I'm One Of The Guys; The One With Great Tits...

Hey fellas! I know this is supposed to be "Guys' Night", but I thought you might be willing to make an exception for little ol' me. After all, I'm totally just like one of the guys!

I can completely understand your wanting to exclude females from this gathering. They can be such a pain! They demand too much attention, they're annoying, and they're just sooo high maintenance. Not me... I'm different! I'm not all hung up on labeling a relationship. I'm down for whatever, whenever, wherever. Hi-five!

Don't you hate it when girls are all stuck on what they look like? I'm not like that at all... check it out - jeans and a tiny, tiny t-shirt. Baseball cap with a ponytail through the back. No makeup (except a little mascara and some lip gloss).  If that doesn't make it clear that I'm just like one of the guys, I don't know what does.

Who's up for some buffalo wings?

Hey, huddle up - guy talk for a sec. I just wanna make one thing clear... This is definitely not a transparent ploy to gain your attention. This is in no way some sad attempt to connect with you because it's the only way I know how.

Break!

Hey, can I be in your fantasy football league?  I know I have no business being in it, but I'd love to be able to loudly announce to the guys at work that I'm in a fantasy football league and constantly talk about how my players are performing even though I have no idea what's going on and don't really care, because then they'd know that I'm just one of the guys! I think I'll draft Joe Montana with my first pick.  Then I'll take LeBron James, followed by Indiana Jones.

By the way, I have two brothers and we always wrestle. It's a guy thing.

Why, yes, that IS a Maxim magazine on the back of my toilet next to my scented candle and decorative seashells. I have a subscription! Maxim is the best magazine ever - it's sooo funny. "Top Ten Reasons Why Sorority Girls Are Easy"... Oh my God - sooooo true!

I guess I've always been a tomboy at heart. When all the other little girls in my neighborhood were playing with dolls, I was playing baseball with the boys.  I was horrible at it, and never had any real interest in the sport, but I got to wear pigtails and a cute jersey!

Wanna hear me burp the alphabet?

What's that? No, I don't mind if you ask my friend out.  But just between us guys, she's a total slut and you probably wouldn't want anything to do with her. She doesn't even know when the Superbowl is. I mean, come on.  Hey, just lookin' out, bro.

Who's down for some tackle football?

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.

Turning Japanese, I Think I'm Turning Japanese, I Really Think So

   .

DISCLAIMER: This blog reflects the thoughts, opinions, ideas, near moral bankruptcy and emotional shortcomings of myself; it does not reflect the thoughts, opinions, ideas, and/or body odor of my shadow, my friends, my neighbors, my dog or my raised middle finger.  All rights reserved, all lefts reserved. This blog is subject to change without notice. Any resemblance to actual talent, living or lucky, is unintentional and purely coincidental. Sane and balanced people and their families are not eligible. Beware of dog. Forget the dog, beware of owner, bah dum bah. As seen on TV. One size fits all. Hand wash only, tumble dry on low heat. Do not fold, spindle, or mutilate. No substitutions allowed. For a limited time only. Press hard, you are making five copies. This blog is void to null where prohibited, protected, declared private, taxed, or otherwise restricted. Blog is provided "as is" without any warranties expressed or implied. User assumes all liabilities. Not liable for damages due to use or misuse or inability to understand. Glaring Madness is An Equal Opportunity Offender. No shirt, no shoes, no heat stroke. Quantities are limited while supplies last. Do not write below this line. Falling rock. Falling bridge. Bridge over troubled water. Bridge under troubled waiter. Waiter! There's a fly in my soup. Quantity is never a problem but quality may vary. Since blog is hand-crafted, there will be slight differences in each interpretation. If defects are discovered, do not attempt to fix them yourself, but return your head to its ass of origin.

No Parking. No Standing. No Solicitors. No Spitting. No Kidding. Noooobody knoowwwss the trouble I've seeeeen. No glove, no love. No alcohol, dogs, or dead people. No anchovies please. Ok, anchovies on the side. No free will allowed. Parental Advisory Warning - No one under 17 admitted. Keep away from sunlight, pets, and small children. Limit one per family. No purchase necessary. No speakie Engrish. Open to the public for cash and carry. Odds of winning depends on how much you spend. Some assembly and shitloads of batteries required. **Batteries not included. Action figures sold separately. No money down. No rest for the wicked. No hard feelings pal. Apply only to affected area. Safety First. Hard hats are to be worn at all times while in the warehouse. Straightjackets are to be worn at all times while in the asylum. Get that thing away from me, Romeo... I said this is a hard HAT area. This blog may be too intense for some viewers so please consult with a physician, an attorney and your baby mama before participation begins.

For recreational use only. Do not disturb. Ring bell for service. All models are over 18 years of age, or at least that's what "Spider", the guy who sold them to me said. Available in fine department stores everywhere. This end up. Small parts can present a choking hazard to children of parents who pay way too little attention. Take a number please. Then shove it up your ass and wait. Product has not been tested by the FDA (but my cousin's neighbor tried it and said it was the BOMMMMBBB, yo!). Preservatives added to improve freshness. Safety goggles must be worn at all times. Safety sealed with a kiss for your protection. The buck stops here. Sanitized for your protection. Please include a self addressed, stamped envelope. How about a nice game of chess? This blog is for internal and infernal use only. If redness, irritation, swelling or rash develops, discontinue use and consult your magic eight ball. It puts the lotion in the basket. Use only with proper ventilation. Speaking of venting, I DO NOT LOVE RAYMOND so stop making blanket statements, Mr. TV Producer. Avoid extreme temperatures. Store in a cool dry place. Refrigerate after opening. Open the refrigerator. Keep away from open flames and avoid exhaling the fumes - inhaling them is fine. Avoid contact with eyes. Do not puncture, incinerate, or store above 120 degrees Fahrenheit. For your own safety, DO NOT MIX with emotional sensitivity.

Violaters will be prostituted. Prosecutors will be violated. No tickie, no washie. No animals were used to test the runtime performance of this blog. No extra salt, MSG, artificial color or flavoring added. If ingested, do not induce vomiting. If symptoms persist, delete yourself immediately. If you suspect an overloaded operator, destroy immediately. douchebags. The white zone is for passenger loading and unloading only. Contents are under pressure. Restaurant package, not for resale. First pull up, then pull down. Advanced users may also pull out. Call before coming. Driver does not carry cash. Autopilot is engaged during flight. Possible penalties for early withdrawal. Free offer valid only at participating crazy people blogs. Slightly higher outside of the continental US. Allow four to six seconds for delivery. What is best in life? To crush your enemies, see them driven before you, and to hear the lamentation of their women. Motor vehicles only.

If this blog begins to smoke, run - do not walk - towards the nearest exit. Do not place near any magnetic source. Smoking this blog may be hazardous to your health. Stop playing with that thing. I don't think we're in Kansas any more. Hi-ho, hi-ho its off to shirk I go. It's off to shrink I go. Slippery when wet. Do not exceed recommended daily allowance. For office use only. Not affiliated with the CIA, FBI or WNBA. Drop in any mailbox.

This disclaimer does not cover hurricane, lightning, tornado, volcanic eruption, premature ejaculation, earthquake, Quaker Oats, Acts of Bob, misuse, neglect, repair, attempted modification, bugs in the code, brain damage from faulty comprehension skills, high voltage, cosmic rays, missing or altered serial numbers, attempting to actually read this, sonic boom vibrations, electromagnetic radiation from nuclear blasts, and incidents related to airplane crash, ship sinking, motor vehicle accidents, leaky roof, alien attack, broken glass, falling rocks, blue balls, mud slides, winter storm warnings, menstrual cramps, forest fire, flying squirrels, verbal assaults, hostile military takeovers, or house arrest. Other restrictions may apply. Your mileage may vary. My patience may vary. Glaring Madness is a proud sponsor of Pham Le Nguyen from third world Sri Lanka - fourteen cents a month really adds up in some corners of the world. Code used in this blog was made from 100% recycled wing-its and i guess so's. No outlet. No inlet. No deposit, no return. No left turn. No right turn. No u-turn. Turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese, I really think so.

Lick THIS, United States Post Office!

Can you think of anything that requires the use of bodily fluids to function? Sure, there's Blondgirl McGlittertits, a hybrid human who runs on cocaine and semen, but I'm talking about something we use every day that needs liquid produced by our bodies to work.

Why, in a time when we can see the textured glisten of a fresh turd in digital clarity while a tranny greedily gulps it down; and watch an entire season of "Perfect Strangers" in a single sitting, are we still using saliva to adhere a stamp to an envelope?

You don't have to pick your nose and rub it all over your tax returns (and believe me, it doesn't make the IRS want to audit you any less). You don't take a dump on your license renewal form. The United States Post Office is the only government agency that relies on spit to function.

Sure, you can get those fancy new sticker stamps, but only if you buy stamps by the gross. And I don't know anyone so in love with their prison pen pal to go through that many stamps. For most of us, it's buy a stamp at the post office for the one thing we're there to mail. Then you put your coins in the machine and pull out a lickable document that will get your minimum credit card payment to Omaha by Thursday.

Envelopes aren't getting off the hook either. They've got to have a lick to work, and that's just medieval. Some envelope companies have come out with the peel-off adhesive areas. Genius. Why is this still the exception and not the rule?????

Pick out a greeting card, any of them: "Sorry I Touched You There, Nephew,"
"Congratulations On Your Retirement - Religious," "Happy Birthday, Butcher," it doesn't matter, chances are, your good intentions will be accompanied by an envelope you slobbered all over......

Moisture-activated adhesive was invented in 367 B.C. by the Chinese. Granted, the adhesive was saliva itself. Still, it should have been replaced by a superior invention centuries ago. Or, if it's so perfect, why not use it everywhere. Instead of Post-it notes, walls should be finished with lickable adhesive. Then we could lick the wall and slap a normal piece of paper up there to remind ourselves to throw out our Post-it notes.

Decades ago, when people took the time and effort to dream up a slick future scenario for a novel or film, information delivery was window dressing. "Of course licking stamps and envelopes will be obsolete by 1984", writers assumed. Even in crappy 60s sci-fi, in which robots looked like water heaters, mail was delivered via a system of "futuristic" vacuum tubes. The banks caught on, while the USPS is still relying on us for a tonguing. It's just stupid.

Sure, bodily fluids comes in handy for many personal uses that may never have been intended – spit works for spot grooming, shoe shining, light torture (a la the saliva yo-yo) and urine is good for extinguishing small fires, arctic calligraphy and hot sex - but the parcel industry needs our secretions??? I submit no - it does not.

When are we going to wake up and scream, "I'm done frenching my mail!"

Only then will we, as a society, be able to go about our bill paying, credit card applying, thank you note sending lives with a shred of dignity. Take a stand.

Yeah, I'm included...

Happy Halloween 2009!!!

.

Finally... Halloween is here!!!! Today is the holiday all of us down-home American whore wannabes look forward to! For one night, all common social sense is thrown to the wayside and we women become empowered in our own sexuality because we are allowed, for one night, to dress like huge sluts. Just like Britney, Beyonce, Madonna & Hannah Montana, but just for one night and without all the self-serving ballads and hip-hop beats!

The thing most people don't know is that there’s so much more going on behind the fuzzy bunny tails and pleather jumpsuits than meets the eye. I am revealing to you the true behind-the-scenes reasoning for each of these festive costumes. So tonight, when you’re holding that Sexy Schoolgirl’s hair as she pukes Jaeger into the toilet at the Bottom’s Up, know that deep down inside, she’s a real person, with real feelings. And a secret desire to be a prostitute.

Let's get to know the ladies in question, shall we?


Sexy Nurse

You’ve been a bad boy! You need some sexy medicine! And this was the only Halloween costume they had left! Rest assured that Sexy Nurse didn’t really want to be a sexy nurse, but she waited until the last second to shop and couldn’t fit into the one XXS Sexy Kitty outfit they had left. Regardless, this girl will make the most of it by overdoing the Nurse bit and checking to hear your heartbeat with her plastic stethoscope over and over again. Since there will be 14 other Sexy Nurses in the bar at any given time on Halloween, you’ll be pleased to know that this one is usually the first to jump up on the bar and strip in order to win back the attention her costume has lost her.



The Sexy Referee

Sports! This one is one of the guys! She totally digs whatever you dig -whatEVER you dig!! She's as cool as hell, and probably can suck an elephant through a pixie straw. Careful though.... she has LOTS of male friends. You don't need that kind of competition, so this girl is better served drunk and with a side of buffalo wings.



The Sexy Disney Character

A true princess, and be prepared to treat her like one. The Sexy Disney Girl didn’t get enough attention as a young girl and Sexy Snow White, Sexy Cinderella or Sexy Pocahontas is the showcase for her inner battle between the child within and the raging slut she is today. Easily confused by shiny objects, this girl will come home with you if candy and dolls are promised. Swallow your pride and wear a Prince Charming outfit and she’ll bob for your poisoned apples in the bathroom. But be cautioned, she’ll be planning your Disney-themed magical wedding and subsequent honeymoon to Disneyland by the next morning.



The Sexy Cop

Spread ‘em! I know what you’re thinking - this girl is a dominatrix at heart and wants to spank you until you like it. No, if she was a dominatrix she would probably have dressed up as a dominatrix. The Sexy Cop is actually a tranny trolling the Halloween streets for unsuspecting men to handcuff to a bed and pee on. Why else would she be so into that nightstick? I mean, come on.



The Sexy Daisy Duke, Jessica Simpson or Britney Spears

She wants SO BADLY to be her! Hidden in this gal’s closet is one of those microphones that makes it sound like you’re singing on the radio and about 17 tube-top-leather-pant and chunky Spice Girl’s shoe outfit combinations. At night, after she’s sure everyone’s out for the evening, Britney-Wanna-Be puts on her 1998 “Baby One More Time” CD and a tube top and gives the most stunning pop concert you will never see. Buy her a subscription to US Weekly and she’s all yours.


The Sexy 70's Girl

The key word here is "lazy". This chick spent $10 and 20 minutes in a Goodwill and found a trippy paisley dress and some white boots, which equals all kinds of cheap. Everyone knows that Halloween costumes must cost upwards of $60 and only be made from the thinnest and most easily torn fabric made in Korea. Any girl not willing to spend $60 on an outfit she’ll wear once is a whore and cannot be trusted.


The Sexy Fairy

Caution: To approach this girl is to step into a world of Marilyn Manson, Hot Topic and constant Harry Potter references. Fairies equal Goth, and the dark, “historically-accurate” fairy you see in the bar may actually just be wearing her “going-out” clothes. She is angry at you and she doesn’t even know you. Fairies don’t need men to survive. They need nothing but nature and the Internet. She might be a little chubby now, but she was even fatter in high school. That’s why she moved to Chicago - to start anew and become a manager of a Spencer’s Gifts. She’s the one for you if you really want that 30% discount.

The Sexy Sexy Girl

An honest and true woman. No pretense, no hiding, no outer clothing. This lovely lady wears your average everyday full-out lingerie. No animal tail; nothing to distract from the fact that she is wearing underwear. It may be cold out, but no coat for Sexy Sexy Girl, not even a sexy coat, because that would take away from the impact of her wearing only underwear. Just underwear. Unfortunately, what you see is the best you’re ever going to get. Sexy Sexy has revealed to you and all of your friends the best boudoir outfit she has to offer. So when she takes you home and slyly says, “Let me slip into something more comfortable...” she means stale cotton panties, a sports bra and some socks. Oh, and did you get the part where I said she just showed off her best sexy time skivvies to all of your friends?


The Sexy Kitty, Mousie or Bunny

Almost always complimented with a tight leotard or corset and panties combo, the focus here is not on the animal this woman pretends to portray. It is merely a way to top off what she had planned as a Sexy Sexy Girl outfit, but chickened out on at the last second. This girl is a tease, a doesn’t-follow-through-er, and will most likely be the girl who discusses anal with you, but pulls out of the plan at the last second.


The Sexy Dead Girl

She’s two days away from committing suicide because she’ll never use her journalism degree or move out of her parents’ house in Parma, Ohio. Move along.

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.

Hot Enough For Ya?...

Ok - so let's talk about cliches.

I like them... And the cheesier the better as far as I'm concerned. I've been hearing them a lot lately, thanks to a friend of mine who has a love thing for one of the all time greats, which we will touch upon later. She largely inispired this list, so thank you Samantha (MiniMom) - I owe ya one.

The thing is: I think there are some cliches that should be used WAAAYYY more often, but not in the boring and tiresome way they're usually used in. (C'mon - you know me better than that...)

So... I have created a list of classic cliches (along with their accompanying hand gestures) that have been translated into Kim-glish. Please memorize them and use them as often as possible. And if you have any to add - feel free to do it. Because "That's How I Roll"...

Okay - let's get this party started.


1.“Those Are Odds I Can Live With”
This cliche means everything and nothing at all, and is usually used like this:

Fred: “Hey Bob -  if you drink even one more beer, you’re going to go blind. Like legally blind. For real.”
Bob: "Those are odds I can live with." (shrugs and drinks beer anyway)

Here's the new way:

“Hey ____,(your name) wanna grab a few beers?”
With palms facing each other in a V formation, you shrug and reply, “Those are odds I can live with.”
**Feel free to laugh to yourself after saying this. I mean, shit, you're a funny oddsmaker and you know you just confused SOMEBODY.

2. “Up One Side And Down The Other”

Like most cliches, this one can be used as sexual innuendo... but it usually refers to something being uniformly and completely what it is... For example: "My new Apple computer is one hell of a piece of technology. It is built with sheer precision,  up one side and down the other.

The new way:

Waiter: “Are you enjoying your meal?”
You: “Up one side and down the other, thank you very much”

**Feel free to do a diving roller coaster motion with your hand to drive the point home. And don't forget to cap it off with a casual wink.


3.“I Wouldn’t Kick Her Out Of Bed”

This one is especially nauseating. Sometimes people will add something to the end of it, usually some kind of  infraction they would overlook - like "for eating crackers" or something equally as asinine.

The only way to use the NEW version of this one effectively is when referencing something non-female and preferably inanimate:

You're asked, “So what do you think about lasagna for dinner tonight?”

You reply,  “I wouldn’t kick her out of bed”
**Make sure to make some humping gestures after you say this. If you’re on you’re cell phone make “aree aree aree” sounds or however a squeaking bed sounds to you.


4. "To Be Honest With You”

“To be honest with you” has always been a great way to begin a statement that's pure and utter bullshit, and because it's so overused, everyone KNOWS. So since it's so obvious anyway, let's make it even more obvious for the new version...

A stranger at the mall asks you “'Excuse me... Do you have the time?"

Keeping your best poker face on, you say,  “Well to be honest with you,”  and roll up your sleeve a bit, look at your watch, give the face a little buff and polish, roll your sleeve back down and say “I left my watch at home, sorry Chief."
**Before you walk away make sure you do this: Moving in a grandiose way, take your cell phone out and bring it up to eye level. Make it obvious that you are again looking at the time by squinting in a really exaggerated way while you look at the screen. Proceed to put the phone away then say this: "So long Buddy. Sorry I couldn't help you. To be honest with you, I don't even carry a cell phone anymore because it's always flashing the time." Wink and walk away.


5.“I'd Tell You, But Then I'd Have To Kill You."

You really can’t overuse this classic  gem. So use it as you normally would, but the new version has a surprise ending...

Your friend asks "what are you doing this weekend?" and you say "I'd tell you but then I'd have to kill you." Chuckle,  tell them your plans and go about business as usual.

**Here's the twist:
Every day for the next week, remind your friend that you're gonna have to kill them. Send them a series of emails containing links to websites that focus on random ways people are murdered  (by being poisoned slowly, by having their brake lines cut, by being caught off guard from behind and strangled with piano wire...etc.) When this has gone on for about a week, call your friend and say "Hey - let's go camping in the mountains this weekend, just me & you... Nobody else around for miles and miles... let your voice fade off in a day-dreamy way.

6. "I Really Shouldn’t”

People generally use this one when offered a slice of pie even though they would never pass up a yummy treat.

The new version of this cliche will be used when someone offers you something that is either a custom or simply necessary,  like a Kleenex box when you’re sneezing or a menu when you sit down at a restaurant. Say it with the same level of precociousness that you would if you were a rubinesque housewife being offered a heaping brownie sunday.
** No matter what you're refusing, be sure to lick your lips in a way that represents desire and lust.


7. “Whatever Happens, Happens”

Previously used as a hollow bit of advice from a shallow friend, you will now use this cliche threateningly.

You: “Want to get together for a drink sometime?”
Them: “Oh - thanks... but I just started seeing somebody..."
You, squinting angrily and with a sneer: "Well... whatever happens, happens”

Use this whenever you are denied a request.
**Pick up a piece of fruit, get real close to the other person's face and take a fierce bite out of it for added effect.

8. “That’s What SHE Said”

Almost too lame and cliched for this list, we’re gonna remodel this one. From now on you will use this cliche at complete random, and not in a Three’s Company type innuendo response to something that a girl might say during sex. The following examples will assist you:

This way is no longer acceptable:

Them: “The storm coming in is a big one”
You: “That’s what SHE said… swish!”

This is how the new version works:

Secretary at your pdoc's office: “So I've got you scheduled for a 3:30 pm appointment on the 12th”

You: “That’s what SHE said”

Secretary: “I don't understand...”

You: "Thats what SHE said"

Secretary: "Look - do you want this appointment or not?"

You: "Thats what SHE said"

Secretary: "That's it. I'm cancelling this appointment."

You: "That's what SHE said, BADA BING"

After delivering that missile, hang up really fast and reflect on your life.  and dont worry too much about fucking up your appointment. After all, you win some, you lose some, whats done is done and let's face it - there's no sense crying over spilled milk.

My Name Is Kielbasa And My Parents Are Insane

So, kiddies, have you heard yet that Nicole Richie named her baby boy "Sparrow"? Yup. Famous people are nuts.

Any marquee player has a resume chock full of bizarre-o arrests, hideous significant others, unlikely career moves, questionable religious/political affiliations, numerous rehab stints and, if you’re lucky, a double homicide.

These events have become all-too-familiar to us commoners. We have become an un-shockable society with but one exception. The famous breed still holds one torch above all that makes us scratch our collective head in wonderment and makes our jaw hit the pavement. This is, of course, the naming practices applied to their offspring.

We gasped at “Apple”, guffawed at “Banjo” and as I already said, Nicole Richie named her baby boy "Sparrow" just today. But these are the mild names of the bunch. Bono named his son (and I am not even close to kidding) “Elijah Bob Patricus Guggi Q”. I should take a picture of my facial expression, because a written word can’t come close to my confusion on this one.

                                             KIELBASA'?!!? You named me after a fucking sausage??!!?

Because we are also a society of celebrity whores, this trend is starting to creep into our every day lives. I just met a baby named “Pearl”. Here, I thought I was meeting an infant, not a 90-year-old grandma. Because of the prevalence of this trend, I feel it is important to make sure that us plebes give our kids a lifetime of harassment the right way, with the same tools the celebs use. The secret to the madness lies in the “Celebrity Baby Name Generator".

Actors, musicians, athletes, models, socialites and government officials alike have followed these formulas to gain tabloid notoriety on their innocent spawn’s behalf. The Generator doesn’t only take care of the first name, it provides a middle name, and in some cases, extra names for good measure, à la Bono. Please feel free to mix and match, or choose your favorite formula and let the naming of unborn fetuses begin!

Formula #1 (Actor)
First name: Jam or Jelly Preserve
Middle name: Flower
i.e.: “Marmalade Rose”

Formula #2 (Musician)
First name: Cold cut
Middle name: Last name of a Dead Movie Star
i.e.: “Salami Gable”

Formula #3 (Athlete)
First name: Infectious Disease
Middle name: English Slang
i.e.: “T.B. Crikey”

Formula #4 (Model)
First name: One of the Seven Deadly Sins
Middle name: Color (vowel must be dropped)
i.e.: “Envy Blu”

Formula #5 (Boys)
First name: Famous Conqueror
Middle name: African American Name
i.e.: “Caesar Jamal”

Formula #6 (Girls)
First name: Boy's Name Spelled Wrong
Middle name: French Curse Word
i.e.: “Dillan Merde”

Formula #7 (Socialite, Government Official)
First name: Pretentious New England town
Middle name: Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle
i.e.: “Hampton Raphael”

Extra Names (add one or more of the following):
- Any Letter of the Alphabet
i.e.: “Branden Rippley G.”

- Name of Dead Pet
i.e.: “Jemima Cola Fluffy”

- Anything that sounds sacreligious
i.e.: “Alfie Dingo Saint Peter”

If all else fails, just don your child with a bunch of regular names, in the style of one of Mick Jagger’s 37 kids, “James Leroy Augustine Jagger”. Notice the mixing and matching of the formulas, with a relatively normal outcome. Doing a lot of hallucinogenics may also get the creative juices flowing.

My prediction is that while other celebrity copycat trends may fade, obscene baby names are here to stay. So, use the Celebrity Baby Name Generator frequently, and use it wisely. Just remember, Jonathan Daniel and Thomas Matthew are not going to grow up in the norm. Basil Toupee and Abacus Brick are going to be the kids kicking ass and taking names on the playground.

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)

Hey kid! Your Flying Michael J. Fox Impression Is Underwhelming At Best

Yeah. I saw it. Great. Amazing.

What?! Yes, I'm watching...Jeez. I said it was great.

No. You know what? No more. Come here. It's your fifth birthday, right?

What? Seventh. Really? You're seven?

Okay, okay. You're seven. That just makes this gift all the more important. Listen, I've decided to give you the gift of truth. In my years as your mommy's friend, I have shielded you from the truth on various occasions. There are things that most people never reveal to children. I've decided to pull no punches.

First of all, your swimming jumps are less than impressive. And by, "less than impressive," I mean that you look like a jackass. Please stop asking me to watch. Just fucking stop. I spent the last hour counting how many times you yelled, "Watch, watch!" Thirty-eight, my boy, which is just unacceptably ridiculous. Why do you feel that a dead sprint into the swimming pool requires my undivided attention? Jesus, I just want to get through one fucking page of this book! It's not like you are doing anything impressive - it's the same herky-jerky bullshit every time. Have you ever heard of going in head first? At this point, anything other than your flying Michael J. Fox impression would be a relief.

What would your reaction be if I endlessly called out for you to watch me run in an uncoordinated manner at the pool, pinching my nose closed and pumping my other fist like I was a drum major on crystal meth. Sticking your arm out as you awkwardly hurdle yourself into a swimming pool does not qualify as a "sweet dive." I know I said it was, but I was lying. No more.

It would be like me making you watch every single time I bit into a hamburger! Eating a hamburger actually has a higher difficulty level than your assaults on the deep end and my pride.

"Hey, watch! This one has hickory-smoked bacon on it. Watch, I'm going to open my mouth real wide, shove the burger in my mouth, and bite up and down for a few moments. Hey... watch, I'm going to do it again. And again. And again. And again."

You know what the worst part is? It's not the mind numbing void of creativity, skill, and shame. It's watching you prance and leap with an almost total lack of athletic talent.

Secondly, you aren't fooling anyone with that tee shirt. If anything it just accentuates the size and depth of your massive belly button. Every person here knows you are fat. All that giant, wrinkled Sponge Bob shirt clinging to your oversized torso is doing is letting them know you still watch that ridiculous kid's cartoon too. I know you're only seven years old, but you were too old for it a minute ago when I thought you were only five, too.

What do you think people say when they see you? "Wow, that kid has a really thick shirt on." Well, they don't. They say, "Look at the tits on that kid."  Listen, if you're going to continue to eat only fast food and fish sticks, you've gotta embrace being the fat kid. Develop an obnoxiously loud laugh, start making self-deprecating jokes, and be super friendly. You should be doing cannonballs and soaking the cute girl's towel. Look on the bright side, though... fat kids are harder to kidnap.

Now, here's twenty bucks. Fuck off and let me read my book.

Even A Blind Guy Can See That This Design Is Stupid

So, I was pouring all the quarters from the bottom of my purse into my spring water jug-slash-piggy bank just like I do EVERY time I notice that my handbag is tipping the scales at around 15 pounds. But for some unknown reason (unknown because the only thing that would have made my mind go off in this direction at 4 in the morning would be if I was stoned on marijuana - you know, that stuff the kids smoke... they call it "The Pot", which I most certainly was NOT! - hi mom -  In fact, I don't even know what stoned MEANS...)
Um. where was I? Oh yeah... quarters. For some unknown reason, I could not get past my delirium induced notion that I was "Top Dawg State Quarter Design Critic Extraodinaire".  Here's my final analysis and official report. Bottom line: least appealing design goes HANDS-DOWN to Al-er-bamm-er.

Alabama dropped the ball with their quarter.... I mean, Hellen Keller! What the fuck, guys?

For some states, choosing a design was probably tough. States like California (Condor) and New York (Statue of Liberty, of course) have so much cool shit to choose from that it must have been hard to decide. For other one-trick pony states like Indiana (an Indy car) and Kentucky (a racehorse) it was probably a no-brainer. Even the most useless states like Iowa (lame-ass school house) and West Virginia (some stupid bridge) came up with something that at the very least didn´t make the state look any shittier than it did before. Then there’s Ala-fucking-bama!

The top minds from across the state got together and decided that the most fitting symbol to represent their state was none other than Helen Keller. Helen Motherfucking Keller. Nothing against her, but what does it say about your state when its most distinguished citizen’s greatest achievement was being forced to learn how to communicate with the outside world. Stupid rednecks! How did it come to this?

Alabama’s Governor: OK, listen up people. We need a symbol for our state Quarter that captures the essence of our citizens, history, and culture. So put down your moonshine & grits and get to it!

Top Aid: Uh, how about a blind, deaf mute?

Alabama’s Governor: Bingo! Now crank up the Skynyrd while I cook up some Meth for the NASCAR rally. Robert E. Lee was a great man. I’m so poor and illiterate.

As the cheap joke above demonstrates, Alabama, and the South in general, already has to contend with enough in the way of negative, mostly undeserving, stereotypes. Being compared to Helen Keller, with all her preexisting jokes (…so you can read her lips; …you’d be sad too if your name was ararhahrgahaghgraghagr), is just going to add to Alabama’s image problems. Not to mention the fact that she wouldn’t have been blind, deaf, or mute had she been born in good state, or at least one that wasn’t a scarlet fever-ridden hellhole. Is that something Alabama wants to publicize? What the fuck, guys?

A lot of people are going to say “Listen bitch, Helen Keller is a stirring symbol of overcoming adversity.” Granted, overcoming adversity is something Alabamans probably need to learn about, since they have to live in Alabama. But surely there were other stirring symbols of humanity that that could have been chosen. A quick trip to wikipedia.org’s list of famous Alabaman’s brings up lot’s of great candidates. If it’s inspiration you want, why not Jesse “Fuck Hitler” Owens? Why not Hank “Babe Ruth was a pussy” Aaron? Why not Rosa “I’ll sit where ever the fuck I want” Parks? Oh, wait. Alabama. Never mind.

In Birmingham they love the gov´ner...
And when it comes right down to it, what did the woman accomplish?

“Well, she learned to read Braille and write! Pretty impressive for a blind, deaf mute.”

Bullshit. Her movie isn’t called “the Miracle Worker” because she taught herself to read. Anne Sullivan, her teacher, was the miracle worker. If anybody should be on the fucking quarter it should be her. She taught a blind, deaf mute to read and write, for Christ’s sake! Nobody fawns like an idiot over the people J.C. miraculously cured. They give props to the J-man himself. So why does Helen Keller get to hog Anne Sullivan’s limelight? What a fucking sham!

“But what about all the books she wrote? That’s pretty impressive!”

Big fucking deal. The only way she could communicate with the outside world was by writing things down. It’s pretty easy to write a book when you have to scratch out a paragraph every time you want to pee. That’s like being impressed by a crackhead who’s good with a lighter. It’s what they do.

Now if she had written a graphic novel, even one that was kind of shitty, that would have been fucking impressive. But she didn’t. Maybe her story was inspiring to people in 1902, but in today’s world where exploding alligators are fighting with pythons and pop stars are having crack babies, that shit just IS NOT gonna cut it. By the way, what was your favorite book by Helen Keller?
Exactly.  Me either.

The only things that could have made this design seem like less of a really bad  decision would have been if Idaho's choice was the Aryan Nation compound, or Wyoming chose Matthew Shepherd’s death fence. Way to go Alabama. You’ve lowered the fucking bar yet again. 

Note: When you are done trashing this post, why not list some other shitty state quarters, or even Hellen Keller jokes? Hey - my blog is NO PLACE to be politically correct.  

The Fact That You're Paranoid Doesn't Mean I Didn't Cut Your Brake Lines

I have a friend (and by "friend", I mean a person who I barely know and can hardly stand) who asked me to teach him how to play poker not too long ago. Let me make you aware of one thing... This guy is DUMB. I mean the drooling kind of dumb. The kind of dumb where you spell dumb as "D-U-M" dumb. But I agreed to take him to a poker game and show him the basics. Let me just say for the record that the only thing in my life I regret more is when I accidentally got jalapeno pepper juice on my girly parts when I was really manic. But I'll tell you THAT story another time. (By the way, if I've already told you THIS story, shut the fuck up and listen attentively anyway, you self centered bastard you.)

I'll get to the point. Some of the things that this guy said in public were things I never thought I'd hear spoken aloud. Ever. One shining example is when he said (no word of a lie) "Gum wouldn't be good if it wasn't chewy like gum." Yeah. He said that. My first thought was "Does everyone visualize duct tape over your mouth so early into the conversation, and where's the nearest hardware store?".  But duhhhm guy's snippet of wisdom really got me to thinkin'...

There ARE things that I actually will never hear. Not even ONCE....


* Nah.... Bipolar's no big deal. It's actually kinda fun!
* How do I get more cockroaches INTO my house?
* Confederate flag tattoo or rainbow flag tattoo? Both?
* Yo! Crank up that goddamn oboe. That beat is the shizzy!
* Ever since she had the baby, we've been fucking like rabbits!
* Oh, cool, you have 9 cats.
* I wish that stranger with the pinky ring would come touch my hair.
* This printer ink is a bargain!
* David Schwimmer is so hot! I just wish he looked more Jewish.
* May I please stalk you?
* I caught my husband jerking off to "The View" this morning.
* Do you sell O'Douls by the keg?
* If you spit in my mouth, I'll give you twenty bucks.
* I could eat the shit outta some beets right now!
* Any of you nuns got some blow?
* I think it's sweet that his mother still does his laundry.
* Sunnis...Shiites... What's the difference? We're all the same.
* I love that store - they have the best Tic-Tacs!
* I wish the girls at this party were less hot.
* Scientists have discovered the cure for cancer...prayer.
* I don't hire whites--don't trust 'em.
* Mommy, I want socks and underwear for Christmas!
* I really wish "The Facts of Life" was still on TV.
* Sex with two girls at once?! Gross!
* I can't wait to see how I look in my bridesmaid's gown!
* Good idea! I'd love it if you could flush the radiator after you change the oil!
* Scalpel...No, the dull one.
* That Paris Hilton is so talented...and classy
* I'm going to kick that guy's ass after I finish this Mike's Hard Lemonade.
* This condom feels great!
* The Salvation Army bell ringer, now there's a sweet gig.
* That guy would be hot if he just had more dandruff.
* Oh... I'm sooo hoping my grandson is gay!
* Man, phlebotomists get all the pussy!
* Honey, please take control of the remote.
* Martin Scorsese couldn't direct his way out of a wet paper bag.
* NUKE-LEE-ER.
* You're BIPOLAR??? I'd never have guessed!
* The fact that you're paranoid doesn't mean I didn't cut your brake lines.

Dog Abusing Douchebag

I betcha you can all guess who today's douchebag is. Yup, you guessed it. Michael Vick. This assface has the NERVE to announce to the world that he will now be an animal rights advocate? Really? That's like Michael Jackson becoming a foster parent. Sickening.
*ring ring* Hello? Do you have any douchebag repellent? *click* now if I could just stop twitching...ouch...


I wouldn't let this monster get within 3 feet of my dog.

In fact, I'd rather:

** Contract Swine Flu
** Sleep with Dr. Phil (another douchebag)
** Dip my face in a vat of battery acid
** Pull my toenails off with a pair of pliers
** Shave my head
** Drink a hobo's urine
** Wear a hobo's socks
** French kiss a hobo
** Let a hobo spit in my mouth
** Rub broken glass in my eyes
** Wash my face with vomit
** Sit on Jerry Falwell's lap
** Give Pat Buchanan a massage with a happy ending
** Slice my nipples off with a serated steak knife
** Jam an ice pick into my ear canal
** Beat myself with a trout
** Have planet's axis inserted up my ass sideways with no lube,wrapped in
several layers of barbed wire and drenched in rubbing alcohol).
** Jump into a kettle of simmering tar and cardboard box full of feathers


Hey Michael Dick, I mean Vick: fuck off and die in a fire screaming, you heartless douchebag.

Douchebag In The Elevator May 13, 2009

TELL ME ABOUT YOUR KID'S SOCCER GAME!

Because, goddamn it, I want to know! When I said “What’s up?” to you in the elevator ten minutes ago, I certainly didn’t mean “What’s up?” as a convenient and all-but-universally acknowledged euphemism for “I know you and must acknowledge your presence but I have no actual desire to talk to you and/or hear about what has been happening in your pathetic joke of a life.”

No siree, I asked you that obviously heartfelt question with genuine interest and a burning desire to know what you, that wooly mammoth wife of yours, and those just-as-dumb-as-they-are-ugly kids of yours have been up to. And I was especially hoping that you would be kind enough to share a George Michael Sports Machine-type recap and analysis of nine-year-old Taylor’s latest adventure in the world’s least watchable sport.

And you were definitely hip to the excited subtext that I was laying down. Most people would’ve responded to my seemingly innocuous query with a simple, “Hey,” or perhaps a perfunctory “Not much,” in some misguided attempt to abide by the unspoken rules of workplace conversation.

But a guy like you isn’t constrained by such generally agreed-upon social conventions. No, you’re too much a maverick to play society’s little parlor game. And for that I salute you. When someone asks you “What’s up?”, by golly, you’re going to give them their money’s worth!

Or perhaps you’re just a raging egomaniac who has convinced himself that whatever happens to him and his physically repellent family must surely be of interest to others—even when those others have easily discernible bags under their eyes, two days of facial growth, and several other unmistakable indicia of the severely hungover and thoroughly uninterested.

Whatever the reason, you jumped at the chance to give me an excruciating little summary of your family’s weekend. As a result, I am now the proud owner of way too much knowledge regarding the following events:


I'm just saying, 'What if?'

1.) The Sears run you made on Saturday to get a replacement filter for the air conditioner in the den. That was some fascinating shit. That part about how they didn’t have the right one for your exact model so they had to order it? Ri-goddamn-donkulous. I’m amazed you didn’t kill yourself right then and there. You might actually want to think about that. Seriously.

2.) The “little one’s” Sunday morning swim class. Words can’t begin to express how little I care about that or how much I’d like to douse your genitals with hot coffee.

Quick question: what would happen if one of the kids at the swim class drowned? Say, for example, your kid? Would they cancel the rest of the class that day? Would the other kids get a partial refund? I bet if your kid drowned – or ended up dead some other way – you would have to miss work and wouldn’t be able to tell me what’s been "up" for at least a week. Interesting.

3.) Taylor's soccer team's thrilling 1-0 victory over the Lions. By the way, “Taylor” – is that a boy or a girl? (I guess I never asked because I never really gave a shit.) A boy, huh? Nine-years old – has he come out of the closet yet? What am I “suggesting”? I’m not suggesting anything, douchefuck. I’m straight up implying that your son is gay. Newsflash: when he asked you after the soccer game if he could go over to Todd’s house to watch movies, he was really asking if he could go and smoke Todd’s pickle. And Evan’s. And Jacob’s. And Todd’s grandpa’s. Seriously, I read all about it on gaysonsofguysIwanttokill.org. Hey, I’m sorry to have to be the one to tell you, but that’s “what’s up” with that kid.

Okay, you got me – I’m not all that sorry to be the one to tell you that your son’s gay. In fact, I enjoyed it almost as much as little Taylor enjoyed licking Todd’s grandpa’s wrinkled shaft.

Die.

TilaTequila's Dating Tips

I read something today that had me spitting my coffee all over my computer monitor. This is from http://celebrityjihad.com, and is re-published with permission.

Tila Tequila might seem unattainable, but deep down she’s just a regular girl…a regular girl with a dad who fucked up real, real bad. We recently caught up with the sexy star of A Shot at Love and asked her for some frank advice about modern dating.

*Ladies, having standards is important, but make sure they aren’t too high. Remember, the “perfect man” is just a fairytale, like Bigfoot or HIV.

*Guys, nothing kills a date faster than bad manners. Not offering your date a Valtrex isn’t just thoughtless, it’s downright rude.

*Speaking of bad manners, if you don’t open doors for me, I don’t open my legs for you…unless you have money. Then it doesn’t really matter.

*Guys, if you’re at dinner and the waiter starts to flirt with your date, calmly stand up, smash a wine glass on the table, hold the shards of glass to his neck and demand that he respect you. Anything less and your girl will think you’re a pussy.

*If you smell raw fish and we’re not at a sushi restaurant, DON’T comment on it.

*Ok guys, you’ve already paid for an expensive meal. Now it’s time to go the extra mile. Offer to hold back your date’s hair as she regurgitates her food in the parking lot. Extra points if you have a mint waiting!

*Ladies, he’s there to make you feel special, so don’t be afraid to order a side of “balls in your mouth” at dinner.

*Remember, you can’t buy your way into a girl’s bedroom. Try using coke.

*Guys, when you’re on your first date and the girl starts blowing you, don’t push down on her head. That’s way too forward and could make her gag and vomit on your wee-wee before she’s ready to.

*No condom, no problem! Remember girls; no one ever had a butt baby.

*Ladies, isn’t it annoying when you’re on a date with a guy and he asks you where he should “finish”? He knows we’re just going to scoop it up and eat it regardless of where it lands, so why does he ask?

*Exploring bi-sexuality is a great way to broaden your horizons. It’s also a great way to say “fuck you” to your dad for not buying you that pony you wanted when you were nine.

*Don’t assume that just because a girl is bisexual she wants to make out with your gal pals…unless your gal pals wear cherry chapstick and have tight labias. Then you can assume whatever you like.

*If you do find yourself attracted to someone of the same sex, don’t be ashamed. Curiosity is perfectly natural, just like fisting or being raped by your uncle.

*My biggest rule for any date is to be yourself…unless of course it’s “sweeps week” and Mort from Viacom’s marketing department tells you to be more of a whore. Trust me, he might look out of touch, but that heeb knows how to pull in the 18-to 25-year-old demographic.

*Remember, you can take the girl out of the third-world prostitution ring, but you can’t take the third-world prostitution ring out of the girl.

Special thanks to all of the CelebJihad.com writers.

To view the article as originally published, visit: http://www.celebjihad.com/celeb-jihad/tila-tequilas-dating-tips

Unlikely Movie Sequels or Having Fun on Twitter

Hi Boys and Girls!

I have nothing compelling to say today, so I'll just keep my mouth shut...
But I AM getting rid of my "Bipolar Information" (serious mental health content and cynical sarcasm just don't mesh. I'm reminded of that Sesame Street (or was it the Electric Company?) song "One of these things just doesn't belong here; one of these things just isn't the same..."


and as I said a couple of posts ago, I'll be replacing it with the content submitted to me by other lunatics... It's good stuff. And speaking of good stuff - how many of you had the pleasure of today's
check out some of these Unlikely Sequel Titles!

Go to Twitter and search #unlikelysequels. For those of you who had a hard time cracking that code, it's http://twitter.com - then you type "unlikelysequels in the search box. And while you're there, come see me at http://twitter.com/kimshannon

Here are the Unlikely Sequels I posted - I dont want to pat my own back or toot my own horn, but pat pat and beep beep because they're GENIUS!!! If I do say so myself. And I do.  These Sequels Will Never Hit The Box Office:

**Girl Interrupted This Program To Bring You An Important Public Service Announcement

**Full Metal Smoking Jacket

**Fear and Loathing in Poughkeepsie

**Brokeback Molehill

**Sisterhood Of The Travelling Crotchless Panties

**Mi Casa Es Su Casablanca

**Superman(ic)

**Ben Hur and Thur, Wurr have YOU Ben?

**Slumdog Hobo

**Alexander the Mediocre

**Babylon A.D.H.D.

**Boxing Helena Bonham Carter

**Ressuscitate Bill

**Buena Vista Social Club downgrades to XP

**Con Airhead

**Schindler's Top Friends List

**Don't Tell Your Mamma Mia! Directed by Woody Allen

**An Officer and A Gentleman's Club

**Blade Runner Up

**Rainman Proves The Theory of Evolution

**The Suckit List

**Bill and Ted's Fair To Moderate Walk Around The Block

**50 First Date Rapes

**The Dirty Whore Suicides

**Passion Fruit Of The Christ

**A Raisin In The Sundress

**The Ten Strong Suggestions (The Ten Commandments)

**"Roots" - The story of a bleached blonde

**The Seven Year Old (The Seven Year Itch)

**9 1/2 Inches  - The Reason Why It lasted 9 1/2 Weeks

**American Rye" - Manhandling the Loaf

**American Calligraphy

**Sean Connery is James Bond in Octogenarianpussy

**What's Regurgitating Gilbert Grape

**The Forgotten 2 starring Donnie Darko, Donnie Brasco and Donny Osmond

**The Pillow Fight Club

**Animal Rights House

**American Calligraphy (American Grafitti)

**Smokey And The Crackpipe"

**Jaws 5 starring Gary Busey

**Mommie Queerest - Joan Crawford Comes Out of the Closet

Being that you all are probably conjuring up some unlikely sequels of your own... Comment me and let me in on your brilliance!

Tag the Stupid People

Fuck stupid people. No one likes them. Of the numerous things that really piss me off, stupid people account for the vast majority. One thing that drives me to my absolute breaking point is when I see a doe-eyed, overweight housewife, whimpering, and gazing in astonishment at a psychic’s every word on television.

“Can you talk to my dead grandma?” a woman pleads. Her hand is cupped by Montel Williams.

“I am seeing her now. She says she loves you. She is saying something about a kitchen,” the amazing psychic responds.

“A kitchen? Holy shit! My grandma lived in a house with a kitchen!” shouts the woman.

I almost choke on my Slim-jim. She’ll question the psychic more. I mean, she won’t buy it that easily… right? This psychic will have to prove it with a hell of a lot more detailed information than that. No one is that dumb. Nope. No way. Hold on... she isn’t questioning it. She’s clapping and crying. People are applauding the psychic. What in the fuck is going on? All of a sudden, I realize that I am punching myself in the face and turn the television off. What could this woman really offer society? Besides a “Don’t go there!” t-shirt, not much.

Stupid people, while entertaining at times, slow the progress of life, and make being in public frustrating as hell. I could go on for hours about it. Anyone could. The one thing that we can all agree on is that there are too many dumb fucking people in the world today. Instead of just bitching about it, I have a solution. I have a noble idea for the assholes that make you scream in your car, and throw dishes and cutlery at your dog. No, my idea is not a psychotic, murderous solution, like Hitler, or Darth Vader would come up with. It is just an option that would help improve the quality of life.

Dumb people should be tagged. Like the animals they match in intellect, they can be avoided and tracked.

You believe a psychic is real because she told you that your uncle said he loves and misses you from beyond the grave...

Tag.

You shoot your friend with a shotgun while hunting for quail…

Tag.

While driving, you come to a complete stop before you make a right-hand turn…

Tag.

The minute someone illustrates stupidity this horrendously, they should be pointed out. We would have a warning when we were about to encounter a person with an I.Q. the equivalent of a urinal cake. The advantages would be astounding. Think of the shitheads you could avoid. Oh yeah... I'm starting NOW.

Darwinism and Say Whaaaaattttt?

I am the kind of person who lives by the motto "I'll believe it when I see it".  Because of my limited range of trust, I have always been skeptical of the whole Jesus, Mary & Joseph thing. I never believed that Noah had a boat stuffed with animals, and I serious doubted that J.C. rose after 3 days... Even with the technological and medical advances we've made since then, we still can't manage to magically raise the dead. That's some David Blaine shit. The thing is, I may have discovered a hole in Darwin's theory of evolution by natural selection because there is absolutely no way that the guy I had the misfortune of meeting today online is of the same species as the rest of us. Sorry Charles - you fucked up and missed something - like I said, this guy can't possibly be of the same species. During a heated game of online poker at Full Tilt Poker , the aforementioned  cretin actually spewed this tidbit of verbal sludge - "Hey Danger, you're  pretty hot. Wanna meet in a private room and have a little fun?" 

Say whaaaaaaat?  

For those of you who aren't familiar with the site, this is what I look like on Full Tilt:

YUP.... I'm a friggin' cartoon character. A cute cartoon character, but a cartoon character nonetheless. There must be some kind of animation fetish that I'm not aware of... Ew. So when this caveman asks me if I'd like to meet in a private room, my first reaction is to throw up in my mouth a little bit. My second reaction is to consider the proposition. Would I like to meet him in a private room for some "fun"??  Hmmmm.....

No. Absolutely not. In fact, I can't think of anything I'd rather do less. 

I can, however, think of things I'd rather do more...

- I'd rather gargle with broken glass.

- I'd rather drink a tabasco and shit smoothie.

- I'd rather eat a popsicle made of hobo drool.

- I'd rather straddle a running sand belt.

- I'd rather watch Gary Busey dance in the nude.

- I'd rather try to stop a lawn mower blade with my tongue.

- I'd rather jump into a lion's den wearing a catnip suit.

- I'd rather fall asleep on a killer ant hill covered in kool aid.

So thanks to "creepy poker game guy", I guess I need to rethink my position on Darwinism.

And speaking of spontaneous regurgitation...

Why, why why why... Oh Jesus Christ - why? WHY am I (and everyone else with bipolar) looked at with contempt and charged with intent when I show symptoms?  If I say that I'm depressed, people roll their eyes and say "Great. Her bipolar's back. Just great. Pfft!" then edge away from me as if they think I'm about to feed on them.

 I wonder...If I had cancer, would they get angry at me and say "Great, the tumor's back" ...? 

Where are they going in such a rush?

I must tell you, I am going completely out of my mind while I'm waiting for this disability claim to be approved...  I KNOW 12 pages of documentation isn't that difficult to get through - so why has it been almost a year already?? 

 I thought bipolar disorder was a pretty cut and dry disability to have -  "Hi, I'm Kim. I have bipolar disorder. Bad. I have had 43 jobs in 15 years. Obviously, I am an incompetent employee. It is due to the fact that I am nuts - can I have my check now?" 

 Easy, right? That's what I though too, but I guess the federal government has a different idea of what "simple" is, because they are certainly taking their sweet time. So I'm bored stiff, and broke so I pretty much have resorted to living vicariously through other people.  I watch them like hawk to try and figure out what the hell they're so happy about. 

 A good place to do that is the mall - there are people EVERYWHERE!!!

I am, by nature, a fast walker...(quick like a bunny!); the reason why is pretty obvious. But today, I noticed that there are people out there in this fabulously crazy world who move like they've been drinking jet fuel for a completely different reason...

There were a lot of important people walking around the mall!! Walking briskly. That's the way to walk when you're wearing a suit or heels for the benefit of convincing others that you are "someone to know"...  Strolling while wearing a suit makes you look like the President. He doesn't have to be brisk; everyone knows he's important. (The US president, that is. The mall president has to walk that way because he's too short to otherwise keep up with people.)

I've also noticed that putting your hands in your pants pockets while wearing a buttoned suit jacket makes you look like a lazy and/or pompus jackass, and makes me think of the word "congressman."

 Don't wear a suit unless you're going to be doing something important.
If you zip zip zip down a corrider and look at your watch 3 or 4 times before you get to the end, you must be SUPER DUPER important.

It really is nice to have all these busy, important people rush by while I sit on a bench and just wonder about them... "people watching" is what my mother used to call it.

Makes me feel like a dirty hippy. I wish I had a guitar to play for them.... They probably would have thrown money at me.