In honor of holidays and stuff, enjoy this random Melrose Place quote that still pops into my mind for no reason and makes me crack up.
Robot Billy read Whiny Alcoholic Alison's email and saw a romantic note from some other guy. Later, they got into a fight, and when Robot Billy brought this up, shock and indignation ensued. Well, shock and indignation ensued on Whiny Alcoholic's side. The robot has only been programmed to smirk.
Whiny Alcoholic: Where did you see that?
Robot: I read it on the email.
Whiny Alcoholic: YOU READ MY COMPUTER MAIL?!
Melrose Place. More than a series of tubes. Tubes constantly trying to fuck, rob or kill each other.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Book #12: Dave Barry's Only Travel Guide You'll Ever Need, by Frankie Avalon*
Haters to the left! In the past month, which I have pretty much spent either drunk or hungover, I started quite a few smart, serious books. Louis Auchincloss, Dave Eggers, Stealing Lincoln's Body, etc. Being hungover is not incredibly conducive to finishing smart, serious books, though, so a stray Dave Barry book I recovered from my parents' house is what I got through first. I've read it before, as a kid, but I probably could have read it this summer and still experienced it again with fresh eyes. This is not a book you need to read closely, or from which you remember details, which suited my interests perfectly while sipping Pedialyte on the couch.
Dave Barry is awesome. And hilarious. And from Miami, whut whut! In this book, he tackles the hard questions, like how to plan your travel budget (figure out the total amount of available money you have, then multiply that by at least six), how to communicate in Spain (Mi esposo es been tramplado por toros. No, no estoy quejarsando.**), and how to leave Disney World (sneak out in the middle of the night, so employees won't stop you from spending money elsewhere).
My favorite parts are in the descriptions of the 50 states and European countries. From Alaska:
And my three states of current or past residence:
Hey, it's Dave Barry. What were you expecting, Shakespeare? There's a lot of easy humor, but when your brain wants a vacation, you can't go wrong with him. There's quite literally a joke in nine out of ten sentences, and many of them made me laugh out loud. My only regret is that I didn't bring back more books by him.
Pages: 171 (Yeah, I know, but the 200-page minimum was self-imposed and not required for participants.)
*Unlike a fact in a Dave Barry book, I am making this up.
**My husband has been trampled by bulls. No, I'm not complaining.
Dave Barry is awesome. And hilarious. And from Miami, whut whut! In this book, he tackles the hard questions, like how to plan your travel budget (figure out the total amount of available money you have, then multiply that by at least six), how to communicate in Spain (Mi esposo es been tramplado por toros. No, no estoy quejarsando.**), and how to leave Disney World (sneak out in the middle of the night, so employees won't stop you from spending money elsewhere).
My favorite parts are in the descriptions of the 50 states and European countries. From Alaska:
Despite being close to Alabama in the encyclopedia, Alaska is actually located in Canada. This is only one of the astounding facts about this dynamic state, which is so big that if you were to walk across it at the rate of 25 miles per day, you would get moose poop all over your shoes... The Official State Motto of Alaska is: "Brrrrrr!" The Official State Bird is covered in oil. [Environmental!]
Illinois: Illinois is "The Land of Lincoln," and the memory of "Honest Abe" is so deeply revered there that as recently as 1983 he was elected lieutenant governor. [Topical!]
West Virginia: The appeal of this dynamic, rugged state is perhaps best described by the words of mega-weenie John Denver, who sang: Almost heaven? West Virginia? ... West Virginia's residences are all very friendly and closely related. You can meet them "up close and personal" during the state's annual Deliverance Canoe Trip and Pig Imitation Festival. [Cheap joke, but still funny! Because it's true!]
The entirety of Bulgaria's entry: There's always plenty to see and do in Bulgaria! [This made me crack up for a full minute. I can't explain it.]
A joke I thankfully did not catch when I was ten: Of course there is more to Ireland than water sports.
Sweden: See "Norway."
A Good Conversation-Starter in France: "I guess you guys really bit the big one in World War Two, huh?"
And my three states of current or past residence:
California: Southern California also boasts more than 57 billion convenient freeway and many fascinating places to visit, although we frankly have no idea which exit you take to get to them. [Truer than truth!]
Florida: The largest city is Miami (official tourism slogan: "Maybe You Won't Get Shot"), a richly diverse cosmopolitan where people from many different cultures live and work together while continuing to observe the traffic laws of their individual countries of origin. The Florida State Seal depicts a mosquito carrying a machine gun. [Unfortunately truer than truth!]
New York: "The Empire State" is of course dominated by New York City, the "Big Apple," filled with the bustle and excitement of millions of energetic, sophisticated, urbane people experiencing numerous only-in-New-York thrills such as making it all the way to work without getting peed on. [Not when you're unemployed!]
Hey, it's Dave Barry. What were you expecting, Shakespeare? There's a lot of easy humor, but when your brain wants a vacation, you can't go wrong with him. There's quite literally a joke in nine out of ten sentences, and many of them made me laugh out loud. My only regret is that I didn't bring back more books by him.
Pages: 171 (Yeah, I know, but the 200-page minimum was self-imposed and not required for participants.)
*Unlike a fact in a Dave Barry book, I am making this up.
**My husband has been trampled by bulls. No, I'm not complaining.
Thursday, December 25, 2008
It truly is a Hannukah miracle
I've been missing my Slinky for almost 2 weeks. And I do mean missing him. Laugh all you want, but that thing is like the son or pet or plant I never had, if you don't count that cactus I got once and then abandoned on the side of the road. I'm not good with plants. Too needy. Well, today I lost my headphones. When I went looking for them, what did I find but my wayward son, nestled in amongst a coat I never use.
Don't you cry no more, little Slinky. Mommy has you, and she's not letting go of you again. Literally. Not even if I'm typing something, like right now. Or eating. Or fucking, but we all know that's not going to happen anyways, so at least I get to avoid that awkward conversation.
Of course, I still need to find my headphones, but I'm sure I'll find them eventually, when I go looking for my lost Hustler magazines or plutonium or whatever.
Don't you cry no more, little Slinky. Mommy has you, and she's not letting go of you again. Literally. Not even if I'm typing something, like right now. Or eating. Or fucking, but we all know that's not going to happen anyways, so at least I get to avoid that awkward conversation.
Of course, I still need to find my headphones, but I'm sure I'll find them eventually, when I go looking for my lost Hustler magazines or plutonium or whatever.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Imagine how my nerves feel
Something to keep in mind for the future: when the stranger in the elevator asks if you want to party, he is not inviting you to a party. Run away.
If you forget this, the next time you walk into a dark apartment with a naked chick in the bed and a mound of coke on the table, run away.
If you decide to stay there for a few minutes to see what happens because you think it would be a funny story for later and what is this anyways, the seventies? Don't, you fucking idiot. RUN. AWAY.
Hey, God? I used to have a really boring life. I would not mind if I went back to that. Thanks.
If you forget this, the next time you walk into a dark apartment with a naked chick in the bed and a mound of coke on the table, run away.
If you decide to stay there for a few minutes to see what happens because you think it would be a funny story for later and what is this anyways, the seventies? Don't, you fucking idiot. RUN. AWAY.
Hey, God? I used to have a really boring life. I would not mind if I went back to that. Thanks.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Swim through your veins like a fish in the sea
I think I'm going on a date tomorrow. I can't completely tell. At first I assumed the guy, whom I made out with last night, was inviting me to hang out with him and some friends, but now I need other opinions, so I'm going to give you all of our texts.
Uncle Cracker (that's whom we judged he looked like, before we started talking to him and his friend. SHUT UP, I was being my friend's wingman, and then he started kissing me, and I clearly have a problem with saying no.): Good meeting you last night. What are you up to tonight?
Dropout: Watching tv because im supercool? [One of these people has an iPhone. The other has a normal phone that can't type for shit. I bet you can't tell who's whom.]
Cracker: Can I talk you in to hanging out in Williamsburg tomorrow night.
Dropout: Not if it's with the guys from last night [Long story short, his friends are all gigantic, sexual harassing dicks. Don't worry, you'll hear the long story later.]
Cracker: No chance
Dropout: Maybe-how far is the place from the g?
Cracker: Not far. I can actually drive to come pick you up at around 7.
Dropout: Around 7? Cool, you have a time machine? Id need to shower so i actually wouldnt be ready for a while tho [Um, yeah. It was 7:30 already, and I didn't realize he had switched from tonight to tomorrow.]
Cracker: Talking about tomorrow night. Just let me know what time works. [Awwwwkward!]
Dropout: Oh whoops, i thought i remembered you talking about going there tonight. I guess 7 is fine
Dropout: Oh and my address is [REDACTED FOR MATTERS OF NATIONAL SECURITY]
Cracker: Thanks. I will pick you up at 7. [Stilllll awwwwkward!]
Dropout: Ok :) [I sent this 4 hours later, because I thought what this conversation really needed was a little bit more awkwardness.]
7 is a little early to start drinking, right? Does this mean I have to assume it's a date-date, with dinner and getting to know you small talk and me being completely fucking awkward because that's how I roll on dates?* Or is there a chance there's going to be other people, and it's so early because they're all alcoholics?
*See: Monty the Football
Uncle Cracker (that's whom we judged he looked like, before we started talking to him and his friend. SHUT UP, I was being my friend's wingman, and then he started kissing me, and I clearly have a problem with saying no.): Good meeting you last night. What are you up to tonight?
Dropout: Watching tv because im supercool? [One of these people has an iPhone. The other has a normal phone that can't type for shit. I bet you can't tell who's whom.]
Cracker: Can I talk you in to hanging out in Williamsburg tomorrow night.
Dropout: Not if it's with the guys from last night [Long story short, his friends are all gigantic, sexual harassing dicks. Don't worry, you'll hear the long story later.]
Cracker: No chance
Dropout: Maybe-how far is the place from the g?
Cracker: Not far. I can actually drive to come pick you up at around 7.
Dropout: Around 7? Cool, you have a time machine? Id need to shower so i actually wouldnt be ready for a while tho [Um, yeah. It was 7:30 already, and I didn't realize he had switched from tonight to tomorrow.]
Cracker: Talking about tomorrow night. Just let me know what time works. [Awwwwkward!]
Dropout: Oh whoops, i thought i remembered you talking about going there tonight. I guess 7 is fine
Dropout: Oh and my address is [REDACTED FOR MATTERS OF NATIONAL SECURITY]
Cracker: Thanks. I will pick you up at 7. [Stilllll awwwwkward!]
Dropout: Ok :) [I sent this 4 hours later, because I thought what this conversation really needed was a little bit more awkwardness.]
7 is a little early to start drinking, right? Does this mean I have to assume it's a date-date, with dinner and getting to know you small talk and me being completely fucking awkward because that's how I roll on dates?* Or is there a chance there's going to be other people, and it's so early because they're all alcoholics?
*See: Monty the Football
Friday, December 19, 2008
The Weekend: The Friday
Allow me to bring you back in time. To a simpler time. A time when I started stories with the intention of finishing them. (On that note, here's the ending to my Halloween Night 'O Terror and Vomit: TAB found me wandering the streets, she miraculously had our stuff and got another cab, I puked out the window of said cab, cabbie yelled at us and made us pay for a car wash, I made it to my bathroom, passed out naked on the tiles, and spent the entire next day shaking, crying, and scaring Engaged Roommate with my uncontrollable shaking and crying. Tada!)
Back to two weekends ago. If you recall, I had a blind double date scheduled for Saturday, and all signs pointed to "This Will Not Go Well." That Friday, I went out with Engaged Roommate, and after spending yet another hour at a club losing horribly at Connect 4 on someone's iPhone, we headed out to somewhere that didn't suck. The only thing worth mentioning from that place was a guy with dreads who forcibly started dancing with me, and, out of nowhere, exclaimed, "I'm an awesome guy!" I told him that I didn't know that and walked away. Honestly. Who does that.
He was also the first person to call me adorable, I think because I was smiling awkwardly at being forced to dance with him. I cannot get away from that freaking word, I swear.
Anypeedle, we were standing around a sidewalk waiting for Roommate's fiancé to get money from an ATM when we ran into friends of friends. With them was the 24-year-old of "making out with me" fame. We had just introduced ourselves when one of the flower-sellers infecting lower Manhattan on weekends ran up and tried to get 24 to buy me a flower. He laughed and over-emphasized, "Why would I buy her a flower?"
My mind at the moment: Is he trying to neg me? I think he is.
Since we had literally just met, and I'm not even a big fan of flowers, I also started to voice my protest to the idea. 24 assumed I was affronted at his flower-denying, so he wrapped his arms around me and laughed that he was kidding. He was cute, and despite the neg/kino escalation duo, didn't seem like a Game douchebag, so when he told his friend to get me a flower, I let him. Off we all went to a bar.
He bought me a drink, and from then on we were kind of disgustingly all over each other. Not making out, but arms around each other, holding hands, entwining fingers, kissing foreheads. I never do that kind of shit, but hey, needed to preemptively make up for the next night, right? We went outside to smoke, started joking around and kissing up against the glass window where everyone could see us, and then he brought up Mystery! I fucking knew he had been trying to neg me.*
Naturally, I teased him for using Mystery's moves, he tried to deny it, then hugged me to shut me up, and all of a sudden I felt someone come up from behind and hug both of us. I assumed it was Engaged Roommate being drunk and making fun of me for all the PDA. Then I felt this person hump my leg and heard a man's voice say, "I love both of you!"
It was another fucking flower-seller! Or maybe the same one from before! Humping my fucking leg!
Now, if you had asked me, I would not have said that sexual harassment would be the most effective strategy for a flower-seller, unless the seller's objective was not to sell flowers but to be arrested. Somehow it did work, though, because I ended up with another rose to replace the first one I had broken. I appreciated this one much more, as was evidenced by me dropping it on the ground and forgetting about it. Hey, it's not my fault, he already knew I couldn't be trusted.
We were mourning the fallen rose when five feet away, his screaming, shoving friend got thrown out of the bar by the imposing bartender. Then everyone else in our group and basically everyone else in the bar came pouring out of the door, half of them cursing and trying to beat the shit out of each other, the other half trying to keep people from beating the shit out of other people. 24 ran in to join the latter half, while I stood there in shock, watching Engaged Roommate walk away in tears.
Um, yeah. What the hell happened? Had I missed a bar brawl? Goddammit.
The mass of guys ran around yelling for a few more minutes, our guys threatening to call the cops, the bartender trying to get everyone to shut the fuck up and calm the fuck down, and finally he went back inside, leaving a couple of our guys stomping around the sidewalk and cursing.
I never got the full story, but it seems two people from our group lost their coats, and they confronted the only other people in the bar, which included the bartender. They denied taking the coats, someone kicked someone in the back, and then that nice little shitstorm broke out.
Once everyone had at least stopped yelling, we started walking over to the first screamer's apartment to calm down some more. This is when one of ER's friends who likes to be a dick to me told me that everyone had always suspected 24 of being gay. Considering I had spent the past half hour kissing him, I probably shouldn't have had the reaction I did, which was freak the fuck out and go, "What the fuck? He's gay? Why was he kissing me, then? Godfuckingdammit are you fucking serious? FUCK. I can't believe I was fucking making out with a gay guy."
In my defense, he was slight, and pretty, so... I actually still have no idea if the dick was serious or not, since once we got to the guy's place, people broke out the weed. After my little "almost dying" incident on Halloween, I knew better than to mix weed and drunkenness, so I got the hell out of there, and there concludes Friday. Phew.
By the way, while reading all of The Weekend Posts, you may be tempted to confuse me with a pimp. Let me assure you right now that I am not, in fact, a pimp, in either the literal or figurative sense. This was all very unusual for me, and even if I were a pimp, you shouldn't be jelass, cuz pimpin' ain't easy, bitch, now get back to work. Or so I've heard.
On the other hand, you may also be tempted to think of me as a whore at times. That is entirely accurate, so go right ahead.
*Somewhere in here, he called me adorable. That's 2 for 2, for those keeping score at home. He also thought I was older than he was, which will be another recurring theme that I do not understand. Adorable and old usually don't go together, if I'm not mistaken.
Back to two weekends ago. If you recall, I had a blind double date scheduled for Saturday, and all signs pointed to "This Will Not Go Well." That Friday, I went out with Engaged Roommate, and after spending yet another hour at a club losing horribly at Connect 4 on someone's iPhone, we headed out to somewhere that didn't suck. The only thing worth mentioning from that place was a guy with dreads who forcibly started dancing with me, and, out of nowhere, exclaimed, "I'm an awesome guy!" I told him that I didn't know that and walked away. Honestly. Who does that.
He was also the first person to call me adorable, I think because I was smiling awkwardly at being forced to dance with him. I cannot get away from that freaking word, I swear.
Anypeedle, we were standing around a sidewalk waiting for Roommate's fiancé to get money from an ATM when we ran into friends of friends. With them was the 24-year-old of "making out with me" fame. We had just introduced ourselves when one of the flower-sellers infecting lower Manhattan on weekends ran up and tried to get 24 to buy me a flower. He laughed and over-emphasized, "Why would I buy her a flower?"
My mind at the moment: Is he trying to neg me? I think he is.
Since we had literally just met, and I'm not even a big fan of flowers, I also started to voice my protest to the idea. 24 assumed I was affronted at his flower-denying, so he wrapped his arms around me and laughed that he was kidding. He was cute, and despite the neg/kino escalation duo, didn't seem like a Game douchebag, so when he told his friend to get me a flower, I let him. Off we all went to a bar.
He bought me a drink, and from then on we were kind of disgustingly all over each other. Not making out, but arms around each other, holding hands, entwining fingers, kissing foreheads. I never do that kind of shit, but hey, needed to preemptively make up for the next night, right? We went outside to smoke, started joking around and kissing up against the glass window where everyone could see us, and then he brought up Mystery! I fucking knew he had been trying to neg me.*
Naturally, I teased him for using Mystery's moves, he tried to deny it, then hugged me to shut me up, and all of a sudden I felt someone come up from behind and hug both of us. I assumed it was Engaged Roommate being drunk and making fun of me for all the PDA. Then I felt this person hump my leg and heard a man's voice say, "I love both of you!"
It was another fucking flower-seller! Or maybe the same one from before! Humping my fucking leg!
Now, if you had asked me, I would not have said that sexual harassment would be the most effective strategy for a flower-seller, unless the seller's objective was not to sell flowers but to be arrested. Somehow it did work, though, because I ended up with another rose to replace the first one I had broken. I appreciated this one much more, as was evidenced by me dropping it on the ground and forgetting about it. Hey, it's not my fault, he already knew I couldn't be trusted.
We were mourning the fallen rose when five feet away, his screaming, shoving friend got thrown out of the bar by the imposing bartender. Then everyone else in our group and basically everyone else in the bar came pouring out of the door, half of them cursing and trying to beat the shit out of each other, the other half trying to keep people from beating the shit out of other people. 24 ran in to join the latter half, while I stood there in shock, watching Engaged Roommate walk away in tears.
Um, yeah. What the hell happened? Had I missed a bar brawl? Goddammit.
The mass of guys ran around yelling for a few more minutes, our guys threatening to call the cops, the bartender trying to get everyone to shut the fuck up and calm the fuck down, and finally he went back inside, leaving a couple of our guys stomping around the sidewalk and cursing.
I never got the full story, but it seems two people from our group lost their coats, and they confronted the only other people in the bar, which included the bartender. They denied taking the coats, someone kicked someone in the back, and then that nice little shitstorm broke out.
Once everyone had at least stopped yelling, we started walking over to the first screamer's apartment to calm down some more. This is when one of ER's friends who likes to be a dick to me told me that everyone had always suspected 24 of being gay. Considering I had spent the past half hour kissing him, I probably shouldn't have had the reaction I did, which was freak the fuck out and go, "What the fuck? He's gay? Why was he kissing me, then? Godfuckingdammit are you fucking serious? FUCK. I can't believe I was fucking making out with a gay guy."
In my defense, he was slight, and pretty, so... I actually still have no idea if the dick was serious or not, since once we got to the guy's place, people broke out the weed. After my little "almost dying" incident on Halloween, I knew better than to mix weed and drunkenness, so I got the hell out of there, and there concludes Friday. Phew.
By the way, while reading all of The Weekend Posts, you may be tempted to confuse me with a pimp. Let me assure you right now that I am not, in fact, a pimp, in either the literal or figurative sense. This was all very unusual for me, and even if I were a pimp, you shouldn't be jelass, cuz pimpin' ain't easy, bitch, now get back to work. Or so I've heard.
On the other hand, you may also be tempted to think of me as a whore at times. That is entirely accurate, so go right ahead.
*Somewhere in here, he called me adorable. That's 2 for 2, for those keeping score at home. He also thought I was older than he was, which will be another recurring theme that I do not understand. Adorable and old usually don't go together, if I'm not mistaken.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Golden linings
I think I'm getting sick. The silver lining is that will put a stop to my whoring, at least for a while, and hopefully give my chapped lips time to recover. The black lining of the silver is, what else am I supposed to do on the weekends? And what if I recover once everyone's left for the holidays? Stupid sickness.
On a lighter note, Blonde Roommate's ex sleep-peed on her floor.
On an AARPier note, here's a quick recap of my last two weekends. Last Friday, I made out with a 24-year-old. Saturday I gave my first blowjob to a 29-year-old. And on the most recent Saturday, I had a 38-year-old go down on me. It's like I have a sign on my forehead: Must Be This Old To Ride. At this rate, by the time I get around to sex, it's going to be with a damn senior citizen.
Sniff. My parents would be so proud.
On a lighter note, Blonde Roommate's ex sleep-peed on her floor.
On an AARPier note, here's a quick recap of my last two weekends. Last Friday, I made out with a 24-year-old. Saturday I gave my first blowjob to a 29-year-old. And on the most recent Saturday, I had a 38-year-old go down on me. It's like I have a sign on my forehead: Must Be This Old To Ride. At this rate, by the time I get around to sex, it's going to be with a damn senior citizen.
Sniff. My parents would be so proud.
Monday, December 15, 2008
The confusion of victory
I was sitting by myself at a local bar last night when an old guy sat down next to me and struck up a conversation. I was pissed off, so I immediately started complaining about how men suck.* (Oh yes, I am a barrel of laughs at bars.) A young, cute-ish guy sitting on my other side turned to me and bet that I was talking about my boyfriend. I explained that no, I actually wasn't. He professed not to believe me, and then bet me money that I was.
I sort of had the upper hand here, since I know that I don't have a boyfriend about whom to complain. "Really. How much are we betting?"
"Twenty."
I leaned back and triumphantly folded my arms over my chest. "I don't have a boyfriend."
He pulled out a bill, slid it over to me, turned to his friend and said, "She doesn't have a boyfriend," and... that was it. Neither he nor his friend tried to talk to me after that. I hadn't seriously thought he would pay up, so I tapped him on the shoulder and said I couldn't actually take his money. He waved away my concerns and went back to ignoring me.
This was all a little surreal, and more than a little confusing. Why bet on something that's 100% known by the other person? For that matter, why bet on something that can be lost by the other person lying? Shit, for twenty bucks, I would've told him he was wrong no matter what. If he simply wanted a cute way to find out if I was single, why ignore me afterward? What the heezy was the reason behind any of what he did?
In the end, no matter how many unanswered questions were raised, it all worked out for the best, because I won a twenty on a night when I had forgotten my wallet.
*This story, which began last weekend, is still semi-ongoing, and I am still too fucking exhausted to write it all out. I would apologize for the delay, but the smart money has been on me never getting around to finishing any story, ever, so poo on you.
I sort of had the upper hand here, since I know that I don't have a boyfriend about whom to complain. "Really. How much are we betting?"
"Twenty."
I leaned back and triumphantly folded my arms over my chest. "I don't have a boyfriend."
He pulled out a bill, slid it over to me, turned to his friend and said, "She doesn't have a boyfriend," and... that was it. Neither he nor his friend tried to talk to me after that. I hadn't seriously thought he would pay up, so I tapped him on the shoulder and said I couldn't actually take his money. He waved away my concerns and went back to ignoring me.
This was all a little surreal, and more than a little confusing. Why bet on something that's 100% known by the other person? For that matter, why bet on something that can be lost by the other person lying? Shit, for twenty bucks, I would've told him he was wrong no matter what. If he simply wanted a cute way to find out if I was single, why ignore me afterward? What the heezy was the reason behind any of what he did?
In the end, no matter how many unanswered questions were raised, it all worked out for the best, because I won a twenty on a night when I had forgotten my wallet.
*This story, which began last weekend, is still semi-ongoing, and I am still too fucking exhausted to write it all out. I would apologize for the delay, but the smart money has been on me never getting around to finishing any story, ever, so poo on you.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
I just ate a grape
When you're talking to a stranger at a party, and this stranger has not seen this, the situation can get pretty awkward when you tell him, "It's your fault, you were rubbing my butt." Especially when he hadn't been rubbing your butt.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Potty humor (and by humor I mean SIJFDJFNKILLME)
This is incredibly gross. Seriously. If you have food nearby, throw it away right now before it gets contaminated by what you're about to read.
I am in the middle of a major room cleaning/organizing spree, and today that included scrubbing my toilet. I went to get the toilet bowl scrubber from under the sink, where it was last time, and instead saw it resting on our dish drying rack. The place to theoretically dry clean dishes off of which we would then eat. I threw up in my mouth a little, thanked Jeezy Creezy that we almost never use the dish drying rack, and marched off to the bathroom.
I got on my knees and worked that bitch 'til I was spent. Once I'd had my way with it, I marched back out, holding the scrubber in one hand. Engaged Roommate (the artist formerly known as Brunette Roommate) looked at me and hesitated. "What did you just use that for?"
I started to get worried. "My toilet... why?"
And then I heard the five most dreaded words in any language: "That's not the toilet scrubber."
"What. What. WHAT? What is it?"
"That's a normal scrubber. I use it to wash the pots and pans."
"Hnghefuhn."
...
Yeah. I can't even...
I did warn you. I just wish someone had warned me.
I am in the middle of a major room cleaning/organizing spree, and today that included scrubbing my toilet. I went to get the toilet bowl scrubber from under the sink, where it was last time, and instead saw it resting on our dish drying rack. The place to theoretically dry clean dishes off of which we would then eat. I threw up in my mouth a little, thanked Jeezy Creezy that we almost never use the dish drying rack, and marched off to the bathroom.
I got on my knees and worked that bitch 'til I was spent. Once I'd had my way with it, I marched back out, holding the scrubber in one hand. Engaged Roommate (the artist formerly known as Brunette Roommate) looked at me and hesitated. "What did you just use that for?"
I started to get worried. "My toilet... why?"
And then I heard the five most dreaded words in any language: "That's not the toilet scrubber."
"What. What. WHAT? What is it?"
"That's a normal scrubber. I use it to wash the pots and pans."
"Hnghefuhn."
...
Yeah. I can't even...
I did warn you. I just wish someone had warned me.
Monday, December 08, 2008
The Weekend: The Prequel
For about a month now, Stupid Cunt has been trying to get me to date her boyfriend's friend from college. This week I shrugged and said I'd meet him if she actually thought we would like each other. This is where the first warning bell should have gone off. Her response was, "He's cool even if you don't want to bear his kids."
Backpedaling already? Hmmmmm. Considering that the last time she tried to set me up with a guy, her pitch included the line "he's not ugly," I probably shouldn't have trusted her in the first place, but she was insistent, the little pooper.
Second warning half-bell. SC set something up for Saturday, and texted me that "Friend is psyched!" If that was true, I wondered, who the fuck gets psyched about a blind double-date? Blind dates are usually blind for a reason, and you're supposed to get roped into them, not eagerly await them. I chalked it up to SC lying, because she does that.
Third bell. On Friday I realized I wanted to see what this guy looked like, so I asked SC to send me a picture. I was informed "No pictures." Eeeenteresting. I think that was the point at which I subconsciously decided to go all out Friday night, so that I'd have at least one fun night. My subconscious was officially only going on this date because how could it turn down a Granny-Stupid Cunt reunion? It could not, that is how.
In that sense, I have SC to thank (blame?) for what happened both Friday and Saturday nights. Friday's coming up next, now that you have all the relevant and oh-so-important backstory.
Backpedaling already? Hmmmmm. Considering that the last time she tried to set me up with a guy, her pitch included the line "he's not ugly," I probably shouldn't have trusted her in the first place, but she was insistent, the little pooper.
Second warning half-bell. SC set something up for Saturday, and texted me that "Friend is psyched!" If that was true, I wondered, who the fuck gets psyched about a blind double-date? Blind dates are usually blind for a reason, and you're supposed to get roped into them, not eagerly await them. I chalked it up to SC lying, because she does that.
Third bell. On Friday I realized I wanted to see what this guy looked like, so I asked SC to send me a picture. I was informed "No pictures." Eeeenteresting. I think that was the point at which I subconsciously decided to go all out Friday night, so that I'd have at least one fun night. My subconscious was officially only going on this date because how could it turn down a Granny-Stupid Cunt reunion? It could not, that is how.
In that sense, I have SC to thank (blame?) for what happened both Friday and Saturday nights. Friday's coming up next, now that you have all the relevant and oh-so-important backstory.
Sunday, December 07, 2008
Book #10: Notes from a Small Island, by Bill Bryson
If you love pubs, griping about architecture, and funny names, this is the book for you. Unfortunately, I returned the (weeks overdue) book to the library, and I didn't take many notes, so all I can do is try to recreate what I remember.
-"Cute little British travelogue by Bill Bryson." Yep, that's still my assessment, thank god. No sheep sex for Mr. Bryson, no sirree! In Small Island, he chronicles his last trip through Great Britain before returning home to America after 20 years. He at first aims to hit literally every place of any sort of note, but rather quickly realized that was impossible unless he wanted to extend his trip by about a month. He spends a lot of time backpacking up coastlines and staying in dingy motels, and if you're looking for action (of any sort), look elsewhere. It's all about his clever observations and writing.
-For some reason, it took me over a week of starting and stopping to get through the first 60 pages. I think I was worn down by the endless procession of place names, whether they were humorously fake or even more humorously real. People's names, too. (Colin Crapspray, Bertram Pantyshield.) He seriously will get on a train, pull out a map, and talk for pages about all the different street names he's passing. Once he settled down a bit, I got used to it.
-It's an extremely solitary trip, which I had forgotten about his In a Sunburned Country. If you don't like looking inside Bryson's head for 300 pages, do not read a Bryson book. Duh.
-There is a lot of ruminating on architecture and the history of England's architecture, and how modern architects have utterly failed at keeping the traditions of England's historic and beautiful architecture. A lot of ruminating on nature, too, and by nature I mean the quality of pebbles on which he's tramping or the quality of wheat from which his beer was made.
-Even though I'm not terribly interested in pubs, or architecture, or pebbles, every few pages contained at least one line that made me laugh out loud, so overall a fun read.
Pages: 324
-"Cute little British travelogue by Bill Bryson." Yep, that's still my assessment, thank god. No sheep sex for Mr. Bryson, no sirree! In Small Island, he chronicles his last trip through Great Britain before returning home to America after 20 years. He at first aims to hit literally every place of any sort of note, but rather quickly realized that was impossible unless he wanted to extend his trip by about a month. He spends a lot of time backpacking up coastlines and staying in dingy motels, and if you're looking for action (of any sort), look elsewhere. It's all about his clever observations and writing.
-For some reason, it took me over a week of starting and stopping to get through the first 60 pages. I think I was worn down by the endless procession of place names, whether they were humorously fake or even more humorously real. People's names, too. (Colin Crapspray, Bertram Pantyshield.) He seriously will get on a train, pull out a map, and talk for pages about all the different street names he's passing. Once he settled down a bit, I got used to it.
-It's an extremely solitary trip, which I had forgotten about his In a Sunburned Country. If you don't like looking inside Bryson's head for 300 pages, do not read a Bryson book. Duh.
-There is a lot of ruminating on architecture and the history of England's architecture, and how modern architects have utterly failed at keeping the traditions of England's historic and beautiful architecture. A lot of ruminating on nature, too, and by nature I mean the quality of pebbles on which he's tramping or the quality of wheat from which his beer was made.
-Even though I'm not terribly interested in pubs, or architecture, or pebbles, every few pages contained at least one line that made me laugh out loud, so overall a fun read.
Pages: 324
Holy fuck
It's 6:30 in the morning, and once I fall asleep and then wake up again, I have some tales to tell. Some yarns to spin, if you will. (Spoiler alert: the wtf-iest yarn ends in me scheduling sex for Friday. Let's see if this happens.)
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