper, I will gladly buy a roll or two. But unless I am planning on being the ultimate ghetto guest and snatching up my paper from the gift I just gave, so I can reuse it with the OTHER side, I just don't get it. You are not getting double your value. They are screwing you by making you think you are. I'm too smart for that shit. If I like two designs, I'll buy two different sheets of paper. Got it?
If you have scrapbooked every occassion in your life, from your seventh child's birth (hey, most of you like big families, right?) to your neighbor's garage sale, you are a scrapbooking freak. Now all you have left to do is create random pages, all about "My Favorite Things", which often consist of a styrofoam cup of coffee, bunny slippers, or your trusty Bible. Now I'm not ragging on anyone who read the Bible, I myself could stand to brush up on the written word of God. But will you freaky, refusing-to-drink-Starbucks ladies PLEASE find another hobby? Crocheting? Needlepointe? Shopping? Masturbating? Anything, just don't waste another layout with pictures you took of your mousetraps and the paper you made look like cheese by stamping it with ACTUAL Swiss cheese and pigment inks. It is driving me crazy because I, on the other hand, have mountains of photo boxes FULL of un-scrapped photos. Care to come help me?
Just a few tips. Can't wait for my next issue! Enjoy that Utah sunshine! Jesus is the reason for the season! Choose the Right!
Toodles,
Molly Juggs Ghahtani
P.S. MY "Favorite Things" page would have a venti Gingerbread Starbuck's latte (that's an assload of caffeine between you and me), my purple "Rabbit" love toy, and a full bottle of Vicodin. But hey, I guess that's why God wants me to live here and not in Utah, next door to you!
I have been an avid scrapbooker for about 8 years now. I do not live in Utah, nor am I a Mormon. Please do not hold that against me since I am aware that a huge amount of you are. I appreciate your attempts to show us new ideas and products. Your ambition to create new techniques out of seemingly impossible substances blows my mind more than Janet Jackson's exposed nip and the Superbowl.
I do, however, have to critique a few things you do. When I take photos of a particular event, I tend to take alot. So when I get them developed I want to put many of them in my scrapbook. It irks me beyond belief when you come up with a fun color theme, embellishments flying out your ass, 3 different reversible papers, and a title made from hand-sewn mulberry paper only to showcase ONE FRIGGIN' PICTURE. I don't really care how cute you think your little Maybelle is, she is not cute enough to justify 2 1/2 hours of work to showcase one picture of her chubby little face. Seriously, to do some of the tedious, carpal tunnel-inducing techniques you choose, I'd say 2 1/2 hours is on the conservative side. Get a life.
Now let me also mention these nifty little "techniques" you come up with. Again, many of these are shown to highlight one picture. Unless it is the only actual paper photograph of your great, great, great Grandma Gladys, you must put more shit on that page. This is the law of the non-Mormon scrapbooker--ME. So you're asking me to take a piece of malleable metal,cut it into a frame shape, stencil my own creative pattern with my stylus onto the metal, paint it with a coat of translucent paint, wait for that bullshit to dry, sand it lightly, repaint it with a coat of lighter paint, wait some more, sand it some more, and finally decorate it with glittery flowers and metal tags? Even if someone paid me ridiculous amount of cash I would tell them to go to hell if they asked me to do this for their scrapbook. I would rather douche with battery acid than attempt this.
Can you also clarify the necessity for double-sided paper? Are you going to decorate one side of the page then say, "Screw it!" and decorate the other side instead? Do you have a crystal meth addiction? It's the same fault I find with double-sided wrapping paper. If my daughter's fundraiser is selling wrapping paper, I will gladly buy a roll or two. But unless I am planning on being the ultimate ghetto guest and snatching up my paper from the gift I just gave, so I can reuse it with the OTHER side, I just don't get it. You are not getting double your value. They are screwing you by making you think you are. I'm too smart for that shit. If I like two designs, I'll buy two different sheets of paper. Got it?
If you have scrapbooked every occassion in your life, from your seventh child's birth (hey, most of you like big families, right?) to your neighbor's garage sale, you are a scrapbooking freak. Now all you have left to do is create random pages, all about "My Favorite Things", which often consist of a styrofoam cup of coffee, bunny slippers, or your trusty Bible. Now I'm not ragging on anyone who read the Bible, I myself could stand to brush up on the written word of God. But will you freaky, refusing-to-drink-Starbucks ladies PLEASE find another hobby? Crocheting? Needlepointe? Shopping? Masturbating? Anything, just don't waste another layout with pictures you took of your mousetraps and the paper you made look like cheese by stamping it with ACTUAL Swiss cheese and pigment inks. It is driving me crazy because I, on the other hand, have mountains of photo boxes FULL of un-scrapped photos. Care to come help me?
Just a few tips. Can't wait for my next issue! Enjoy that Utah sunshine! Jesus is the reason for the season! Choose the Right!
Toodles,
Molly Juggs Ghahtani
P.S. MY "Favorite Things" page would have a venti Gingerbread Starbuck's latte (that's an assload of caffeine between you and me), my purple "Rabbit" love toy, and a full bottle of Vicodin. But hey, I guess that's why God wants me to live here and not in Utah, next door to you!
Well Excuuuuuuuuuuuse Me!!
On Friday night my neighbor decided to show his true colors and call the cops on us for having a member of my little soiree park 3 inches over the line of his driveway.. Get a fucking life, you trashy piece of shit cop. He came to my door, blowing cigarette smoke in my face as he asked if the owner of the car in question could move it because his wife's mom was coming over. And??? Is she a drunk and can't drive into your 17-foot-wide driveway without that extra few inches? Did he think my friend had to give up that space because it was more convenient for HIS guest? Fuck that. It's public property, the ENTIRE street, and my company can park wherever they damn well please. My friend moved her car and asked if that was enough for him. He told her, "Next time I'll have it towed!" Classy, my friend, really classy. So she had no choice but to flip him off--that's right, meet Super Finger, you douche-cock. Well he started it with his snide remark! Don't ask for a mess of bullshit if you can't take it!!
So I would just get over something like that, wouldn't you? Nope. Calling the cops is more second nature to him, like taking a dump with his Sunday paper I guess. And we graciously welcomed the Good Ol' Boys Club into our neighborhood. Is there some sort of code with fellow cops? Can you just call when something bothers you even though you know, being a cop yourself, that there is no violation at hand?
"Yeah, I'd like to complain because my neighbor has this INSANE party going on and one of her guests gave me a DIRTY LOOK. I'm pretty sure she's in violation of code 367, paragraph C. Could you send a squad car over right away?"
So with the history of our loving friendship, we got into it in their driveway. He of course claims he never swore about my bush but he DID call the cops about our lawn. Is your pathetic life REALLY that boring that you have so much free time to monitor and worry about your neighbor's grass? Was that car REALLY violating your own personal space so much that you needed police involvement? REALLY? I think I'm going to send them a big box of Soduku, Monopoly, some free passes to Brunswick Zone, and a gift card to Panera to get them the fuck out of their house and perhaps encourage them to GET A LIFE. Do something else other than stand in your garage with binoculars, contemplating what exactly the neighbors have done to piss you off today.
Now I have to go enjoy this day, OUTSIDE of my house. Have fun cutting your grass with your toenail clippers, Ass Clown. I left the ruler for you to measure my bush at the end of your driveway. If the ruler isn't up to code, I'm sure you can speed dial the cops to check up on me. Leave me a note. I'm kinda busy.
So I would just get over something like that, wouldn't you? Nope. Calling the cops is more second nature to him, like taking a dump with his Sunday paper I guess. And we graciously welcomed the Good Ol' Boys Club into our neighborhood. Is there some sort of code with fellow cops? Can you just call when something bothers you even though you know, being a cop yourself, that there is no violation at hand?
"Yeah, I'd like to complain because my neighbor has this INSANE party going on and one of her guests gave me a DIRTY LOOK. I'm pretty sure she's in violation of code 367, paragraph C. Could you send a squad car over right away?"
So with the history of our loving friendship, we got into it in their driveway. He of course claims he never swore about my bush but he DID call the cops about our lawn. Is your pathetic life REALLY that boring that you have so much free time to monitor and worry about your neighbor's grass? Was that car REALLY violating your own personal space so much that you needed police involvement? REALLY? I think I'm going to send them a big box of Soduku, Monopoly, some free passes to Brunswick Zone, and a gift card to Panera to get them the fuck out of their house and perhaps encourage them to GET A LIFE. Do something else other than stand in your garage with binoculars, contemplating what exactly the neighbors have done to piss you off today.
Now I have to go enjoy this day, OUTSIDE of my house. Have fun cutting your grass with your toenail clippers, Ass Clown. I left the ruler for you to measure my bush at the end of your driveway. If the ruler isn't up to code, I'm sure you can speed dial the cops to check up on me. Leave me a note. I'm kinda busy.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Hers Are SOOO Fake
I love a great designer purse just as much as any red-blooded, fashion-grubbing American. Trouble is, I don't make quite as much as Jessica Simpson to be able to afford a Marc Jacobs to go with my Prada mini dress or a Gucci duffel to take on a quick jaunt to Cannes or even a classic Hermes Birkin to wear with my Burberry tennis ensemble. So what choices am I left with? Shopping at Target for pleather bags that fall apart before I leave the check-out? Clearance sale at Macy's? Rifling through the messy racks at Marshall's or TJ Maxx with hoards of ladies, praying to score a Moschino without pen marks all over it? I don't think so.
The solution to my predicament came to me when I was in New York. Actually, I've solved my problem this way many times before....That's right, I use my fake purse pimp. While I was in NYC she appeared to me with her incognito laminated sheet of wares.
"You want Gucci? Coach? Prada? You like Burberry? Louis Vuitton?"
"Hell yeah, Ping Ling, take me to your Land of Designer Imposters!!" So we followed this petite little Chinese woman, I call her Ping Ling because that made up name suits her, as she darted through crowded China Town, in and out of traffic and alley ways, for about 8 or 9 blocks. My excitement and fear built as we could barely keep up with my purse pimp. She was a quick little mama. We were led through a grimy alley, into a building which had scores of non-Asian clientele coming out, incognito black shopping bags bulging. After scaling at least 12 stories in the dark, my panting grew rapid, partially from excitement but mostly because my fat ass had just eaten lunch. Ugh. Too. Many. Steps.
Another Chinese woman opened her non-descript door and the light came beaming out, like a scene where a choir of angels should be singing. Purse upon (fake designer) purse was hung in their (seriously reduced prices) glory for me to peruse. I settled on a sassy little Coach patchwork hobo-style bag and a yummy brown leather layered Gucci bag with funky wooden handles. I left it to my husband, the haggler extraordinaire, to negotiate a price. I scoffed at women who's husbands were just forking over handfuls of $20's. Amateurs. Like these ladies are going to drag your asses all over China Town and then let you walk away because they want $60 for a bag but all you'll give them is $25? I don't think so. Don't be such an over-excited pussy. It's a nice bag but it IS a fake, don't get hosed you douchebag. Even as we made our descent down the stairs, doors kept popping open upon hearing our footsteps, "You want more purses? More inside? Gucci? Prada? Louis Vuitton?" It was like a giant cuckoo clock with little Chinese birdies popping out to say hello. So bizarre.
If you happen to visit NYC, check out China Town. You will know who these purse pimps are, they make themselves known pretty damn quickly. They won't be selling the good fakes on the street so don't bother. Ocassionally you'll catch a man and wife team, usually Nigerian, with good purses spread on a huge sheet. Umbuku will flash a duffel with Cartier, Rolex, and Movado (fake) watches. These are actually decent watches, haggle it up. Like you'd really pay $50,000 for a watch if you had it? Come OOOOONNNN!!! Beware though, these streetside renegades will scatter faster than roaches in the morning sun when a cop is spotted within 100 yards. We chased Umbuku (again, made up but fitting name) to score a sweet ass watch several blocks till the cops disappeared. Big trouble in the form of counterfeit wares and deportation if these sellers get caught. I don't blame them. Hey, someone's gotta' make a living, right?
And before you get on the Greenpeace train claiming I'm supporting inhumane working conditions and I'm also impacting these poor wealthy designers who are losing sales due to the counterfeit market, I have to say put our picket signs down, Heather Mills. Pardon me, Donatella, but if I actually HAD an extra $30,000 to toss around for whatever suited my fancy, it would not be on a few over-priced handbags. With they way trends are more disposable than tampons these days, how can the normal woman (read:NOT making movie star bucks) keep up? I'll tell you---buy some fake ones, baby!! And if Ping Ling's little sister, Purse-Sew-Sa, is not getting any sleep from working her shift at the REAL Louis Vuitton then heading to the counterfeit factory, tell her to stop. But SOMEONE is making money and benefitting here. They're not being held at gunpoint to sew those bags. Is it helping their family's income? Does is send a few of them to America for a better life? Does it mean that that bitchy waif in line at Macy's will scrutinize my fake and think it's REAL while she runs out and pays $1500 for the real deal? Hell yeah...
The solution to my predicament came to me when I was in New York. Actually, I've solved my problem this way many times before....That's right, I use my fake purse pimp. While I was in NYC she appeared to me with her incognito laminated sheet of wares.
"You want Gucci? Coach? Prada? You like Burberry? Louis Vuitton?"
"Hell yeah, Ping Ling, take me to your Land of Designer Imposters!!" So we followed this petite little Chinese woman, I call her Ping Ling because that made up name suits her, as she darted through crowded China Town, in and out of traffic and alley ways, for about 8 or 9 blocks. My excitement and fear built as we could barely keep up with my purse pimp. She was a quick little mama. We were led through a grimy alley, into a building which had scores of non-Asian clientele coming out, incognito black shopping bags bulging. After scaling at least 12 stories in the dark, my panting grew rapid, partially from excitement but mostly because my fat ass had just eaten lunch. Ugh. Too. Many. Steps.
Another Chinese woman opened her non-descript door and the light came beaming out, like a scene where a choir of angels should be singing. Purse upon (fake designer) purse was hung in their (seriously reduced prices) glory for me to peruse. I settled on a sassy little Coach patchwork hobo-style bag and a yummy brown leather layered Gucci bag with funky wooden handles. I left it to my husband, the haggler extraordinaire, to negotiate a price. I scoffed at women who's husbands were just forking over handfuls of $20's. Amateurs. Like these ladies are going to drag your asses all over China Town and then let you walk away because they want $60 for a bag but all you'll give them is $25? I don't think so. Don't be such an over-excited pussy. It's a nice bag but it IS a fake, don't get hosed you douchebag. Even as we made our descent down the stairs, doors kept popping open upon hearing our footsteps, "You want more purses? More inside? Gucci? Prada? Louis Vuitton?" It was like a giant cuckoo clock with little Chinese birdies popping out to say hello. So bizarre.
If you happen to visit NYC, check out China Town. You will know who these purse pimps are, they make themselves known pretty damn quickly. They won't be selling the good fakes on the street so don't bother. Ocassionally you'll catch a man and wife team, usually Nigerian, with good purses spread on a huge sheet. Umbuku will flash a duffel with Cartier, Rolex, and Movado (fake) watches. These are actually decent watches, haggle it up. Like you'd really pay $50,000 for a watch if you had it? Come OOOOONNNN!!! Beware though, these streetside renegades will scatter faster than roaches in the morning sun when a cop is spotted within 100 yards. We chased Umbuku (again, made up but fitting name) to score a sweet ass watch several blocks till the cops disappeared. Big trouble in the form of counterfeit wares and deportation if these sellers get caught. I don't blame them. Hey, someone's gotta' make a living, right?
And before you get on the Greenpeace train claiming I'm supporting inhumane working conditions and I'm also impacting these poor wealthy designers who are losing sales due to the counterfeit market, I have to say put our picket signs down, Heather Mills. Pardon me, Donatella, but if I actually HAD an extra $30,000 to toss around for whatever suited my fancy, it would not be on a few over-priced handbags. With they way trends are more disposable than tampons these days, how can the normal woman (read:NOT making movie star bucks) keep up? I'll tell you---buy some fake ones, baby!! And if Ping Ling's little sister, Purse-Sew-Sa, is not getting any sleep from working her shift at the REAL Louis Vuitton then heading to the counterfeit factory, tell her to stop. But SOMEONE is making money and benefitting here. They're not being held at gunpoint to sew those bags. Is it helping their family's income? Does is send a few of them to America for a better life? Does it mean that that bitchy waif in line at Macy's will scrutinize my fake and think it's REAL while she runs out and pays $1500 for the real deal? Hell yeah...
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Friday, October 12, 2007
I Smell a Rat
Sultan and I visited New York City last week. I don't know what was more enjoyable--staying in a hotel and sleeping as late as I damn well pleased or being away from my kids for three full days. Love my kids, love them even more when I've been gone awhile. The city proved to be full of characters, from the completely crazy to the smelly drunk variety to the bitchy waify sort.
We observed a most interesting bunch in front of our hotel, the Four Points Sheraton in Chelsea. Upon check in we were given a letter apologizing for the group of people gathering in front of the hotel. Huh? Could you be more vague? What people? This group did not make themselves known to us till the next day. That's right...protestors. There was a group of about 8-15 people of all ethnicities, holding union signs, chanting with an amplified megaphone, and passing out "I'm Pissed Off At Four Points " flyers. In itself, not so bizarre. The totally freaky part came in the form of a giant, inflatable rat. That's right, a 15-foot-tall rodent with big, black, buck teeth and beady red eyes. Not exactly something you find at the company that rents your five year-old's bouncy house for the backyard birthday.
"Welcome to Ricky's House of Inflatable Protest Animals!!! We rent giant rats, Rottweilers, bats, rattlesnakes, and middle fingers in all skin tones. We give your protest that true SCREW YOU statement you just won't get with yelling and chanting! Rent one inflatable and get a strobe light 'UP YOURS' sign for free!"
The even crazier part was that the concierge told us most of the protestors don't even work for the hotel. What?! So why are they protesting? Oh, because they are protestors for hire. You can rent them out for birthdays, bar mitzvahs, and union protests. No shit. So on your lunch hour away from making copies for your boss, you can earn a cool hundo by holding a sign and chanting "I don't know but I've been told...{insert shitty union-violating company name}'s pay rate smells like mold!!" And if you possess a creative bone to come up with clever chant and happen to have some pipes that can belt out protests for a few hours, more dinero your way, baby. There's a job for everyone out there.
This experience has proved to me one thing. Don't tell me you can't find a job. There's plenty, don't be so God damn picky. If McDonald's fry cook isn't your style, operate the Inflato-Tron to blow up that protest rodent. And on your lunch hour you can tell that company that they're violating your human rights by not adhering to union laws...okay, well SOMEBODY'S rights.
We observed a most interesting bunch in front of our hotel, the Four Points Sheraton in Chelsea. Upon check in we were given a letter apologizing for the group of people gathering in front of the hotel. Huh? Could you be more vague? What people? This group did not make themselves known to us till the next day. That's right...protestors. There was a group of about 8-15 people of all ethnicities, holding union signs, chanting with an amplified megaphone, and passing out "I'm Pissed Off At Four Points " flyers. In itself, not so bizarre. The totally freaky part came in the form of a giant, inflatable rat. That's right, a 15-foot-tall rodent with big, black, buck teeth and beady red eyes. Not exactly something you find at the company that rents your five year-old's bouncy house for the backyard birthday.
"Welcome to Ricky's House of Inflatable Protest Animals!!! We rent giant rats, Rottweilers, bats, rattlesnakes, and middle fingers in all skin tones. We give your protest that true SCREW YOU statement you just won't get with yelling and chanting! Rent one inflatable and get a strobe light 'UP YOURS' sign for free!"
The even crazier part was that the concierge told us most of the protestors don't even work for the hotel. What?! So why are they protesting? Oh, because they are protestors for hire. You can rent them out for birthdays, bar mitzvahs, and union protests. No shit. So on your lunch hour away from making copies for your boss, you can earn a cool hundo by holding a sign and chanting "I don't know but I've been told...{insert shitty union-violating company name}'s pay rate smells like mold!!" And if you possess a creative bone to come up with clever chant and happen to have some pipes that can belt out protests for a few hours, more dinero your way, baby. There's a job for everyone out there.
This experience has proved to me one thing. Don't tell me you can't find a job. There's plenty, don't be so God damn picky. If McDonald's fry cook isn't your style, operate the Inflato-Tron to blow up that protest rodent. And on your lunch hour you can tell that company that they're violating your human rights by not adhering to union laws...okay, well SOMEBODY'S rights.
Sunday, October 7, 2007
Mother Goose Is a Big Perv
Did any of you own The Real Mother Goose book of nursery rhymes when you were little? I not only recall owning my own well-read copy but my kids got one as a gift as babies. The black and white checkered cover and witchy-looking Mother Goose seem innocent enough...until you start reading her clever verses...
LITTLE POLLY FLINDERS
Little Polly Flinders
Sat among the cinders
Warming her pretty little toes
Her mother came and caught her,
Whipped her little daughter
For spoiling her nice new clothes.
Translation: That dumb kid was playing in the dirt with her new Limited Too outfit when Mama came by and said, "Whuuuuuuzzz uuup?! You dumb-ass brat? I done paid fitty dollars fo' dat and you gets it all dirty. I's goin' to whip yo' ass into next week!"
WEE WILLIE WINKIE
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown;
Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,
"Are the children in their beds?
Now it's eight o'clock."
Translation: Wee Willie Winkie had a really, embarrassingly tiny wee wee. He likes to wear Victoria's Secret Pink Collection nighties. He does a drag show every night down the streets, hoping to wake little boys and girls to see him in his feathered finery.
Georgy Porgy
Georgy Porgy, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
When the boys came out to play,
Georgy Porgy ran away.
Translation: This kid's got some ISSUES. The girls cried because he had dick on his breath. Probably Wee Willie Winkie's. But alas, when the boys wanted to play, he cried like a little bitch because he's more closeted than a set of IKEA shelves.
HANDY PANDY
Handy Pandy, Jack-a-dandy
Loves plum cake and sugar candy.
He bought some at a grocer's shop,
And out he came, hop, hop, hop!
Translation: Dandy Jack just came from his dealer who gives him 12 tabs of Ecstasy that he calls "candy" so he can hop, hop, hop and ya' don't stop, stop, stop!
ONE MISTY MOISTY MORNING
One misty moisty morning,
When cloudy was the wather,
I chanced to meet an old man,
Clothed all in leather
He began to compliment
And I began to grin.
How do you do? And how do you do?
And how do you do again?
Translation: This creepy leather daddy made her all hot and bothered. Was the air moist or were her panties? They wasted time with formal chit chat before hitting the truckstop bathroom so he could rumple her petticoats.
LITTLE PUSSY
I like little Pussy,
Her Coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her
She'll do me no harm;
So I'll not pull her tail
Nor drive her away,
But Pussy and I
Very gently will play.
Translation: I have chronic masturbating issues. I touch myself 24/7 in a gentle way that says "Oh, me so HOOOOOOOOORRRRNY!"
BOY AND GIRL
There was a little boy and a little girl
Lived in an alley;
Says the little boy to the little girl,
"Shall I, oh shall I?"
Says the little girl to the little boy,
"What shall we do?"
Says the little boy to the little girl,
" I will kiss you."
Translation: These two horny crack heads don't have anything else to do so they're going to make a booty call happen right in the alley. Ah, young love....
LITTLE POLLY FLINDERS
Little Polly Flinders
Sat among the cinders
Warming her pretty little toes
Her mother came and caught her,
Whipped her little daughter
For spoiling her nice new clothes.
Translation: That dumb kid was playing in the dirt with her new Limited Too outfit when Mama came by and said, "Whuuuuuuzzz uuup?! You dumb-ass brat? I done paid fitty dollars fo' dat and you gets it all dirty. I's goin' to whip yo' ass into next week!"
WEE WILLIE WINKIE
Wee Willie Winkie runs through the town,
Upstairs and downstairs in his nightgown;
Rapping at the window, crying through the lock,
"Are the children in their beds?
Now it's eight o'clock."
Translation: Wee Willie Winkie had a really, embarrassingly tiny wee wee. He likes to wear Victoria's Secret Pink Collection nighties. He does a drag show every night down the streets, hoping to wake little boys and girls to see him in his feathered finery.
Georgy Porgy
Georgy Porgy, pudding and pie,
Kissed the girls and made them cry.
When the boys came out to play,
Georgy Porgy ran away.
Translation: This kid's got some ISSUES. The girls cried because he had dick on his breath. Probably Wee Willie Winkie's. But alas, when the boys wanted to play, he cried like a little bitch because he's more closeted than a set of IKEA shelves.
HANDY PANDY
Handy Pandy, Jack-a-dandy
Loves plum cake and sugar candy.
He bought some at a grocer's shop,
And out he came, hop, hop, hop!
Translation: Dandy Jack just came from his dealer who gives him 12 tabs of Ecstasy that he calls "candy" so he can hop, hop, hop and ya' don't stop, stop, stop!
ONE MISTY MOISTY MORNING
One misty moisty morning,
When cloudy was the wather,
I chanced to meet an old man,
Clothed all in leather
He began to compliment
And I began to grin.
How do you do? And how do you do?
And how do you do again?
Translation: This creepy leather daddy made her all hot and bothered. Was the air moist or were her panties? They wasted time with formal chit chat before hitting the truckstop bathroom so he could rumple her petticoats.
LITTLE PUSSY
I like little Pussy,
Her Coat is so warm,
And if I don't hurt her
She'll do me no harm;
So I'll not pull her tail
Nor drive her away,
But Pussy and I
Very gently will play.
Translation: I have chronic masturbating issues. I touch myself 24/7 in a gentle way that says "Oh, me so HOOOOOOOOORRRRNY!"
BOY AND GIRL
There was a little boy and a little girl
Lived in an alley;
Says the little boy to the little girl,
"Shall I, oh shall I?"
Says the little girl to the little boy,
"What shall we do?"
Says the little boy to the little girl,
" I will kiss you."
Translation: These two horny crack heads don't have anything else to do so they're going to make a booty call happen right in the alley. Ah, young love....
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
That Time of Year Again
I do not play Fantasy Football. I don't even particularly understand the sport, truth be told. I know, how un-American of me. Eat me. I get enough input as to which player is injured, whether or not it is "season-ending", and the gory details in which it happened. I've seen instant replay on some nasty stuff. If I don't watch it I have to listen to my husband exclaim, "Oh my God!! That is SOOO bad! I'll bet that hurts! That sucks! He's my guy! Check this one out!" or any combo of those phrases. I hear about "his team" and how he's going to lose by one point. If he actually DOES lose by one point, I listen to a blow-by-blow description of the play that brought him to this lowly state. If I knew how to play the violin, I might even play a slow Beethoven tune sadly until the period of mourning has passed. Maybe I can hire someone for that..
In all seriousness, my husband is on 4 different Fantasy Leagues. It sounds like something that would come with free passes to Scores or at least free Hooters wings. No, none of that. I get free whining sessions about how the Bears "fucked him hard" with all their horrible plays and interceptions. And by "whine" I WISH it as a sweet bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Is my husband rich enough to own his own team, er, I mean four teams? No. Is he on the sidelines consulting with the coaches to assure the plays bring a winning result? No. I can assure you one thing, if we DID have enough money to own our own team I would certainly have my own personal shopper at Neiman Marcus and she would definitely NEVER go to Target to select my jeans. True Religion and Sevens, baby, all the way!! Now that's a fashion touchdown.
Fantasy Football has become a cult with American males. It gives our husbands a bigger reason to obsess over football (us lucky bitches). It gives them a reason to throw in a "friendly wager". What, is it a mere $20 that you contribute per league? If any of your husbands win and happen to pick up a pricey little ANYTHING that's not for you, let me know. I am thinking there might be a slight under-estimation of the monetery contributions at hand, Just a hunch. I've never actually witnessed the money changing hands but then again, as a non-Fantasy member, I am not entitled to the sacred Draft Ceremony. I think they are secretly wearing velvet robes and spanking each other with wooden paddles but I'm not sure. Picking your players is a weekly occassion.They have to be approved by The Commissioner, a highly esteemed position. It's like the Pope of the league, except he can gamble and drink loads of beer on Sundays and Mondays and often opt out of ever going to church.
So women need to come up with something equally inane we can bet on and curse about, well except for the regularity of which our husbands take out the trash or make the bed. Since I'm such a reality TV whore perhaps we could make bets on those shows. Good God, we'd have enough to choose from...Kimora Lee Simmons (don't know the name of the show but she is a diva-licious mess), Survivor (they're in China now and there are enough freaks with grating personalities than you can shake a stick at!), the Amazing Race (my personal fave), Real World (yes, sadly this show is still running. I admit this is the first season I have not followed. I believe they're in Australia. It always makes me wonder if I was that much of an asshole when I was 21..), Hogan Knows Best (what a bizarre-ass family this is. Highly entertaining), The Girls Next Door (I fully expect old Hef to kick off pretty soon. I don't see what these vivacious, bimbo-tastic beauties see in him besides free room and board and a big wallet. I really doubt he's getting it up for one of them, let alone all three. I imagine his cock has spiderwebs and resembles a shriveled bratwurst someone left under a couch cushion), and Dr. 90210 (having gone under the knife myself I hold special interest. The procedures are intriguing--this chumba-wumba 49 year-old VIRGIN was getting a procedure to bring out his HIDDEN PENIS. It could never become erect, being hidden beneath his balls and an enormous roll of fat so he had never had sex. After the procedure was deemed "a success" he was ready to consummate his marriage. I felt so sorry for this woman, having to act all psyched she was about to see her husband's ginormous 2 1/2 inch dick after all these years. I'd be like, "Sorry, babe. You got the operation but mama still wants to feel like she's actually having sex. I'm leaving you and your cocktail wiener for our gardener, Juan. His garden hose is at least something I can WORK with!")
So for our Fantasy Reality League, I would be the Commisioner. You could draw for first round picks. My first pick would be Holly from the Girls Next Door. She is as sweet and cute as her tits are perky. I suppose we could make bets on who would have the most outrageous behavior each week, who won the most competitions (Survivor and Amazing Race), who wore the sluttiest clothes (Girls Next Door, Real World, The Hills, Hogan Knows Best), who got the drunkest (Real World, Girls Next Door), bonus points for puking (Survivor and Real World), and whose clothes came off due to wrestling, competitions, sex, or sheer drunkenness. At the end of the season we could have a Superbowl of Reality-dom and everyone would come dressed as their favorite person. We could play Pin The Tribal Torch on Jeff Probst and then karaoke rap-style like Kendra on Girls Next Door. I'd even offer metal Grills for yo' teef to be all gangsta' up in dis hizzle. Then we could be just like the boys, well minus the penis and "my-arms-are-just-like-a-Tyrannasaurus-Rex-so-I-can't-quite-reach-the-recycling-bin-to-toss-my-five-cases-of-Bud-Light-into-them-but-I-still-love-you-dear." Ah, it's good to be Queen.
In all seriousness, my husband is on 4 different Fantasy Leagues. It sounds like something that would come with free passes to Scores or at least free Hooters wings. No, none of that. I get free whining sessions about how the Bears "fucked him hard" with all their horrible plays and interceptions. And by "whine" I WISH it as a sweet bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. Is my husband rich enough to own his own team, er, I mean four teams? No. Is he on the sidelines consulting with the coaches to assure the plays bring a winning result? No. I can assure you one thing, if we DID have enough money to own our own team I would certainly have my own personal shopper at Neiman Marcus and she would definitely NEVER go to Target to select my jeans. True Religion and Sevens, baby, all the way!! Now that's a fashion touchdown.
Fantasy Football has become a cult with American males. It gives our husbands a bigger reason to obsess over football (us lucky bitches). It gives them a reason to throw in a "friendly wager". What, is it a mere $20 that you contribute per league? If any of your husbands win and happen to pick up a pricey little ANYTHING that's not for you, let me know. I am thinking there might be a slight under-estimation of the monetery contributions at hand, Just a hunch. I've never actually witnessed the money changing hands but then again, as a non-Fantasy member, I am not entitled to the sacred Draft Ceremony. I think they are secretly wearing velvet robes and spanking each other with wooden paddles but I'm not sure. Picking your players is a weekly occassion.They have to be approved by The Commissioner, a highly esteemed position. It's like the Pope of the league, except he can gamble and drink loads of beer on Sundays and Mondays and often opt out of ever going to church.
So women need to come up with something equally inane we can bet on and curse about, well except for the regularity of which our husbands take out the trash or make the bed. Since I'm such a reality TV whore perhaps we could make bets on those shows. Good God, we'd have enough to choose from...Kimora Lee Simmons (don't know the name of the show but she is a diva-licious mess), Survivor (they're in China now and there are enough freaks with grating personalities than you can shake a stick at!), the Amazing Race (my personal fave), Real World (yes, sadly this show is still running. I admit this is the first season I have not followed. I believe they're in Australia. It always makes me wonder if I was that much of an asshole when I was 21..), Hogan Knows Best (what a bizarre-ass family this is. Highly entertaining), The Girls Next Door (I fully expect old Hef to kick off pretty soon. I don't see what these vivacious, bimbo-tastic beauties see in him besides free room and board and a big wallet. I really doubt he's getting it up for one of them, let alone all three. I imagine his cock has spiderwebs and resembles a shriveled bratwurst someone left under a couch cushion), and Dr. 90210 (having gone under the knife myself I hold special interest. The procedures are intriguing--this chumba-wumba 49 year-old VIRGIN was getting a procedure to bring out his HIDDEN PENIS. It could never become erect, being hidden beneath his balls and an enormous roll of fat so he had never had sex. After the procedure was deemed "a success" he was ready to consummate his marriage. I felt so sorry for this woman, having to act all psyched she was about to see her husband's ginormous 2 1/2 inch dick after all these years. I'd be like, "Sorry, babe. You got the operation but mama still wants to feel like she's actually having sex. I'm leaving you and your cocktail wiener for our gardener, Juan. His garden hose is at least something I can WORK with!")
So for our Fantasy Reality League, I would be the Commisioner. You could draw for first round picks. My first pick would be Holly from the Girls Next Door. She is as sweet and cute as her tits are perky. I suppose we could make bets on who would have the most outrageous behavior each week, who won the most competitions (Survivor and Amazing Race), who wore the sluttiest clothes (Girls Next Door, Real World, The Hills, Hogan Knows Best), who got the drunkest (Real World, Girls Next Door), bonus points for puking (Survivor and Real World), and whose clothes came off due to wrestling, competitions, sex, or sheer drunkenness. At the end of the season we could have a Superbowl of Reality-dom and everyone would come dressed as their favorite person. We could play Pin The Tribal Torch on Jeff Probst and then karaoke rap-style like Kendra on Girls Next Door. I'd even offer metal Grills for yo' teef to be all gangsta' up in dis hizzle. Then we could be just like the boys, well minus the penis and "my-arms-are-just-like-a-Tyrannasaurus-Rex-so-I-can't-quite-reach-the-recycling-bin-to-toss-my-five-cases-of-Bud-Light-into-them-but-I-still-love-you-dear." Ah, it's good to be Queen.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)