Wow, it has been awhile since I posted. I was distracted by planning for my trip plus I was gone. There were so many details I can elaborate on...and bitch about. Let's begin with our very first flight from Chicago. Exposing yourself to the "riff-raff", as Sultan calls the people who sit in regular economy class on a plane, will give you endless blog fodder. Here goes..
When you travel with a family of four sometimes it's tough, especially during spring break, to secure four seats all together. With some creative juggling and willing people who wouldn't ever want to separate Mommy from her kids, it should all work out. Unless you run into Miss Twat Wad McPain-In-the-Ass. Wow, she was a piece of work. As the plane filled, we realized our seats were not actually all together. A young, moderately bitchy woman fretted because I was sitting in her seat, which she assumed had a power source for her computer. Sultan, being the uber traveler he is, quickly informed her, "No (you dumb ass freak), there are no power sources in this section of the plane. You would have needed to upgrade to business or first class to get that (sweet tits/cheap ass)." Then along comes THE BITCH. She informs the woman next to me, sitting on the aisle, that she is in her seat and needs to get up and move it. Yup, just like that. Sooooo subtle, huh? Cunt. We try to figure out where to put us all as this ass clown throws a hissy fit. "You need to get up and move NOW. I paid extra for this seat." The sweet lady asks her if she's supposed to sit on the little girl (Isabella) whose seat she's supposed to be in. She informs her she really doesn't care, just move it. Seriously, in the most fucking nasal tone bitch face voice you can imagine. So this total cunt rag ends up taking her fucking glorious aisle seat and the nice woman is evicted......to another aisle seat. All that bullshit for THAT?? Really?! Then she proceeds to get on the phone and call two friends to relay her horrific story. She kept her God damn IPhone on for half the flight and kept getting busted by the flight attendant. "It IS off!!!" she would utter in a freakish voice every time she got caught. What a fat whore. I wanted to dump my scalding hot Starbucks' complimentary coffee into her crotch, which probably hasn't seen a dick in 18 years. This chick's best friend, aside from her IPhone and compuer, is her double ended dildo named Rambone-A-Tronic Love Shaft. I hope her 12 vibrators went off as her luggage passed through security and she got strip searched. It would be more action this pig twat has seen in years.
Other than that, the flight was fine......
P.S. We did have to race to our connecting flight which was delayed so we could catch it. It was like a scene from one of my fave shows, The Amazing Race. We raced to our gate but there was no Charla and Myrna or Phil waiting there to greet us. (This will only make sense if you've seen the damn show religiously like I have.) I was just glad to get away from the Passenger from HELL.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Saturday, March 15, 2008
What I Know
I went to a hip hop dance performance downtown tonight. It was a pretty big deal, tickets sold through Ticketmaster, a real Chicago theater. A few of my fellow teachers performed and it was kick-ass. I learned a few things through observation...
*Just because you get there an hour and a half early, there will always be a ghetto ass group of jack-offs who weasel their way to the front of the line.
*If you bring your newborn baby, suddenly you can cut people in line AND score a ticket to a sold-out show.
*The IPhone is the shit to play with while you're waiting in line. It was like a damn commercial for that freakin' gadget with 25 people around me texting, calling, emailing, fucking around.
*Just because thy flash the lights in the lobby, you may very well be sitting on your ass for another 25 minutes before show time. Looks like I picked the wrong time to forget my king-sized box of Jujubes. Damn.
*A crowd of 800 people in a small small can place an inordinate amount of pressure up against your back and thighs when asked to wait long enough.
*A crowd of 800 people can make a wintry Chicago day feel like a steamy Amazon jungle when you are compressed like God damn sardines.
*800 people get really pissed and start acting like a mob scene when they stand still for too long. Yelling and chanting always puts a crowd tht large at ease. Hello,fire code violation!!!
*When the doors open for anything "general admission" you better be well-versed in handling crowds reminiscent of Walmart on Black Thursday because although you're not racing for one of 50 $100 DVD players, those seats are a hot commodity. You will get trampled and you might lose your wig if you hesitate for a second.
*Babies like hip hop. Remind me to krump like mad when I see a crying baby. The litter that sat in the audience kept quiet. Actually I think a few of the teenage moms might have snuck those shorties a sip of their Mad Dog 20/20 in line...
*Just because you are fat and have man boobs does not mean you can't break it down like Michael Jackson. There was one brotha' who was sweating like a pig but he knew what to do with that big booty!
*Skinny white girls can have mad skills on the dance floor.
*Just when you think you have seen the absolute hugest pair of hip-hop inspired pants, hold up! There's some even bigger ones! I think they wet to a hot air ballon supply store and just sewed a crotch into a couple without that big basket.
*People who videotape via their digital camera (even though you aren't supposed to) and yell, "Whoo hooo!!" should be castrated. Sir Genius Fucknuts crouched next to us, not realizing that when he plays this shit back all you will hear is his obnoxious yelling instead of the music his crotch-grabbing daughter is dancing to, camera-recorded 6 inches away from my ear. What would he have done had I chucked his $30 digital camera into the orchestra pit?
Going to the theater, whether it's for a movie, a concert, or a dance performance will expose you to people you wouldn't ordinarily hang out with. Even on a CTA bus during a train strike. But you have to play nice, wait patiently, bite your tongue when you want to ask who gave them the giant set of balls to think to bring their newborn baby, and sit your ass down. Relish the fact that SOMEONE will kick their ignorant ass someday, it just doesn't have to be you tonight. Care for a Junior Mint? Sshh! The show is about to finally start...
*Just because you get there an hour and a half early, there will always be a ghetto ass group of jack-offs who weasel their way to the front of the line.
*If you bring your newborn baby, suddenly you can cut people in line AND score a ticket to a sold-out show.
*The IPhone is the shit to play with while you're waiting in line. It was like a damn commercial for that freakin' gadget with 25 people around me texting, calling, emailing, fucking around.
*Just because thy flash the lights in the lobby, you may very well be sitting on your ass for another 25 minutes before show time. Looks like I picked the wrong time to forget my king-sized box of Jujubes. Damn.
*A crowd of 800 people in a small small can place an inordinate amount of pressure up against your back and thighs when asked to wait long enough.
*A crowd of 800 people can make a wintry Chicago day feel like a steamy Amazon jungle when you are compressed like God damn sardines.
*800 people get really pissed and start acting like a mob scene when they stand still for too long. Yelling and chanting always puts a crowd tht large at ease. Hello,fire code violation!!!
*When the doors open for anything "general admission" you better be well-versed in handling crowds reminiscent of Walmart on Black Thursday because although you're not racing for one of 50 $100 DVD players, those seats are a hot commodity. You will get trampled and you might lose your wig if you hesitate for a second.
*Babies like hip hop. Remind me to krump like mad when I see a crying baby. The litter that sat in the audience kept quiet. Actually I think a few of the teenage moms might have snuck those shorties a sip of their Mad Dog 20/20 in line...
*Just because you are fat and have man boobs does not mean you can't break it down like Michael Jackson. There was one brotha' who was sweating like a pig but he knew what to do with that big booty!
*Skinny white girls can have mad skills on the dance floor.
*Just when you think you have seen the absolute hugest pair of hip-hop inspired pants, hold up! There's some even bigger ones! I think they wet to a hot air ballon supply store and just sewed a crotch into a couple without that big basket.
*People who videotape via their digital camera (even though you aren't supposed to) and yell, "Whoo hooo!!" should be castrated. Sir Genius Fucknuts crouched next to us, not realizing that when he plays this shit back all you will hear is his obnoxious yelling instead of the music his crotch-grabbing daughter is dancing to, camera-recorded 6 inches away from my ear. What would he have done had I chucked his $30 digital camera into the orchestra pit?
Going to the theater, whether it's for a movie, a concert, or a dance performance will expose you to people you wouldn't ordinarily hang out with. Even on a CTA bus during a train strike. But you have to play nice, wait patiently, bite your tongue when you want to ask who gave them the giant set of balls to think to bring their newborn baby, and sit your ass down. Relish the fact that SOMEONE will kick their ignorant ass someday, it just doesn't have to be you tonight. Care for a Junior Mint? Sshh! The show is about to finally start...
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Honey, It's Time
As I was pounding out punches and doing my roundhouse kicks in Kickbox Jam yesterday morning, I quickly realized one thing. It is high time I purchased new underwear. It is one thing to have a classic wedgie, underwear slowly riding up your crack to create a lovely ass-view for specatators behind you. It is entirely a different experience to have a LEDGIE. This is a sideways wedgie not just up your ass but up your labes, too. Painful, yes. Impossible to yank out in public, of course. Mine was full-throttle LEDGIE, cutting the circultation to my goodie box big time. Only women are privy to this little treat. And if you are wearing a thong that's too loose, it can happen so bad that you feel like your genitals are bring mutilated by the entire Ginsu knife collection on HSN. Ouch.
We all have stray pairs of undies we hang on to to for "I don't give a shit because nothing else is clean so I'm wearing these" days. I have an array of these with jacked-up elastic, holes, frayed crotches. They are not pretty, in fact they are so ghetto you wonder what they even used to look like in their glory days. Who in the hell is going to see them anyways? After being married 11 1/2 years my husband only tends to notice if I'm NOT wearing anything. The whole "bom chicka wah wah" Pussycat Girls dance routine just takes too much time, coordination, and energy. At this stage in our marriage it's like, get to the damn point and lay down already. TMTH, I know....
I also have at least one laundry basket overflowing with single socks whose other half of the pair have long since disappeared. Where in the hell do these other socks go? It is mind-boggling. The socks are taken off together, chucked into the laundry basket together, but somewhere along the way they lose their mate. Washing, pairing up, folding, and putting away socks is the chore I detest most. I would rather do a Tabasco enema that deal with God damn socks in my laundry. These lone socks haunt me like Patrick Swayze's annoying-ass spirit in Ghost. I try to throw them out but then I think, "Wait, I KNOW I saw that other purple sock two days ago!" Fucking lone footwear.
My bedroom has a plethora of discarded clothing I think dreamily "someday I'll find the mate/fit my ass into those jeans/need to have a spare pair of undies". I guess I tend to hoard shit. There, I said it. I have an extremely difficult time throwing anything out. I have piles and boxes and loop-handled bags exploding with school projects, spelling tests, three dimensional art projects that are falling apart. I am sentimental and impractical. It's not a scary amount of crap, like some hillbilly who has every newspaper from 1972 till now. I just sometimes think I will feel sad (wah-wah---insert Debbie Downer music here) if I toss something then wonder, "Now where is that adorable penguin picture Isabella drew in her first pre-school class?" I know, not gonna happen. But I shudder to take the chance.
Okay, I'm turning a new leaf ladies and gents. Screw it. I'm heading upstairs with a big, black Hefty bag and a mission. I WILL throw that shit out, starting with those God damn socks. If I can't tell which kid made the decoupage Valentine's Day heart, I'll chuck it. I will purge better than a supermodel after Easter brunch. I will make you proud. But I might need to keep one pair, just one, of my scraggly undies just in case...
We all have stray pairs of undies we hang on to to for "I don't give a shit because nothing else is clean so I'm wearing these" days. I have an array of these with jacked-up elastic, holes, frayed crotches. They are not pretty, in fact they are so ghetto you wonder what they even used to look like in their glory days. Who in the hell is going to see them anyways? After being married 11 1/2 years my husband only tends to notice if I'm NOT wearing anything. The whole "bom chicka wah wah" Pussycat Girls dance routine just takes too much time, coordination, and energy. At this stage in our marriage it's like, get to the damn point and lay down already. TMTH, I know....
I also have at least one laundry basket overflowing with single socks whose other half of the pair have long since disappeared. Where in the hell do these other socks go? It is mind-boggling. The socks are taken off together, chucked into the laundry basket together, but somewhere along the way they lose their mate. Washing, pairing up, folding, and putting away socks is the chore I detest most. I would rather do a Tabasco enema that deal with God damn socks in my laundry. These lone socks haunt me like Patrick Swayze's annoying-ass spirit in Ghost. I try to throw them out but then I think, "Wait, I KNOW I saw that other purple sock two days ago!" Fucking lone footwear.
My bedroom has a plethora of discarded clothing I think dreamily "someday I'll find the mate/fit my ass into those jeans/need to have a spare pair of undies". I guess I tend to hoard shit. There, I said it. I have an extremely difficult time throwing anything out. I have piles and boxes and loop-handled bags exploding with school projects, spelling tests, three dimensional art projects that are falling apart. I am sentimental and impractical. It's not a scary amount of crap, like some hillbilly who has every newspaper from 1972 till now. I just sometimes think I will feel sad (wah-wah---insert Debbie Downer music here) if I toss something then wonder, "Now where is that adorable penguin picture Isabella drew in her first pre-school class?" I know, not gonna happen. But I shudder to take the chance.
Okay, I'm turning a new leaf ladies and gents. Screw it. I'm heading upstairs with a big, black Hefty bag and a mission. I WILL throw that shit out, starting with those God damn socks. If I can't tell which kid made the decoupage Valentine's Day heart, I'll chuck it. I will purge better than a supermodel after Easter brunch. I will make you proud. But I might need to keep one pair, just one, of my scraggly undies just in case...
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
He's At It Again
I flipped through the stations on my radio tonight on my way home from teaching class. I unfortunately came across some "Intelligence For Your Life" with John Tesh. Is this wack-ass sissy boy ALWAYS on the radio?! Christ.. So he was offering morsels of advice to listeners about how to be responsible about spending. Thanks, John, I'll start from refraining purchasing any of your CD's....EVER. He advised people who tended to spend excessively to hold off on showing off when it comes to paying the bar tab or restaurant bill. He said it was better to spend on donating to a worthy cause. His exact words were, and I quote, "Sorry, guys! I can't pick up the tab tonight because I just gave money to stop genocide in Darfur." At which point his buddies will pummel his nut sack because Philanthropy Phil just drank a bottle of Cristal, 14 shots of Patron tequila, and two double orders of 150 year-old aged Scotch. Nice of you to be so generous BEFORE your Kiefer Sutherland drinking jag at the bar. Asshole lush.
Have you ever been out with someone who NEVER picks up the tab? Call it tyrannosaurus rex arms or being a tightwad fuckface, any way you cut it, you try to avoid having dinner anywhere other than White Castle with this douche wad. This person has to take a 25 minute shit right when the check comes. Or even accept a collect call from their dying third cousin in the Bahamas. It is equally annoying as shit when you are out with someone who is aware they are broke as a joke so they ask if they can split the side salad with you. Shouldn't you have made me aware you would be trying to pay with food stamps BEFORE we hit Charlie Trotter's restaurant, where our meal will conservatively cost $500? Please don't sit next to me, I'll catch up with you at the hostess stand on the way out. I hear you can eat all the mints you want that are in the jar by the toothpicks. Go to town, you broke-ass mother fucker.
I am not saying you can't treat your friends once in awhile. Lord knows there was a time when eating luxuriously (read: something other than an order of Biggie Fries from Wendy's for lunch..) never occurred to me. I enjoy a good meal, maybe not as pretentious as you would think. If the maitre'd looks you up and down and wonders if your Gucci purse is real (it's not), if your shoes are Yves St. Laurent (real but old as hell), your hair is naturally highlighted (get fucking real), and if your boobs are real (fake as my highlights), I have no time for that bullshit. Give me a decent menu, moderately priced wine and drink list, no place settings with more utensils than a surgeon getting ready to give Star Jones a tummy tuck, and a nice person to talk to and I'm a happy bitch. I've had amazing food at hole in the wall quirky places and crap on a plate at some over-priced eateries. Don't judge a book by its cover. Unless the book has John Tesh on the cover and he's there signing copies. Tell him you donated your extra money to support the sweat shops in Bangkok that produce your fake purse addiction. Hey, at least you're not spending it on REAL bags. At least THAT'S financially responsible. And that's MY Intelligence for Your life..
Have you ever been out with someone who NEVER picks up the tab? Call it tyrannosaurus rex arms or being a tightwad fuckface, any way you cut it, you try to avoid having dinner anywhere other than White Castle with this douche wad. This person has to take a 25 minute shit right when the check comes. Or even accept a collect call from their dying third cousin in the Bahamas. It is equally annoying as shit when you are out with someone who is aware they are broke as a joke so they ask if they can split the side salad with you. Shouldn't you have made me aware you would be trying to pay with food stamps BEFORE we hit Charlie Trotter's restaurant, where our meal will conservatively cost $500? Please don't sit next to me, I'll catch up with you at the hostess stand on the way out. I hear you can eat all the mints you want that are in the jar by the toothpicks. Go to town, you broke-ass mother fucker.
I am not saying you can't treat your friends once in awhile. Lord knows there was a time when eating luxuriously (read: something other than an order of Biggie Fries from Wendy's for lunch..) never occurred to me. I enjoy a good meal, maybe not as pretentious as you would think. If the maitre'd looks you up and down and wonders if your Gucci purse is real (it's not), if your shoes are Yves St. Laurent (real but old as hell), your hair is naturally highlighted (get fucking real), and if your boobs are real (fake as my highlights), I have no time for that bullshit. Give me a decent menu, moderately priced wine and drink list, no place settings with more utensils than a surgeon getting ready to give Star Jones a tummy tuck, and a nice person to talk to and I'm a happy bitch. I've had amazing food at hole in the wall quirky places and crap on a plate at some over-priced eateries. Don't judge a book by its cover. Unless the book has John Tesh on the cover and he's there signing copies. Tell him you donated your extra money to support the sweat shops in Bangkok that produce your fake purse addiction. Hey, at least you're not spending it on REAL bags. At least THAT'S financially responsible. And that's MY Intelligence for Your life..
Sunday, March 2, 2008
P.F. I Love You........NOT!
This one might be a tad crude. If you are easily offended or a first time reader, check out some of my older stuff. For my hardcore regulars, this is for you....
P.F. is not a typo, really meant to stand for P.S. . It stands for Pussy Fat and I hate it with a vengeance. This is the little mound of chub that is beneath my pubes that has the shape and texture of a loaf of Pillsbury French Bread loaf BEFORE being baked. I tried on swimsuits yesterday at Everything But Water and was grotesquely exposed to my naked self in the tiniest dressing room I have ever been in. Even with the nautical theme, complete with ladders and port-hole windows, I felt like I was trapped and about to be strapped to a lie detector, forced to tell the sales girl my real size.
The first woman who approached me acted like I was a freak of nature when I told her I was seeking DD bikini tops since I read wonderful reviews online about their assortment for larger chested women. I glanced at her pancake titties and realized why she maybe hated me. She beckoned her underling sales girl to schlep up and down on ladders to fetch me jumbo tops. Miss Itty Bitty Titties clearly felt the only options for me lied in the Golden Girls' Collection of Ugliness.
"Mmm, how do you feel about black? Zebra print in avocado and rust? Navy high-waisted tankini? A turtleneck bikini? This one comes with a matching flowing mumu and floppy hat!"
Couldn't I have something cute in hot pink or some sort of funky floral? Youthful, people, I am not wearing adult diapers yet. I just have (surgically enhanced) giant fun bags. Give me a break.
"How about that one up there? I inquired.
"It only goes up to a C-CUP!" snapped Itty Bitty Titties out of nowhere. Wow, she really hated me. Snatch wad hoe....
I shuffled to the jail cell fitting room to rifle through my mini mountain of bikinis. Now you can't try on swimwear without panties. Though I'm sure there's some of you that strip down and say, "Fuck it!" when it comes to this. Nice. You are sharing crotch cheese with 100 other women. Deelish. In my stall I found a neat little package of disposable panties I could wear while trying on swimsuits. Almost as sexy as the paper thong I wore during my surgery. Maybe I should just pocket a few pairs and have my kids color a different design for each day of the week. I choose to leave my own on while I assess the damage.
Why don't they install some of those skinny fun-house mirrors in here? And ambient lighting? And a bottle of wine? Hello, incentive to buy!!! No such luck, I got to look at my pussy fat pudge mound up close and personal. Between that and my stretch marks that make my belly look like that zebra monstrosity I passed on, only with fleshy white stripes, I was not winning any bikini contests here. I'm cool with that though. I just don't want to look like a mom. Does that sound bitchy and vain?
Everything But Water came through for me. I found several I really liked but unless I wanted my husband to make me wear them every day because they cost so damn much, I restrained myself and only bought one. Miss Itty Bitty Titties suddenly snapped out of her "I Hate Big-Boobed Customers" bipolar mode and was chatty and cool to me. Whatever. Maybe this was all her ploy because she also upsold me on the swimwear wash and special conditioner. Huh? For a bathing suit? Okay. I left happy with my purchase and intent on coming up with some exercise to reduce P.F. . Kickbox Your Cooch? Cardio Punch Poonani? Vivacious Vag Aerobics? I'll think of something....
P.F. is not a typo, really meant to stand for P.S. . It stands for Pussy Fat and I hate it with a vengeance. This is the little mound of chub that is beneath my pubes that has the shape and texture of a loaf of Pillsbury French Bread loaf BEFORE being baked. I tried on swimsuits yesterday at Everything But Water and was grotesquely exposed to my naked self in the tiniest dressing room I have ever been in. Even with the nautical theme, complete with ladders and port-hole windows, I felt like I was trapped and about to be strapped to a lie detector, forced to tell the sales girl my real size.
The first woman who approached me acted like I was a freak of nature when I told her I was seeking DD bikini tops since I read wonderful reviews online about their assortment for larger chested women. I glanced at her pancake titties and realized why she maybe hated me. She beckoned her underling sales girl to schlep up and down on ladders to fetch me jumbo tops. Miss Itty Bitty Titties clearly felt the only options for me lied in the Golden Girls' Collection of Ugliness.
"Mmm, how do you feel about black? Zebra print in avocado and rust? Navy high-waisted tankini? A turtleneck bikini? This one comes with a matching flowing mumu and floppy hat!"
Couldn't I have something cute in hot pink or some sort of funky floral? Youthful, people, I am not wearing adult diapers yet. I just have (surgically enhanced) giant fun bags. Give me a break.
"How about that one up there? I inquired.
"It only goes up to a C-CUP!" snapped Itty Bitty Titties out of nowhere. Wow, she really hated me. Snatch wad hoe....
I shuffled to the jail cell fitting room to rifle through my mini mountain of bikinis. Now you can't try on swimwear without panties. Though I'm sure there's some of you that strip down and say, "Fuck it!" when it comes to this. Nice. You are sharing crotch cheese with 100 other women. Deelish. In my stall I found a neat little package of disposable panties I could wear while trying on swimsuits. Almost as sexy as the paper thong I wore during my surgery. Maybe I should just pocket a few pairs and have my kids color a different design for each day of the week. I choose to leave my own on while I assess the damage.
Why don't they install some of those skinny fun-house mirrors in here? And ambient lighting? And a bottle of wine? Hello, incentive to buy!!! No such luck, I got to look at my pussy fat pudge mound up close and personal. Between that and my stretch marks that make my belly look like that zebra monstrosity I passed on, only with fleshy white stripes, I was not winning any bikini contests here. I'm cool with that though. I just don't want to look like a mom. Does that sound bitchy and vain?
Everything But Water came through for me. I found several I really liked but unless I wanted my husband to make me wear them every day because they cost so damn much, I restrained myself and only bought one. Miss Itty Bitty Titties suddenly snapped out of her "I Hate Big-Boobed Customers" bipolar mode and was chatty and cool to me. Whatever. Maybe this was all her ploy because she also upsold me on the swimwear wash and special conditioner. Huh? For a bathing suit? Okay. I left happy with my purchase and intent on coming up with some exercise to reduce P.F. . Kickbox Your Cooch? Cardio Punch Poonani? Vivacious Vag Aerobics? I'll think of something....
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