Sunday, August 9, 2009
So the next time you see me digging around in my crotchal region, it's not just the crabs. . . I may be retrieving my. . .
1. Cellphone. What better place to keep my cellphone than nestled safely next to my vagina. I mean it is a Blackberry Storm after all!
2. Roll of quarters. For those times when I am parched and require change for the pop machine, or maybe it's a gumball that I desire. BAMO! Roll of quarters within reach!
3. Driver's license. Who needs to carry a purse to the bar ever again!! Just throw your ID into your vagina pocket (along with that cute pink lipstick, I mean there's plenty of room for both!) and get ready to paint the town.
4. Sunglasses. I mean sure, when I sit down they will probably shatter under the girth of my vagina, but they fit in there so snugly!
5. Keys. I will never lock my keys in my car ever again. Oh no, not me! Not when I have my spare set shoved into my vagina pocket!
6. Chia pet. I don't even own a chia pet. But I'm gonna run out and buy one specifically for my giney pocket. The sheep is the one I want!
7. Wii controller. How badass will I appear when I hump my way to slaughtering my opponents at Wii bowling?
8. Garage door opener. What a great party trick! How is she making the garage door open and shut like that?! It's amazing! Thank you vagina pocket!
9. The Yellow Pages. For those days when I just can't quite see over the steering wheel and I need the four extra inches of vagina height. . . giney pocket saves the day.
10. Fear. Really, there is no better place to store your fear than in your vagina pocket.
11. And finally, my flashlight. People will exclaim, "Is that you God, I can see the light!" Nope, that is just my vagina, illuminating the world.
As you can see, this is one of the most revolutionary inventions in all of humankind. So I challenge you, dear readers. . . What will you shove into your vagina pockets? Hhhhhmmmmm?
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Anyhoo, all this rain and cold has made me feel a bit lethargic. And we all know that I naturally have a penchant for laziness. I guess that it is just the luck of the Irish that I have even gotten out of bed this entire month! Well I take that back because the first part of the month I spent at Lake Cumberland soaking my liver in jagermeister, working on my skin cancer, and trying not to drown. But the last few weeks, the only activity that I could muster was blinking and breathing in and out.
It is safe to say that I am officially sick of this weather. I am hoping that August brings scorching temperatures and lots of sun or else I am considering mailing a box filled with my poop (and maybe a booger or two) to the weather channel.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
I've been watching all of the coverage on television, and listening to all the speculation about his cause of death. What?! Really?! I could answer that for you right now!! As a matter of fact, that is not even what we should be speculating about because it is so obvious. Clearly he overdosed on his birth control medication, which is becoming a leading cause of death in legendary pop stars. And while sad, that is not what we should be focusing on at a time like this.
The real question that we should be asking ourselves people, is what was really going on down there. . . you know, in his britches. . . like, what did his junk look like?. . . if he even had any at all. So, I'm sure that you won't be surprised to know that I have several theories of my own about what MERF-LFPJ had going on down south.
What if. . . his junk was the only part of him that they were unable to bleach, resulting in his wiener looking like a slightly curved chocolate covered banana, nestled gently atop two Cadbury eggs?
What if. . . his wiener had a big tattoo of Donald Duck on the shaft and his ballsack was tattooed to look like a big pile of gum balls?
What if. . . he had his wiener extended, thinned out, and dyed bright red to look like a glorious red licorice super rope, and had the hair removed from his balls so that they looked like two delicious hard boiled eggs?
What if. . . he had his wiener and balls molded into a life-sized model of Arnold from Diff'rent Strokes?
What if. . . he had his dude junk transformed into lady parts reminiscent of a gordita supreme with extra sour cream from Taco Bell?
What if. . . the junk he was born with was grossly disfigured, looking like a battered bowling pin from Poelking lanes, sitting precariously above two ten pound gold sparkly bowling balls?
What if. . . he had his wiener removed completely, leaving behind his enourmous ballsack, which can only be described as a large white pillow case filled with two juicy cantaloupes?
And finally, what if. . . he has no junk at all and instead looks like a naked Ken doll. . . except skinnier. . . and pale. . . and sort of like a girl. . . and really fucking weird! Like so weird that it is like nothing you've ever seen before, EVER!! So crazy and strange is his junk, that you can't even wrap your feeble human brains around it.
So, I will pray until the moment that I croak that someone is smart enough to snap a picture of that bizzaro junk so that I may lay my bewildered eyes upon that sweet gift from God. Until then, I can only dream of gazing upon the magic that MERF-LFPJ flashed to fifteen percent of all the small boys in California.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Anyhizzle, here I am back again. I'm sure you are all wondering what I have been filling my time with during my time away from this endearing blog. Maybe I went deep sea fishing with a crusty old seadog captain, who I ended up having to kill and feed to the sharks after he honked my boob one too many times. . . Or maybe I dropped in on my old college buddy's archaeological dig in Bangcok(man I love the name of that town!), only to contract amoebic dysentery and spend my entire trip in Thailand sitting on the shitter. . . Or still maybe I caught a Yankee's game during a sight-seeing trip to New York, only to have A-Rod flash me some wien from the outfield, starting a cat fight between me and Kate Hudson. . . Or far more probable, maybe I have been stuck at my incredibly boring job for an unbelievably great amount of time, left gazing out of the the third story window at the murky, turd-filled river below, thinking that if I could only pry that window open, I would certainly hurl myself out of it into said river and deposit another turd into its waters.
Wow, I need to catch my breath after that one! I bet you guys have surely missed my insane ramblings tremendously! I mean really, how could you not?
Sunday, May 10, 2009
So what can I say about my mamma. . . Well, she's a good sport, and she's got a good sense of humor, which are musts when you have a kid as weird as me. She's an avid reader and she likes to cook. She likes gardening and is a big fan of birdhouses. She also smells strongly of depends and ballsacks. I am totally kidding about that last part, by the way. I tell her crazy stuff like that because it makes her laugh, although I don't know how funny she will find it that I put it on my blog.
And now that I'm thinking about it, what's a Mother's Day post without a funny story about my mamma? Well it would be no post at all, I tell you! So without further adieu, here is a funny story about my mother (don't kill me mamma, you know it was funny).
Several years ago, my mamma accompanied us on a seven day cruise that we took to the carribbean. We went with a big group of friends and it was a total blast. As anyone who has been on a cruise knows, the worst days on a cruise are the first day and the last day. The reason behind that is that embarking and disembarking blows. It is nothing but a whole day filled with hurry up and wait.
On our last day, we were going through the million mile long line to disembark. My mother was there with us and we were helping her with her bags. Well it just so happens that Mamma was not in the best of spirits that morning. She was cranky and complaining and being a general pain in the balls.
It was then that my incredibly witty husband turned to her and said, "Kind of cocky this morning, aren't we?" It was all down hill from there because I found that absolutely H-I-L-A-R-I-O-U-S. I started laughing uncontrollably and decided to dub her "Mamma-cock." Then everyone in line started laughing and we decided that Mamma-cock should have a badge with a giant cock on it. We started saying, "Badge em Mamma-cock! Show them your badge and get us to the front of the line!"
By this time, even Mamma-cock found it funny. Kelly and I started singing that old Johnny Cash song, Daddy sang bass, except with a few small changes.
He would sing, "Daddy sang bass."
And I would sing, "Mamma sang cock."
And together we would sing, "And me and little junior joined in!"
It really was a catchy tune. Needless to say, that put everyone in a better mood, including Mamma-cock.
Anyhoo, the moral of that ridiculous story is that my mamma can roll with the punches. She's not afraid to laugh at herself and certainly not afraid to laugh at me. We do a lot of different stuff together, and we always have a great time. She just recently retired after forty years at her job, so we have a lot more time to hit the town.
So here's to you Mamma. I would have loved to have spent the day with you, but unfortunately I had to work. Instead, I'll make you a big yummy dinner on tuesday like we planned. (See this post wasn't that bad, right Mamma-cock?)
Saturday, May 9, 2009
I don't really know what to do, other than go get a prescription for ambien, but I hate taking pills. But I truly can't seem to go to sleep. I just lay awake in my bed tossing and turning a million times and then playing with my little doggie until I know that my old man is about to strangle me, and then I have to just get up. I seriously spent pretty close to 800,592 hours on facebook during the night. I bet you didn't know there were that many hours in the night, but there are. And I spent them productively by playing mafia wars and a myriad of other stupid games on facebook. What?! Don't judge me, there was literally nothing else on the planet to do. There was nothing on TV, no movies I haven't seen, nothing to eat. . . the only other thing was cleaning, and there was no way I was doing that.
Even my little doggie at one point looked up at me and said, "Lay down and go to sleep you crazy bitch!" But I didn't listen. Or to be more accurate, I just couldn't. I would like to sleep. I miss sleeping. A lot of times I have really vivid fun dreams that are weirder than crap (I'm sure you can only imagine how weird they are, what with how strange I am during waking hours). But. it. is. not. happening.
Oh yeah and the other part I forgot to tell you because my brain is misfiring, is that we no longer have a family doctor. He just up and sent us a letter a couple of days ago saying that he was leaving his super successful private practice to go treat military personnel on the base. I told my old man that I thought that he had probably been boozing it up and they fired him. . . from his private practice. . . My old man just shook his head and tried to pretend that he wasn't married to an idiot. What do you want from me, I'm sleep deprived!! So now I have to go through the total pain in the butthole of trying to find a new family doctor.
I think instead of going through all that bullcrap, I'm just going have Kelly hit me over the head and knock me out. . . maybe with a really big weiner. Wait, that didn't sound right. Maybe I'll just stick to the ambien.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
I do quite a bit of cooking at my house, mostly for my old man. And unfortunately his palate is not very sophisticated. That's not a dis on him, he likes what he likes. It just greatly limits what I can cook for him that he will actually eat, which can get kind of boring. He is the typical "meat and potatoes"-eating red blooded male. Seriously folks, the list of vegetables this man will eat is very short. So, I spend a lot of time thinking up new and exciting ways to fix canned corn!!
I thought I would share one of the recipes that I came up with recently because it turned out pretty well. I call it:
Corn in Your Poop for Sure (serves 2)
1 can of white and yellow whole kernel sweet corn
2 slices of bacon
1/2 cup chopped sweet onion
1/2 cup chopped apple (any variety of apple will do and you can leave the skin on or peel it.)
1 teaspoon ground cumin
1 teaspoon chili powder
salt and pepper to taste
Cook your bacon until crisp and remove from skillet. In the bacon drippings, saute the onion and the apple on medium to medium-high heat until the onion is translucent (approximately six minutes). Open the can of corn and drain off all of the liquid. Add the entire can of corn to the apple and onion mixture. Crumble the crispy bacon and add it to the corn. Stir in the cumin and chili powder and allow to cook for approximately five to six minutes until heated through. Salt and pepper to taste.
I know the apple sounds like a weird addition, but it compliments the sweetness of the corn well. And if my old man will eat it, that is really saying something. Plus, you'll have a toilet bowl full of corn studded turds to look forward to!
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
He loves me too, and I can't say that I blame him. He follows me everywhere. And I do mean everywhere. In fact, he is the only one who not only can stand it, but appears to enjoy hanging out with me in the bathroom while I take one of my nuclear dumps.
He sleeps with me every night, and he doesn't even care if I fart on him. And I mean my farting butthole directly on his body! Like, as in I sleep on my stomach with my right leg bent, and that brave little soul curls up directly against my taint. And whilst I am slumbering, if I happen to rip an earth-shatteringly loud fart reminiscent of a chainsaw starting, my little doggie just lifts his head, sniffs my still smoking butthole, and then goes back to sleep. Amazing, I know.
He doesn't really appear to care for anyone else but me either. I mean he tolerates my old man, and my mother, and there are a few others he doesn't mind. But he and I are true soul mates. He doesn't like it when anyone gets near me. He has even bitten a few people whom he felt threatened to take my attention away from him.
I know, I know. You're all saying, "I can't believe you let him bite people! The dog whisperer would have a field day with that rat!" But I don't care, I know I'm a dick. I can't help but be a little bit proud that my little tiny doggie is so protective of me. And besides, I don't let him bite people. Sometimes, he just happens to succeed in chomping on someone he doesn't like.
Frankly, I wish I had those kind of balls. There are several people who piss me off on a regular basis that deserve a good gnawing. I'm just not nearly cute enough to get away with it like he does. I wouldn't mind being able to get away with pooping on the carpet and licking my own junk either.
Monday, May 4, 2009
I mean, come on. The pants they are wearing are too loose, you can't see their junk clearly, they all have huge butts. . . am I the only one who notices these things? They don't brush their hair or bathe and I have also heard that baseball players have a bad habit of dry-humping old people. Who dry-humps old people?! Baseball players, that's who!
I'll go to see a baseball game in real life because everyone likes to sit in the stands, eat peanuts, and puke up your seven dollar beer on the guy sitting in front of you. But on TV? Or even worse, on the radio? No thank you. I would rather shove a ten foot wiener into my ear (that's really a no-brainer). So I guess I'll get to the point here. . . anybody have any ten foot wieners laying around? Anyone?!
Sunday, May 3, 2009
--Does anyone else on the planet think that Joan Rivers is a scabby old horse-faced hag?
--Don't you wish that all public restrooms had those awesome flushable buttwipes?
--Does anybody else secretly wonder if swine flu originated in humans because some little mexican dude drank too much tequila and boned a pig?
--Isn't it amazing that even though canned tuna smells like a dirty old coot hole that people still eat it?
--Am I the only person alive who would like to see to see Michael Jackson naked out of pure curiosity? I'm mean what's going on down there?
--Does anybody else thoroughly enjoy finding lint in their belly button?
--Have you ever farted in your sleep so loudly that you woke yourself up?
--What ever happened to jelly shoes? Are crocs the new age jelly shoes? Do you ever feel like killing people who are wearing crocs or jelly shoes?
Friday, May 1, 2009
I mean how frigging difficult is it to transfer my plates to a new car I bought? Or to change my name on my registration when I got married two years ago? Or how truly difficult was it to put my correct address on my driver's license? I mean, isn't that your job BMV Nazi? Isn't that what you deal with every stinking day of your miserable, hateful, worthless life? And how is it possible that without fail, every time I walk into that place, it is you that waits on me?!
I mean, should I just resign myself to driving the extra distance to go to another BMV just so I can avoid you? You know what?! No, I am not going to do that! I am going to go to the same BMV that I always go to! The one that is super close to my house. And the night before I know that I am going to make a trip to visit you, I am going to eat my fill of hard boiled eggs and drink beer until I pass out.
And when I walk through the door of that joint the following day, with my bowels poised to release the noxious gases they contain, I will stride directly up to you. I will offer my hand to you and you will think that I come in peace. What you won't realize is that the hand you are shaking spent the entire ride to the BMV scratching my bare butthole. And I will smile, and I will fart, and maybe I will even crap my pants right where I stand in front of you. I will touch everything that I can on your desk with my dirty butthole-smelling hands. And all the while, my soul will be smiling. . . and maybe even whistling a little.
Monday, April 27, 2009
You know what is ticking me off about this heat wave? That it ends tomorrow. Yep, that's right. It is going to rain on both of my days off. In case you didn't know, I am so well thought of where I work that I was blessed with the fantastic days off of Tuesdays and Wednesdays. Actually, they don't hate me, that's just the way the chips fell this year, but stillllllll! I wanted to dig around in my empty flower beds, and maybe address the beautiful dandelions that are peppering my yard. But noooooo. The heat wave clearly only exists to make my buttcrack sweat. I think I'm going to start dragging my butt across the floor like a dog to dry it off. What?! It itches too!
Friday, April 24, 2009
He really enjoys the simple things in life. Everyday he heads to UDF to get the newspaper and something to drink for himself and for me. You may be asking yourself, "Self, why doesn't he just subscribe to the newspaper and buy canned drinks from the grocery store to keep at home?" The answer is simply that he enjoys the task of heading to UDF and doing something nice for me everyday.
He loves to hunt, especially deer hunting. Every year he counts down the months, weeks and days until his big hunting trip at the end of November. He and a whole group of his buddies head down to Adams county every year for gun season. He really enjoys being in the woods and protecting humanity from those bloodthirsty deer (he assures me that they are truly vicious creatures worthy of extermination).
After the days hunt, they all return to camp and act like boys do. They eat like they are starving, they drink beer like they've never tasted it before, and they tell stories and make fun of each other until their sides ache from the laughter. I know this will sound weird, but I love the way he smells when he comes home from his trip. He always smells like a combination of campfire and dirty dog (I told you it was weird). But I love that smell because it means that he is back at home, and I can't wait for him to proudly regale me with tales from the hunt.
He, much like myself, wouldn't rather be any other place in the world than our trailer on Lake Cumberland in Kentucky. He's been going down there with his family since he was a little boy, and I think he is glad that in me, he has finally found someone who loves it there like he does. I always cook on the charcoal grill like he likes, we listen to the awesome classic rock radio station that Nancy, Kentucky has, and we relax. He takes me out on our boat and he never complains, no matter how many hours I want to spend fishing. Even when it's pouring down rain. And freezing cold.
He loves the history and the military channels and could spend hours watching the shows they play. Whether it's about World War I or Navy Seals training, he likes it all. He watches Saving Private Ryan every time it comes on television and is an unfailing supporter of the men and women who fight for our great country. He is very proud to be an American, and tells me that one of the regrets he has in life is not joining the military.
He also loves Elvis Presley. He has a countless number of Elvis performances on DVD and VHS that he watches regularly (especially when he is buzzed after we come home from a bar). He admires Elvis for many reasons and thinks it is despicable the way that Priscilla lives off of his memory. Some of his favorites are the gospel songs that Elvis sings, and he had them playing at the funeral home when his daddy passed away.
He is a strong leader. The people that work for him would follow him into the fire, no matter the situation. He leads by example and has an unbelievable work ethic. He is honest and fair, and always stands up for what is right, no matter how unpopular it may be. He is nothing if not real and true. He doesn't have a fake bone in his body.
He cracks me up with the weird and vivid dreams he has that he tells me about. He often dreams about zombies and how he and I are killing them to save ourselves. Just today he was telling me a about a dream he had that we were hanging out with Brett Michaels from the band Poison. He said that I kept asking Brett if his hair was a wig and trying to snatch it off his head.
I'm a little embarrassed to say that it was a dream of mine that prompted this post about my old man. I have a crazy crush on Dwayne Johnson, better known as "The Rock." Last night I dreamed that Dwayne was in love with me and trying to get me to run away with him. Even in my dreams, I am totally and unconditionally in love with Kelly Hamilton. Without hesitation but with a raised eyebrow, I told the stupid old Rock to pound salt. The Rock ain't got nothing on my old man. I prefer the smell of Ralph Lauren Romance and wintergreen Grizzly any day.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
I even wore a "special" birthday outfit. It was a little weird, and I am quite certain that the people who went out with me were a little embarrassed to claim me. But that didn't even come close to deterring me from wearing it. I had on my knee-high camo rubber boots over a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt that said "STINK BAIT" on it. Needless to say, I looked fucking HOT!
So, I was thinking about it and thirty-one seems like an awfully big number. I can remember when I thought eighteen was old. You want to hear a funny story about when I turned eighteen? I don't really care if you do, I'm gonna tell you anyway.
When I turned eighteen, I decided that I wanted to take full advantage of being that age. . . by buying cigarettes. . . even though I didn't smoke. I happily and proudly strolled into the nearest gas station to buy a pack of fags (for all you morons out there, that's what English people call them). I enthusiastically told the clerk that I would like to buy a pack of Marlboro lights (because that's the brand that everyone that I knew smoked), and to my delight, he asked me for my I.D. He studied it closely, looking from it to me about fifty-two times. I can't say that I blame him for being skeptical about my age because I'm fairly certain that I was still wearing a training bra at that age.
When he finally agreed that that was indeed me in the picture, and that it did in fact say that I was old enough to buy the smokes, he reluctantly sold me the pack. In that moment, I remember truly feeling like a grown up. I rushed out of the gas station and jumped into my boyfriends car, showing off the token of my adulthood.
At that point, I decided that just buying the cigarettes was not enough. I thought it best to smoke one too, you know, to prove my grown up status. Keeping in mind that I was not a smoker, I instructed my boyfriend to pull over into a vacant lot. At the time it seemed like the most logical place for an adult to smoke.
I hopped out of the car and opened up the pack of cigarettes. I threw one in my mouth and asked my boyfriend if he had a lighter (I didn't think that far ahead!). He dug around in his car and found some matches. I pulled a match out, struck it, and lit up my cigarette. For a brief moment I felt super cool and mature. But then I inhaled deeply and all of that cool mature bullshit ended abruptly!
My whole world started to narrow and fade to black. I started sweating and my knees felt weak. In case you haven't guessed what was happening, I was fainting!!!! My boyfriend had to grab me and sit me down in the car before I passed out and busted my head open. I took that cigarette and threw it down on the ground. At that moment I felt very young and naive, and I guess looking back on it, I was exactly that.
I mean, seriously!!! Fainting from smoking a cigarette?! What a lame-ass! If I could go back in time I would punch my young self in the taint for being such an idiot!! Clearly I had not yet blossomed into the mature and insightful adult that am now. Yeah, I'll just leave you with that thought. . .
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Would it surprise anyone to know that I am celebrating my birthday at Dave and Buster's? My first choice was, of course, Chuck-E-Cheese, but I have been assured that Dave and Buster's is just as fun, but without the kids. What's wrong with kids? They are aerodynamic and easy to throw, and I am certain that if I didn't win any tickets, I could easily steal theirs!! And their candy! I love candy!
But I digress. After Dave and Buster's, we will be returning to the city of neighbors to finish off the evening. I am super excited! And please, I know what you are all thinking. I mean it when I say I am not offended by cash gifts!! Or personal checks. Or large quantities of alcoholic beverages. So fret not, little friends!
I also wanted to let everyone know that my armpit is sore. Not for any good reason, either. I just woke up today and it was sore. Did I ever tell you about the time that I sprained my buttcrack in my sleep? These things happen in my world.
In other news, I was reading where a lady was attacked by a polar bear at a zoo in Berlin. . . . after she climbed down a fence, over a wide hedge full of thorns, over a large concrete wall, and swam through a moat to where they were. I am totally not making this up. I know the ending that everyone is hoping for. . . that she croaked in a feeding frenzy, complete with toes and butt cheeks flying. But sadly, she survived.
I guess what I am trying to say is that I am hoping someone will buy me a polar bear for my birthday so it can bite off my defective armpit. A girl can dream, right?
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Several months ago, a friend of mine from high school, Melissa, passed away after a graceful, inspiring, and courageous battle with breast cancer. Melissa and I lost touch shortly after high school, and unfortunately I learned of her passing through her obituary. I harbor quite a bit of guilt and regret because of that. Contained within her obituary, was a link to a blog that she had been writing, detailing her experiences with cancer http://www.fortscancersux.blogspot.com/. To say that her blog was moving would be a gross understatement.
After reading her blog, I was in awe at the way that she shared her journey in such an open, honest and naked way. And through all of the painful awfulness that cancer brings, she remained unfailingly positive and rock solid strong. It got me to thinking about why on earth something as terrible as that would happen to such an amazing person.
I guess what I am trying to say is that I am almost 31 years old. And in my time on earth, I have known quite a few people, most of which I would classify as good and a few I would have to say are down right bad. But of those many good people I have known in my life, there are a few that I can only describe as shiny. You know what I mean. They are special and neat and good and true, and they are an absolute joy to be around. Whether you know them a lot or a little, you know without a doubt that you are better for knowing them at all. Melissa was one of those shiny people.
Unfortunately, another shiny person in my life is in the clutches of stage four cancer. He's my friend Phil. I don't claim to be a smart woman, so I don't know the ins and outs of his type of cancer or what affect it is specifically having on his body. All that I know is that it's bad, it has moved too painfully fast, and I don't know what the future will hold.
Let me tell you a little about Phil. He is someone I work with and that I can't help but admire. Phil's job entails investigating and bringing to justice those who commit crimes against children. He is the best at what he does. He is patient, dedicated, humble and relentless. And he always has a smile and a moment of his time for everyone. He is just one of those shiny people.
So I decided to honor Phil like I wish that I would have had time to honor Melissa. I wrote a little poem for him and this seemed like the best place to post it. Everyone loves you buddy, and we are all praying for your recovery.
An Officer's Tribute
My dear friend in blue,
the truth you always sought.
The weakest who were wronged
were the ones for which you fought.
My brother in the badge,
your faith in justice shown.
No matter how fierce the battle,
no victim was left alone.
My true and honest champion,
your quest for right's been won.
The peace your work has given
will never be undone.
My role model and inspiration,
you're what a man should be.
A father and friend to his own,
and to all others that he sees.
My hope and guiding light,
I hope to live like you have done.
Your selfless acts of kindness prove
that you are truly God's son.
Phil, you are my hero,
but I'm just one of thousands strong.
And we will walk you through this journey,
hand in hand, no matter how long.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Then it was on to Taggart's to continue the drunken debauchery. My old man met us up there to join us in the drunk fest, and egged me on to break my cardinal St. Patty's day rule! And that wily old fuck prevailed! It was at that point that I switched over to jager bombs, and truly began to defile myself. And despite the addition of the potent bombs to my already decently buzzed bloodstream, I managed to close down the bar before heading home to brick city. Even with my liquor-soaked liver, I managed not to puke the day of or the day after!! So, like I said, it was a total success.
Since St. Pat's, I even ventured down to my favorite place in the whole wide world for a nice four day getaway. I speak of none other than Lake Cumberland in beautiful Nancy, Kentucky. My old man's family has had the same place down there for nye on fifty years (I totally stole that line from Reba). We even have a slip (or dock for you non-lake folks), which is hard to come by down there. It was a fabulously relaxing little trip, complete with fishing, quad riding, good food eating (made by me of course. I'm quite the little chef, I'll have you know!), a little beer drinking, and good uninterrupted sleep! I even caught a six pound small mouth bass, which of course I am having mounted to hang on my wall.
Other than that, not too much else to report. My birthday is fast approaching though, and I wanted to let you all know that I'm not offended by cash gifts. Just in case you were wondering.
Monday, March 16, 2009
So, how does one prepare for St. Pat's, you ask? Well, in my strange little universe, it goes a little something like this. I started by laundering and laying out my St. Patteroo attire. It will consist of the following:
1. My most comfortable dark blue, multi-pocketed, elastic-waist having(what?! I hear green brewskis can cause bloating and gas!) jeans.
2. My favorite green john deere shirt that says, "I would trade my husband for a john deere tractor." (which is a true statement, by the way)
3. Cleverly decorated Saint Pat-hole sockies.
4. Comfortable, yet stylish green converse chuck taylors.
5. The sought after shamrock antennae.
6. Fashion forward shamrock-shaped sunglasses (my eyes are sure to be light sensitive from the green beer)
7. A fine, and eclectic array of St. Patrick's temporary tattoos (which came straight from Ireland....or Walmart. Your choice.)
8. Several stands of green beads made from the finest gems, that were mined from the coveted Dayton area....... fine gem mines.
9. And absolutely nothing underneath. Well except that I've decided to paint green shamrocks to cover my hoots and my coot, just to show my dedication.
Tonight, I plan to get a good night's sleep in order to be rested up and ready to go tomorrow. I will roll out of bed around noonish (I'm not quite hardcore enough to do the 9:00am bullcrap, unless you mean still going by 9:00am on the 18th!). Plus, I like to think of noon as my 9:00am anyhoo. I have my no-fun-having-but still willing to drive my drunken butt around-designated drivers set up. I've pledged to stick to beer all day, and will drink no hard alcohol no matter how nicely you ask me. And I think that about covers it.
What's the big deal you ask? It's just Saint Pat's day. It's only March 17th, you say? People do this crap every year and it's nothing new or exciting. You think I'm getting my hopes up that it will be something spectacular and life changing, only to be sorely disappointed by its mundaness. But worry naught, little buddies. All of my preparation is not to ready me for the Saint Patrick of Ireland Day, but rather to ready old Saint Pat for me. That's right, I said it. So look out green beer drinkers, here I come. You might even learn something.
I'll let you know how it goes.
Saturday, March 14, 2009
For example, some people that I know have a problem with interjecting their annoyingness into a conversation that I may be having with someone of equal coolness. Hey annoying-hole, don't you realize that if you were cool and not so annoying that maybe me and my cool buddy would be talking to you! But your weirdo annoying comments make it all the more likely that I will continue to ignore your ridiculous annoyingness!!
As a matter of fact, annoying-holes of America, you are really starting to hack me off! The way that you constantly try to make stupid jokes that aren't funny at all, but they are in fact amazingly annoying. Don't you notice that nobody laughs at them? That instead everyone sighs loudly, shakes their head, and then begins texting each other, furiously screaming about your annoyingness!!!!
Beware annoying-holes, because you have lit my fuse with your unbearable annoyingness and at some point I am going to erupt! And when that eruption occurs you will finally be aware of your annoyingness, because I will be hollering about your annoying ways while simultaneously poking you in your big, fat, annoying eyeball!
Ok, I feel much better now.
Monday, March 9, 2009
I'll give you a rundown of how it works where I work. It'll kind of be a lead in to a rather infamous embarrassing story about myself. It's not even embarrassing anymore, probably because I have no shame, but it is entertaining for those who haven't heard it.
Ok, so at my job the pee test is truly random. As in, you show up to work one day and the pee fairy is waiting there to wisk you away to have your pee extracted at the pee place. AKA your boss tells you to hop in his crown vic and drives you to the local urgent care while everyone stands around waiting for you to wee in a cup. You have to give em your thumb print, they make you wash your hands before you go in, and after you are done making your little yellow fountain drink, you are not allowed to flush the toilet. You bring your creation out to the nurse lady who documents the temperature of said pee (my lady wasn't even wearing gloves when I handed her my pee cup!! I could have rubbed my beef and cheddar all over that thing! Yikes!), she then makes sure you didn't dump anything in the toilet(drugs or a vile that held someone else's urine), and then you are done. Normally, there are at least five people at a time who get drawn to wee. So there you have it, pee testing 101.
So this brings me to my embarrassing story..... Several years ago, I was stupid enough to volunteer to work the day shift. To say that mornings are not my thing, would be putting it mildly. This particular morning, I was running especially late and did not have time to stop and take my morning dumpski. I thought it would be no big deal, that I would just wait until I got to work and take it then. So I haul balls to get to work on time, and luckily I made it without a second to spare. I walk into the joint, and to my horror, the pee fairy is sitting there waiting on me!!!!!
What do i do? I mean I need to take a major crap, like as in the tropical storm is just off the coast and about ready to make landfall!! It's not like I could tell the pee fairy, "Hey hang on for just a minute I need to go to the can first." How suspicious would that look?! So I calm myself by thinking that I can just go to the pee place, squirt a few drops into their dang cup, get the heck out of there, find the nearest toilet and poop away.
So myself and four other lucky pissers hop in the car and head to the pee place. We pull up and walk in, and by this time, beads of sweat are popping up on my brow. As my bad luck would have it, I'm first up. I'm sure you're saying, "Bad luck? I thought you had to poop?" Well, I did have to poop, but the problem is that everyone has to take their turn using the same bathroom to pee in the cup. . . And I'm first up!
The nurse has me sign all the paperwork, hands me my cup, and shoos me into the can. Just before the bathroom door shuts, she peeks her head in and says, "And remember, DON'T FLUSH!" By this time, I look like I'm about three months pregnant, and the old phrase, "You're so full of shit, your eyes are brown" is starting to have new meaning. All that's left in the room is me, the toilet, the cup, and fear.
I undid my britches, took a seat on the throne, and started praying. After about fifteen minutes and one "checkup" knock on the door by the nurse, I hadn't produced a single drop. It was then that I had to face the harsh reality that there was no way on God's green earth that I was going to get one, with out the other. So, with a sigh and one tiny grunt, I unleashed the fury of my bowels. It was ugly people, I mean U-G-L-Y! Then, and only then, came the golden trickle that I sought.
I was left wondering how I was going to make this awful, tragic situation better. I didn't have much time to work up a good plan though, because my cup of golden good stuff was getting colder by the second. So I did the only thing that I could come up with in that short amount of time. . . I piled up right around 800 pounds of wadded up toilet paper on that nasty mess, shrugged my shoulders, and walked out to the nurse.
I handed over my cup-o-pee to the lady, and she strolled into the bathroom to check the toilet. I couldn't help but chuckle to myself when she hit the wall of stank. She looked at me with disgust, and all I could muster was a sheepish grin while mumbling "sorry, I really had to go." She flushed the toilet and it all went down, which was the only thing that went right for me that morning. After all that, I just got the hell out of there, leaving my pride behind. Then, I got to thinking about how funny that whole affair was, and I ended up telling everybody about it! Weird, I know, but all for the sake of humor. See, I told you I have no shame!
Sunday, March 8, 2009
So I love me some American Idol. However, this year I am not super impressed with the "talent." How is it possible for nearly all of the top 36 to choose the wrong song? In my mind, if I were in the top 36 (if we're gonna be real, in my mind I am the next American Idol!. . . but that's beside the point), I would be rehearsing my song 24/7. I would be singing it for any mo fo who would listen, especially those in my life who would cut through the bullshit and tell me whether or not it sounded like crapola! This top 36 must be surrounding themselves with a whole gaggle of little pilled out Paula Abdul clones, who wouldn't give them a negative comment if their little over-medicated hearts depended on it.
Speaking of over-medicated, or possibly under-medicated?.... I can't help but love Tatiana's crazy ass! I love the compulsive cackling, the spaced-out sort of trippy things she says, the weird shit she wears, and her overall general narcissism. I think she is hilarious. I mean, did you see Seacrest try to get a hummer from her on national television on Thursday? Anyone that can get Ry-guy to switch back to the home team is ok in my book. I would buy her a beer, but I'd be afraid that the narcotic/alcoholic cocktail it would create in her bloodstream would send her to the grave, and she is way too entertaining to croak. I will truly miss you Tats (we're tight, that's my pet name for her).
I think my fave this year is going to be oil rigger guy. I wasn't bowled over by his luke warm performance this week to get into the top twelve, but overall I think he has potential. Plus, if his singing is sub par, I would at least consider taking a peek at his wiener. See what you can do about that Seacrest.