Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Seriously, FUCK OFF
Will the fucktard douche cock who keeps posting bullshit in my comments section please shut the fuck up about investing and all the other crap you are posting?!!! It's like you are taking a giant dump of BULLSHIT on my blog. Back off, ass clown.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
It's NOT a Bomb, I Swear!
I returned Sunday from a brief but fan-fucking-tastic mini vacation in Cancun, Mexico. Just enough time for me to frolic in the sand, drink ridonkulous amounts of frozen beverages all day long (hey, it's happy hour SOMEWHERE!), wear my new bikini, and get a decent tan. It was such a dick tease though because now I am back it Mother Nature's dysentery shit storm of cold. Fuck winter. My tanned hands are shriveling like Walt Disney's head in that freezer somewhere. So sad.
I felt slightly guilty after entering the Cancun airport because I thought to myself, "I really, REALLY should not complain but my tits are sweating like God damn faucets. Pretty soon this will be a wet t-shirt contest." But the thought passed as I recalled the nipple-wrenching chill I had left only a few hours prior. Fucking hallelujah!!! It was 85 God damn degrees outside!!! Upon de-boarding we had to pass through customs. Easy enough, no worries. Until I realized they had to go through certain peoples' luggage. No whammies, no whammies....
"Please ma'am, press the button," the kind customs lady said to me. Big fucking whammy.
"Move to the line over here, you got a red light," she said.
God damn right it was a red light. Because now my sweating made me look like a key fucking witness in a mob case in Jersey. Why me?! What the fuck?! Breathe, just breathe..
See the problem is two-fold. Not only had I met my husband's colleague and his lovely wife who did NOT have to press the red button, but they were waiting for us a few yards away. Problem two is that buried in the recesses of my suitcase was a certain toy I have NEVER packed when flying but somehow decided an international flight to a tropical locale was the opportune time to bring it. Like the Bad Idea Jeans commercial on Saturday Night Live, this could be quite awkward. I watched nervously as the man before us had his luggage raped by her rubber-gloved little paws. Fuck me. She took hold of my husband's suitcase, unzipped, rifled through a few layers and he was good to go. I tried to smile naturally (she probably thought I was already drunk) as she unzipped my super heavy bag and felt it up like a drunk freshman girl at a frat party. She skimmed over my precious dirty cargo, which thank fucking God I had the sense to remove the batteries from.
"Okay, you are good," she said as she motioned for me to zip up. I had visions of a waving of said precious cargo, questions being asked, translators being called over ("How you say DEEL-DO?..."), and me yelling , "It's not a bomb! Really, I promise!" as a hot pink "massager" is waved in the air like a Mexican flag on God damn Cinqo de Mayo. But alas, no such adventure came to be. Fucking PHEW!!!!!!
The all-inclusive resort proved to be mind-blowing to me, a gal who has never been to such a place let alone Mexico. So let me get this straight, I can drink ALL the decent booze I want, from morning till night, I can eat at any restaurant without any reservations, order whatever the hell I damn well please, and simply WALK AWAY? Fucking AWESOME!! I lead a sheltered life I guess. A girl could get used to this shit. Easily. My husband's new company treated us to this little getaway and I am sooooooo grateful for breaking up the monotony of winter like this.
We went to a tequila tasting. We rode a random boat up and down the coast with some cool-as-shit new friends. We ate dinner on the beach at sunset. We swam in the ocean. We got sunburns in JANUARY. And we partied and danced and laughed our asses off over ping-pong games, cigars, and Miami Vice drinks poolside. An evening that began with tasteful bottles of wine and a kind toast amongst new friends ended with me being barefoot, drinking several flaming shots through a straw (what WAS that shit?!), having a slight recollection of walking (or was it crawling?..) back to my room, and waking up like Dr. Faggot, Hangover-style. There might as well have been chickens running about and a God damn tiger in the bathroom. I am sure the lady at the spa who gave me my "tropical oasis" body scrub and treatment recognized the scent of pure agave poisoning wafting from my every pore. She handed me blue paper panties and a matching tube bra. Did she think I was going to shit myself or was it standard attire for all spa-goers? Feeling bloated, definitely unsexy, and queasy, I let Lupe' (or whatever the fuck her name was..) exfoliate me, wrap me like a giant chalupa in plastic and foil, and rub me down with delicious lotion. Praise the Lord the lights were VERY dim because I was a fucking hot mess. I smelled good but it was not pretty. After ringing some sort of triangle instrument three times, she whispered, "Miss Molly, your TREE-ment ees done." I rose, glanced in the mirror and noted my eyes looked like I had been in a UFC fight, put my robe back on, and exited. No one else seemed to be the slightest hungover as the lounged in the waiting area. I pounded about 4 glasses of grapefruit essence water and avoided eye contact. No. More. Booze....EVER.
Well that shit lasted till about lunch time. Those drinks are just so damn REFRESHING!! How does a girl say no??? Bikinis, booze, and the best time ever--that's pretty much how I'd sum up Cancun. I plan on heading to Mexico again in the near future. It is paradise. But I'd better be careful because there's a good chance a tiger WILL be in the bathroom if those flaming shots of death reappear....
I felt slightly guilty after entering the Cancun airport because I thought to myself, "I really, REALLY should not complain but my tits are sweating like God damn faucets. Pretty soon this will be a wet t-shirt contest." But the thought passed as I recalled the nipple-wrenching chill I had left only a few hours prior. Fucking hallelujah!!! It was 85 God damn degrees outside!!! Upon de-boarding we had to pass through customs. Easy enough, no worries. Until I realized they had to go through certain peoples' luggage. No whammies, no whammies....
"Please ma'am, press the button," the kind customs lady said to me. Big fucking whammy.
"Move to the line over here, you got a red light," she said.
God damn right it was a red light. Because now my sweating made me look like a key fucking witness in a mob case in Jersey. Why me?! What the fuck?! Breathe, just breathe..
See the problem is two-fold. Not only had I met my husband's colleague and his lovely wife who did NOT have to press the red button, but they were waiting for us a few yards away. Problem two is that buried in the recesses of my suitcase was a certain toy I have NEVER packed when flying but somehow decided an international flight to a tropical locale was the opportune time to bring it. Like the Bad Idea Jeans commercial on Saturday Night Live, this could be quite awkward. I watched nervously as the man before us had his luggage raped by her rubber-gloved little paws. Fuck me. She took hold of my husband's suitcase, unzipped, rifled through a few layers and he was good to go. I tried to smile naturally (she probably thought I was already drunk) as she unzipped my super heavy bag and felt it up like a drunk freshman girl at a frat party. She skimmed over my precious dirty cargo, which thank fucking God I had the sense to remove the batteries from.
"Okay, you are good," she said as she motioned for me to zip up. I had visions of a waving of said precious cargo, questions being asked, translators being called over ("How you say DEEL-DO?..."), and me yelling , "It's not a bomb! Really, I promise!" as a hot pink "massager" is waved in the air like a Mexican flag on God damn Cinqo de Mayo. But alas, no such adventure came to be. Fucking PHEW!!!!!!
The all-inclusive resort proved to be mind-blowing to me, a gal who has never been to such a place let alone Mexico. So let me get this straight, I can drink ALL the decent booze I want, from morning till night, I can eat at any restaurant without any reservations, order whatever the hell I damn well please, and simply WALK AWAY? Fucking AWESOME!! I lead a sheltered life I guess. A girl could get used to this shit. Easily. My husband's new company treated us to this little getaway and I am sooooooo grateful for breaking up the monotony of winter like this.
We went to a tequila tasting. We rode a random boat up and down the coast with some cool-as-shit new friends. We ate dinner on the beach at sunset. We swam in the ocean. We got sunburns in JANUARY. And we partied and danced and laughed our asses off over ping-pong games, cigars, and Miami Vice drinks poolside. An evening that began with tasteful bottles of wine and a kind toast amongst new friends ended with me being barefoot, drinking several flaming shots through a straw (what WAS that shit?!), having a slight recollection of walking (or was it crawling?..) back to my room, and waking up like Dr. Faggot, Hangover-style. There might as well have been chickens running about and a God damn tiger in the bathroom. I am sure the lady at the spa who gave me my "tropical oasis" body scrub and treatment recognized the scent of pure agave poisoning wafting from my every pore. She handed me blue paper panties and a matching tube bra. Did she think I was going to shit myself or was it standard attire for all spa-goers? Feeling bloated, definitely unsexy, and queasy, I let Lupe' (or whatever the fuck her name was..) exfoliate me, wrap me like a giant chalupa in plastic and foil, and rub me down with delicious lotion. Praise the Lord the lights were VERY dim because I was a fucking hot mess. I smelled good but it was not pretty. After ringing some sort of triangle instrument three times, she whispered, "Miss Molly, your TREE-ment ees done." I rose, glanced in the mirror and noted my eyes looked like I had been in a UFC fight, put my robe back on, and exited. No one else seemed to be the slightest hungover as the lounged in the waiting area. I pounded about 4 glasses of grapefruit essence water and avoided eye contact. No. More. Booze....EVER.
Well that shit lasted till about lunch time. Those drinks are just so damn REFRESHING!! How does a girl say no??? Bikinis, booze, and the best time ever--that's pretty much how I'd sum up Cancun. I plan on heading to Mexico again in the near future. It is paradise. But I'd better be careful because there's a good chance a tiger WILL be in the bathroom if those flaming shots of death reappear....
Monday, January 11, 2010
De-Christmas-Fying
I have been in a funk for several days now. I just can't get my workout mojo back, get into the groove, stay on the wagon. I am crabby and unmotivated. It really sucks balls. I figured out today where part of my disdain has come from. I started the monstrous task of putting away all my holiday crap. Now some might argue that December 26th is the perfect time to say "fuck you" to the lights, tree, ornaments, garland, and stockings. I beg to differ. I spend days putting it all up, meticulously planning where each poinsettia garland is hung, where the burgundy ornaments are hung up the stairs versus the frosty blue ones on the evergreen swags in my kitchen. It is stressful to put it all up but yet so nice to glance around my home at the cozy holiday splendor. I'm not one of those assholes who turns my Christmas lights on well into March. But I will take it down in my own due time.
Christmas break symbolizes many things. Kids being home from school to terrorize the shit out of each other, whine about being bored every 5 seconds, and to act like shit heads on Christmas morning when they scan the array of packages and decide Santa has not brought them their most desired gift. Fucking ingrates. It is a time for socializing, for parties where fattening dips and sweets are consumed, where pomegranate cocktails spill freely, especially on beige carpet. It is a time for headaches, from having to pay quadruple the cost for a fucking robotic asshole hamster toy on Amazon because it is the hottest toy, and also from pounding 3 peppermint martinis and then doing shots of Jaegermeister just because I think I'm 21 again. Praise the pharmaceutical companies for creating good drugs. It is a time for recreational consumption of anti-anxiety pills when the joy/stress/financial burden of the holidays is too God damn much to handle. Hello Valium and Xanax, my lovers... It is a time for gingerbread house making, cookie baking, shoveling, grocery shopping, and occasionally working off a few (thousand) extra calories with a trip to the gym. It is a time to bust out rolls of gift wrap, tissue paper in every color, bows, and gifts bags. We wrap till we are blind and slightly retarded, slurring our words from the inane task. I have been known to utter, "I have MORE fucking gifts to wrap?! Cocksucking Christmas presents..." as I slam that glass of milk and nibble on the cookies left out for the fat fucker in the red suit. It is a time for reindeer food and urging kids to get their sweet asses to bed or Santa will have to skip our house. This is not really about Santa, it's more about cleverly arranging the obnoxious amount of presents we vow every year to cut back on. My mom swears EVERY year, "Let's just keep it down to a dull roar. We are not going to go as crazy next year." Yet there we are on Christmas morning, slowly watching each person open gift after gift after God damn gift. We take coffee breaks, baste the turkey breaks, take a nap breaks, shower breaks, take a shit breaks, meal breaks. It is a multi-hour event in our house. Fuck, I'm exhausted just TYPING this.
So once it's all said and done, it is a let down of excitement and emotion. I mean you build it up for months with the shopping and the music and the pretty lights in the trees. And then, BAM! It's gone. Faster than you can say "Old Saint Nick". It's just really depressing. I'm not saying I want to live in some fucked-up, year-round Christmas utopia. That would be creepy as shit. But maybe Santa could pop some happy pills into the grown-up stockings. A little sumthin'-sumthin' to ease the transition into bleak, freezing cold nothingness that is known as January. Christmas is like a powerful drug that we become addicted to at first glimpse of glittery garland after Halloween. Sure, we bitch and moan, "My WORD, I cannot believe how much earlier they seem to put out all the Christmas paraphernalia each year! This is plain NUTTY!" But you know you secretly love it. You see those stockings with furry trim and all the choices in gift bags, you smell those cinnamon pine cones, you hear that light station finally switch over to ALL Christmas music and you are fucking PSYCHED! You agree with your Christmas hater friends how it's so annoying but secretly you are calling them SHB's----Santa Hating Bitches. Fucking twats, they do not even KNOW the joy this season brings to you! They need to be beaten down with a massive 5-foot candy cane. Till they are bleeding profusely. And you will stand above them, singing "Deck the Halls", "Jingle Bells", and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", in a loud, bellowing Christmas-carol-y voice. And when they FINALLY claim that Christmas is the greatest, most show-stopping, light show bonanza-filled holiday to ever exist, maybe THEN you will call for medical help. But only after burning their ass with a big candy cane branding iron. See who's Santa's bitch NOW. Take my lights down on the 26th my fucking ass.....
Christmas break symbolizes many things. Kids being home from school to terrorize the shit out of each other, whine about being bored every 5 seconds, and to act like shit heads on Christmas morning when they scan the array of packages and decide Santa has not brought them their most desired gift. Fucking ingrates. It is a time for socializing, for parties where fattening dips and sweets are consumed, where pomegranate cocktails spill freely, especially on beige carpet. It is a time for headaches, from having to pay quadruple the cost for a fucking robotic asshole hamster toy on Amazon because it is the hottest toy, and also from pounding 3 peppermint martinis and then doing shots of Jaegermeister just because I think I'm 21 again. Praise the pharmaceutical companies for creating good drugs. It is a time for recreational consumption of anti-anxiety pills when the joy/stress/financial burden of the holidays is too God damn much to handle. Hello Valium and Xanax, my lovers... It is a time for gingerbread house making, cookie baking, shoveling, grocery shopping, and occasionally working off a few (thousand) extra calories with a trip to the gym. It is a time to bust out rolls of gift wrap, tissue paper in every color, bows, and gifts bags. We wrap till we are blind and slightly retarded, slurring our words from the inane task. I have been known to utter, "I have MORE fucking gifts to wrap?! Cocksucking Christmas presents..." as I slam that glass of milk and nibble on the cookies left out for the fat fucker in the red suit. It is a time for reindeer food and urging kids to get their sweet asses to bed or Santa will have to skip our house. This is not really about Santa, it's more about cleverly arranging the obnoxious amount of presents we vow every year to cut back on. My mom swears EVERY year, "Let's just keep it down to a dull roar. We are not going to go as crazy next year." Yet there we are on Christmas morning, slowly watching each person open gift after gift after God damn gift. We take coffee breaks, baste the turkey breaks, take a nap breaks, shower breaks, take a shit breaks, meal breaks. It is a multi-hour event in our house. Fuck, I'm exhausted just TYPING this.
So once it's all said and done, it is a let down of excitement and emotion. I mean you build it up for months with the shopping and the music and the pretty lights in the trees. And then, BAM! It's gone. Faster than you can say "Old Saint Nick". It's just really depressing. I'm not saying I want to live in some fucked-up, year-round Christmas utopia. That would be creepy as shit. But maybe Santa could pop some happy pills into the grown-up stockings. A little sumthin'-sumthin' to ease the transition into bleak, freezing cold nothingness that is known as January. Christmas is like a powerful drug that we become addicted to at first glimpse of glittery garland after Halloween. Sure, we bitch and moan, "My WORD, I cannot believe how much earlier they seem to put out all the Christmas paraphernalia each year! This is plain NUTTY!" But you know you secretly love it. You see those stockings with furry trim and all the choices in gift bags, you smell those cinnamon pine cones, you hear that light station finally switch over to ALL Christmas music and you are fucking PSYCHED! You agree with your Christmas hater friends how it's so annoying but secretly you are calling them SHB's----Santa Hating Bitches. Fucking twats, they do not even KNOW the joy this season brings to you! They need to be beaten down with a massive 5-foot candy cane. Till they are bleeding profusely. And you will stand above them, singing "Deck the Halls", "Jingle Bells", and "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer", in a loud, bellowing Christmas-carol-y voice. And when they FINALLY claim that Christmas is the greatest, most show-stopping, light show bonanza-filled holiday to ever exist, maybe THEN you will call for medical help. But only after burning their ass with a big candy cane branding iron. See who's Santa's bitch NOW. Take my lights down on the 26th my fucking ass.....
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Funyun Crotch
Now some of you might gag a bit at the title of this post. Some of you might cry out, "This woman is too much!" But if you really and truly laugh at my shit and/or know me, you will read on. Got you curious, didn't I?
I am a fan of group fitness. What is this you ask? It is an organized class where a fitness instructor leads a group of several people in some sort of ritualistic torture which is often accompanied by booty-popping bass music. You will walk out sweaty and hearing impaired, it's a hoot! You burn a LOT of calories. (Read: you can eat those fries at Red Robin once in awhile..) Why don't I merely enjoy doing my own thing at the gym? Because I am a lazy sack of unmotivated shit, that's why. Sure, I have my new Nike Air Shox sneakers on, my Lucy suction-my-ass-like-Michael-Phelps'-lips-on-a-bong workout pants, and my double sports bras to restrict black eye induction caused by excessive jarring of my double D's. I have my freshly loaded Ipod with great club music. I have my aluminum thermal water bottle full to rehydrate me. But I also have my trashy People magazine, which will unintentionally distract me from getting much faster than a meander on a treadmill. I will be so caught up in Kate Gosselin's new hairdo or Jessica Simpson's erroneous choice of camel-toe-inducing mom jeans that I will not even break a sweat. And isn't that why we go to the gym?
So I subject myself to these perfect (bitches) instructors who could be stunt doubles for the movie 300 with their God damn 8-pack abs. Their asses are so tight if I shoved a lump of coal between their mini hamburger bun butt cheeks, I'd have a diamond in 42.7 minutes. And let's talk about the gun show!! Apparently I got the short stick when God was drawing good body parts for me. The instructors arms look like finely sculpted perfection, whereas mine resemble lumpy cans of Pillsbury fucking French loaf. Sigh. That's why I ATTEMPT to do push ups, though I often cave to the pussy-style, on-the-knees girly variety. Fuck you, push ups are HARD! We repeat various moves with dumbbells, benches, rubber yoga mats, balance balls, resistance bands, benches of varying heights, medicine balls, weighted bars, and even weighted gloves. It sounds like an S&M convention but the only thing you "get off" is the calories from those Reeses Peanut Butter Cups you inhaled last night at 11:30.I am not complaining, I NEED someone to kick my ass into gear.
There are various degrees of perspiration you create from said activities. Some people drip like they're having tantric donkey sex in the Amazon rainforest, others merely glisten. If you can imagine, this perspiration creates an odor situation in the fitness studios. Some days it is fucking rank as shit. I admit, I do sweat quite a bit when I am not reading about Lindsay Lohan's coke bender as I walk at 1.5 miles per hour on the treadmill. I may very well be a culprit in the case of the dirty foot aroma wafting from Studio 1. But there is another odor, one you sometimes need to be up close and personal to enjoy. I lovingly refer to this as Funyun Crotch. Combine 1 pair of thong panties, one pair of tight Spandex workout pants, 1 hour of intense cardio activity, and 1 shitload of sweat. Have you ever smell a bag of freshly opened Funyuns, the corn snack that is supposed to resemble onion rings? It is NASTY. Welcome to the world of post workout panties.( I hope you are either laughing or vomiting at this depiction. Admit it, it's funny.) This smelly cooch phenomenon is not solely my plight, it is one we often discuss in the locker room or at the cafe over smoothies. (Not Funyun flavor, I prefer Strawberry Mango..) Some may be shy in admitting it but we all know it's there. It's like that turd in the toilet someone won't claim and flush. ANYONE could have done it. So don't pretend your vag smells like sunshine and fucking roses after you work out. I stood behind you in class, I should know.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
It's The Holidays, Cheer the Fuck Up
In my pre-children, living in the city days, I worked in retail. This is the dreaded time of your for most retail sales people because, let's face it, it gets fucking CRAZY with all those customers clamoring for the perfect gift. But I have to admit I actually ENJOYED that time of year. Lots of people were on staff for the day to commiserate with, the time flew by because you were always SO busy, Christmas is my favorite time of year so it only added to my holiday euphoria, and they were always crazy customers demanding insane things to bitch about and make fun of. What's NOT to like?
As I shopped in two different malls yesterday I noticed a theme. Crabby as fuck sales associates ringing up my wares at Macy's. Belinda Bootylicious, I am sorry you are missing your lunch break but yelling at the last person in line to "not let no more people line up behind them because it's time for your break" is not their job. Audibly sighing, "Oh my God" upon seeing said line continuing to grow is annoying, as is the shitty attitude you gave me when I asked you for a gift box. It's Christmas time, what are the chances a customer might be purchasing a fucking GIFT?? To the man working in the men's trendy department, you need a serious attitude adjustment. You are sporting that faux hawk, overly gelled hairstyle, you have your dapper skinny suit on, but your sour scowl and mopey demeanor make me realize three things: you are clearly Jewish and despise this impending Christian-based holiday, you are seriously constipated, and you haven't had a blow job in 2 years. I suggest you convert, take some Fibercon, and go to the nearest cheapo ching-chong bing-bong massage parlor and ask for "the extra happy ending". Maybe she'll lick your hairy balls for an extra ten bucks. They probably smell like matzo.
I don't understand why mindless ringing up merchandise is so taxing. Slam a venti Starbucks and just power through that shift. It's not hard labor, it's not brain surgery, you are working in the warmth of the indoors for God's sake. You are ruining my holiday spirit buzz so cheer the fuck up. Santa thinks you are a crabby fuckwad so get over yourself.
I wrapped 55 gifts last night and sadly, this didn't even dip into the presents for my kids. It's fair to say the true meaning of Christmas might get lost in the shuffle of tissue paper, bows, and gift receipts at my house. I know it's there, I know what the dealio is. I take the kids to the insanely packed children's mass on Christmas Eve. Every year we need to get there earlier to score a decent seat and avoid, God forbid, standing through the hour and a half of Catholic mass and singing bonanza. It's tradition and sort of brings things into focus, at least until the flurry of obscene gift giving ensues Christmas morning. Thanks, baby Jesus, you have made this holiday happen. We just amped it up a little bit and made it more kick-ass.
There are some things I know for sure. Alec Baldwin will never be as svelt and charming as we was in the movie, The Marrying Man. (Have you seen his puffy ass lately? So sad..) Stirrup pants will always make you look like an asshole, no matter what Vogue magazine says. And retail insanity is an essential part of my holiday experience. It is FAR AND AWAY the number one activity I enjoy (okay, well I can think of a couple more..) this time of year. So don't ruin my day with your crappy attitude. You signed up for this holiday job, so ring up my shit, offer me gift boxes, and fucking SMILE or Santa will leave a turd in your stocking, maybe shaped like a dreidel. Happy Fucking Holidays!!!!!
As I shopped in two different malls yesterday I noticed a theme. Crabby as fuck sales associates ringing up my wares at Macy's. Belinda Bootylicious, I am sorry you are missing your lunch break but yelling at the last person in line to "not let no more people line up behind them because it's time for your break" is not their job. Audibly sighing, "Oh my God" upon seeing said line continuing to grow is annoying, as is the shitty attitude you gave me when I asked you for a gift box. It's Christmas time, what are the chances a customer might be purchasing a fucking GIFT?? To the man working in the men's trendy department, you need a serious attitude adjustment. You are sporting that faux hawk, overly gelled hairstyle, you have your dapper skinny suit on, but your sour scowl and mopey demeanor make me realize three things: you are clearly Jewish and despise this impending Christian-based holiday, you are seriously constipated, and you haven't had a blow job in 2 years. I suggest you convert, take some Fibercon, and go to the nearest cheapo ching-chong bing-bong massage parlor and ask for "the extra happy ending". Maybe she'll lick your hairy balls for an extra ten bucks. They probably smell like matzo.
I don't understand why mindless ringing up merchandise is so taxing. Slam a venti Starbucks and just power through that shift. It's not hard labor, it's not brain surgery, you are working in the warmth of the indoors for God's sake. You are ruining my holiday spirit buzz so cheer the fuck up. Santa thinks you are a crabby fuckwad so get over yourself.
I wrapped 55 gifts last night and sadly, this didn't even dip into the presents for my kids. It's fair to say the true meaning of Christmas might get lost in the shuffle of tissue paper, bows, and gift receipts at my house. I know it's there, I know what the dealio is. I take the kids to the insanely packed children's mass on Christmas Eve. Every year we need to get there earlier to score a decent seat and avoid, God forbid, standing through the hour and a half of Catholic mass and singing bonanza. It's tradition and sort of brings things into focus, at least until the flurry of obscene gift giving ensues Christmas morning. Thanks, baby Jesus, you have made this holiday happen. We just amped it up a little bit and made it more kick-ass.
There are some things I know for sure. Alec Baldwin will never be as svelt and charming as we was in the movie, The Marrying Man. (Have you seen his puffy ass lately? So sad..) Stirrup pants will always make you look like an asshole, no matter what Vogue magazine says. And retail insanity is an essential part of my holiday experience. It is FAR AND AWAY the number one activity I enjoy (okay, well I can think of a couple more..) this time of year. So don't ruin my day with your crappy attitude. You signed up for this holiday job, so ring up my shit, offer me gift boxes, and fucking SMILE or Santa will leave a turd in your stocking, maybe shaped like a dreidel. Happy Fucking Holidays!!!!!
Monday, November 23, 2009
Pinch Me
This past weekend I got to fulfill what I hope is a small beginning of a dream many years in the making. I performed with my fellow writers from the Comedy Shrine of Naperville's writing workshop. We busted our asses writing short sketches, jokes, and black-outs. We edited and memorized our scenes. We performed to a sold-out house. Fucking-A, it was good stuff.
Was I nervous? Sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to have explosive diarrhea or anything. Our teacher, Nate Herman, used to write for Saturday Night Live back during the really funny era, with Martin Short, Billy Crystal, Eddie Murphy. I idolized the SHIT out of SNL and it's writers and cast members back then. Sure, I was probably a little young to be watching some of it but thanks to cool parents, I got to see what GOOD funny is all about. If someone would have told me I'd take a class from Nate and then write and perform at an improv theater, well THEN I might have shit myself.
I have enjoyed making people laugh with my shock value, in-your-face humor in all it's crudeness, since I was a teen. I recall a day when my dance company director called me in because a parent complained about my sense of humor. Fucking born-again douche rag.... What I say and think is hard to stifle. I guess I say what so many think but are afraid to verbalize or can't quite articulate with the proper array of "fucktards", "cocksucking stink star-lickers", or plain ol' "douche bags". I don't apologize for my humor. I will never be clean enough to perform in a family show because I think swearing is extremely funny. Really fucking funny. So gosh golly gee, saying "freakin'" or "darnit all" or "cheese and rice" doesn't happen in my house, even in front of my kids. Do I think I'm a good mom? Fuck yeah I am a good mother. Do I think swearing in front of them is good? Well, no, not really. But they are fully aware what I say is not acceptable for them to say. My oldest sometimes cringes when I go off on a bender. Then I tell her maybe I wouldn't swear so God damn much if she wasn't such a fucking smart ass...
I wrote two short sketches which I performed in and also performed in 4 more that other people wrote. I got to read two of my jokes and do two short black-out style jokes as well. Many of the writers are already improv actors who perform regularly at the Comedy Shrine. This made me slightly intimidated. I sometimes think I can hold my own but didn't know if I was just hoping for a giant fucking miracle and that when I actually ACT out what I write, I can be just as funny. That's a giant fucking crap shoot, folks. I learned when I first stepped into class, to write funny is not the same thing as readable funny. I had to figure out how to write concise, get-to-the-fucking-point jokes. Sure, my blog is funny but when read out loud it can be really looooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnggggg. So I figured it out, got a shit load of pointers and advice, and fast forward to Saturday night.
We tried as best we could to memorize lines. When you are doing a scene, it doesn't matter if you have it all memorized backwards, forwards, up your ass, what-have-you. If the person in your scene drops a line or jacks it up, you have to think on your toes and go with the flow. I believe this, in its simplest element, is IMPROV acting. So in a sense, this is what I did Saturday. It is not as hard as I thought but I highly doubt I'm anywhere ready for a "Whose Line is it Anyway?" style show just yet. Mama wants to actually take some real classes first. And welcome another element of my dream. I don't know exactly HOW my funny is going to fulfill me, but it will. I fucking LOVE writing and being clever with words. But I discovered Saturday night as I was pitting out like a guilty thief in a line-up in my black tight sweater, skirt, and hooker boots under the stage lights, I also really love performing like that. I think I CAN do it.
So for now, I'll write and maybe take some classes and figure out this funny-ass journey I am traveling on. Who knows where in the hell it will take me? All I can tell you is I am at my utmost happiest of happy when I am making you laugh. And if I offend you, well then fuck off, the family-friendly comedian doesn't reside here. I like being the funny fucking bitch. I am really good at it, too.
Was I nervous? Sure, but I didn't feel like I was going to have explosive diarrhea or anything. Our teacher, Nate Herman, used to write for Saturday Night Live back during the really funny era, with Martin Short, Billy Crystal, Eddie Murphy. I idolized the SHIT out of SNL and it's writers and cast members back then. Sure, I was probably a little young to be watching some of it but thanks to cool parents, I got to see what GOOD funny is all about. If someone would have told me I'd take a class from Nate and then write and perform at an improv theater, well THEN I might have shit myself.
I have enjoyed making people laugh with my shock value, in-your-face humor in all it's crudeness, since I was a teen. I recall a day when my dance company director called me in because a parent complained about my sense of humor. Fucking born-again douche rag.... What I say and think is hard to stifle. I guess I say what so many think but are afraid to verbalize or can't quite articulate with the proper array of "fucktards", "cocksucking stink star-lickers", or plain ol' "douche bags". I don't apologize for my humor. I will never be clean enough to perform in a family show because I think swearing is extremely funny. Really fucking funny. So gosh golly gee, saying "freakin'" or "darnit all" or "cheese and rice" doesn't happen in my house, even in front of my kids. Do I think I'm a good mom? Fuck yeah I am a good mother. Do I think swearing in front of them is good? Well, no, not really. But they are fully aware what I say is not acceptable for them to say. My oldest sometimes cringes when I go off on a bender. Then I tell her maybe I wouldn't swear so God damn much if she wasn't such a fucking smart ass...
I wrote two short sketches which I performed in and also performed in 4 more that other people wrote. I got to read two of my jokes and do two short black-out style jokes as well. Many of the writers are already improv actors who perform regularly at the Comedy Shrine. This made me slightly intimidated. I sometimes think I can hold my own but didn't know if I was just hoping for a giant fucking miracle and that when I actually ACT out what I write, I can be just as funny. That's a giant fucking crap shoot, folks. I learned when I first stepped into class, to write funny is not the same thing as readable funny. I had to figure out how to write concise, get-to-the-fucking-point jokes. Sure, my blog is funny but when read out loud it can be really looooooooooooooooooooooonnnnnggggg. So I figured it out, got a shit load of pointers and advice, and fast forward to Saturday night.
We tried as best we could to memorize lines. When you are doing a scene, it doesn't matter if you have it all memorized backwards, forwards, up your ass, what-have-you. If the person in your scene drops a line or jacks it up, you have to think on your toes and go with the flow. I believe this, in its simplest element, is IMPROV acting. So in a sense, this is what I did Saturday. It is not as hard as I thought but I highly doubt I'm anywhere ready for a "Whose Line is it Anyway?" style show just yet. Mama wants to actually take some real classes first. And welcome another element of my dream. I don't know exactly HOW my funny is going to fulfill me, but it will. I fucking LOVE writing and being clever with words. But I discovered Saturday night as I was pitting out like a guilty thief in a line-up in my black tight sweater, skirt, and hooker boots under the stage lights, I also really love performing like that. I think I CAN do it.
So for now, I'll write and maybe take some classes and figure out this funny-ass journey I am traveling on. Who knows where in the hell it will take me? All I can tell you is I am at my utmost happiest of happy when I am making you laugh. And if I offend you, well then fuck off, the family-friendly comedian doesn't reside here. I like being the funny fucking bitch. I am really good at it, too.
Friday, November 6, 2009
Reality Check
I think the nation's current obsession with reality shows is seriously fucking us up. There is hardly anything realistic about these God damn shows. Many of them are scripted or have added dramas to make things more interesting. Who wants to see boring real-life reality? Isn't it so much more fun when you throw a skinhead from the South together with a brotha' from the Bronx and give them copious amounts of BOOZE?! That's good TV, yo!!! And try as I may, I get lured in with their sneaky bullshit reality every fucking season to more and more shows. Sons of bitches....
I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.
As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.
My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.
Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.
As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.
My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?
I am proud that I have finally broken my addiction to MTV's The Real World. I used to watch religiously, even Tivo-ing the shows, admittedly sometimes back-to-back with other such meaty MTV nuggets such as Road Rules or the creme de la creme merger of BOTH shows, Real World/Road Rules Challenge. I have flipped over to MTV now and then and I find myself asking this question: Was I that much of a raging douche twat when I was 21?! I mean, really now. These idiots are all attractive, young, and really really eager to get wasted into oblivion and get laid. So the producers throw in people they fucking KNOW will fight like white trash tourists at a $5 All-You-Can-Carry sale at the local gift shop. The black dude and the Southern belle. The alcoholic stripper and the religious prude. The closeted guy who wears women's jeans and the bulimic who's addicted to pills. It makes good TV. They aren't idiots, they're betting that the majority of us reality junkies will remain loyal. Screw you, MTV. Show me some God damn videos again and maybe I'll switch back to watching your crap. Not buying right now.
As I stayed home with my sick daughter for two days, I struggled to find things to keep her feverish little self occupied. Enter the almighty television. I cannot stand the whiney pre-teen drivel of Disney Channel or Nickelodeon so I made her compromise with me. She tolerates the Food Network but will willingly watch TLC or Animal Planet, two channels I can handle. We watched hours of Say Yes to the Dress, a show based on brides shopping for wedding gowns with outlandish budgets and bitchy sorority entourages. In casual conversation, I asked my daughter what kind of wedding dress she'd like. One of the actual consultants on the show had a stunner which retails for $11,500. For ONE fucking dress. Really? Oh and she wants either the baker from Cake Boss or Ace of Cakes to make her wedding cake. Guess I need to sell a kidney. She's 9 years-old so I hope I can save up for all this in time for her wedding. Jesus H. Christ.
My younger daughter has recently become obsessed with Toddlers and Tiaras, a freaking train wreck of the pageant world. I know some young girls who are in pageants and in their defense, not all of them are so over-the-top. But the TLC reality show knows that the mamas with the drama and their mini made-up little diva daughters make the best TV. Asshole geniuses! The wee princess divas wear special kiddie dentures, known as flippers, to resembler real teeth. except there is nothing realistic about these falsies. They look like 10 pieces of Orbit gum hot-glued under their lips. Add mountains of fake curls and hair spray, really, REALLY pricey mini Barbie dresses. Some of these parents live in itty, bitty trailers but spend every ounce of their income to fund these pageants. Isabella said to me, "Mom, can I do a pageant? You can win A THOUSAND DOLLARS!!" I told her the little girl's talent dress alone cost $2500. She shut up pretty quickly.
Keeping Up With the Kardashians? The Hills? The Real Housewives of Orange County, Atlanta, and New Jersey? 18 Kids and Counting? All examples of the boundless assortment of reality tv which has completely overtaken us. If you have too much money and time, you can get your own tv show. If you have too many kids, a wholesome demeanor, and a fondness for long denim skirts and Jesus, you can have a show. Hell, even if you have a lot of kids and act like complete shitbag parents, you can get a show. Then when you cheat and get caught and inevitably divorced, you will garner the popularity of every trashy news rag in town on the front cover. Are you up for it? Sounds like a barrel of laughs if you ask me. Who wouldn't want a nice home, cameras running in your face day in and and day out, wardrobes for your children from Gap Kids.
As I partied like a rockstar this past weekend for my birthday, my own little entourage was lucky enough to see Brody Jenner hanging out. Who the fuck is he, you ask? Exactly. He is Bruce Jenner's son, who happens to be married into that Kardashian nightmare. I think he was on that fake and sort of scripted but sort-of-real show on MTV, The Hills. Basically a California socialite with money and a name and nothing to do but chase young girls, drink, and try to get laid. And when you've got that going for you you can get VIP treatment, your own security, premium booze, AND you don't even need to shave or look nice! Fuck, roll out of bed and don't shave, who cares! These dumb bitches will be on your jock like static cling, to borrow a line from Tone Loc.
My ultimate reality show addiction is So You Think You Can Dance. But hell, I can call that research for work. It is inspiring, not scripted, and not really catty. It isn't trashy, it exposes new music and choreographers as well as highlights amazing new talented dancers. When I saw Mia Michaels, Wade Robson, and Dave Scott (all choreographers on this fan-fucking-tastic show) at the club on my birthday, I creamed my pants. I acted like Molly Shannon doing Mary Catherine Gallagher. I was jumping up and down, mouthing, "I'm your biggest fan! I'm a ballet teacher! You INSPIRE me!!!" Mia Michaels gave me her surly and sour, "I just smelled a burrito fart" face. Attractive and dainty she is not. Fiercely talented and unnecessarily bitchy she IS. Fucking security in the joint treated me like I was fucking Bin Laden trying to have the Prez a nuke. To the gentleman wearing their black suits, wrist walkie talkies, and ear pieces, get the fuck over yourself. I don't give a shit that you are on security detail at a Chicago nightclub, you are not Secret Service, you aren't CIA. You get to decide which skanky pussy is acceptable for the wealthy son of a has-been Olympic athlete. And guess who these bitches DON'T want to fuck?...... YOU!!! Reality is a bitch, ain't it?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)