It's that time of year again when our mailboxes get as jam-packed as our faces do. It's holiday catalog time. If you so much as Google L.L. Bean to check out the latest in lesbian plaid trench coats, you will receive no less than 10 ultra-thick catalogs from said Maine outdoor retailer from November 1st until January 31st. They will tempt you with free shipping. They will simultaneously bombard your email with lusty promises of a hefty 50-70% off. You may find yourself decked out in an ensemble of head-to-toe plaid that would make even the most die-hard Melissa Etheridge fan proud. Come to my window, bitches.
Today I received 100 pages plus EACH of catalogs from Sur La Table, Femail Creations (not for lesbians, ironically..), L.L. Bean, Lands' End, Express, White House Black Market, Journeys, Fossil, Justice, Cheryl's Cookies, Mindware (nerdy kids' toy company), Brookstone, Hammacher Schlemmer, and my ultimate favorite holiday advertising porn, Williams-Sonoma. My mailbox was quivering like a 70 year-old's boner after hour five of a Cialis binge. I emptied the mother-load of this recycler's wet-dream into my arms and had to use my damn foot to open the front door. Their sheer weight rendered my arms as useless as Kim Kardashian's chastity.
Williams-Sonoma is the pinnacle of entertaining gluttony. If you wipe your ass with 5-dollar bills instead of Charmin, this is the store for you. I was initially drawn to a picture of a dirty whore of a chocolate-peppermint cake. This little bitch was 4 layers and cost a mere $99.95. For a cake. Now I am a decent baker. I probably wouldn't win in a Food TV bake-off next to Ace of Cakes but I know my way around my trusty Kitchen-Aid mixer and an arsenal of baking supplies. This peppermint chocolate treat claims is is baked at an artisan bakery in Maine with Dutch cocoa, Nielson-Masey organic vanilla, freshly churned Maine butter, and eggs from cage-free chickens. I don't care if 5 of the Duggars themselves are picking cocoa beans from a bush in South America on a church mission trip, I think a hundred bucks is a bit steep for some dessert. Throw some buttercream frosting and crushed peppermint candy on anything and you can make it look fancy. Shit, I'd eat my Uggs if you sliced them up four times and slathered them with frosting and candy.
If I had the ability to either rig the lottery or shit money, I'd join Williams-Sonoma's "Six-Months-of-Cheese Club". This is along the same lines as Clark W. Griswold's "Jelly-of-the-Month Club" but slightly classier---to the tune of $350. Now that's a lot of cheese. You can also buy meatballs, pigs in a blanket, ham, peppered beef, tamales, salami, pate, even macaroni and cheese. All of these delicacies can be bought for a price. If I was filthy rich I would certainly indulge in some of these luxurious treats. But alas, I am not loaded and though cooking is probably 17th on a list of 20 things I would rather do than check my Facebook, I can cook my own macaroni and cheese ramekins for less than $10 apiece.
Do you ever get some catalog and think #1) What the fuck IS this shit?! Or #2) How the fuck did I get on their list for this crap?? Considering how touchy everyone is about the environment and saving trees these days, they sure remain steady with their annual pummeling of advertising. I have switched to artificial trees in my two holiday rooms, I use shittier toilet paper to reduce the amount of stuff I flush down the toilet, we try to pay some bills online. But yet these catalogs still come at me like a laxative-incuded shit avalanche. If I need to buy frosted reindeer cookies or flannel-lined jeans or a Little House on the Prairie nightgown ensuring I will never, ever get laid in my life, I know where to find you. Quit catalog-raping my mailbox already. Merry Christmas.
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Saturday, October 22, 2011
Rock-A-Belly
I have no problem with people of any size, shape, or color. But there are certain logical guidelines one should follow when dressing yourself within those limitations. If you are a person who has common sense, is not on medication for multiple personality disorder, own a mirror, are not blind, or have more than a goldfish to speak the truth to you as a friend, you should figure some shit out.
A shirt dress is a DRESS. Though the description is a bit of a misnomer, you may not, in fact, simply wear a SHIRT as a dress. Without pants. Because it is fucking creepy and a tad whorish. But if you are running on the larger side in women's clothing, you need to be especially adept in evaluating this look. I witnessed a woman this evening who was trying to pull off the rockabilly, burlesque, 50's glasses, cat-eye eyeliner, retro look. She was wearing what I'm sure was sold in her local Kohl's as a shirt dress. Upon standing clumsily after her 4th beer (that I witnessed..) I noticed the "dress" portion of the "shirt" had ridden up to cause an alarming view. Her black tights, chaffed unevenly thin from frequent wear, revealed her albino-esque buttocks, glowing like luminescent ham hocks. Though keeping my eyes locked on the nightmarish ass exposure was brief, it was long enough to cause partial blindness in my left pupil and to burn into my memory the fact that she was not wearing panties. I almost wanted to make a citizens fashion arrest. She turned sideways as I tried to avert my eyes. It was looking at one of the people who runs the carnival rides at your local Meijer parking lot on Memorial Day weekend. You cannot look away. I then shifted my gaze to the buttons on the front of her garment. Her full on fupa would have surely shot loose like a watermelon in a slingshot had it not been for the few stray strands of Spandex that she had hoisted over her tummy with those tights. And I could sense the imminent danger of being seated near her. Rock-A-Belly was about to blow. I scooted my chair far enough away to watch warily.
Fuck me, I am so giving my two shirt dresses I own to Goodwill tomorrow. And buying some new tights.
A shirt dress is a DRESS. Though the description is a bit of a misnomer, you may not, in fact, simply wear a SHIRT as a dress. Without pants. Because it is fucking creepy and a tad whorish. But if you are running on the larger side in women's clothing, you need to be especially adept in evaluating this look. I witnessed a woman this evening who was trying to pull off the rockabilly, burlesque, 50's glasses, cat-eye eyeliner, retro look. She was wearing what I'm sure was sold in her local Kohl's as a shirt dress. Upon standing clumsily after her 4th beer (that I witnessed..) I noticed the "dress" portion of the "shirt" had ridden up to cause an alarming view. Her black tights, chaffed unevenly thin from frequent wear, revealed her albino-esque buttocks, glowing like luminescent ham hocks. Though keeping my eyes locked on the nightmarish ass exposure was brief, it was long enough to cause partial blindness in my left pupil and to burn into my memory the fact that she was not wearing panties. I almost wanted to make a citizens fashion arrest. She turned sideways as I tried to avert my eyes. It was looking at one of the people who runs the carnival rides at your local Meijer parking lot on Memorial Day weekend. You cannot look away. I then shifted my gaze to the buttons on the front of her garment. Her full on fupa would have surely shot loose like a watermelon in a slingshot had it not been for the few stray strands of Spandex that she had hoisted over her tummy with those tights. And I could sense the imminent danger of being seated near her. Rock-A-Belly was about to blow. I scooted my chair far enough away to watch warily.
Fuck me, I am so giving my two shirt dresses I own to Goodwill tomorrow. And buying some new tights.
Friday, August 26, 2011
Bugs the Shit Out of Me
I am highly irritable lately. Lots of seemingly small things are pissing me right the fuck off. I will name a few...
*Sorting white laundry. In my personal image of HELL it will be a never ending dryer and baskets of white socks that never seem to have a matching set. I hate whites. I sometimes wish my family was peg-legged pirates so the lone leg we have left wouldn't matter what kind of damn sock ended up on it.
*Being tired in the morning. I never, ever wake up peppy and ready to go. I need the snooze button, no one speaking to me for a minimum of 30 minutes, coffee (lots), and no migraine. If any of the elements are askew it will not be pretty. Add PMS to the mix and you might as well go sleep somewhere else tonight.
*Fucking assholes who do not know how to drive. This includes fucktards who drive really slow when there is no way I can pass them without dying in a head-on collision, people who do not know the rules of a four-way stop sign (I stopped to your right before you, you do not get to go first, douche muncher), texters who swerve like Mel Gibson driving on a bender, and ass-clowns who ride my ass when it is a God damn SCHOOL ZONE and there is a cop with a speed gun waiting to catch you going a mere 21 miles per hour. Slow your role.
*Kids who act up in public places such as restaurants where little kids really should not be present. Kids who act up when an important phone call comes through. Kids who throw temper tantrums and hit their parents and the parents stand there and take it. Screaming babies. Screaming toddlers. Screaming annoying teenagers. This sometimes includes my own kids, not just other demon spawn. Clearly I am done with the whole baby factory gig.
*Ignorant people who use racial slurs insulting their OWN GOD DAMN race while standing near children. Shut your trashy mouth. I don't say that word in front of my kids, it is even more insulting because you think it's okay. I should kick you in your nuts except I couldn't find them because your pants are 25 sizes too big.
*School fundraisers. Don't even get me started. I cannot sell wrapping paper, shitty candy, shitty jewelry, popcorn, magazine subscriptions, or cookie dough for two kids multiple times a year for every damn thing they belong to. My last name is not Duggar, I do not even know that many people. Fuck off.
*Bitchy mom clicks. You know who they are. Snooty, thinking their shit doesn't stink, clustering in their little circle at school functions, glaring and whispering to each other. And the ironic thing? Some of their kids are already acting JUST LIKE THEM. I know there are women who think I am a bitch but I have to consider the source(s). There are two sides to every story. And my kids are not being bred to be little bitches. They are kind and treat other kids well. I fucking hate bitches, old and young.
* People who wear a size 0. I know some of you "just can't help it". I still feel like a giant turd when I hang out near you. I feel like the Carnie Wilson of the group. I know I'm not a cow. But for one day, hell even for three hours, I would LOVE to know what it felt like to be that skinny. Maybe it's my fucked up dance background. Maybe it's an asshole thing to ponder. Just my gig. I have Skinny Envy.
*Fat people who use scooters and take up handicap spaces in the parking lot when their only handicap is their addiction to Sonic double cheeseburgers. What the fuck is wrong with you??? Get your flabby man tits in check and walk 30 paces. It will do a body good. On second thought, let's make it 60 paces. The woman in the wheelchair is legit and didn't use her grandma's handicap tag to cheat the system. And now she has to wheel her ass through puddles and the rain to get to the entrance because you are a straight-up ASSHOLE.
*People who claim they "would never swear in front of their children". Just because you say "fuck" when your daughter is watching ICarly in the living room and you're in the kitchen, trust me, she heard you. I prefer to swear directly in front of my kids. They often do not like it, sometimes they laugh, I often get scolded. But they know what swear words are, they know as a grown up I can use them. They know it is not appropriate to call another kid an ass clown on the playground. But I am not ignorant in thinking they have never heard me say that shit. If you are a super goody-two-shoes and never say crap then kudos to you. But sometimes yelling MOTHER FUCKER is a much better release than saying CHEESE AND RICE. Try it, you'll like it.
*Pet hair on all my clothes. When you buy a kitten or puppy it seems like a brilliant idea. They are so damn cute and fluffy and all sweet and mischievous. But then they grow up to be cats and dogs. And they run up bills for food and treats and vaccinations and boarding and grooming and toys and beds... It is never ending. So if you want to buy your kid a kitten for Christmas, imagine your life in 20 years. That cat will STILL be there, shedding and puking and shitting and getting cat litter everywhere and leaving white hair all over your black clothes. It is a commitment. So if you love all that shit, go for it. Hell, if you're some crazy cat lady, adopt 5 of them. Just don't tell me I didn't warn you. My cats are 15 and 16 years-old. They hate my dog, live in my bedroom, shed EVERYWHERE, and are up all night like it's a Carnival cruise on their 21st birthday.
Screw crying children, single white socks, old cats, bitches, bad drivers, illegal handicap parkers, closet cursers, skinny chicks, fundraisers, exhaustion, and lazy scooter riders. There, I'm done.
*Sorting white laundry. In my personal image of HELL it will be a never ending dryer and baskets of white socks that never seem to have a matching set. I hate whites. I sometimes wish my family was peg-legged pirates so the lone leg we have left wouldn't matter what kind of damn sock ended up on it.
*Being tired in the morning. I never, ever wake up peppy and ready to go. I need the snooze button, no one speaking to me for a minimum of 30 minutes, coffee (lots), and no migraine. If any of the elements are askew it will not be pretty. Add PMS to the mix and you might as well go sleep somewhere else tonight.
*Fucking assholes who do not know how to drive. This includes fucktards who drive really slow when there is no way I can pass them without dying in a head-on collision, people who do not know the rules of a four-way stop sign (I stopped to your right before you, you do not get to go first, douche muncher), texters who swerve like Mel Gibson driving on a bender, and ass-clowns who ride my ass when it is a God damn SCHOOL ZONE and there is a cop with a speed gun waiting to catch you going a mere 21 miles per hour. Slow your role.
*Kids who act up in public places such as restaurants where little kids really should not be present. Kids who act up when an important phone call comes through. Kids who throw temper tantrums and hit their parents and the parents stand there and take it. Screaming babies. Screaming toddlers. Screaming annoying teenagers. This sometimes includes my own kids, not just other demon spawn. Clearly I am done with the whole baby factory gig.
*Ignorant people who use racial slurs insulting their OWN GOD DAMN race while standing near children. Shut your trashy mouth. I don't say that word in front of my kids, it is even more insulting because you think it's okay. I should kick you in your nuts except I couldn't find them because your pants are 25 sizes too big.
*School fundraisers. Don't even get me started. I cannot sell wrapping paper, shitty candy, shitty jewelry, popcorn, magazine subscriptions, or cookie dough for two kids multiple times a year for every damn thing they belong to. My last name is not Duggar, I do not even know that many people. Fuck off.
*Bitchy mom clicks. You know who they are. Snooty, thinking their shit doesn't stink, clustering in their little circle at school functions, glaring and whispering to each other. And the ironic thing? Some of their kids are already acting JUST LIKE THEM. I know there are women who think I am a bitch but I have to consider the source(s). There are two sides to every story. And my kids are not being bred to be little bitches. They are kind and treat other kids well. I fucking hate bitches, old and young.
* People who wear a size 0. I know some of you "just can't help it". I still feel like a giant turd when I hang out near you. I feel like the Carnie Wilson of the group. I know I'm not a cow. But for one day, hell even for three hours, I would LOVE to know what it felt like to be that skinny. Maybe it's my fucked up dance background. Maybe it's an asshole thing to ponder. Just my gig. I have Skinny Envy.
*Fat people who use scooters and take up handicap spaces in the parking lot when their only handicap is their addiction to Sonic double cheeseburgers. What the fuck is wrong with you??? Get your flabby man tits in check and walk 30 paces. It will do a body good. On second thought, let's make it 60 paces. The woman in the wheelchair is legit and didn't use her grandma's handicap tag to cheat the system. And now she has to wheel her ass through puddles and the rain to get to the entrance because you are a straight-up ASSHOLE.
*People who claim they "would never swear in front of their children". Just because you say "fuck" when your daughter is watching ICarly in the living room and you're in the kitchen, trust me, she heard you. I prefer to swear directly in front of my kids. They often do not like it, sometimes they laugh, I often get scolded. But they know what swear words are, they know as a grown up I can use them. They know it is not appropriate to call another kid an ass clown on the playground. But I am not ignorant in thinking they have never heard me say that shit. If you are a super goody-two-shoes and never say crap then kudos to you. But sometimes yelling MOTHER FUCKER is a much better release than saying CHEESE AND RICE. Try it, you'll like it.
*Pet hair on all my clothes. When you buy a kitten or puppy it seems like a brilliant idea. They are so damn cute and fluffy and all sweet and mischievous. But then they grow up to be cats and dogs. And they run up bills for food and treats and vaccinations and boarding and grooming and toys and beds... It is never ending. So if you want to buy your kid a kitten for Christmas, imagine your life in 20 years. That cat will STILL be there, shedding and puking and shitting and getting cat litter everywhere and leaving white hair all over your black clothes. It is a commitment. So if you love all that shit, go for it. Hell, if you're some crazy cat lady, adopt 5 of them. Just don't tell me I didn't warn you. My cats are 15 and 16 years-old. They hate my dog, live in my bedroom, shed EVERYWHERE, and are up all night like it's a Carnival cruise on their 21st birthday.
Screw crying children, single white socks, old cats, bitches, bad drivers, illegal handicap parkers, closet cursers, skinny chicks, fundraisers, exhaustion, and lazy scooter riders. There, I'm done.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
So Are Ya Coming or Not?
Not sure when society became so freaking rude. I see now that there really is no good reason to put a date to RSVP on an invitation. Because 75% of people who I invite, even if it's a party where their kid is invited, do not tell me whether or not they might come. So I am forced to either stalk them via email which can be as easily ignored as a paper invitation. Or I call their home or cell, to which a friendly answering machine message always awaits . "Hey, it's the Connor's family! No one's around to chat so please leave a message and we would love to connect later! Have a great day!" Fuck you, you don't really want me to have a great day. You especially do not want to listen to my call. You are probably standing right there, listening, knowing you're a douche for not facing the situation. Hey, I've been there, I get it. I want to tell you my kid will be coming to the laser tag party and what does your kid want. I don't want to hear about the 5 invisible pounds you gained, your incompetent nanny, or how it frosts your ass they don't carry decent organic peaches at Whole Foods any more. Tell you what, here's my cell AND email. Leave me a short message telling me yes or no. No bullshit pleasantries, no stories, just facts at hand. Then you can fuck right off.
I always hesitate when certain kids make "the list". There is always a couple of children my kids swear are total BFFs in school but then never speak to them. Odd. I begrudgingly invite the kids, knowing full well I will be forced to stalk an RSVP. Sure as shit, after two messages the twins in question cannot come. No reason. Just can't make it. One little well-to-do kid whose mother co-owns two lucrative local businesses was invited twice and never RSVP'd. Guess what? You didn't make the list this year! So stop blowing smoke up my ass about "it's a shame the girls don't get together" when I shop at your douche bag store loaded with over-priced country knick knacks and ugly as fuck Brighton collection crap. The one key chain I bought from you broke so you can suck it.
And on another level of rudeness, I was shunned due to my age from fully participating in youthful dance club activities I happened to be a seasoned pro at. I will not imply the word "veteran" because I am not military nor past my prime. My husband got on an exclusive guest list only club opening in Chicago. We even got VIP bottle service for God's sake. There were no less than 20 photographers there snapping shots of the ladies and men drinking and dancing, both of which I was doing. I was rocking a slinky black Grecian dress with gold rope detail and my kick-ass gold heels. I'll be God damned if every photographer did not shun me like the high on Red Bull big sister at the club scene in Knocked Up. There were fatter chicks than me, there were mongloid-ugly scenesters there, there were douche bag Jersey Shore guidos who thought a sleeveless plaid Abercrombie shirt, a white pimp fedora, and white jeans were the recipe. I had the club scene plague. Of course the bitches in day glow body paint and lace neon panties gyrating in the window got priority. But bitches who pulled a clearance rack Discovery ensemble, dance like goat who simultaneously took a rufie and Viagra, and did the sloppy spill the drink, giggle, "Hey whussssssss yerrr name?" and then stumble because they're one jaeger bomb away from further brain damage? THIS is the used tuna taco smellin' hooch you want to feature in 40 shots?? Pure class my man. She'll let you buy her a drink, maybe get a nice make out session. But she will not be fucking your crazy ass, fake Tommy Bahamas shirt wearing, comb over baldaliciousness tonight. Don't get me wrong I won't fuck you either. You probably still live in your parents' basement, your favorite place to eat is Medieval Times, and collect Dungeons and Dragons crap.You are hot.
I vow to have better manners because it pisses me off when others do not. I will be better at RSVP'ing. I'll send thank you notes. I will remember birthdays. And I will shove skinny, 20-something hoochies down the stairs when they try to steal my limelight. Just because they have a tight little ass, perky haven't had a baby yet titties, and a size 2 figure doesn't make them God. Okay, whores?
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
Thursday, June 30, 2011
I'll Just Have a Side Salad
Raven Symone, the cute actress who was on the Cosby show in the 1980's, has a 3-page spread in People Magazine all about how she shed 70 pounds. Amidst the pages also is a photo of on-again off-again svelte Kirstie Alley. That bitch has gained and lost more weight than a birthing barn at a dairy farm. Carrie Fisher is going commercials for Jenny Craig and has lost 30 pounds "but is not done yet". She talks like she may have also had her jaws wired shut or maybe has gotten TMJ from too many BJ's. It always makes me laugh when I read how these celebrities lost all the weight. Personal training. I believe that--money will buy good training and these Hollywood trainers will beat the shit out of them for a small fortune. These assholes who are a size 0 and claim the "only workouts they do are when they hike with their dogs for a few miles or try surfing or mountain biking" are trying to make their eating disorders and/or obsessive 5 hours-a-day fitness regime seem normal. You don't get to be a size 0 by walking your fucking dog. I call bullshit. Then I call your cocaine dealer.
It's not that following a restricted diet of high protein, high veggie, low carb is not feasible. It's just that most of these over-indulged celebrities are way too fucking lazy to ever make this happen. So when they have quit the coke and pills and boozing and gain 25 pounds, their agents freak their shit out. They hire a Nazi nutritionist to watch their every calorie that touches their lips. Skinny to fat makes for bad publicity. Unless you go back to skinny. And tout your diet and trainer and new skinny version of some bullshit cocktail that tastes like diet sphincter (as opposed to regular?...). In which case you are now GOLDEN. I look at Kelly Osbourne, Jennifer Hudson, Valerie Bertinelli, so many famous people. They were has-beens---washed up in acting, been there/done that with drugs and reality shows, slain for the extra flabbage they carry in their mid-section and thighs, forgotten by the press. The along comes Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers or one of 795 Hollywood trainers to personally endorse these stars if they sign a contract to commit to dropping 25-50 pounds. Shit, if I had to sign that kind of contract to have someone hold my hand through revamping my eating and exercise habits I would put my face on the side of Depends, Shape-Ups, Shamwows, anal boil cream, and even the Magic Meatloaf Maker.
I always read the new and improved lifestyle section of these magical makeovers with a grain of salt, and maybe some tequila. It doesn't take much to slide back into curly fries/venti Frappuccino with extra whip land. So when they willingly reveal their healthy eating habits but then are photographed in public driving from In and Out Burger with a triple bacon stack and a chocolate shake, it doesn't make me actually buy what they're selling. Don't sit there and give me these absolutes about how you "love to guzzle gallons of water with a few wedges of lemon and lime all day" and your new "treat" of frozen grapes has completely eliminated your sweet tooth cravings for Snickers bars, well you are as big and fat of a liar as you were 54 pounds ago. Don't bullshit a bullshitter. I struggle, who the hell doesn't?? I have good days where I eat salmon and asparagus and drink water and workout like a fiend. But I have days when I sit on my ass, watch ridiculous amounts of Toddlers and Tiaras marathons and eat ice cream straight from the tub. So I say fuck you to your ridiculous diet overhaul you follow meticulously which has unlocked your true skinny self. Watch yourself. It isn't that hard to tumble off that wagon once a fatter to skinnier celebrity gets the new Jenny contract. Next thing you know you're motor-boating a combo plate of potato salad, biscuits and gravy, and a Flintstone turkey leg. You can bet TMZ will put you back on the top of their list of "most paparazzi-worthy celebs" again. But instead of a bikini you will be wearing a gravy-stained Spanx unitard. Whoops, guess that 6 ounce grilled chicken salad wasn't QUITE enough to satisfy you all week, huh?
It's not that following a restricted diet of high protein, high veggie, low carb is not feasible. It's just that most of these over-indulged celebrities are way too fucking lazy to ever make this happen. So when they have quit the coke and pills and boozing and gain 25 pounds, their agents freak their shit out. They hire a Nazi nutritionist to watch their every calorie that touches their lips. Skinny to fat makes for bad publicity. Unless you go back to skinny. And tout your diet and trainer and new skinny version of some bullshit cocktail that tastes like diet sphincter (as opposed to regular?...). In which case you are now GOLDEN. I look at Kelly Osbourne, Jennifer Hudson, Valerie Bertinelli, so many famous people. They were has-beens---washed up in acting, been there/done that with drugs and reality shows, slain for the extra flabbage they carry in their mid-section and thighs, forgotten by the press. The along comes Jenny Craig or Weight Watchers or one of 795 Hollywood trainers to personally endorse these stars if they sign a contract to commit to dropping 25-50 pounds. Shit, if I had to sign that kind of contract to have someone hold my hand through revamping my eating and exercise habits I would put my face on the side of Depends, Shape-Ups, Shamwows, anal boil cream, and even the Magic Meatloaf Maker.
I always read the new and improved lifestyle section of these magical makeovers with a grain of salt, and maybe some tequila. It doesn't take much to slide back into curly fries/venti Frappuccino with extra whip land. So when they willingly reveal their healthy eating habits but then are photographed in public driving from In and Out Burger with a triple bacon stack and a chocolate shake, it doesn't make me actually buy what they're selling. Don't sit there and give me these absolutes about how you "love to guzzle gallons of water with a few wedges of lemon and lime all day" and your new "treat" of frozen grapes has completely eliminated your sweet tooth cravings for Snickers bars, well you are as big and fat of a liar as you were 54 pounds ago. Don't bullshit a bullshitter. I struggle, who the hell doesn't?? I have good days where I eat salmon and asparagus and drink water and workout like a fiend. But I have days when I sit on my ass, watch ridiculous amounts of Toddlers and Tiaras marathons and eat ice cream straight from the tub. So I say fuck you to your ridiculous diet overhaul you follow meticulously which has unlocked your true skinny self. Watch yourself. It isn't that hard to tumble off that wagon once a fatter to skinnier celebrity gets the new Jenny contract. Next thing you know you're motor-boating a combo plate of potato salad, biscuits and gravy, and a Flintstone turkey leg. You can bet TMZ will put you back on the top of their list of "most paparazzi-worthy celebs" again. But instead of a bikini you will be wearing a gravy-stained Spanx unitard. Whoops, guess that 6 ounce grilled chicken salad wasn't QUITE enough to satisfy you all week, huh?
Friday, June 24, 2011
Everyone's a Winner!!
I am so fucking sick of everyone thinking their kids are entitled to trophies, traveling sports teams, modeling gigs, dance solos, student of the week, and even fucking presidential fitness awards. Some people are winners and some are the losers. It is how life works, get a fucking helmet and get used to it, bitches. Not everyone can be on the team. Wanna know why?? Because then we have a team of 6 decent players, 4 mediocre ones, and 10 that stand and scratch their nuts or pick their noses or cry like little bitches because they don't REALLY want to play or work hard. They just want to wear the uniform and get the golden trophy all 20 asshole players get at the team banquet because GOD FORBID anyone fucking get their feelings hurt at the end of a season. I call bullshit.
My kids don't play sports. They are not interested and frankly, because I sucked as at any an all organized sporting activities that involved running, nets, or moving balls, I'm guessing they inherited their sporting skills from Mommy. My kids are dancers. I teach dance. We eat, sleep, and breathe dance. Dance is athletic as shit but I do not believe it's a sport--it's an art. I'd say they are pretty damn good at it but this was not a result of them being shot from my cooch doing a pirouette into the splits. I prodded and pushed and coerced and eventually they gave enough of a shit to work hard and and now they are good. And like it. I am not one of those crazy-ass stage moms who is fat as shit, who never got her turn to be in a tutu because the physics of the proportion of weight in her body in relation to the width of her toes in relation to the support of a pair of itty bitty satin pointe shoes never computed into anything less than a size "hefty" costume and sprained ankle. I encourage, I praise. I do not expect them to make every company, land every role, get chosen for every specialty dance routine that's ever put on. Why?? Because just because they are my hell-spawn does not mean they are perfect. Even in my eyes.
Sometimes it's tough to be objective when looking at your own child. You see your child as perfect, having all the necessary skills and strengths. Be realistic people. Your kid is not Superman. I was rejected from plenty of dance auditions. But it gave me good experience and made me tougher. If your kid doesn't make it into a team or whatever they are trying out for, it does not mean the teacher/coach hates them, is racist, or is a fucking asshole. Maybe your kid just isn't ready yet. It's a fact of life and the sooner we accept this, the better our kids will turn out. Does it teach them good lessons for life is EVERYONE makes it?? If EVERYONE gets a 1st place ribbon?? If EVERYONE gets the grand supreme tiara?? Nope. Because in the real world you get promoted by blood, sweat, and tears. Okay, there will be certain unethical situations where a friend or relative helps you get a job. But don't go sleeping with the boss to move your way up in the ranks, that will bite you in the ass quicker than having Lindsay Lohan or Winona Ryder as your personal shopper.
Maybe your kids IS great. Maybe they are some freak prodigy who can sing like a bird or run like a gazelle or catch balls better than Ricky Martin at a pride parade. Good for them. But maybe they suck. Maybe they are awkward and trip over their own two feet or despise you for making them try a sport YOU were star player in. Face it, it's not in the cards for them. Hang up the cleats or ballet shoes, maybe they're be good in art. Or playing an instrument. Or maybe they'll live in your basement until they're 35, playing video games, eating Doritos, you'll be doing their laundry, and they will never get married. Sorry, had to give you a grim reality check. Get that kid off the damn couch to do SOMETHING!!!!! I'd rather have a kid who is excellent at playing the trombone and drawing comics than whining at the pool because he is bored, tired of swimming for 6.2 minutes, wants another ice cream, and has moobs.
My kids don't play sports. They are not interested and frankly, because I sucked as at any an all organized sporting activities that involved running, nets, or moving balls, I'm guessing they inherited their sporting skills from Mommy. My kids are dancers. I teach dance. We eat, sleep, and breathe dance. Dance is athletic as shit but I do not believe it's a sport--it's an art. I'd say they are pretty damn good at it but this was not a result of them being shot from my cooch doing a pirouette into the splits. I prodded and pushed and coerced and eventually they gave enough of a shit to work hard and and now they are good. And like it. I am not one of those crazy-ass stage moms who is fat as shit, who never got her turn to be in a tutu because the physics of the proportion of weight in her body in relation to the width of her toes in relation to the support of a pair of itty bitty satin pointe shoes never computed into anything less than a size "hefty" costume and sprained ankle. I encourage, I praise. I do not expect them to make every company, land every role, get chosen for every specialty dance routine that's ever put on. Why?? Because just because they are my hell-spawn does not mean they are perfect. Even in my eyes.
Sometimes it's tough to be objective when looking at your own child. You see your child as perfect, having all the necessary skills and strengths. Be realistic people. Your kid is not Superman. I was rejected from plenty of dance auditions. But it gave me good experience and made me tougher. If your kid doesn't make it into a team or whatever they are trying out for, it does not mean the teacher/coach hates them, is racist, or is a fucking asshole. Maybe your kid just isn't ready yet. It's a fact of life and the sooner we accept this, the better our kids will turn out. Does it teach them good lessons for life is EVERYONE makes it?? If EVERYONE gets a 1st place ribbon?? If EVERYONE gets the grand supreme tiara?? Nope. Because in the real world you get promoted by blood, sweat, and tears. Okay, there will be certain unethical situations where a friend or relative helps you get a job. But don't go sleeping with the boss to move your way up in the ranks, that will bite you in the ass quicker than having Lindsay Lohan or Winona Ryder as your personal shopper.
Maybe your kids IS great. Maybe they are some freak prodigy who can sing like a bird or run like a gazelle or catch balls better than Ricky Martin at a pride parade. Good for them. But maybe they suck. Maybe they are awkward and trip over their own two feet or despise you for making them try a sport YOU were star player in. Face it, it's not in the cards for them. Hang up the cleats or ballet shoes, maybe they're be good in art. Or playing an instrument. Or maybe they'll live in your basement until they're 35, playing video games, eating Doritos, you'll be doing their laundry, and they will never get married. Sorry, had to give you a grim reality check. Get that kid off the damn couch to do SOMETHING!!!!! I'd rather have a kid who is excellent at playing the trombone and drawing comics than whining at the pool because he is bored, tired of swimming for 6.2 minutes, wants another ice cream, and has moobs.
Thursday, June 23, 2011
For 25 Cents More.....
We live in a nation of upgrades. Of super-sizing. Of bigger is better. (It IS by the way, don't believe the "size doesn't matter" bullshit...) At every turn a sales person or cashier at the movies is telling me, "You know for only 25 cents more you can get an extra-large soda." Well.....okay?? I guess that sounds like a good deal, right? But then I realize that my diet Coke is basically a 2-liter with a straw. If I was trekking across the Mojave Desert for two days I doubt I'd be thirsty enough to finish this much soda. But it always seems like such a good deal. Those cashier cockteasers. And now I have to piss before the previews are even finished. Fuck you and your ginormo beverage. The mere condensation dripping on my foot the entire movie could satisfy my thirst. Can I also have a wheel barrow of popcorn, too?
American fast food chains make it so simple and mindless to order the 10-piece versus the 6-piece nuggets, the mega French fries versus a small bag, the add-on Hershey's fudge pie slice without batting an eye. And this is why we are a nation used to everything in excess. Bigger, better, faster, the best will only do for us. This spills over more than the waistlines of fatty-boom-ba-latty America. God forbid we have an outdated computer or an old-school Iphone that weighs more than 3 ounces. The shame and horror!!!!!!! Fuck, now I need the Mac Book, the Iphone 4G, the Butterfly Turbo Seizure-Inducing Vibrator. I can't fucking keep up with your technology updates!!!!!!
Then there's the lure of the in-store credit card. "But, ma'am, you will save 20% today on your entire purchase if you open a credit card. It will only take a couple of minutes! You can even pay it off right now!" First off, don't fucking call me "Ma'am". It makes me feel old as dirt. Just because I have a wedding ring, a few wrinkles, and a kid in tow doesn't mean I can't out-cool the SHIT out of you in the blink of an eye. Watch me get into a club in Vegas while you wait in line for two hours and probably STILL have to give the bouncer a hand job. Secondly, quit trying to credit rape me into opening your fucking store card. I happen to LIKE the dress I am buying. Do many of your other clothing selections suck balls? Why yes, they do. Lastly, I will simply pay cash if you expect me to pay off the whole God damn card on the spot. Screw you and your rote memorization sales training skills which are beaten into your head. I am sorry this is your summer job and you are hungover, trying to make commission, trying to score bonus points for opening 10 credit cards a day, and that you still have jiz in your hair from blowing the bouncer at Club Douche last night. Not my problem. Here's my debit card, bag that shit and back the fuck off.
Also please do not try to upsell me your crazy cheap-ass (and probably a day away from the "Best If Used By Date") extreme value crap at the check out. I do not need a family-size bag of Doritos, 10 bags of peanut M&M's, or jalepeno Corn Nuts. Save it for the chick behind me who clearly has a binder of coupons and is about to orgasm from her savings she's about to score. She is on an extreme couponing mission--to expand her nuclear food storage which is now overtaking all of her kids' bedrooms, the garage, and her husband's office. She also wants to increase the girth of her fupa so she will never see her pussy ever again. When you get 175 candy bars and 35 cans of Hormel chili, I don't give a shit if the store PAID you money to take it, you do not NEED all that bullshit. Really? Put down the case of Velveeta, head for the produce. Your waistline and colon will thank me.
I get about 10-12 magazines a month. I have bought so many of them from Girl Scouts and various renewal offers I have been out-of-my-mind to accept. But I have and now I have more reading selections than the doctor's office. I DO enjoy magazines. I do NOT ever, ever read newspapers. Call me uncultured, call me ignorant. I find newspapers tedious and filled with shit I either do not care about or comprehend. So when you approach me as I have exactly 37.3 minutes to complete a grocery trip before I pick up my kids, do not approach me with your shirt and tie dance over subscribing to the local newspaper. Guess what, ass clown? I do not even LIVE in this town!!! But you still persist!! Did your mama drop you on your head?? I fucking said NO!!!!!!!! Plus it's a shitty paper! If it has coupon inserts, save it for Fupa Fiona who is picking up her Rascal cart and will be over in about 5 minutes. She just has to arrange her coupon binder and spreadsheet. And king-size box of Butterfinger bites and 2-liter Dr. Pepper....
American fast food chains make it so simple and mindless to order the 10-piece versus the 6-piece nuggets, the mega French fries versus a small bag, the add-on Hershey's fudge pie slice without batting an eye. And this is why we are a nation used to everything in excess. Bigger, better, faster, the best will only do for us. This spills over more than the waistlines of fatty-boom-ba-latty America. God forbid we have an outdated computer or an old-school Iphone that weighs more than 3 ounces. The shame and horror!!!!!!! Fuck, now I need the Mac Book, the Iphone 4G, the Butterfly Turbo Seizure-Inducing Vibrator. I can't fucking keep up with your technology updates!!!!!!
Then there's the lure of the in-store credit card. "But, ma'am, you will save 20% today on your entire purchase if you open a credit card. It will only take a couple of minutes! You can even pay it off right now!" First off, don't fucking call me "Ma'am". It makes me feel old as dirt. Just because I have a wedding ring, a few wrinkles, and a kid in tow doesn't mean I can't out-cool the SHIT out of you in the blink of an eye. Watch me get into a club in Vegas while you wait in line for two hours and probably STILL have to give the bouncer a hand job. Secondly, quit trying to credit rape me into opening your fucking store card. I happen to LIKE the dress I am buying. Do many of your other clothing selections suck balls? Why yes, they do. Lastly, I will simply pay cash if you expect me to pay off the whole God damn card on the spot. Screw you and your rote memorization sales training skills which are beaten into your head. I am sorry this is your summer job and you are hungover, trying to make commission, trying to score bonus points for opening 10 credit cards a day, and that you still have jiz in your hair from blowing the bouncer at Club Douche last night. Not my problem. Here's my debit card, bag that shit and back the fuck off.
Also please do not try to upsell me your crazy cheap-ass (and probably a day away from the "Best If Used By Date") extreme value crap at the check out. I do not need a family-size bag of Doritos, 10 bags of peanut M&M's, or jalepeno Corn Nuts. Save it for the chick behind me who clearly has a binder of coupons and is about to orgasm from her savings she's about to score. She is on an extreme couponing mission--to expand her nuclear food storage which is now overtaking all of her kids' bedrooms, the garage, and her husband's office. She also wants to increase the girth of her fupa so she will never see her pussy ever again. When you get 175 candy bars and 35 cans of Hormel chili, I don't give a shit if the store PAID you money to take it, you do not NEED all that bullshit. Really? Put down the case of Velveeta, head for the produce. Your waistline and colon will thank me.
I get about 10-12 magazines a month. I have bought so many of them from Girl Scouts and various renewal offers I have been out-of-my-mind to accept. But I have and now I have more reading selections than the doctor's office. I DO enjoy magazines. I do NOT ever, ever read newspapers. Call me uncultured, call me ignorant. I find newspapers tedious and filled with shit I either do not care about or comprehend. So when you approach me as I have exactly 37.3 minutes to complete a grocery trip before I pick up my kids, do not approach me with your shirt and tie dance over subscribing to the local newspaper. Guess what, ass clown? I do not even LIVE in this town!!! But you still persist!! Did your mama drop you on your head?? I fucking said NO!!!!!!!! Plus it's a shitty paper! If it has coupon inserts, save it for Fupa Fiona who is picking up her Rascal cart and will be over in about 5 minutes. She just has to arrange her coupon binder and spreadsheet. And king-size box of Butterfinger bites and 2-liter Dr. Pepper....
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