Now THAT was Awkward!

You know those moments in your life when you have to cringe at how awkward they are? You know you have a few you'd like to forget. Or even for the friends who witnessed the fucktard comedy of errors to erase from their memory. For example, barfing in school. I was lucky enough to pass through all 16 years of my educational path without hurling chunks in the classroom. If this happened to any of you, you KNOW how God damned shitty and awkward that is. I can still remember the kid who barfed during a 1st grade field trip to a planetarium. He had red Kool Aid and Cheez-Its in his brown paper lunch bag. And about 2 minutes into the in-the-dark solar system show, he yacked his lunch on the floor a mere two seats away. I can still recall the tangy odor, the fact that they refused to let us exit until the whole show was over (fuckers), and the shame this poor kid faced returning to school later that week. He was branded as "The Puker". That shit's hard to live down. There are some moments, though none as terrible as barfing in school, that have happened to me.

One of said moments, which I have referenced before in an earlier account, was when I vacationed in Mexico this year. I decided, with little forethought, that packing some "toys" for our romantic vacation might be a little fun. Because why would it ever occur to me, Miss Uber-American Tourist, that they might check my luggage while I pass through customs? We had met up with one of Sultan's co-workers and his wife at the airport, a couple I had never met before, and they passed through security easily. They pressed a little button and theirs came up green. Yay for them. But when we pressed the same button, it was as red as a baboon's ass. Fuck me. I literally started sweating and my colon was cramping up in fear. The woman who was clothing raping the luggage looked warily at me as my 'stache sweat began to bead up on my upper lip. I began to mentally prepare myself for the scenarios that could ensue. Best case scenario, she gropes the top layer and lets me go. Worst case scenario, she pulls out a sex toy and somehow the love stick begins gyrating as she raises it over her head in frantic abandon.
"Es esta una bomba o un DILO????!!!" she screams as I get dragged away by two swarthy Mexican guards.
Man, let's hope I like what's behind door #1.
I approach her station and try not to look like I'm smuggling condoms of heroin in my asshole. But I know I already do. Sultan notices my angst level and tells me to chill the fuck out. Breathe. Breathe. Fucking breathe....
She makes eye contact and I swear, for a mere split second, though the language barrier between the two of us was vast, I spoke Spanish with my eyes and told her what was up in that suitcase. She gave me a knowing smile, patted my top layer softly, and closed the suitcase lid. Halle-fuckin-luja!!!!!!! I whipped that little fucker out in the cab and drained the batteries on the way to the hotel.

My next awkward situation never ceases to astound me every time it happens. Those of you who know me well know I have a bit of a problem when I go shopping, be it for crafts, groceries, furniture, or clothing. My colon goes into spastic rapid release mode and I have approximately 3.2 minutes to find the nearest restroom to take care of it. I have learned I am not alone in my affliction. Because you can sure-as-shit (bad pun, I know) bet that if there is a singular bathroom to be occupied, there is someone in there dropping a deuce. And I have long since given up on my Shit-iquette. If I have to drop a load, I am going to do it. Have you never read the book "Everyone Poops"? Get over yourself and your uptight rectum. I cannot believe people STILL think that when they are in the lone shitter in all of the store, after they hear someone jiggle the knob, the universal signal for "Hey, I have to shit, too! Don't hog all the toilet paper!", they don't pinch it off and get a move on. I can't even count the number of times a mom will walk out, wave their hand in front of their nose, declare, "This store has the WORST bathroom conditions! You do NOT want to go in there!" Really, lady? I am prairie-dogging right now so I don't CARE if your stanky ass left a steam trail. I am only going to add to that aroma chaos, and so will at least one of my shopping-triggered crapping kids. It's shadoobie festival, they might as well hand out People magazines and some Lysol. Don't pretend it was some phantom shitter who made their get-away in their brown cape and muddy boots. Please. Now light a match already, it fucking stinks in there.

Most awesome awkward moment: I taught a little person in one of my ballet classes two years ago. Both of her parents are little people, too. (I am obsessed in a very unhealthy way with TLC programming so I have taken a liking to little people and the 25 shows there are currently being broadcast about them.) The mother of my student also happens to work as a pre-school teacher where I teach dance classes. We have an annual staff Christmas party and this past year, I arrived late with the dance department because I had to teach. This meant everyone who showed up on time took full advantage of the open bar and was nicely lit by the time we arrived. Little person mom was pretty buzzed when I saw her wander over to say hello. Then I realized a few things. #1) Drunk people cannot hide what they are thinking, especially with the way their eyes wander. #2) Little people pretty much come up to your waist, if you are conversing with an average-sized little person. #3) Platform stilettos make you really tall when you are already 5'9". #4) A super short holiday dress plus hooker heels plus one drunk little person equals a new TLC show: "Little Teacher, Tall Beaver-Shot Ballet Teacher". You know you would at least Tivo the first episode.

Moobs

Just got back from some family fun time, a la Griswold Vacation. We visited what is heralded as "The Waterpark Capital of the World": Wisconsin Dells, Wisconsin. Not sure who exactly knighted this small town with this title but there are a shit-storm of water parks so I'll let it slide. We spent four days eating mediocre, over-priced food, getting turbo wedgies and high colonic cleansing on water slides, and gawking at the array of people parading through these parks in their swim attire. It was like an Old Country Buffet just for people watching and I was fresh off a carb cleanse and ready for some fulfillment.

The number one physical epidemic I witnessed was the hundreds of boys and grown men apparently attending a National Moobs Convention. What are moobs you ask? Well they are also referred to as man boobs, gynocomastic breasts, muggs (man jugs), or bitch tits. Like women's tits, men have a huge variance of shapes and sizes they wear proudly on their man racks. Some are saggy, some are long and low, some are connected to a tube of back fat which wraps around the back, some have giant pepperoni nipples, some are covered with greying hair, some are sunburned..... but they all have one thing in common. They are fucking NASTY!!!!! Do some God damn push ups, wear a T-shirt, hell, get some lipo on those bitches. Gentleman, you are not supposed to have tits. Period. Generally a first warning sign you might be growing your very own pair of fun bags is when your gut protrudes far enough out you cannot see your own dick. Seek a personal trainer because your tits are about to sprout. If you can no longer see your dick OR your feet, well then you are just fucked. You might as well go to Victoria's Secret to get yourself a bra because your back is going to hurt like a mother carrying those melons around.

When did this become so commonplace for men to have breasts? Were there dads and school friends of mine with boy titties when I was younger and I was just too oblivious to notice? 'Cause I have a penchant for making fun of people's physical deformities and you can sure-as-shit bet I would have jumped on that bandwagon. I witnessed one teenager covering his chest with folded arms, which was no easy task considering the set he was sporting. He was clearly embarrassed and wanted no one to see the moobs. Then he went to get a brat and chips for lunch. And probably some frozen custard later on. Dude, you are only hurting yourself here. And your chances for ever getting a blow job.

No woman wants a dude with bigger tits than them. I have a pretty decent sized rack, some days in can be a downright nuisance. But I also have a vagina so it makes it acceptable. I honest-to-God saw some men with jugs larger than mine. Even with a serious commitment to cheese curds, naps, and beer pong marathons, I think it takes a unique set of genes to accomplish this growth. Now along with these chesticles, they also had a belly bigger than a 5-in-1 bouncy house but it still made me wonder. And then gag and verp a little in my mouth. Next year I will find you, oh elusive National Moobs Convention. Until then, enjoy those cheese curds, boys.

Sunshine and Mother-Fucking Butterflies

I've been down in the dumps lately. Crabby, unmotivated, sad, pissy--all words I would use to describe my mood. No, I'm not on the rag. No, I do not need to take some sort of medication. No, nothing bad happened to me to trigger this. I'm just having a few bad days. Back the fuck off, okay? I've got a lot of shit on my plate. Suck it.

Have you ever felt really mopey for no God damn reason? Ever felt bummed but couldn't pinpoint why? Yes, you have, Mr. Happy Go Lucky so quit lying. People who constantly feel the need to blow sunshine and roses up your ass by posting bible quotes, inspirational quotes, or nothing but "I love my family, my husband, my perfect children, my sex life, my lovely clean house, sorting laundry, wiping toddlers boogery noses, wiping asses, and never wiping the shit-eating grin off my face" are huge fucking liars. No one is THAT happy. And if you say, "I am!" I am going to come and punch you in your genitals with a cast iron frying pan.

Is it a God damn crime to have a bad day? Not the last time I checked. I suppose some people tend to lean towards either the empty or full glass but let's get real here. If you say nothing but happy, borderline-hopped-up-on-Ecstasy comments, I'm not buying it. You are hiding something. I don't know exactly what your dirty little secrets are but they are not hidden by your "Let's sign Oprah's No Phone Zone pledge!" mentality. It's like wearing a giant red flag that says, "Hello, my name is Mary and I haven't had sex in 9 month." Or maybe, "Hi, I'm John and my wife busted me wearing her granny panties and now she won't sleep in the same bed." See? We all have our issues. Be normal and man-up for Christ's sake.

This phase will pass, it always does. I have my "I love being a mom because my kids are so sweet and loving" moments, too. But those are mostly when my kids are sleeping over at someone else's house and I have had at least four drinks. Maybe a handful of Valium like jelly beans at Easter. So sue me. I doubt I have to clarify that I'm being 67% sarcastic so don't call DCFS or Dr. Drew for an intervention just yet. Plus, I haven't been able to get a God damn 'scrip for Valium in months. Fucking tight-ass general practitioners..

Sometimes you just need to scream, to yell, "Motherfucking cocksucking, taint-licking twat rag!!!" out the car window. At church. Just DO it. You'll feel better. If you keep that Hallmark quote bullshit spewing from your lips and never let your true feelings of frustration pop out every once in awhile, you're gonna have issues. They need to make some sort of Activia for the soul for people like you. You are backed up and need a cleansing of your emotional colon. Beware, there's a shit storm of pent-up dookie building up---like an elephant-size shit's worth. Have you ever seen an elephant take a dump? That's all the bullshit you are clenching on to because you think society wants you to be proper and positive and holier than thou. What a bunch of douche cocks. Especially if you watch enough Dr. Oz, Dr. Phil, and Oprah while listening to Enya in your bikram yoga class, you are really fucked here.

So if you call me and I do not answer, it's because I need to rest in the fetal position and watch a Toddlers and Tiaras marathon while eating Velveeta Shells and cheese for an afternoon or two. If I don't respond to texts, it's because I have nothing nice to say. Didn't your mama teach you that crap?! If you are trying to get me back on the work out wagon, just know that I will eventually roll back towards the wagon. I might need a pulley and rope system to hoist my ass back up, but I know where my sneakers are. I kinda need my space, that's all I'm saying. Once I feel like me, I'll come back. But my asshole is severely allergic to sunshine and roses and especially butterflies so I hope you have an Epi pen to shove up my ass when you try to blow that shit up there. Just keepin' it real....

God Bless America

This bitch was maybe not specifically at the 4th of July fireworks show I attended with my family this year but at least 10 of her sisters or cousins were. This heifer is the epitome of a redneck. I could MAYBE hold a red party cup in my titties but with a Burger King crown to boot?! Wow, she takes the cake---the Jello poke cake with Cool Whip topping that is. Though it is not visible in this photo, she is rocking a DF---Double FUPA. I have addressed this phenomenon before but for those unaware of it's correct anatomical name, it is an acronym for Fat Upper Pussy Area. But when it is a DOUBLE it is quite special. I did a spit take when I saw my first. A FUPA creates a camouflaged area of flub over the pussy but a double FUPA can act as a fleshy fanny pack. I am aghast at the visual images in my mind... She can bury a pastrami and smoked Gouda panini sandwich in there and melt it to gooey perfection. She can smuggle weapons into a theme park. Who would frisk between those layers?! She could lay on top of the jewelry counter when the sales person turns away and swallow that diamond tennis bracelet like a 6-pack of sliders. The possibilities are ENDLESS. Okay, for those of you sporting a FUPA, I'll quit picking on you. I'm a mean bitch.

The fireworks displays in any given city in America tend to drag every specimen of society out of the woodwork. It's like Walmart on a big lawn with beer and pyrotechnics. You see wealthy families with their plaid Burberry blankets and crystal margarita glasses packed neatly in their Williams-Sonoma picnic baskets. You see families with 8 kids running around liked crazed crackheads in a bank heist. You see average moms and dads, chilling with their ice cold Mike's Hard Black Cherry Lemonade bottles in hand. Then you see Felicia Fupa and her husband with three teeth missing from his Coors Light-induced beer grin, Salem smoke dangling between his lips, Nascar shirt all stained and sleeves cut-off pull up in their pick-up. They have already downed a 6-pack to get a "head start on this USA party" in the car on the ride over. And they park their fleece, bald eagle blanket just close enough to your family that you can listen in on their commentary.
"John Henry, you git your ass over here before I whoop it good! Don't make me use my belt!"
Nice. Pure class. May I have a taste of your macaroni salad that's been sitting out in the sun since noon? It's hissing but looks delicious.

Along with the menagerie of circus freaks, there is a soundtrack which accompanies our fireworks display every year, graciously funded by the residents of our community and our tax dollars. Every year it is the same collection of songs, a few all-American classics, and a shitload of country. I have no problem with one country song, even two if it's someone more contemporary and mullet-free, like Carrie Underwood. But when that twangy-ass crap blasts for 20 minutes straight I'll be God-damned if I feel like an American. I feel like eating some of FUPA Felicia's polk cake, making a shrine to Mary out of my bathtub in my front yard, and asking a cousin out on a date. In other words, IT'S MOTHER-FUCKING REDNECK. Cut it the hell out, Mayor. I pay taxes out my ass, I truly enjoy this massive quantity of explosions and oohs and aaahs they induce. But you are appealing to a minuscule portion of the population with that shit. Knock it the fuck off before I invite a bus load of tweaked out meth heads to start a rave in the middle of your country jamboree.

I really AM proud to be an American. It is the best country to live in in the world, in my humble opinion. I have freedoms and liberties I am grateful for every day. I bow down to the soldiers who have fought for my freedom and who continue to do so. The 4th of July fireworks always give me the chills. It makes make feel highly patriotic. I get misty eyed and think of both of my grandfathers who fought in World War II. I think of those I know going off to serve our country, those who are married to them and wait for their return. It is for all of them I celebrate this day. But fuck-me-gently with a chainsaw, if I hear that white trash, double-wide-lovin' remix again next year, I will take a dump in the shape of Billy Ray Cyrus, lay it on a cottage cheese and green Jello mold, and stick a sparkler in it just for the mayor of Bolingbrook.

God bless America.

It's 2010, not 1985--Get a Fucking Clue

Yesterday Don Johnson was hot on my tail. I was driving the speed limit, needing to soon turn in the left lane. He was up my ass in his white Solara. I was not impressed with his feigned badass-ness nor his leadfoot and glares in my rearview mirror. Chill the fuck out, Crockett. He was teriyaki tan, gleaming mirrored Ray Bans balanced on his melanoma-ridden schnoz. I witnessed his white linen shirt, fairly see-through, unbuttoned and billowing open slightly like Fabio on the cover of some romance novel. Not sure exactly sure what this asswipe was in a hurry to get to but he angrily wove in and out of cars to pass us slower drivers. Middle-aged dickwad.

I guarantee this guy thinks he has been "rocking" this look since the 80's. Probably the first chick he gave an orgasm told him he looked like Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice and he has clung to the notion that he IS Don Johnson ever since. News flash: You are in fact NOT Don Johnson. And Don Johnson has aged, just like you have like dehydrated turkey jerky. White linen shirts blazers with 4-inch shoulder pads are no longer a fashion staple unless you are going to an 80'd Halloween shin dig. Button your fucking shirt, I can see your greying chest hair and it's looks like poodle pubes. And quit speeding, your Cialis will still be working to give you that chub by the time you reach your girlfriend's apartment, who probably looks like Linda Evans from Dynasty. What a lucky, heavily frost-and-tipped mullet sporting couple you must be. I'm listening to Billy Ocean's "Caribbean Queen" right now in your honor.

I think it is difficult for some people to change with the times. Hell, some people refuse to change to acknowledge they are parents or teachers or just plain OLD. If your hairstyle has been exactly the same since you were 18 and have been to at least your 10-year high school reunion, it's time for an intervention. Mullets, perms, the "Dorothy Hamill", and muffin bangs---these are all inexcusable atrocities. You associate your "look" with times in your life you were young, having fun, life was carefree, and your drink of choice was Boone's Farm Strawberry Hill. Change can be good, it will make you better. Clinging to your acid wash Guess jean jacket does not make people look at you and think, "Wow! That chick is fucking HOT! She looks so cool! I wish I could be as smokin' as her!" Nope. Instead, onlookers wince and make fun of you, thinking instead, "Holy shitballs! I didn't even KNOW acid wash still existed! That chick is sad and her hair looks like she raped a poodle salon!" See? Doesn't make you feel so young and hip, now does it?

I think anything you can do with your looks to make you maintain your beauty and youth is a positive thing. Cosmetic procedures these days are wonderful--line fillers, Botox, laser peels--all this shit helps you keep yourself looking young but still you. It's when people are balls-out whacked and go under the knife to nip, tuck, and revise what God gave them that it can get ugly. Really fucking ugly. I look at celebrities like Heather Locklear, Nicolette Sheridan, Sophia Loren, Demi Moore---these are all celebrities who have gotten older but really have maintained their youth and beauty. Then you have celebrities who have taken it just too far. Heidi Montag (though it makes me cringe to refer to her as a celebrity because she is just a big socialite freak), Joan Rivers, Mickey Rourke, Hilary Duff, and let's not forget Michael Jackson have all gone above and beyond in their attempts to not really better themselves as much as transform themselves ....into fucking alien freaks. When the end result looks nothing like what you began with, it's a problem. Joan Rivers is a claymation Jew, Mickey Rourke has labia lips, Hilary Duff has chompers that rival a Clydesdale horse, Heidi Montag needs to be in a circus sideshow, and Michael Jackson, well... he's dead now but we know there's a million places to go with that one.

The old adage "growing old gracefully" is a crock of shit. No one wants to be the one with wrinkles and bags under the eyes before their time. There are ways around it. Just be smart about it. And for God's sake, if you are going bald and used to favor your long, lustrous, rocker locks, shave your head already. Bald is the shit in case you haven't noticed lately. Dear Bret Michaels: Everybody knows the long flaxen man you adore is only growing from the back. If I ever see you in person, unless you have your bandanna toupee hot-glued or surgically implanted on your skull, I will yank that tacky shit off faster than you can say, "Talk dirty to me!" Better get a patent on your "Rag Rug", God knows Trump is in enough financial troubles he just might steal that idea to turn a profit. And Donald Trump is a bandanna with that fake combover hair is almost as bad as....Bret Michaels in a bandanna with fake rocker hair.

Cup O' Joe

I was was watching the news today and I caught one of their random tidbits that piqued my interest. Then I thought about it and became simply annoyed. There's a guy at some coffee shop in Chicago who makes a really good cup of coffee, I guess. He can do that fancy trick where you take the foamy milk and drag the stream to make a heart. Awe, well isn't that just so fucking CUTE? Now gimme my caffeine and piss off. This dude will be going to London in June to COMPETE in the WBC--the World Barista Championship. Seriously.

Now I am no stranger to paying $4 or more for a large, delicious, caffeine-charged beverage from Starbuck's at least once a week. Can I HONESTLY taste a difference in how the hyper, Asian dude who likes to make inane small talk versus the chubby, chipper gal with a high pitched voice makes my grande black cherry nonfat latte? No, I sure can't. It's hot, it's yummy, it's in a to-go cup. And I think Starbucks is pretty high in the echelon of coffee purveyors in the industry. I'm sure there are some great little cafes which only serve free-trade, organic, camel manure-fertilized coffee ground by Himalayan orphans doing a tribal fertility dance. But to me, in the end a cup of joe is a cup of joe.

I know there are standards in coffee. I would rather lick a turd than drink coffee from 7-11 on the way out of town after I fill my tank on the way to Michigan. Sorry, friendly Indian man, your sweet demeanor and charming personality do not make up for the fact that your coffee tastes like asshole stew. Gas station coffee is bad. But MOST places make a decent cup of coffee with minimal effort. Even freakin' McDonald's has been known to satisfy my mid-afternoon caffeine jonesing.

But to raise the skill of coffee making to an art, one which can be tested in a competition on an international level is where I take issue. What are the events? Milk foam art? Hottest cup? Fastest latte? Do they do a little shimmy and flip those espresso handles around, a la Tom Cruise in "Cocktail"? Do they stand together in their extra long aprons and do a kick line while balancing a cappuccino in each hand? I don't get it. I would love to go and see what this elite coffee competition is all about. Granted, I would have to be drunk and would probably make fun of them and get kicked out.

"A barista is a person, usually a coffee-house employee, who prepares and serves espresso-based coffee drinks". With a few hours of training I am sure I could master the art of a damn latte. What is so fucking exciting about making coffee-based drinks, other than drinking unlimited amounts of them on your shift at Caribou? Who aspires to COMPETE as a barista??? Is there extensive training to prep for this? Do they have coaches? Is there a special locker room for their aprons? Do they dump Gatorade on each other when they win, because I think a cooler of cappuccino would be a little hot? I think this whole notion is really fucking weird. I just hope if this dude from Chicago wins, and the barista Olympic coffee rings are raised, that he doesn't get disqualified for doping. I've heard those baristas sometimes use some illegal performance-enhancing Guatemalan pygmy roast to up their game. Coffee freaks.

15 Minutes of Fame

I'll tell you what, Justin Bieber, I am not really sure what qualifies you as the Love Guru singing about broken hearts and romantic fantasies. When you "were 13, you had your first love". Really?! I highly doubt that. I'd wager a significant bet you don't even have PUBES yet. Your wild spastic flipping of your shaggy hair, your flirtatious nature with all the women that interview you, your puppy dog glances into the camera as if you have bedded 100 chicks. I watched you on Chelsea Lately and let me tell you one thing---Chelsea Handler could eat you up and spit you out in the shape of a dildo. She told you, "You'd better be able to carry through on all those promises you're making!" In other words, a horny rabbit on Viagra would have a hard time staking claim to all the pussy you think you can land.

I watched Bieber on Idol tonight and I'm pretty sure it was not pre-recorded. He wasn't that bad, it's just something about a KID singing and flirting with girls 10 years his senior. It's creepy. Dude, you're still wearing Garanimals from Sears (well with your new found money, maybe more like Neiman Marcus now) and probably ordered a Happy Meal within the last week. C'mon, you know you still like that cheap ass Spongebob toy. He played a drum solo which reminded me of a painful finale of a elementary school talent show. The only difference is the talent show lacks expensive pyrotechnics and back-up dancers. The chick he was seducing in his dance/song montage was at least 22. He doesn't even KNOW where her poonani is located and probably still giggles when he says "boobies". Please.

I also find his whiney, female voice painful. I never understood the deejays who announced his name when he first became popular--I seriously thought it was BEAVER. This stands to reason because it is only natural to assume he has one. I can guaran-fucking-tee once Justin actually grows hair on his man-sack and his voice drops 10 or 12 octaves, he will not be nearly so appealing. Even if he scores that Proactive deal to banish his back acne and chin boils. But by then some 10 year-old will have stolen his thunder because their boy soprano voice is more novel than his cracking, pubescent one. And he wears prosthetic ball hair because he learned from Bieber's peach fuzz nutsack mistakes. Oh, poor BABY, BABY, BABY!!! Ohhhhhhhhh!!!