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.

Harry Potter Should Be Put To Death...

Since the moment I was unfortunate enough to stumble across this video on YouTube, I've had a knot in my stomach that I cannot rid myself of. I'd love to hear YOUR thoughts about this....

Pack up your eyeliner & get the hell outta my poker room...

The honor of Douchebag of the Day is awarded to the emo brat who has taken up residence in my favorite poker room. This mouthy little asshole just turned 21 two weeks ago, and has been standing on my last nerve ever since. I hate his attitude, I hate his style of play, I hate his voice and I hate his face. If there wasn't a rule against verbally attacking another player in the poker room, this is what I'd say to his smarmy little moon face:

Listen up you little punk... you don’t like me, and I’d rather date an amputee with chronic halitosis than deal with you. But seeing as how we share the same oxygen in the same poker room, and even though you are the CEO of FuckingAnnoying, Inc., I feel compelled to tell you a few things. I know you just turned 21, so you're still technically a "kid". I'm well aware that conventional standards dictate that you should be playing stickball and catching frogs, or something... what do normal kids your age DO, anyway??? But I’ve had it with you and your pissy attitude & horrific poker table etiquette. There are kids one quarter of your age making t-shirts in Malaysia. Why don’t YOU go out and get a job; make yourself useful. Cut my lawn. Wash cars. Pirate DVDs. Make me some fucking pants.

                               I win!! Just in time too... gotta hurry home to check my MySpace messages

While we're on the matter of clothing... what the fuck is your problem? How many shades of black can you possibly have? Did I miss the part of "Being Hardcore 101" that states, "The amount of black t-shirts with shitty band logos owned is directly proportional to the wearer’s intimidation factor"? I must have. Because even with your Cannibal Corpse tee and Valium-level Relaxed-fit jeans, you're still about as scary as a cartoon bunny riding a My Little Pony through a rainbow.

You know what IS scary, though? How much your parents are going to have to pay the shrink when you start screwing cats and taking apart the stereo to "stop the government from monitoring the tracking device in your penis." Or the lawyer's retainer when you start acting out because Daddy didn't nurture your sports skills and you didn't get to hang out with the jocks. Honestly asshole, even with a Hall of Fame coaching staff and his own stadium, Stephen Hawking (like you—minus the intelligence and good looks) would never make it to the big leagues. Some people were meant to play ball and others were meant to play WITH balls. You’re the latter. Deal with it, Queerbait. So you didn’t get to hang out with Joe Quarterback and bang the head cheerleader in your Mustang. WAAAAAAAAHHH. Cry me a fucking river. Does this mean you have to play poker? And more importantly, does this mean you have to play poker WITH ME?

Don’t give me the whole, “I'm not really the complete asshole I make myself out to be... there’s just so much pressure on young adults these days, man. You don’t get it.” Sorry that the huge burden of turning your parent's basement into your own little slice of heaven and living there for free IS SOOOOO unjust. You should probably freak out and burn the casino down, you little sociopath. I know it must be hard to learn any adult social skills... I mean, you don't have that kind of time, what with all your extra-curricular activities like MySpacing the shit out of Katie DiPastillo because Kurt Bradford said he touched her boobs UNDER the bra and playing micro stakes on Full Tilt Poker. Maybe you should spend a little less time being depressed and wearing mascara because its cool and jerking off to Hannah Montana.

Perhaps I’m being a bit optimistic, but I think you'd probably pass for a half decent poker player if you and the rest of the Shitstain Crew took a break from spray-painting your lame gang signs on the parking garage. Trust me, no one is concerned about your claimed turf, including the 1400 people that park there. If you want to boost your street cred, I'll be more than happy to drop you off in South Providence so you can get some pointers from the experts. If they don't make you an ashtray or a pin cushion for used needles, maybe you can get some wardrobe advice and career counseling. Sound good, Sport?

Although you’re going to continue to annoy the living piss out of me until you turn 25 or decide to permanently shut the fuck up, you do have some redeeming qualities... If I knocked you unconscious, I’m certain you’d do a bang-up job as a doorstop.

Please go make like a mime and bleed to death in my trunk.

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.

Snagging Mr. McDreamyballs

Listen up kiddies; the following is geared toward the ladies, but it applies to men too, so don't be discouraged guys! You can snag your very own dream girl using the same exact strategy. Read on.......

I like LOVE guys. I love their clothes, their company, their scents and their (wink) appendages. Being that I spend around one third of my life in poker rooms, most of my friends are men. I think they like hanging out with because even though I love the color pink, freak out at the sight of a spider and most of my shoes are 6" stillettos, I'm not the "delicate flower" type AT ALL. I play poker, use the word "cunt" freely and would prefer Red Sox tickets over flowers any day. I can also stuff some ones in a thong with the best of 'em. Yup... I'm a cool chick.

Because they can be themselves around me, guys enjoy my company and let me in on their secret world. Like many women with mostly male friends, however, I do not have a boyfriend. For some reason my complete and flawless understanding of the male mind does not make me more attractive to them. What DOES make me more attractive to the boys is the fact that I am nuts. Yup. Mad as a hatter, that's me. Cuckoo! Cuckoo!

Men love crazy women! They can't get enough of us! Not crazy as in kooky, quirky, shoot from the hip crazy... but crazy as in foaming at the mouth, pig-fucking, straightjacket wearing, "They're coming to take me away hee hee, they're coming to take me away ha ha.." crazy. Until yesterday I thought it was a coincidence that all of my friends have dated psychos. But then my friend TJ mentioned he would 'beat it' in reference to this schizophrenic chick we know. Or did he say 'smash it'...?  Oh well, doesn't matter. Point is; it dawned on me in that moment that there was a pattern here. I pried a little bit and, yep, it's true: rumor in the men's department is that crazy chicks are the absolute best in bed, and therefore, Grade A Prime Man Magnets.
. 

So, you're probably asking yourself, "How do I get my hands on a ticket for a cruise on the 'SS Crazy Chick'? I could use a little BAH CHICKA WAH WAH!". Well, relax ladies, I've got you covered. Using, ummm, absolutely no personal experience at all, a lot of poker table man-gossip and my best friend's diary (sorry Dana), here's a guide to scoring Mr. McDreamyballs and eventually turning him into a straight up broken mess who will never question 'Why?', but simply accept and worship you for the lunatic you are. Okay, nutbags-to-be, let's begin! Welcome to Crazy Chick 101...

The First Two Dates: Play it cool. Do the flirty, manipulative things normal girls do like ask prying questions about his past relationships and take food off his plate without asking (doing it with your hands is a bonus). Make sure not to give away any details about where you work, who your friends are, or what you like to do. Men love overbearing yet vague women.

Third Date: This is traditionally the 'sex' date, but you should pretend like he's not going to get any at all. Only let him kiss you on the cheek and keep three feet away from him at all times. Wait until he's turning around to go home then call him back, take him upstairs and pull out all stops. Make sure it's some nasty, wild, ass-slapping, hair-pulling, household pet-utilizing super sex. You have a reputation to uphold.

HOT TIP: A nice variation on this is giving a killer blowjob on the second date then refusing to sleep with him for six months, saying that you need to 'get to know him better.' **Improper boundary issues = man catnip. ROWWRRR!


Fourth Date: He's hooked. It's time to start singing, and a lot. It doesn't matter what kind of voice you have, just make sure to be enthusiastic. Preface this by asking him coyly what he thought of you on your first date. After he answers that, he'll ask you what you thought of him. This is your cue to fall backwards so he'll have to catch you, throw open your arms and let out a loud, major chord, "WELL---" Launch into a snappy, Broadway-esque song and dance number that gives a step by step description of your relationship so far. Make sure to rhyme 'carving knife' with 'loving wife' at some point. Sing often. In the car, at the bar, in bed. Sing an epic poem about the adventures of your cats. Sing angry grrrl power songs about that time he forgot to call you. Sing sad songs about the summer you were bulimic. Sing! If for some reason he puts on music, just hum or whistle a different song over it. (Think Twinkle Twinkle Little Star over Black Dog by Led Zeppelin.)


Fifth Date: Find a new hobby or belief system. Go extreme: kelp farming, furry sex, veganism, Scientology . Insist that he join you. Try to get his friends involved. Create and photocopy your own brochures to bring to his poker games. Find his mom's address and mail her some copies. Don't be shy!
                                                                                                      
Seventh Date: This is the perfect date to have a Reconciliation Party. Issue paper invitations to his friends and family with a full text description of what he did wrong and what habits he changed to get you back. Decorate excessively. Go to a party store and have them do that thing where they put photos of your faces on balloons. Do not invite anyone that you've known for more than 72 hours. Invite strangers and casual acquaintances and treat them like soulmates.   
You: "This is Pablo. We met in the subway station yesterday and he told me the most moving story about a lost pickle. Next week I'm going to Guatemala to meet his family."
Pablo: "Que dice, loca?"

Eighth Date: You two are well on your way to a long relationship full of bliss and spontaneity. Get any major body modifications you want done now, so he has time to get used to them. Gang tattoos, clit piercings and pinky amputations are good ways to keep things interesting. Consider using lit cigarettes to etch a floral pattern onto your back. Be creative!

If you're worried about slipping up and falling out of character, don't be!  Craziness is like riding a bike. After a while, being unbalanced will seem natural to you. You'll be sleeping with his nephew, eating cat litter and taking his last name in no time. If he dumps you, use your state of sanity as an excuse to mail him envelopes stuffed with the flayed hides of small animals. He'll be crawling back soon! Literally. Because when his buddies catch wind of what you've been up to, they're gonna kick his ass for being such an easy target. Then you can introduce him to your wood chipper.  Bye bye, Mr. McDreamyballs, hello Mr. McChippynuts!

Okay ladies, you ready? Let's go score us a man minion!

And speaking of the walking dead...

.

Once again, I must apologize to my loyal (and obviously insane) readers for my recent lack of posts. What I've been doing in my absence is simply enjoying the outdoors before the last weeks of summer are gone. I HAD to get a little sun time - I was starting to look like a vampire.

And speaking of the walking dead, what the fuck is up with grown adults incessantly  talking about how they love to read the 'Twilight' series? Seriously, these books are meant for teenagers. I don’t care that you think adults can enjoy them too...they’re not for you. Sweet Imaginary Baby Jesus - just let it go.

Inevitably these stories-for-tweens-lovin' freaks corner you with the relentless and infuriating bloodsucker inquisition. I’ll usually try to politely break the news that 'Twilight' isn’t really my thing, and hopefully gently deflect the topic. Very rarely does the information that I haven’t read any of the books get a pass. Thus begins the conversation I've had a thousand times:

“Really, you haven't read 'Twilight'?! Oh, you should, they’re great.”
"Yeah, I've-"
"They're not just for kids! You should read one, you'll love it!"
“Nah… I don’t think I’d really enjo-“
“That’s what I thought and then I read just one, and now I’m hooked!”
“Great, but I’m still not –“
“Just read one, I promise you’ll get into it! You can borrow mine.”

Damn people, back up OFF my puss - are you getting paid for this? Is this a pyramid scheme? Wait, I get it…this is Scientology, right?

I swear these people are a hair cut and a robe away from crazy. I’m talking matching turquoise running suits crazy. 

Listen 'Twilight' people, I haven’t read the books. I will never read the books. Ever. Understand? Actually, you know what? I don’t think you DO understand me, so let me make it very clear…

I would rather swallow a roll of razor wire.

I would rather eat a used baby diaper.

I would rather forcibly shove a glass thermometer deep into my cervix and smash it with a hammer.

I would rather ride a unicycle with a machete for a seat.

I would rather sucker punch a gang member and try to run away wearing ski boots.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I get invited by Bill and Ted to travel back in time to cut Jesus’ umbilical chord with a lightsaber.

I would rather drink a gravel and Drano smoothie.

I would rather wipe my ass with fiberglass insulation.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day Mr. T stops pitying fools.

I would rather have unprotected sex with a Taiwanese transsexual.

I would rather swim in a dumpster full of vomit.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I stick my tongue out at the Pope and knock his hat off.

I would rather siphon a septic tank.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I breakdance fight a sasquatch, and lose.

I would rather open mouth kiss a crocodile.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I have a three way with the Green Lantern and Skeletor on the back of a unicorn.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I pull a switch blade on E.T. over an argument concerning Brazil’s steadily growing agricultural market, and the impact on U.S. farming economy.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I have a harmonica jam with the FOX news anchors.

I would rather brush my teeth with shitpaste.

I'd rather be buried alive.

The day I read 'Twilight' is the day I give Papa Smurf a beej in the bathroom at Castle Greyskull.

'Twilight' fans, listen to me. And listen good, you vile buncha conformists... STOP trying to recruit me to your inner reading circle! I will NEVER read 'Twilight'. Ever. Truth be told, I would prefer to read a more creative work of fiction. Something that's REALLY 'out there', as opposed to yet another tired vampire saga. You know, something a bit more imaginative... like the bible.

You have all been named douchebag of the day for your poor reading list choices. On a scale of one to ten, fuck off.

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)

It was so romantic, I swooned.

Right off the bat, I'd like to announce the winner of Monday's Douchebag of The Day.

Here's how it went down:

I was at a fairly crowded pub yesterday, having a beer with a friend of mine. We were engaged in deep and philosophical conversation about religion and the meaning of life. Um... Okay, I lied. We were actually talking about lip gloss... so what? Even sarcastic and cynical girls like to look pretty. A well conditioned lip is very important, in fact it is practically a law in 48 states. Is it okay with all of you judgemental bastards if we move on now? Gee, thanks.

Anyway, out of the corner of my eye, I could see him approaching. I see him at this bar frequently. I almost talked to him once, but his attire alone told me he was "one of those". His pants were like a cheap hotel - no ballroom. They were so tight, I could make out his camelnose from a distance of thirty feet. Gross.

My plan was to make the ol' fake call to my imaginary boyfriend, but he got to me before I could retrieve my cell phone. Damn this huge purse! Damn it to the bowels of hell!

I was just about to say "I'm married. To a UFC fighter. A BIG one. Plus, I'm a lesbian. A crippled lesbian. In fact, I'm a married, crippled BLIND lesbian. Oh, and did I mention that I'm bipolar to boot? You wanna take me out?" but he beat me to the punch, and came out with this brilliant one liner:

"Have you always been this cute?" Ugh. Really? That's his big opening dazzler? I wanted to punch him in the neck. But before I could make a fist and wind up, he continued his charming introduction with another question;  "My face is leaving in 5 minutes. You wanna be on it?"

Say whaaaaaaattttt !?!?  This guy obviously has a death wish. I just sat there, speechless, debating about whether I should hurl my drink at his face, or donkey punch him in the balls. But before I knew it, I was talking. Aloud. Without knowing what I was about to say. Uh oh.

What I ended up saying was "Hell yeah big daddy! Lets go - I lovvvve to party!!! Wait. Do you have a condom? Eh, nevermind. I'm already 5 months pregnant anyway... Hey, can we grab some whiskey and a little bit of meth before we go? And I have to stop at my house because my "business manager" is supposed to come by to collect. Oh, by the way - you DO have cash on you, right?" Then I shut up and just looked at him.

He blinked a couple of times, then turned around and ran to the exit. Literally jogged... Hah! Take THAT, asshole. How'd it feel to be degraded? And I heard your friend, who was obviously embarrassed, say "You can WALK home. What the fuck! You ALWAYS gotta fuck with someone!"

So in recognition of his illustrious accomplishment, this pitiful caveman is awarded my raised middle finger, along with a two year supply of behind-the-back trashing of his character accompanied by snickering, pointing and snide remarks. It'll be impossible for him to live it down.

There's one more thing.  To honor his bravery in the face of danger (kimminentdanger, that is)  his name will be engraved on the well known and much talked about "Wall Of Scumbags None Of The Girls At Any Of The Bars and Clubs Will Ever Even THINK About Sleeping With, Even Out Of Pity or Desperation" . 

Congratulations fuckface; your parents must be so proud.


Ok - with that business out of the way, I want to announce that tomorrow's post is already in the works, and it features an actual transcript of one of the funniest conversations I've ever had via instant messaging. It DOES get a bit politically incorrect... some people may even call it insensitive and obnoxious. If you can't stand controversy, don't come around to read it.

I do have a disclaimer to protect myself from lawsuits, and will be posting it by morning.

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.

Retarded Bag Boy, Fuck You

Okay, toots, I admire your whole endeavor here, but I can’t handle this shit any longer. The job description probably read something like, “Put things in bags,” and at first glance, I would have considered you mildly capable. I believe I am a rational person, but you have stretched me to the limit of my patience. You carry on blindly as you routinely perform CPR on various bags of Doritos and other potato chip products. You fucking annihilated all of my Pringles a few weeks ago and they don’t even come in traditional bags. Uncool, buddy. You handle my bread each week like it’s the first boob you ever touched. Speaking of that… why in the fuck do you keep hugging me? Do you think I can't feel you playing grab ass? How far does this have to go before I’m allowed to maliciously attack you? I have to be honest. Your awkward forward lean, combined with the proximity between your head and my foot, doesn’t make me want to kick you any less.

Okay, hold on. Let me count to ten. That was wrong. Sorry about that. I lost my cool. I know you’re trying your best. I should be more sympathetic. I guess what I want to say is that I’ll be taking over the bagging duties here. Let’s just say I have a very precise way that I want my groceries bagged. You can go away now. Here’s a bouncy ball. And something shiny.

Okay, you're not stopping. What is your fucking deal? 

Man, what are you doing? Close my box of Ritz. C’mon toots, I need those for a party. Holy fuck. Is this really happening? You would at least think that you would try to face the other direction or make a slight attempt to hide the fact that you are devouring my groceries in front of me. No, instead you just smile at me and dribble Ritz crumbs all over your boobs. It really compliments the apple sauce that is smothered across your chest. Did you get any of your lunch in your mouth? Alright, enough with my crackers already. Should I be delivering a left hook to your nose right now? How am I supposed to react in this fucking scenario?
Okay, are you done? Have you had enough crackers? You could close the box at least. Hold up, toots. Don’t put them in the bag upside down.

Wow, I'm heavily sweating and my teeth are beginning to grind violently across each other. If I give you some candy, will you let ME bag the groceries? Um... how 'bout some Skittles? Okay, yeah, um - you're not supposed to put those in... oh never mind.

Paper? What are you fucking talking about? After the shit you just pulled, all you can say is, “Paper?” You’re kidding, right? You seriously think I’m focused on thinking of what type of bag you should use to pack my half-eaten and fully crushed groceries?

You are raising some serious ethical questions right now. I have a feeling that today’s events will produce several future chapters in college ethics books. Would it be fair if I spun around in a circle thirty times and then attempted to rip your throat out? What if I wore a blindfold? I could tie one arm behind my back and hop on one foot. God, there has to be a way.

What? You like Nintendo? What in the hell are you talking about? I hate you.
Wait, don’t put that heavy chicken on top of the fucking eggs. Jesus Christ in heaven riding a brontosaurus backwards. Yes, I understand that chickens and eggs are categorized together, but you don’t ever put heavy shit on top of… forget it. I’m counting to ten again. You know, I should really just take over from here, champ.

You’re still going. Do you fucking speak English? Oh, wait… please don’t separate that banana from the bunch. Hey! Fucker! Holy shit! You just ate half of that banana with one bite. You didn’t even peel it. That’s terrible. Call the police. Someone call the police. Hurry up. I need to go out like a werewolf and get myself arrested before something horrible happens. Hey Goth-chick cashier girl, you can stop ringing this order up. Counting to ten isn't working too well anymore.
Wait! Hey pal, why are you awkwardly winding up with my box of Cookie Crisp? You’re going to throw it at me, aren’t you? Yes you are. It is really taking you a long time to accomplish this task. This would work a lot better if you tried to catch me off guard. Alright, it looks like you're about ready. Here we go.

Wow, my vision is literally turning red. I didn't know this really happens. Oops, I’m grabbing your Dragon Ball Z t-shirt with clenched fists. Shaking you intensely is slightly relieving my anger. Stop laughing. You are such a cocksucker. Just hold still and keep your nose right where it is. Forgive me for what I’m about to do.

Oh shit, ouch! Fucking pepper spray? My fucking eyes! You let this fucking kid carry pepper spray? Oh, great, it sounds like security is finally arriving.
These handcuffs are a really nice touch to this embarrassing situation. Yes, I understand my rights. As I am being pulled out of the store, I fight through the searing pain to get one last glance at the mentally challenged bagboy. Of course, his arm is halfway into my box of Cookie Crisp and he is hugging various concerned women that surround him. I bet this story is going to look fantastic in the newspaper tomorrow. Fuck you, retarded bag boy. Fuck you.

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.