Names Have Been Changed To Protect Stupid Motherfuckers...

For those of you who do that thing called.. um... sleep? Yeah, sleep. For those of you who do that, Happy Saturday! For me, it's still Tuesday, but I digress...

Last night, @Jennicide (aka "JAWS") (aka Jennifer Leigh) and I hung out for a while, ranting & raving and exchanging horror stories about drawing to 2 outs, bricking 26 outers, and not being able to fold. <--- All code phrases for other issues, but frankly, the real details are none of your fucking business. Anyhooooo... that bitch makes me laugh. She also makes me think. She gave me some food for thought, and I PIGGED OUT on it. (Thanks, JAWS... you're the best.)

While giving serious consideration to some of the things Jennicide suggested I consider, I was mindlessly going through old blog post drafts and stumbled upon this true story from about 2 summers ago. Reading it reminded me that I'm not exactly a stranger to making bad decisions... and what I (ding! ding! ding! *epiphany*) realized is that in life, just like in poker, even though surrendering sucks balls, you can save yourself a boatload of tilt if you muck your hand as soon as you know you're beat. And you know what sucks bigger and hairier balls than folding?? Drawing dead.

So without further adieu, here it is... the silly little story that will change my life from today forward. Enjoy!


Okay, kiddies... so at long last, here's my camping story - enjoy it. Or don't. Frankly, I'm way too hot to give a shit.

So as you all know, I had another one of my infamous "Who Is She Kidding, This Is Going To Be A Disaster" ideas... This one was entitled "Wouldn't It Be Great If We Went Camping - But Not Just Regular Camping. Wouldn't It Be Great If We Spent A Week In The Total Wilderness With Bears And Wolves And Who Gives A Shit That It's Been Raining For Nineteen Weeks Straight, This Is Gonna Be Awesome!"

Skipping the gristle and getting straight to the bone, it was by far one of my worst Great Ideas ever.... here's how it all went down:

My best friend, who from here forward shall be referred to as "Mr. Vagina", and I hit the road headed for Baldface Mountain in Maine. According to Mapquest, which from here forward shall be referred to as "The Website That Fucked Me Over", the distance to our destination was approximately 230 miles. Mr. Vagina and I calculated that the entire trip, including stops to eat and pee, should take no more than 5 hours. Awesome! We put the Eminem 'Relapse' CD in the stereo and set sail. Or set drive. You know what I fucking mean.



Putting all our trust in The Website That Fucked Me Over was my second most moronic idea of all time, because by following the directions they gave, we were taken so far off our course that we ended up arriving to the mountain 4 hours late. Guess what kids? 4 hours late translates to climbing a mountain (4400' elevation by the way), hiking a mile and a half deep into the forest and setting up a frigging tent in the dark. The pitch dark. The scary, deep in the woods, up in a fucking mountain, hey did I just hear a wolf howl, I can't see JACK SHIT type of dark. Yeah.

MUST...HAVE...FIRE.  Guess what kids? Can't make fire without wood. Guess what else kids?? Every piece of wood in the forest is wet. I manage to find a log that's only about 60% saturated and begin chopping with my itty bitty Playskool-esque hatchet and (no word of a lie) THREE HOURS later, I had managed to chop a tiny hunk out of my new arch nemesis, the damp log.

I threw my little hunk of wood into what Mr. Vagina claimed was our fire ring and told him to get the fire rockin'. An hour and a half later, Mr. Vagina still had not produced fire out of the fucking thing. His parents MUST be cousins, no? (Just FYI folks: this "fire ring" was actually 4 stones in a retarded semi circle... and by the way, that's what Mr. Vagina managed to accomplish during my three hours of hardcore wood chopping labor) So our first day ends in utter disappointment without fire. Oh, and did I mention we forgot to take the sleeping bags out of the car? No big deal though... I had a towel.

If I tell you every detail of the remainder of the trip, you'll be reading until Catholic priests stop playing slap and tickle with little boys, so let me just summarize from here on out:

Day #2

 
- wake up FREEZING under my towel blanket

- four more total hours wasted hiking back down and back up then back down and back up and back down mountain to the car in order to retrieve remaining   gear

- managed to get small fire lit - wood is still soaking wet

- attempt at making burgers failed (I knocked the grill grate over while fleeing prehistoric sized mosquito and burgers got ruined)

- stuck hot dogs on the end of sticks and ate those instead

- begin 2nd attempt at chopping firewood   (which comes to a screeching halt when I realize I've got five open blisters from Day 1's firewood chopping fiasco)

- hike back down mountain and drive 30 miles to buy firewood

- torrential rain starts at 6 pm and DOES NOT STOP

- decide to just go to sleep, telling ourselves "You know what? The hard part is over... our fun can start tomorrow."

Yeah.

- wake up in middle of night to sloshing sounds... tent is leaking

- turn on lantern... we're sitting in a 3 inch puddle

- sleeping bags and entire backpacks including clothing SOAKED

- thunder, lightening and rain does not let up

- Mr. Vagina huddles up in a corner of the tent while I bail out the water.     
  Laziness and homosexual tendencies - there's something penicillin won't cure
  in a fella, right Mr. Vagina???

Yeah. The hard part's over alright.

Day #3any future floods.

- Realizing I'm on my hands and knees covered in mud, bugs and sweat while Mr.Vagina is standing above  me in a squeaky clean rain slicker, I state the  obvious: "You're a fucking pussy, Mr. Clean... GET THE FUCK DOWN HERE  AND HELP ME WITH THIS DIGGING!!!!!"

- Mr. Vagina responds with "Every team has a laborer and an engineer. I'M THE  ENGINEER."

- I throw digging tool at Mr. Vagina and decide that I will poison him later.

- Rain stops FINALLY and Mr. Vagina gets a fire lit

- Successfully make burgers and dogs... eat like kings, laughing about the
  whole thing

- Hiked to a spot on Baldface Mountain called "The Emerald Pool"... Jumped off a 30 foot cliff into the natural spring. Had the time of my life until I realized Mr. Vagina had no intentions of jumping too. Jumped (solo) once more, forcing Mr. Vagina to stand on an adjoining cliff to snap the action shot. Decided this wasn't any fun without a jumping partner.

- Pissed, begin hiking back to site. Asked Mr. Vagina if he was afraid his tampon would have gotten wet if he had jumped. 

- Once back at site, I rolled a huge doob while Mr. Vagina got the fire roaring better than he had the whole trip... Sat back, smoked & watched the dancing flames.

- Begin hearing wolves howling...

- Howling seems to be coming from VERY VERY close proximity to site - start panicking

- Get ambushed by a spinning animal of unknown origin when it runs head first into our dining canopy

- Scream and run like little girls, never finding out what the animal was or  where it went.

- Paranoid for the next 2 hours, Mr. Vagina refuses to turn off blinding lantern so we can enjoy the campfire.

- I Finally convince Mr. Vagina to turn off said blinding lantern, but agree to let him scan the woods every 40 seconds with Bat Signal like flashlight.

- During one of his scans, Mr. Vagina jumps up and yells "IT'S RUNNING RIGHT AT US!"  but does not specify what is running at us or from which direction it is running. BY FAR THE SCARIEST MOMENT IN MY ENTIRE LIFE.


- Turns out Mr. Vagina is just a pink dress wearing pussy and it was nothing.

- We make S'mores and laugh about what a disaster this whole thing is.

- It starts to rain again and I'm not laughing anymore.

Day #4:

- Wake up realizing that I left my shoes outside the tent overnight and they are now a wading pool for mosquitoes.

- Put plastic bags over my feet and wear wet shoes anyway, risking the jungle  rot.

- Dry firewood is now wet because Mr. Vagina moved the tarp I had covering it.

- I throw marshmallow stick at Mr. Vagina, again reminding him of his mind blowing incompetence.

- Hike BACK DOWN mountain and make another 30 mile drive to get more dry firewood. Lug the 60 pounds of wood back up mountain.

- Slip on moss covered rock while lugging wood up mountain and sprain my right hand. In an attempt to rescue me from falling, Mr. Vagina falls as well, busting his shin wide open. Because of our injuries, it takes 3 trips to get the wood to the top of the mountain.

- Mr. Vagina tries and tries and tries but cannot get fire lit.

- I tell Mr. Vagina "I'm soooo glad you came - too bad your father did!" and storm off, announcing that I'm going home and leaving him there alone to become bear food.

- Got pissed because he wasn't scared even a little bit.... Decide I need to take a short walk to cool down. Grab my flashlight and head for the path.

- Come face to face on path with snarling animal, which I could only assume was a wolf. Turns out it was a dog, but snarling nonetheless... Dog shows it's teeth and inches toward me, I raise my Mag Light and ready myself to smash its head in.

- Dog's owner comes prancing around the bend in her fucking L.L. Bean gear and tells me "You need to stop shining the light in her eyes." IS SHE KIDDING ME???? I tell Captain Dumbcunt that her dog just came seconds from death and that she should really have it on a leash. Because I was feeling extra helpful in that moment, I also advised her to go eat a flaming bag of dicks.

- I skulk back to the site and tell Mr. Vagina to get packing... we have no choice but to just leave.

I'd rather swim in raw sewage than ever go camping again.

West Coast Livin'...

Over the past year, I've made friends with lots and lots of great people who call L.A. their home. I'll be visiting many of them this summer so I've boned up on my knowledge of L.A. culture. As a gift to you, kiddies, I am sharing what I've learned so that if you visit the greater Los Angeles area to chill with your friends or become a star or whatever, you'll know how to act.

*Spoiler alert: Although on the East Coast, it's perfectly acceptable to yell "Get the fuck outta the road, you fuckin' retahhd!" at an elderly man while he crosses the street, they frown on that in Califor-nye-aye.



So, say someone told you were the most talented chorus member in your schools rendition of “Pippin”... Now you think you have what it takes to tackle life in the land of Milk–N-Honey - Los Angeles.

Well, before you go and buy your one-way bus fare, you need to know The Rules of La La Land. Yes, there are rules and, if you break them, you will be taken straight to the border and sent home, or worse - to THE VALLEY (for serious offenders).

Read up, kiddies, and take note, or suffer a life never knowing what it's like living in the 310. (I know... GANGSTA, right??!!)

Rule #1: Though It Is Always Sunny During the Day, It Snows At Night in LA

I know, I know. Drugs are bad, blah, blah, shut up. What you like to call "Drug Addiction" (such a nasty term), the "hipsters" in L.A. refer to as "partying." It may be 2009 but the truth is, the 80’s are alive and blowing a load all over L.A. Nightlife. Their clubs may close at 1:30, but what what they lack in late night club life, they make up for in "AFTER-HOURS," which is when a lot of a people meet up in some random guy's house in the hills and spew fast nonsense at one another while sweating profusely and obsessively changing radio stations.

Rule #2: Flat Is For The Ground, But Those Bosoms Must Be Round.

Ok, ladies- we know your mothers told you to love yourself, but they don’t adhere to that bullshit in the city of angels.  All females must have a heaping, full bosom-with a C Cup minimum. All females will be subjected to RTC’s (Random Titty Checks) in all bars, clubs, restaurants and shopping areas, and will be asked to wear clothing that shows both your cleavage and stomach (for your BMI and hip- to-waist ratio check) on all occasions.

Those unwilling to cooperate will be labled “Feminazi’s” and sent immediately to San Francisco on a dirty Greyhound Bus.

Rule # 3: If Your Mama Is Alive, a Beamer You Shall Drive

There is a car requirement in Los Angeles that is strictly enforced. You must drive a BMW or higher. The BMW shall always be a convertible, and the make must not be more than two years older than the present date. The color must be Dark Blue, Silver or Black. All other colors will get to sent to Encino. You must drive this car no matter what you do for a living, which means you have the following options:

A. Lie To Your Mother
B. Steal From Your Mother
C. Live With Your Mother (which is more forgivable than not driving a BMW)

Rule # 4: Unless You Want To Be Tossed By the Wayside, Get To The Store And Buy Some Peroxide

Because of Section 43251 of the Los Angeles Hottie Code, absolutely NO brunette females will be allowed to reside in Los Angeles.

You will have 24 hours to lighten both your hair and attitude upon entry. Your blonde of choice may range from "Summer, Buttery" to "White Vivid Video Vixon." The L.A. natives prefer the latter. The more you look like a (high retail) porn star, the better you will fare. There is one exception: Roots. All skanks with the skunk line will be sent to Long Beach, where they can listen to hip hop and wear ADIDAS track pants.

Rule # 5: The Truth Is for Fools, Tell It And You’ll Break The Rules

No negative vibes are allowed in LA... Therefore, you will pretend to love every person you meet, idea you hear, movie you see, food you taste and club you visit. Those who violate this rule by sharing what they call their "opinion” will be sent home to New York.

Rule #6: Broke Is No Joke: A Man Without Money Is Not Very Funny

Men need to flaunt their cash like it’s a big penis at a porn convention. No matter what, you must SPEND, SPEND, SPEND. In times when not spending (such as when you are enjoying the fruits of someone else's spending) you must TALK about how much you have been spending. You may accentuate your statements by flashing labels or inviting people to see expensive items you have recently purchased.

Rule #7: When Discussing all Traffic, Try Avoiding All Havoc

Everyone drives in LA. This means you must quickly learn how to sustain a conversation (for a minimum of twenty minutes time) about how you found an alternate route in between your destinations that helped you avoid the “nightmare” on whatever main route the “average” person would have taken.

Side Note: When referring to highways, you must do so as though they are landmarks.

Example: “I avoided the bumper-to-bumper disaster on the “5” this afternoon!”

Rule #7: When Celebs Hit Your Scene, You Must Always Be Mean

You must see at least three celebrities per week and when recounting the tale, you must share negative details about their dress, weight, skin (especially when involving Lindsey or Britney) and attitude. I know this seems to break rule 5 but the Los Angeleans say it doesn’t…pretend not to notice their inconsistency—that DOES break rule 5.

Rule #8: Sushi Is Yummy, Even If It Hurts Your Tummy

Sushi is delicious! Don’t think so? You had better lie. You will be willing to spend $40.00 on rolls filled with cold fish and seaweed and pretend you want and can afford more, but will “hold off” because you don’t want to “stuff yourself.” You will be starving or broke by the end of the night. If starving, you can use your leftover money for “after hours”, where you will have a little nose candy for dessert and lose your appetite. If you are stuffed and broke, your ass had better beg for bumps all night to burn those extra calories. No fatties allowed in LA. Unless you are a studio head- and you are not a studio head (although you are allowed to say you are to get laid).


Rule #9: Unless You Want To Be Deceased, You Must Never EVER Drive East.

No one goes East of La Brea or South of Olympic—That’s gang member territory.

This rule is only broken if you need a fake ID -or an Abortion. Whore.

Rule # 10: The Place Will Not Be The Same, Once You Speaketh The Name

You went to the hottest ___________ (insert name of spa, club, restaurant, hotel bar) and it was ________________(insert AMAZING, AWESOME, RIDICULOUS). You saw _______________(Insert Hef, Playmates, Paris, Lindsay Lohan) and they were _______________ (Insert: Wasted, Anorexic, Old or Lame).

When your friends go there and complain it was dead, you will respond knowingly, "Yeah - well, I went when it was hot three weeks ago!"

Rule #11: If They Live in the 818, You Must Discriminate

No matter how nice she is, how hot she is, how loaded he is or what his excuse is, you can never, ever date someone in this area code. You may never visit someone in this area code, or you will be shunned. You will be forced to wear something from two seasons ago with a big Scarlet V on it if you are caught sleeping over at someone’s house for ANY reason.

This includes relatives.

In fact, if you have relatives in the 818, you must seek restraining orders against them so that when you become famous you can prove you have not been close to them “for years.”

For Fellow East Coasters who don't get it:

LA = Manhattan
The Valley = Long Island
Inland Empire = Jersey

Need I say more?

Now, go and pack your bags (though you will need to purchase new clothes once you arrive, and toss those undies (everyone goes commando in La La Land). Kiss your soul goodbye and say hello to your new best friend, Satan.

Can I Get A Bar Of Soap And A Valium Please?

Hi Kids! Please forgive my lack of posts over the past couple of weeks. Long story short: I've been camping in the mountains. It sucked balls. Sweaty ones.

Once I hose off, I'll be back with the hideous details. (and some bug spray just in case I've been followed)

I'm Always Naked When I Do Bad Things

 So I was lying in bed, wearing nothing but my new teeny tiny iPanties and wishing it wasn't so hot and humid outside that night, because a slick layer of moisture covered my entire body... I was bored, and craved a little "girl talk"  so I called Roxanne, my new neighbor and invited her to take a dip in my pool with me. She told me she'd bring the wine... She also said she was bringing "Twister" with her in case we got bored. The doorbell rang about 6 minutes after our call ended... she was REALLY EXCITED to come swim.

Now that I've got your attention, let me just say this: This post IS NOT about sweaty girl on girl action between me and my neighbor. (In fact, my neighbor couldn't fit one ANKLE through a pair of iPanties, and her name's not Roxanne. It's Edna. Or Ethel. Or Crotchety Old Lady Next Door... but that's not the point.)

I MEAN, DO I LOOK LIKE A "PENTHOUSE LETTERS" WRITING KINDA GIRL TO YOU??? Um.. ok, you've got a point there. Maybe that's NOT too far from the scope of imagination.  But again not the point, which I will get to now.
I wanted to be sure I had your undivided attention, because what I have to say is important to me. I can see that I've got it, and I thank you from the bottom of my sweaty imaginary iPanties. So we're ready to move on to the actual topic of this post, which is "JUST SHUT UP AND DO."

Every day while flash-banging my way through this social network and that social network and blog directories, and online magazines and discussion forums and more blog directories and twitter and YouTube and an 8-pack of batteries for my wireless mouse and a 6-pack of Stella Artois for my sanity, I notice that people say "I follow you" or "Thanks for adding me" or "I have favorited you"  or "I'm glad you added me as a friend" - you know the drill. Do we really mean those things, folks? Or are we all just full of shit? I wonder if we all REALLY follow who we're following... Let's say, for the sake of example, a "friend" we are "following" because they are a "favorite" has accomplished a personal goal recently, and has done something as exciting as, well.... ummm.. something like.... oh I dunno. Started a web business. Designed a clothing line. Has a gallery opening. Published a book.

Yeah. Let's say they published a book. Wow... that would really be something, huh? Imagine having a bunch of stuff that YOU wrote printed in ink, bound and sewn and put on shelves in a bookstore??? HOLY SHIT. I'd say that's a pretty major event in a "friend's" life, no?  And because they are one of your "favorite" people in the world, you would of course "follow" them to the bookstore and at the very LEAST, you'd read the jacket to see if your "friend's" new book intrigued you enough to go the extra mile and buy a copy. If it didn't, you'd certainly have enough time to give them 3 seconds worth of texted comments to let them know that you showed up to see what they accomplished, wouldn't you?  And HEYYYYY... wouldn't it be a super-duper EXTRA nifty and neat idea to, I dunno, maybe let OTHER people know what a brilliant thing your "friend" did?? Because they just may tell some more people who might tell a few people and so on and so on and..... DON'T JUST SAY YOU'RE A FOLLOWER, FRIEND, FAN or SUPPORTER - actually try to be one.  Social networking is all about making GENUINE connections people.Ok degenerates and nutbags. None of you are stupid... FARRRRR from it, which is why I adore each and every one of you strangers who I have never met in my life.  So I'm confident that you have succeeded in catching my drift.

So, that being said, take this recommendation for what it's worth... I would like to point your attention to some extraordinary people in our bipolar and poker communities who have done some really interesting (and I'll go as far as to say sometimes even AWE-INSPIRING) things. Do with this information what you will, but before you just "X" out of the page, remember that these are people in our groups, online communities, networks, friends lists and blogrolls... Lets show them that our support isn't as short lived as the bright salmon kitchen paint idea we had last summer, ok? (And then let's show 'em our boobs, because it's great for shock value and very entertaining.)

1. Two friends of mine from the bipolar community, Clive Wild and Maricela Estrada have recently published their memoirs. Both people are wonderfully colorful, intriguing, brilliantly talented writers... I've read both books, and let me just say this: there isn't a single adjective I could throw at you that would be adequate to convey how much I enjoyed each of them... Do yourself a favor and click the links below.

My Life As A Mood Swinger by Clive Wild

 

Bipolar Girl: My Psychotic Self by Maricela Estrada

2. Another wonderful friend of mine, Tom, owns/operates a FANTASTIC poker forum that questions everything about online & live poker and gaming... It also asks the one major nagging question: Is it possible online poker is rigged in any way against players, especially quality players? Again, words can't describe its worth, so click the link and check it out!  X-Files Poker Forum  

Thank you for your attention. So, boys and girls... who can tell me the moral of the story? Nobody? Hm. You guys really need to keep up....The moral of the story is if you don't ACTUALLY befriend your online "friends", you should be wearing a neon sign that reads "I AM A FUCKING POPULARITY CONTESTANT, NOT YOUR FRIEND OR FOLLOWER" - Quit campaigning, Asswipe. Start networking instead. You'll be surprised at what paying attention to other people can do for your social success.

You know, you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours. And by the way, my back is located on my vagina.