Thursday, May 20, 2010

Do I Look Like I Need a Sex Toy?




Comments are like little presents.  I see it hiding at the bottom of my blog, just waiting for me to click on the hyperlink. 

Usually I see “0 Comments”.  But on rare occasions I’ll look and see “1 Comment”.  And on really good days, I’ll see “2 Comments”.  Shut up! No way! TWO COMMENTS??  You jest!  TWO?  You’re thinking what I’m thinking, “Populaaaaarrrrr”.  But I can hardly contain my excitement regardless. 

I love them.  I haven’t read a blog yet where the author didn’t throw a shout out about comments.  Shoot, all the blogs I read have a waiting line practically.  There’s this line cut off by rope and lights and cheers with big overweight gruffy men standing outside asking for your pass to get in.  “Excuse me, Miss?  Were you invited?”

Snarky comments are my favorite.  I stalk my own blog.  I’ve been attempting various different things to get my blog noticed.  I want to be read too! (Said the ugly girl who never gets picked to be on the ‘cool’ team.)

But something amazing happened the other day.  I was going through my blog roll and I noticed that one of my blogs had “5 Comments”.  NO WAY!  I knew I had four, but five?  Who could be commenting?

I placed the other blogs on the back burner and opened my comment box – here’s what I got:

男性・女性ともに満足していただける商品をご用意いたしました。
アダルトグッズ初心者から上級者まで幅広い品ぞろえで、あなたの満足を引き出します

**cricket, cricket, cricket**

**Head tilted sideways, question mark above head**

I can’t read this.  So I made up my own comment. 

“Dear Spanky, you make me laugh.  Hard.  You should come to my country and share all your stories with my people.” 

**tear**

So for real, I hovered over the jibber jabber and to my surprise there was a hyperlink hidden in the gibberish. 

So, duh!  I clicked it.  Who cares if it’s a virus!  Who cares if it will blow up my computer!  A freaking comment is like GOLD!  I will love you, and play with you and you will be my bestest friend. 
Here’s where the link went to:


**Weird light bulb failing sound**

Completely confused by the view of naked girls with banners across their ta-ta’s and bright bottles of lotions plastered all over the page, I went back to my comment and copied it.  Searched Google® for a translator page and entered the text in.  I selected the “Please translate the Japanese babble and show me something pretty in English” button.

It was like waiting for my fortune to come out of a machine! 

Poof!  Here’s my comment!

“Cheap sex toy toy vibrator Baibuenemaguraotona No Audio Datchiwaifuanaru Cheap Cheap rotor electric lotion.”

Rude.

**rubbing eyes and blinking spastically as if that will miraculously make the visual different**

AUFKM!!?? (Are you fucking kidding me??!!)   Do I look like I need a cheap sex toy vibrator baibuenemguratotona with No Audio Datchiwaifuanaru!  And WTF did you just call me? 

Really?

This wasn’t really the admiring wit that I was looking for.  I guess I won’t be going to a foreign country to share all of my knowledge and humor, Unless of course, I come bearing vibrators and edible underwear.

This is why comments are like presents.  Sometimes you open the box and this wonderful prize pops out and makes you feel all warm and super fuzzy inside; knowing you are loved and showered with yummy goodness.  And then there is the present from Aunt Bertha where you open it and to your dismay there is the biggest, most atrocious wool sweater patterned with knitted kittens and a puff-balls for the tail. 

“Ehm…OK. Wow. Thanks. Aunt. Bertha.”

I just got Aunt Bertha’d.  This dickwad gave me the shittiest comment a blogger could ever get.  Spam!

Da-lete! 

I dismissed the rude spammer.  It’s unfortunate, because I don’t think I’ve ever had more than 4 comments prior to this. 

**Head hanging in shame**

Monday, May 17, 2010

And That, Boys and Girls, Is Why We Don't Play with Balls




Danger lurks ubiquitously if I’m in the room.

You can read here, here and here for a review on how incredibly uncoordinated and accident-prone I am. I think I’ve done everything but make a banner to get that through to people. I’m considering very seriously strapping a hazard sign to my ass – permanently.  It will say “Danger Ranger” on it.  If it’s danger, I will find it.

I used to look at it as a curse. 

I think it started when my parents brought me home from the hospital and my older sister insisted on ripping my arms off.  Since my loving parents wouldn’t allow her to do that (thank you, by the way) I think she secretly cursed me to a life-time of trips, falls, face-plants and random acts of my hips popping out. 

She slammed my hand in a car door when I was five.  Truman’s ears were damaged from that little moment of ‘freak-out’ that I had.  She says it was an “accident” but we all know that secretly (inside) she was doing the happy dance. 

Truth be told, I’m a klutz.  Not long ago, I tried to prove my toughness by entering in woman’s Rugby team.  I made 3 practices and 1 game before I received my ass in a basket with a bow as a parting gift.  My next practice I managed to hyper-extend my knee.  (THANK GOD!).  (Ahem) Unfortunately I was unable to continue my future career as a Rugby player.

On a bowling excursion, while using impeccable form and brute strength, I hyper-extended my knee again.  This was Mr. Fricken Awesome’s first experience with my supreme ability to damage my joints. 

Six months after that adventure, I managed to pop my hip out simply just by standing.  While helping Mom Number 2 with Thanksgiving, I did absolutely nothing to put myself in harms way, other than show up.  Five years later, and my hip will inadvertently pop out at any given time and I go from walking like a normal person, to requiring a walker and a pain pill.

Last Spring, for a third time, I hyper-extended my knee again.  With each instance, the activity becomes less and less impressive.  This time I was running (kind of) – only because there was mud and I didn’t want to walk through it, so I ran and once I hit dry ground I resumed walking.  Upon that initial impact, there went my knee – backwards. 

Throw in the time I clothes lined myself on string, slipped and fell during a water fight, planted flowers which resulted in 2 days of back pain, cut my finger 3 different times with a potato peeler and fell off of my toilet, and you have a Class A one of a kind, certified doorknob. 

Last Wednesday, I managed the move of all bonehead moves.  While playing with my pup I was teasing him with his tennis ball.  Proving my dominance and the fact that I wanted to portray “pack leader” status, I kept my foot on the tennis ball and fed off his desire to take the ball from me.  I rolled the ball back with my foot, cocked my foot back and brought it forward and jammed my toe directly into the concrete. 

Mr. Fricken Awesome and my pup both looked at me in awe as I danced around and dropped about thirty “F” bombs.  For five days, I’ve been unable to wear real shoes or participate in any extra-curricular activities as I successfully gave myself “Turf Toe”.  (Reason number 32, why we don’t play soccer with a tennis ball.)

In case you aren’t familiar with ‘Turf Toe’, allow me to enlighten you.  You can click here to read the article, Turf Toe, by Jonathan Cluett, M.D.   It’s very enlightening. And not to take away from him, I’m going to dumb-it-down for you just in case you lack that special part of your brain (as I do) that enables you to read big words.

What Is Turf Toe:  
Turf toe is a condition of pain at the base of the big toe, located at the ball of the foot. The condition is usually caused from either jamming the toe, or pushing off repeatedly when running or jumping. **or by kicking a tennis ball and missing the mark completely ** The most common complaint is pain at the base of the toe, but you may also have symptoms of stiffness and swelling.  **And random acts of whining and crying**

Causes of Turf Toe:
The name "turf toe" comes from the fact that this injury is especially common among athletes **or regular ‘Janes’ **  who play on artificial turf **or concrete**. The hard surface of artificial turf, combined with running and jumping in football and soccer **or tencer (pronounced TEN-KUR) for Tennis/Soccer**, make turf toe a frequent consequence of artificial turf **or concrete** play. There has also been some blame on athletic footwear. Flexible shoes, especially used in competition  **and house slippers with broken soles**, provides less support to the forefoot joints, possibly contributing to the prevalence of turf toe.

Effects on the Toe:
When a player **or stupid woman in slippers ** sustains a turf toe injury, they are actually tearing the capsule that surrounds the joint at the base of the toe. **Otherwise known as Holy MF that f’ing smarts!** Tearing this joint capsule can be extremely painful. **No shit** Furthermore, tears of the joint capsule can lead to instability and even dislocation of the joint at the base of the toe. This can cause accelerated cartilage wear and arthritis of the big toe (hallux rigidus).  **What he said**

I’m all out of excuses.  I’m embarrassed and un-impressed at my lack of judgment.  The shitty part is, because there were witnesses, I can’t even embellish.  It’s like getting caught by your child with candy in your mouth.  You have no choice but to either choke on the candy to avoid being caught, or chew it right there in front of them and fess up.

I’m off to paint my banner.


Wednesday, May 12, 2010

Vocabulary Lesson

Everyone has his or her own use of different words.  For example, I once told my Mom that my Art History class in college was monogamous.  Now, I know, that you know that what I meant to say was monotonous, but that’s who I am.  I toot my own horn sometimes and if the word fits – use it!  That’s what I say!

Now that we’re clear on how I tick, I would like to take this time to review my most commonly used words, and how I interpret them, especially of late.

Frustrated:             annoyed at the lack of imagination I seem to have.

Regurgitation:             to repeat useless mind garble stemming from frustration.

Sarcasm:             used in emergency situations when regurgitation happens.

Offend:             to make someone mad by bashing Dr. Laura or Barbie.

Un-follow:             to remove your status as a ‘fan’ or ‘friend’ because I offended you.

Crybabytittymouth: (used as one word in my vocabulary) to un-follow my blog
                                       Because I use too much satire.

(I’m sensing a theme here.)

No. I’m not bitter.  I’m elated! Can you tell?

I want people to read my blog.  If I wanted to keep this to myself, I would have purchased a leather-bound journal and holed myself up in my room.  So needless to say I take it personally when someone doesn’t want to read what I have to say.  I’m honest.  What’s wrong with that?  I read blogs daily and some are un-couth and sex-driven.  Some people rant about their va jay jays and some enjoy caressing their dolly-whackers.  I bitch.  It’s what I do.  I say what’s on my mind and sometimes it comes across nasty or ugly. 

I.O.I. (I’m Over It).  Well, in a minute I will be.

So to the crybabytittymouth that un-followed me, because I apparently offended you during my sarcastic rant about (fill in the blank here) whatever - I’m not going to apologize for regurgitating in lieu of being frustrated, good riddance!

Welcome to the Department of Redundancy Department. 

I’m done now.  I feel better.  I apparently, am not the bigger person.


Monday, May 10, 2010

Barbee, For The Rest of Us

I had an idea for a doll. 

Growing tired of seeing Barbie and friends plaster the shelves at local toy stores, I started wondering how this doll became so popular.  She doesn’t have opposable thumbs; she can’t grab anything – ever.  Her feet are forever positioned at an angle and she apparently doesn’t own any other color of eye shadow besides blue.   Isn’t it interesting that she bends over at the waist at exactly the same height as a desk (WTF?) Exactly!  All her friends are just as brain dead as she is and yet little girls everywhere love her! 




You don’t ever see a frumpy doll on the shelves.  What about a slightly overweight doll or even a short doll? There are a lot of girls out there who are vertically challenged.  Better yet, why can’t there be a “Flat Chested” Barbie or “Thunder Thighs” Barbie, or “Muffin Top” Barbie and even a Barbie that has a slight hint of cellulite on her cheeks? 

That’s real.  I would believe that. 

After that minor brain fart, I concluded that it would be fun to create a faux doll, loosely based off of the plastic bimbo little girls everywhere fantasize being like.  My dolls (or idea of what they would look like) would represent real life.  (No, I’m not jealous of an 11.5” doll).  Shut up!  I’m not!

I know everybody and his or her brother has come up with an idea at one point in time for Barbie or what she should look like or portray.  I’m not claiming to the be the first.  I’m simply just voicing my distaste for perfection and lollipops and pink cars.  I’m a thinker outside of the boxer girl and I like pushing the envelope. 

I’m absolutely certain that if I were given a doll like this to play with, I would have endured fewer beatings from my older sister and would not have spent my awkward pre-teen years fully clad in a mullet and hi-top shoes.


Meet “Kiss My Ass” Barbee™. 


The ‘No-Nonsense’ Barbee™ who doesn’t put up with anything. 
For the strut walking, mouthy, hard as nails, tell it like it is woman.
“Kiss My Ass” Barbee comes with everything you see here, including attitude.
    
 Co-Dependant Family is sold separately.



I like her. 




Thursday, May 6, 2010

Whoops, Was That My Out Loud Voice?



You too could be like Dr. Laura Schlessinger if you follow these simple steps:

1.     Don’t have sex. Ever. Or at least until you’re married, and your husband
can prove to provide for you and your family. – Pretty realistic and obtainable right?
2.     If you are married, and you do get pregnant.  Quit your job.  You are a
“Dead-beat” Mom/Dad if you don’t.
3.     If you and your husband aren’t getting along.  It’s your fault.  Period. 
Just read her book The Proper Care and Feeding of Husbands.
4.     If that doesn’t work, read The Proper Care and Feeding of Wives. What?
Oh that book doesn’t exist?  Shit.  Disregard this point.
5.     Be judgmental.  There can never be “circumstance” and there is no such
thing as “shit happens”.

I should have taken Broadcast Journalism in College.  Then I too could have my own radio show and people from all over the country would call me and I could degrade them and call them ugly names and get paid for it! 

I need to get this rant off my chest. 

She’s a self-righteous bitch who thinks that women were bred to give birth and please their man – period.  Oh, well thank you Dr. Laura, that was a nice trip back to 1952, welcome to two thousand and fricken TEN, where women actually get to think for themselves and vote and other neato stuff!

If you enjoy listening to her (and you actually like her), you should probably stop reading this post now. 

Or go ahead.  I don’t care.  It’s my opinion – and my blog.  (Said with hands on hips doing the ‘neener neener’ dance.)

So while flipping through my radio stations earlier I came across a news broadcast.  I listened to the weather, traffic updates, news of the upcoming Avatar Trilogy that is supposed to happen, and my mind started drifting. 

Next thing I know . . . “I’m feelin’ good from my head to my shoes…” filled the cab of my truck and the hairs on my arms stood straight up.  Great. What does ‘Loud Mouth Laura’ (LML) have to say today to her following who, by the way, will line up for miles just to smell where her shit came from.

She mused on about an ‘Email of the day’ from a lady that “Gained common sense” (her words, not mine) by listening to LML and becoming a ‘Stay-At-Home-Mommy”.  LML patted herself on the back and received her compliments not so modestly. 

When she was done throwing a party for herself, she took her first caller, a younger Mom with a five-year-old daughter.  This Mom was having an ‘inner battle’ with herself because of her frustrations towards the daughter’s father. 

I can’t tell you what the actual question was because LML interrupted her at least a dozen times (as usual) and read her the riot act up one side and down the other. 

The gist of the story was the young woman and the baby’s father had just settled in court over the custody of the child.  The father left the young woman 4 days after the baby was born because (in the woman’s words) “He wasn’t ready.”  LML questioned the mother on why he wasn’t ready.  Before the gal could answer LML’s question, the psycho doctor pounced on her with, “Were you married?” 

“No. We weren’t.”  The caller replied.

I actually saw a puff of smoke rise on the horizon from LML’s over-dramatic response, “. . . so you decided to make babies with a guy you weren’t married to, what did you expect?”  (Paraphrasing just happened.)

The woman replied with “Well we were planning on getting married – “ interrupted again, LML spit up all over herself with, “But you didn’t! Instead, you made babies.” (Rant, rant, rant, bitch, moan, piss, fart – loud boom.) “Do you know the size of birds brain? It’s tiny.  Even a bird knows to make a nest before they lay eggs, but for some reason, women haven’t grasped that concept yet!”   Thank you for the gender profiling. 

I don’t even know what the woman’s response was, because by this time I was screaming at the radio.  I missed her reply but luckily was able to catch the one phrase that sent me into an ‘F’ bomb seizure.

LML reached through the microphone and climbed up this woman’s ass.  She finished her tirade on this poor woman with (and I’m paraphrasing here a bit because I don’t remember word for word so don’t get all high and mighty on me about this – I remembered the important accusations) “. . . This whole thing is entirely your fault . . . this is out of vengeance because you are mad at the father because he didn’t want you . . . he wants to be a part of that child’s life and so he should be, but you didn’t want that.  It’s your fault you got pregnant.  You laid on your back . . . and made this baby!”   She hung up on the woman.

My two cents.

I agree that there are some pretty brain-dead women out there.  Read here for my thoughts on that.  And I agree if a child’s father wants to be a part of his kid’s life, then he has the divine right.  And vise-versa.  However, brace yourselves because I’m one pissed off Momma right now; where on God’s green earth does LML get off accusing this woman of getting herself pregnant?  Is she that incompetent that she doesn’t remember spreading her legs?  I’m pretty sure that unless she is the Virgin Mary, there was no immaculate conception in this case. 

Dr. Laura, let me enlighten you on something. Boys have a penis, and girls have vaginas.  When the car gets parked in the garage and the oil leaks, the garage floor becomes stained.

Secondly, there are single parents out there everywhere, some by choice some not.  Who in the hell are you to sit there behind your microphone and judge someone based off of a 2-minute conversation?   Shit happens.  Divorce happens.  Egos happen.  But there is no excuse for divorce, single parent-hood or working Mom’s with LML.  She suffocates the life out of any single Mom or working Mom (or both in more cases than not) by telling them they are doing wrong by putting their children into daycare, or by not staying home.  God forbid if they should partake in extra curricular activities in their relationship prior to a ring and a walk down the aisle.

We are not living in 1892 anymore!  People have sex.  Some are stupid and don’t practice safe sex.  Some do and shit happens.  I don’t recall there being a statistic out there that says if you get pregnant before marriage, it proves that your IQ is smaller and you automatically become less significant of a person.  

I’m not going to argue the fact that children benefit from having a parent at home.  Shit, look at Wally and Beaver, June was a fricken saint!  Nor am I going to argue the fact that two people really should be in agreement on what they want their future to look like before they start popping out babies. My argument is; she is unrealistic in most of her expectations.

Let’s have a radio host that helps people with real problems, rather than tear them down.  Susie calls in regarding her 10-year old that is out of control, and instead of getting sane advice from LML, instead she gets her ass ripped in half and any sanity she had left is sitting on the curb because the good doctor has crushed any hope that Susie had of feeling like there was a “good Mom” in there somewhere.  Susie now needs years of therapy because she’s been accused of being a bad Mom by working a full-time job and leaving little Johnny at daycare. 

Call Social Services!  Johnny had to go to daycare because Mommy (gasp) has a
J-O-B!

Or what about poor Nancy that calls in and is upset because her ex won’t pay child-support? Well screw you Nancy!  You shouldn’t have been lying on your back!  It’s your entire fault for getting pregnant!  You fucking slut!

I’m sorry.  I just vomited all over this blog.  I’m going to go clean myself up now, and cancel my enrollment into school so I can get my degree.  It’s overrated anyway and I would serve a much better purpose in life staying at home with no education and no income.  

Monday, May 3, 2010

Tits MaGee and Friends




I realized today, that some people really dislike their jobs.

Granted, I am not the ‘Poster Child’ for customer service.  I threw French fries at some schmuck while working for Burger King when I was 16 because he didn’t understand our cash-register system and therefore he called me stupid.  A good customer service representative would politely try to explain to him what was going on and the reasons why his small fry was added separately to his order (even though he wasn’t getting charged for an extra fry).  But then there is me, and I flat out threw the small fry at him, slapping his chest with fresh, hot, oily fries and I might have added an ‘F'-bomb to the phrase “Here’s your fries” right before I bailed.

However, we aren’t talking about my lack of customer service skills today.   Here’s how my rude experience happened. 

Dillards.  

The ever-popular department store here in my town, that apparently only hires, snotty, self absorbed women who cannot seem to find the tip of the corn cob that has been shoved up their ass to pull it out long enough to help make-up challenged customers like myself. 

In an attempt to obtain a “free gift with purchase” for my sister for Mother’s Day, I was slapped in the face with the reality that I don’t play well with others. 

Our paper put out an ad yesterday, highlighting the wonderful goodies that women could choose from if they spend $32.50 at the Lancome® make-up counter.  The idea was that you had 11 high-priced items, in which you were allowed to choose 6 from the 11 to place in your complimentary plastic bag that they give you.  My sister is a make-up whore and knowing this, I went to the center of hell today, and endured the over-bearing putrid smell of 47,000 different perfumes and egos, to purchase an item and choose 6 lotions and potions for her lathering pleasure. 

I waited.  And waited. 

Finally, a gal approached me and said, “Can I help you?” 

Of course I was nice, I always am.  I replied with “Yes, I wanted to do the gift with purchase offer you have, where I can choose 6 items from the 11 offered for my sister for Mother’s Da-.”  The not-so-nice assistant cut me off in mid sentence and says, “We’re out.” 

“Out – out?”  Questioning her.

“Yes. Well, no. Not out, but you won’t get to choose.  You should have been here yesterday when the sale was announced.”  She snapped back. 

“Oh.” Sarcasm is starting to surface. “I’m sorry, I should have called you.

Her lack of appreciation for my humor was written all over her face.  “Well we have 2 bags left. But you get what you get.”  Yep, I see the corncob starting to bulge from her pants.

She ran behind the counter and pulled out a gift bag and opened it up, and proceeded to dump the 6 free goodies all over the counter.  She half-assed displayed the cosmetics and rambled some nonsense about anti-aging serum and eye shadows.  I interrupted her, “So what is that cream? What does that do?”  She looked up at me as if I asked to see her corncob.  Raised an eyebrow and said, “It’s anti-aging.”

Oh! Well fuck – sold!  Really lady? I could have received a more intelligent response from my 10-year-old.  I bit my lip and said, “Right. I get that.  WHAT. DOES. IT. DO? Is it for eyes? Nose? Lips? Cheeks? Neck? What?” 

I shit you not.  Her response.  “It anti-ages you.”

I replied, “Do you work here? Is there someone who can tell me what these 3 different creams do for your skin?  Because ‘It anti-ages you’ hardly explains anything to me.”  She motioned to another gal that was helping an even bitchier dame than me and said “She’ll be with you in a minute.  And no, I don’t work this counter.” Her hand slid across the top of the counter as she turned around and the eye shadow slid off and cracked. 

I giggled.

I’m the obvious vagabond that ‘Tit’s MaGee’ and friends look forward to after dealing with prissy, stuck up bitches all day. 



The other assistant came up to me and asked if there was anything she could help me with.  I said, “Yes.  I just wanted to know what these ‘creams’ do for your skin. I’m trying to purchase this for my sister.  Susie smart-ass over there told me ‘It anti-ages you’ and quite frankly, that doesn’t tell me anything.”  The gal snickered and then went onto explain all the wonderful things this little 4-inch tube did.  She obviously paid attention in make-up school.  I was impressed.  Even though I didn’t retain a bit of information from her because I was fixated on slapping the stupid out of Susie.

She also apologized for her associate’s behavior. 

I purchased my $32 worth of crap and took my goody bag and left. 

I’m off to find me some good Karma.  
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