Neighborly love

I’m sitting on my porch writing this to you, my bloggy lovers, because… well… I love the cops being called on other people.

Yes, I’m a total piece of crap. Please, keep pointing fingers at me.

I’m that asshole that comes out front to laugh at the douche canoe that gets a dooey (DUI for you uneducated folks) down the road. The one that comes and sits out on the porch at my old apartment to watch your dumb ass get arrested. The person that points and laughs while you get arrested for drunk in public while I’m enjoying a beer.

This particular kerfluffle, I believe, is a drug bust. See, we have some pretty shady neighbors. I don’t know who they are cause I keep to myself, but hey, the signs all point to… (consults magic 8 ball)…. drugs. There’s 12 cars currently lining my street. I counted 15 cops in the druggie’s driveway, and my driveway is blocked in because the assholes don’t know how to park. Unfortunately, the shit show is already over. I feel so let down.

The last time there was an incident with this many cops, it wasn’t so much fun, at least at the time. Innocent little me was sitting on the couch, just wrapping up a movie. My asshole neighbors started setting of firecrackers… oh wait, their door opened, oh shit, that’s gunfire! Me being a motherfucking ninja warrior…well, I flung myself on the ground and army crawled into the kitchen to hide behind the fridge. Because fridges are bulletproof, DUH. When I called 911 to report there was a guy running down the road screaming “I’ve been shot! Help!” and that there was gunfire and whatnot, the motherfucking assholes at 911 HUNG. UP. ON. ME. Cause, there’s so many more interesting things going on in Small Town USA than a freaking gun battle. You know.

So anywhoo, once bro’s stopped getting capped (or whatever they say in the hood these days), I wandered out to the front of the house to see what the fuck was going on. I laughed. A lot. There was a cop running down the street SCREAMING at a different set of neighbors, because, you know, when you hear guns blazing, the first thing that pops into NORMAL people’s heads is “oh lets go stand in the street and see what’s going on!” So po-po is sprinting down the street screeching at these idiots “GET THE FUCK BACK IN YOUR HOUSE? ARE YOU RETARDED??” (I cannot make this shit up).

Well, these idiot cops left the CORPSE in the street for…eh…. 18 hours before the coroner showed up. They had the entire fucking road blocked off to “search for evidence”, and wouldn’t let me leave to go to work. Which was a good thing, since I was supposed to work at 8AM and they were pounding on my door at 2AM wanting a lengthy statement. Oh and they came back at 5AM too. Bastards.

 

This post makes no sense, because I am McHammered. Yes. Ok. Whatever. The moral of the story? I am STILL, to this day, jumpy and nervous every time firecrackers are set off. Which is why I hate my drug dealer neighbors so much. BECAUSE THEY LOVE FIRECRACKERS. Assholes.

Twitter topics of the night: The Fuzz, medical examiners, dead bodies, and llamas.

Saturday Night Shenanigans

So Saturday night I was invited to go watch my BFF’s dad play harmonica at an Old Fart Bar. Yes, you read correctly.

 

What, may you ask, is an Old Fart Bar?

Old Fart Bars are a relatively simple concept: they’re somewhere where the Blue Hairs congregate to listen to (quiet) music, drink wine, and dance like they’re 45 again. A typical Saturday night at this particular bar consists of jazz or swing music, karaoke, and loads of risque old people. LOADS. BFF and I will frequent this place to get our giggles, because really, nothing is quite as funny as the dance moves these spry people put on.

 

Saturday, though, was a little bit different. The band was covering a bunch of Led Zeppelin songs, which I was very excited about. The crowd was a bit younger… median age was probably 40. I think the White Hairs that were there were feeling their age!

 

Before we got started, BFF and I meet up for coffee about an hour before the show and make complete asses of ourselves at AM/PM. We are coffee mix masters… icons of our generation in making crappy gas station coffee taste like not-so-crappy gas station coffee. Those little pre-packaged shots of flavor? Tiny bombs of delicious ready to transform your mug o’ joe. “Flavored” coffee? SURE! “Cappuccino” from a machine that is supposed to be “Pumpkin Spice”? Yum! Crack juice in hand, we rolled the fuck out to the parking lot to smoke and do some communication via interpretive dance before hitting up the bar.

 

When we walk into the bar, it’s already half full of tipsy geriatrics, weaving and swaying to the beat of the canned music playing. And then… Hank the Skank walks in.

 

Now, Hank is what we shall call an “un-friend”. Hank is friends with BFF, always seems to show up wherever we go, and is pretty much a perpetual bum. Picture this: 31 years old, works whenever it suits him, couch surfs and doesn’t have a driver’s license. Hank’s sole purpose in life is to drink, so his work schedule is dependent on whether or not he has enough money for beer. If he doesn’t have beer money, he slums, and hits up his friends for booze and smokes. Hank is also, as I’m sure you understand from his title, a skank. Hank chases anything warm that has the requisite amount of orifices. Now, the orifices don’t love him back, which probably has something to do with the fact he’s usually surrounded by a cloud of stench that’s a combo of 2 day old beer, cigarette, and dirty feet. Well that and he’s perpetually drunk. But I digress.

 

Anywhoo, Hank rolls in trailing a cloud of stench with him and sits with me and BFF at our table. He’s sloppy. Gross sloppy. But, apparently he’d gotten some money from somewhere because for the first time in EVER he offered to buy me a beer! I wasn’t planning on drinking but hey, who turns down free booze? And that motherfucker owes me. So he gets me a beer, which seems to be code for “now I have permission to grope your leg”. Um, dude? Just no. A stink eye and a hand slap later, he’s off and running after a cougar, who is the mother of his best friend. Just gross.

 

We saw so many awesome people, it’s hard to catalogue the ridiculous the night became.

-the lady that picked her clothes out of her 12 year old’s closet (and they didn’t come close to fitting right) that was dry humping her very enthusiastic dance partner. Pardner looked like a 60 year old accountant.

-The old lady that was trying to dance, but looked like she was playing a harp while gyrating her hips.

-The frumpy lady that decided she was a “groupie” to the band and basically danced right next to the singer all night.

-The resident lush, who is probably going on 90, gets at LEAST a pitcher of beer every time we see her in there, sports a giant fur leopard print coat, and dances her dentures off while wearing said coat and sporting a pimp cane.

They’re dancing, they’re gyrating, they’re singing at the top of their lungs and waving their arms. And Hank is on the prowl, oozing in and out of the crowd, hitting up everyone and their mom (literally) trying to score something. What he’s trying to score, I’m not entirely sure, but the effort was there. Every time he would approach a pretty young thang, she’d shuffle a few feet away, and talk to someone else. Clueless as always, Hank would follow, try to re-engage in conversation, and get way too close for her comfort. At one point, it looked like he was trying to “accidentally” untie her halter top. From afar, it was hilarious. When I’ve been in their shoes, it’s terrifying. It makes me want to scream “BAD TOUCH! BAD TOUCH!! STRANGER DANGER!!!”

 

There wasn’t really a climax to the night. The band finished, the old people wandered off, and BFF and I went to retrieve her brother, who had been kidnapped by Hank and was being held hostage at another bar. While we were walking there, the seals in the bay were going at it. It sounded like I imagine hot elephant sex would sound like. Or like a blue whale farting. Your call.

When we finally found her brother, he was hiding from Hank, who had apparently decided he’s now gay, and was putting man-moves on all the dudes in the bar. Awkward. Very awkward.

All in all, quite a successful Saturday! And now, Sunday, I’ve accomplished absolutely nothing but laundry and this blog post.

So, mah bitches, any fang-tastic stories from the weekend!?

FYF: Revamping the Roommate Finding Protocols

Well well well… I see I started a tiny revolution with the Fuck You Friday thingamafuck that I came up with. So inurbase over there decided to take it and make it greater. Awesome!

The prompt is as follows:

Create a rating system that would improve how something operates.

I’ve decided, upon (notsomuch) reflection, that I am still so VERY much in love with my Craigslist AWESOME dude, that I’d like to re-invent the Roommate Finding Protocols. Now, I know most people may or may not follow a standard set of rules to find the perfect housemate, but I’d like to up the ante a bit and make sure that I can find THE PERFECT theoretical housemate. Well, at least for me. I’ve devised a quiz of sorts, and a background check, to make sure that the next “Konichiwa bitches!” that comes across my inbox is the one for me.

Ready? I am!

First, the questionnaire, to devise if this person even DESERVES to make it to the background check.

1. What would you rather be, an alien stuck pretending to be a human, or a human transplanted to an alien world, and why?

2. What would you name your very own NFL team?

3. What special talents do you have to woo me with your amazingness?

4. Pick an appendage you could live without. What happened to it, what did you do to recover, and how are you compensating for lack of said appendage?

5. What is a twat-spider? What purpose does it serve? What’s it’s name and gender?

6. I hand you a My Little Pony, scissors, red glitter, and some twine. What do you do?

7. What superhero would you be, and why?

8. What is your best redeeming quality?

 

And the Background Check:

1. What awards did you get in school? Do you have proof?

2. Do you have any firearms? May I see?

3. Provide me with the last week’s worth of beer cans. Oh, you don’t have any? Fuck off.

4. Build me a lego building. Be creative.

5. Can you shotgun this beer? Oh, you don’t know what shotgunning is? Fuck off.

6. Do you have a job? AWESOME. Proceed to question 7.

7. Make me cookies. Why? Fuck off.

 

And, for when you acquire a parasite of the abode, a rating system.

-AWESOME- roomie is the shit. Roomie makes you dinner, cleans the dishes, is gone 99% of the time (when not being your personal chef), and remembers to turn off the motherfucking lights. Roomie also has no belonging, pets, or significant others. Congratulations, motherfucker, you scored big time!

-Pretty fucking cool- Roommate is decent. This bitch will cook every once in a while, cleans their own goddamn messes, and refrains from having guests without asking. Roomie also is liberal with application of booze, cigarettes, and illegal narcotics, and will share and accept at any point in time. Roomie loves animals and will not lock your beasts in your room for 14 hours straight because Roomie is pissed at you. This is the ideal level of Roommate.

-Good. Your “Good” roommate is tolerable. “Good” implies that you have no really positive experiences with Roomie, but but no negatives. Roomie cleans up after his/her skank ass, is reasonably pleasant, and doesn’t hot-box your house. Good roomie is also socially acceptable to your friends and, while, you will not take Roomie around like a true friend, it’s acceptable to your inner circle of AWESOME to bring Roomie on the occasional romp into the big wild world. If, and when, you and “Good” part, it will be amicable, though neither of you will expend any effort to remain pretend-friends after they move out.

-Meh. “Meh” is a tough rating to expound upon. “Meh” means that your roommate is just blah. Dirty dishes in the sink? Dildos in the dishwasher? Random parade of ugly twatwaffles that use your shower? Yeah. Meh. Whatever. It’s too much effort to kick roomie out and find a new one, but you’re not excited. MEH.

-Bad. The bad roomie is someone who you simply cannot handle. Loud parties without inviting you? BAD. Never does dishes? BAD. Doesn’t pay rent reliably? BAD. I think the “BAD” category explains itself.

-SATAN- this category describes THE WORST kind of roommate, and pretty much the only roommate I’ve ever personally experienced. Random “live in” girlfriend that pretty much showers at your place every day and doesn’t pay utilities? OH, Roomie dosn’t pay utilities? SATAN. Roomie’s dog tears your dog to shreds and is offended that Roomie’s Dog has “widdle cuts on his widdle head from where puppers fought back?” SATAN.  Roomie avoids you like you have The Plague when you both live in an 800 square foot house and only steps foot in The Abode when you are in your room? SATAN. Roomie decides to get a new place and comes back a week after his/her rent expires and tears up your veggie garden? FUCKING SATAN!!!! Roomie thinks that smoking about a pound of weed (when you’re allergic to weed) in a night with his/her buddies, hotboxes your house, then LAUGHS when you’re in anaphylactic shock and have to go to the ER? GO FUCKING DIE YOU PIECE OF SHIT!!!!

 

Good roommate stories anyone?

Introspection is a powerful tool

So today’s post is not funny. It’s not sad, either, just… different. And will probably be scattered. Because I’m scattered, as always.

 

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, because I’ve been in a rather sore spot in my life. I have not been plugged into my career, my home life, or my friends, and I’ve been bemoaning things that would normally roll right off my back. It’s been driving me crazy, and I’ve felt like nothing can go right, and that I am a failure.

I realized today that those silly cliches, well, they are so widely popular for a reason. “Positive thinking brings positive results”. “Treat people the way you would like to be treated”.  Rosy glasses and whatnot. You outlook on life influences your opinion on how your life is going, really, it does. I’m horrible at this. One thing goes wrong, and my outlook is in the toilet; I want to quit, I should move, I should get rid of my dogs, I should I should I should I should.

I’m an inherently negative person. I tend to be a pessimist, and have a fiery temper that can get me into trouble and dig me into deeper holes than I would be in without it. I get mad easily, I don’t forgive readily, and I tend to hold grudges.

Well, I realized something today.

I realized, as I said before, that my outlook colors the situations I have to deal with every day. I know, this sounds easy, but for the perpetual pessimist, everyday battles can become mountains, despite their tiny sizes.

Here’s what I’ve been thinking, stewing, and worrying myself sick over. This situation has been a microcosm of my entire fucking life right now, so resolving this issue has made me look at the bigger, more overpowering issues I’ve been having.

I am a manager. I have a small staff, and one particular employee, let’s call her Rachel. Rachel is a chameleon. She turns into whatever the person she’s with/pleasing/whatever wants her to be. Well, the last few months, I’ve been having so much trouble with Rachel. Poor performance, negative attitude, and general inability to follow rules and bring results to my business. I’ve been frustrated. I’ve cried. I’ve felt like a failure. I’ve coached her and trained her, had heart-to-heart conversations, tried and tried and tried. Nothing worked. I wanted to bludgeon myself in the face with a rusty old metal baseball bat.

Today, well, today was different. Today, I decided I would bring a new attitude to work. I decided to be the upbeat person, to praise instead of correct, to be happy instead of frustrated, no matter what she did that needed correction. I smiled. I cheered. I stroked her little ego and made her feel like the best employee I’ve ever had.

And you know what? She became the best employee, simply because that’s what I treated her like.

So, this is how I’m going to treat my life, right now. Everything is rosy. I’ll be excited, and energetic, and pour my heart into everything I do. It will be rough. I will backslide, I’m sure, but I’m ready to put my game-face on and greet the world every day like I’m ready to conquer it. I appreciate that all of you, faithful readers, have put up with my bullshit, horrible posts the last few weeks. I’ve been off my game, and I’m determined to chin up, pull my happy pants on, and rock the SHIT out of my life. The more I do this, the better things will be. For me, for my friends, and for you, my blog friends.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for sticking with me.

 

 

 

 

 

And a gratuitous funny, because I love you.

The dog hates me singing in the shower. HAAAATES IT… So I was singing post-shower tonight, belting out something or another rock song, and he freaking GROWLED AT ME! Lifted lips, rage face, full on started growling. And then started barking at me non-stop until I ceased the pathetic screeching that I call singing. Yeah. My dog loves me, and spares the neighbors.

 

Caffeine and Other Monday Funsies

Holy shit. Holy shit. I didn’t have any caffeine all weekend. It was nice. I don’t usually drink coffee on the weekends because I’m too god damn lazy to make it. Shut up, I know it’s suuuuper easy to make coffee, but the extra 3 steps it takes to clean out my French press make it a ridiculously challenging task that is too insurmountable for me to accomplish. Yes, I am horrifically lazy, a pathetic excuse of a human being. Feel free to flog me.

So today is my third day off of work in a row. Big Boss Lady was kind enough to give me today off because I have to work Saturday. This is completely unrelated to anything I’m writing. FINE. STOP JUDGING ME. Anywhoo, I had lunch with a friend, and grabbed a cup of coffee on my way out the door. Yum, coffee. So lunch was nice, but running into my friend’s version of Big Boss Lady, shall we call her… OGP for Original Gangsta Psycho. This bitch is UN-fucking-real. She’s a skanky ho, Klassy with a K, dresses like a five dollar hooker, and pretty much, well, IS a five dollar hooker. Or a free hooker. I’m not sure if she charges. Is it more disgusting to be free, or to charge? I don’t really know. OGP rolls up in our little lunch date and says “Oooooooooh you’re heeeeere! You didn’t come say hiiiiiii to me!!! HIIIIIII!!!”… you should have seen my face. I’m guessing I looked a bit like a serial killer. “Um. Hi OGP.” (turns back to friend). It was awkward. Super awkward.

After this I got to go to the doctor! Whee! I had to pick up orthotics for my wonderful messed up deformed feet, to help keep Zombie Foot from reverting back to it’s pre-surgery bloblike state. I feel like I’m wearing cinderblocks on my feet, yo. I mean, it’s worth it and all cause I went through hell to get my ankle back into working order, but Jesus Christ on a Corndog, could they make these things weigh any more? Well I guess if they were made out of cement, but still.

Then, I went to work, cause I’m a workaholic, and had to do some stuff cause I’m awesome like that and can’t take 3 days off in a row without becoming a neurotic shit for brains. BBL was happy to see me and my employees mocked me for not being able to stay away.

Whatever. The whole point of this post, now that I got to it, is HOLY SHIT CAFFEINE! I can’t stop twitching! I got a Diet Coke to go with my coffee and even typing this post is a humongous challenge because my fingers are rebelling like overworked sweat shop workers and going in all different directions at once and trying to type feels like I’m trying to herd cats, except by cats I mean my twitchy overactive little fingers. Like a squirrel on meth. Like giving coke to an ADD 5 year old… and not the Coca Cola variety. Like a Jack Russell Terrier that’s been crated for a whole day and then let loose in a yard full of the meth squirrels. It’s fucking ridiculous. I can’t stop twitching. If caffeine worked this well for me every day I’d be the most productive person on the planet. Or have a heart attack. Maybe both.

Other than today, my weekend was a complete waste of time. I slept for a good 14 hours on Saturday cause I was in pain, and pain pills make me sleep. It was nice to recharge my batteries. I spent pretty much the entire day catching up on reading my fellow bloggers’ wonderful works, y’all made me laugh, cry, and wince. I love it!

And now… I’m stuck sitting in my house, tweaking out, waiting to go to my physical therapy appointment at 7PM. That will be fun, I hope I don’t scare my therapist, Lord Farquaad, too badly today, cause then he’ll be mean to me and make me do things like stand on one leg on a squishy foam block and toss a 10 pound medicine ball around. It’s tough.

So what happened this weekend? Anyone actually have real-people lives and do something fun?

How the fuck have I not seen this video before?!

Your Saturday Funsies, compliments of inurbase. I think this video goes swimmingly with last night’s post, no? I want to work for KSwiss now.

Craigslist, oh Craigslist

KONICHIWA BITCHES!

I’m not feeling up to the awesomness that was last week’s Fuck You Friday. Really, I feel like I lost my happy this week, and it’s fucking HARD to write when you’re not feeling happy. Boo Hiss. So, please forgive me and come baaaack!!! (my stats are making me very sad the last few days.)

Anywhoo, I thought I’d share this Craigslist ad a friend showed me. I want to be this guy’s friend!!! (the italicized are my own comments)

$1000 Best. Roommate. Ever.

Date: 2011-08-18, 11:05AM PDT
Reply to:

Konichiwa bitches (who the fuck says, this, and I’m so stealing it. In fact, it’s going to be the salutation on this post). Are you looking for the most kick-ass fucking roommate that ever lived? If so, look no further. You fucking found him. I’m a 25-year-old professional marketing agent with experience at bad-ass companies in New York Fucking City. That’s right! What you know about experience? I graduated from Auburn University in Alabama, and moved to NYC at the ripe, tender age of 22. After deciding that New York was a stinky shit-hole (word), I moved back to Alabama to cultivate more professional experience. Why? So I can make millions of dollars and not have to post shit like this on Craigslist.

Anyway, so I landed this job with a marketing firm in San Francisco, and I have no fucking clue where to live. Honestly, I’m moving there in 3 weeks, so I don’t give a shit if I have to sleep in your bathtub (bathtubs can’t be comfortable).

A bit about me: I’m respectful, quiet, clean and I won’t bother any of your shit. If you leave shit out, I’m just like, “Oh fuck I better not mess with this shit, because it’s not mine.” (Why did I never find someone like this when I had roomies?!) I turn off lights. (energy efficient!) . I clean toilets (Not a complete douche canoe). Fuck it. I’ll even cook for you (PERSONAL SLAVE! YESS). That’s right! My dad is a chef and taught me everything there is to know about cooking southern cajun cuisine. I’ll fry green tomatoes, cover them with marinated crab meat and smother that shit in bearnaise. EVERY. GODDAMN. NIGHT. Don’t eat meat? That’s fucking FANTASTIC! (vegetarians turn him on) I’ll make a zucchini and yellow squash carpaccio that will knock your fucking socks off.

I also read a lot. I fucking LOVE books. (WORDS AND SHIT!!!) Vonnegut, Palahniuk, Hawthorne. All that shit. I read Tuesdays with Morrie the other day. It’s a sad story, but I learned something about life, love, knowledge and the pursuit of something greater than myself. Fucking smart. Do you like movies? I fucking love them. (But not as much as words!!!) We can watch the shit (YES!) out of some movies together if you like, or go get drinks, or work out, hike, play video games or play a game of one-on-one basketball, or I don’t have to talk to you at all. It’s completely UP TO YOU!

Sometimes I play guitar. Are you going to love getting baked (I thought this said naked the first time I read it) and listening to Bob Dylan and Pink Floyd? LIVE? WHENEVER THE FUCK YOU WANT? Of course you are! I’ll take requests and learn any song you like, because I have the voice of an angel and the acoustical stylings of James Fucking Taylor. AWWWWWW SHIT YEA! (Air guitar! Booya bitches!!)

A lot of people ask me, “Hey, you’re from Alabama. Are you racist?” And, the answer to that question is, no. I’m not racist or judgmental at all. I love everyone. I’m a secular humanist. (the fuck?) I FUCKING LOVE PEOPLE. That’s the only requirement to being a secular humanist actually. You have to like other human beings and want to help them for no other reason than they are human regardless of race, religion or sexual preference. WTF?!!!? Pretty fucking cool right? (we might not get along so well in this regard. I’m a secular NONhumanist. I hate everyone)

I own almost nothing! I’m driving my car from Alabama to California in which I’ll be transporting two duffelbags of clothes, one laptop computer, one guitar, one cell-phone with charger, 8 pairs of shoes, one picture frame, probably some condoms and a shitload of beef jerky and Pringles for the trip (thank you for being so specific). Though, you can expect the jerky to be gone upon my arrival. Unless you’d like me to pick up some on my way into the city. See?! I’m the most considerate person you’ve ever met. I’m offering to buy you shit already! (I love you)

Am I interested in your pad? You can bet my nomadic ass I am! I only require 4 walls, a ceiling and a floor to shelter me from the elements. Other than that, anything else will be considered a convenient plus. (bedbugs? A llama? Awright!) I’m taking being a roommate to the next level. Email me! I’ll hook yo ass up with Facebook links, background checks, credit reports, phone numbers, resumes, references, awards, sexual history, pictures of karate trophies and a list of the top 10 women I’d like to bang before I die. (again with the specifics dude! I want report cards though) If you want a next-generation roommate who consistently blows your (HEY NOW…) fucking mind with awesomeness, then hit me up. I’m ready to give you money.

cats are OK – purrr
dogs are OK – wooof
it’s NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
PostingID: 2553563387

So, I crafted a theoretical response to Mr. Awesome, who is awesomely fucking awesome.

Dear Mr. Awesome,

I am writing in response to your fucking kick-ass roomie ad. I am intrigued by your artful use of the words fuck and shit, and your general upbeat sense of humor. You sound fucking AWESOME. Awesome. Right?

I think we can be really good friends, maybe even besties. I feel like you and I… you and I have so much fucking shit in common that I’m pretty sure the world is going to light on fire when you move in. I offer you a combo-pack starter kit of awesome that has a 12 pack of PBR, a fatty roach, and some bongo drums to get our relationship off on the right foot. Do you like Cap’n Crunch? Cause I fucking LOVE Cap’n Crunch. We can eat the shit out of that EVERY FUCKING MORNING after sharing a roach and some tunes. But I don’t have any bowls so we’ll have to eat them off of a cookie sheet with a spatula. But that’s cool too. I also have a whole cabinet full of water weenies. They’re really great for teaching midget hookers how to give a proper handjob. I’ll show you, I’ve got lots of teaching experience. It’s going to be AWESOME.

My apartment has quite a few more wonderful things to offer that I think you will be excited to partake in. I’ve got a baby pool full of Astroglide, so you’ll save money on greasing up your happy fun time. My walls all are bare so I’m looking forward to your Chinese tapestries freshening things up. I hope my llama doesn’t chew on them. Oh, and I have 37 wide mouth mason jars filled with assorted change that you’re welcome to help yourself to, parking is fucking expensive in SF!

So anyways, I have a bathtub in my home that would probably work just fine for your needs, but I have a few questions before we start exchanging money and shit.

First, how do you feel about llamas? I have a pet llama named Mr. Bubbles. He’s a bit shy at first, but once you get to know him he’s a big lover butt. In fact, he does sometimes tend to get too friendly, if you know what I mean, but if you make sure to show him who’s the boss and spit in his eye now and again he’s really quite pleasant. Unless he poops in the house. But really. Quite pleasant.

Second, can you pay me in Iraqi Dinar? I’m trying to avoid having to pay taxes, and make a return on some exchange-rate finagling. If that’s a problem, I’ll also consider Pesos. You seem like a flexible chap so I’m assuming this is not going to be a problem for you.

Also, would you have a problem joining in with some dungeon time? I host events for my S&M club hosts events every month and we’re short on bodies so we’d love to have you join in. Again, you’re so agreeable and eager to please, I think you’d make an awesome sub for some burly Mistress.

Well, the bedbugs are just about gone now, and I’m trying super hard to toilet train Mr. Bubbles, so the apartment should be in good working order pretty damn soon!

Looking forward to being serenaded by your AWESOME guitar skills,

Tazer

I’m not entirely sure what’s wrong with me

So, the last few nights I’ve been having mad crazy, “holy fuckballs where did that come from” kind of dreams. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me, but I do know that if it’s wrong, I don’t want to be right!

Last night, I was in a house that I’ve never seen with people I’ve never actually met. The main character pretty much looked like the little cartoon dude at Opticynicism, and was my BFF. Except he was a zombie. Now, of course he wasn’t any ordinary zombie, nay, this motherfucker only tapped into his uncontrollable hankering for brain matter if light touched him. So I’m tiptoeing around the upstairs balcony, trying not to bring attention to myself because Zombie Dude is sitting on the porch right beneath me, but it’s hard to be sneaky because there’s HUMONGOUS CRACKS IN THE FLOOR! Despite my best efforts at oh-so-stealth manuvers, the zombie spots me, wonders if I’d be a delectable snack, and decides to come in the house. 

Naturally, this led to me and the gang deciding to have a raging dance party, complete with a live band and spotlights. Cause, the best thing to do with a zombie that has an on-button that is triggered by light sources is to get a bunch of strobes up in the hizouse. Needless to say, cue mad zombie breakout, complete with red eyes, popping veins, and an overwhelming need for BRRRAAAAAIIIINNNZZZZZ. Surprisingly, no one was scared of the zombie, cause, you know, they dont’ move very fast, so we all just skittered out of his way when he lumbered towards us, and continued on with our lovely little dance party. Eventually it was day time, and Zombie Dude turned back into Normal Dude and went to sleep on the porch. Cause that’s where normal people sleep, you know. Thankfully, no imaginary people were harmed in my crazy zombie production.

Then, after waking up and going back to sleep, I was at the same house,  but outside on the dock. I guess the mystery house was lakeside? So anyway, we’re hanging out, and decide to go swimming in the lake. Great idea. Except there’s dinosaurs, T-Rexes to be specific, swimming in the lake. But whatever. So everyone goes  swimming like fucking idiots and we see this trail of bubbles and try desperately to get out of the water, but it’s like swimming through glue, and getting up on the dock became an impossible feat! The damn things swim like alligators and have foot long teeth, even though the head was about the size of a dog. That really must be uncomfortable to have teeth that large. Really.  

Well, we all dart away despite the glue-water, except for my twin, who lost the ability to swim and just floated in place and got eaten. No, I don’t have a twin in real life. I don’t even have a sister! So twin becomes a T-rex treat, and the rest of us get into this canoe thing (I really think I say douche canoe too much) which is all tippy, and paddle over to the dock. Finally! Back in the safe zone. Good thing my imagination didn’t realize that T-Rex is probably bigger than the dock and could easily knock it over and/or climb onto it. I sit down on the dock to have a conversation with my cat, who was also swimming with us, about what we did wrong, and how we can strategize to keep family members from getting eaten next time we need to go swimming. We even had a flow chart! The cat drew it, of course. Brilliant little bastard.

 

Anyone else have a mad crazy dream to share?

Beaucephus, resurrected.

One day, a few weeks ago, my dogs earned a punishment.

 

Being a fair (and completely anthropomorphizing) dog-owner, I decided humiliation and shame were the perfect teaching tools to bring wayward dogs back into the fold, and, with the hopes of shaming them into compliance, I set out on an adventure.

Their first introduction to their punishment brought them joy and wonder. They had no idea what was in store for them when I brought the object into the room. No idea. They danced, they grabbed at it, they barked at me. Great fun was had by all…

 

…until the dog wrestling began. First, I tried to put it on Cyrus. Struggling mightily, he escaped my clutches. So, I went for Kona. She, too, darted away like a greased toddler. I needed to up my game, so I broke out bribery. Now, I know that this was intended for punishment, but what kind of punishment would it be if I couldn’t get the damn thing on them? So, out came the dog cookies. I put a cookie in the end of the object, and my first victim was lured into the trap. BAM! And so she was captured.

She was completely, utterly shamed by having to wear Beaucephus. So completely shamed, in fact, that she refused to move an inch for over half an hour.

 

The cat laughed at her. Her brother poked her repeatedly with her nose, barking in her ear, and showing off his lack of horse-head by sprinting around the kitchen like a five year old hopped up on sugar and Mountain Dew.

FUCK. MY. LIFE.

Her shame and humiliation complete, she couldn’t do anything but sit with her nose between her paws and contemplate how she was going to kill me in my sleep.

I'M GOING TO EAT YOUR SOUL...eventually...

Fearing for the demise of my black and wilted soul, I decided to move on to my next victim. This one was harder to wrangle. At about 90 pounds, that dog is wily, and made it extraordinarily difficult for me. We went back and forth for a while. I put a cookie in the nose of Beaucephus. I could hear Cyrus dog-laughing at me, and saying “you’re fooling no one, you twat!” while running away. Finally, after getting frustrated, I pinned him in the corner of the kitchen and shoved it on his head. Hilarity ensued. He bucked. He shimmied. He mumbled. He moaned.

Finally he resigned himself to his fate, and sat down to take his punishment in sulky silence.

Fuck you, bitch.

He still let me know he was displeased, by sighing piteously. I laughed.

What did I ever do to deserve this?

Being the smarter of the two, he figured out in a few minutes that violently shaking his head expelled Beaucephus, so he was promptly free.

However, my idea of shaming the dogs into compliance, was, regrettably, futile. They went back to being complete dildos the very next day.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

****Disclaimer- no animals were harmed in the making of this blog posts. The dogs, in fact, were (mostly) complicit, and suffered no long term ill-effects from copious doses of shame and humiliation. Please don’t turn me in to PETA. *****

Horrible drivers and the supermarket challenged

Aren’t there always those select few drivers that really just chap your ass and make driving miserable?

The Passing Lane Nazi

The passing lane Nazi is usually encountered on two-lane roads, where the speed limit (aka the SUGGESTED YOU SHOULD GO THIS FAST YOU ASSHOLE speed) is probably 55. PLT thinks it’s prudent to go…eh… about forty-fucking-three the entire time you are in a non-passing zone. But, as you well know, this particular breed of control freak can’t handle the fact that, yes, in fact, most people want to go the fucking speed limit, and will zoom right up to 65-70 while there is a passing lane, simply to satisfy their sadistic need to be the King Shit of Shit Highway.

The Tailgater

This motherfucker is a prime specimen of our Shittastic Driver series. God forbid he give you the suggested car length (or more!) between the asshole of your car and the pucker of his, because this guy is on a motherfucking MISSION and would be wasting precious time by staying three seconds behind your bum.  Do you need to brake? Watch out, this twatwaffle will probably be on his BlackBerry and might just smash into you.

The cousin of The Tailgater, the Cutter-Offer

So you’re a safe driver, and choose to leave a carlength or two between the car in front of you and your front bumper. Well, Cutter-Offer can’t handle this. He’s got OCD or something, and can’t handle it if there’s even half a car between each, because GOD FORBID the cars aren’t lined up like fucking Linkin Logs.

The White Hairs

I’m sorry, if you’re too old to a) see over the steering wheel b) go faster than 25MPH c) safely make a turn without veering into oncoming traffic or d) weaving uncontrollably you should take advantage of this magic service, it’s called THE BUS. I’m not at all opposed to old folks driving, but I’ll voluntarily cut up my license if I ever fit into these categories. Actually, I’m pretty sure I’m going to spontaneously combust in a few years, so no worries.

Adventures in the grocery store

The aisle-Hogger

This person has no clue regarding his personal space. The aisle is his oyster, and everyone else can shut the fuck up and go around. Fuck you, cart in the middle man, fuck you. I have no issue ramming your cart full of Cheetos and self loathing. MOVE OVER.

The person who goes the wrong way

If you’re like me, you have a set pattern to the way you shop. Left to right, up and down, produce to booze. Yet, every time you go the the store, there’s that one person that is shopping in exactly the opposite pattern as you are. Then there’s the awkwardness; bumping into each other in every aisle, wrangling carts around the corner at exactly the same moment, and dashing for the bacon at the same time. God forbid you brush hands with this backasswards stranger. It’s like opposite cooties, better go find the hand sanitizer, stat.

The back n forther

So if you’re like me, you’re lurking at the end of an aisle, waiting for the roadblock to clear out so you can jet on down to the box of rotini that you musthaverightnow but don’t want to cut a bitch to get. You carefully creep down the aisle, muttering “pardon me’s” while trying to pass by the person blocking the aisle without touching her ass. And she zigs when you zig. And zags when you zag. For like, 29 times. Finally you both laugh, say “Oh no, you first” and start the process all over again. Ahhhkwaaaard.

The vegetable sniffer.

Dude, no one wants your snot remnants on their produce. You’re the reason I freakishly wash my produce when I get it home. Disgusting.

In unrelated news, my retarded Pussy is missing, and I’m extraordinarily sad. Retarded Pussy is too stupid to go outside by himself, but I think he escaped last night/this morning. I have a major sad, and if he’s pavement pizza or coyote chow I’m going to die a little inside.

 

 

EDITED: FUCKTARD CAT CAME HOME!!! So, I’m sorry to have cut this post short in fear of my wee little tard-face hypothetically becoming Pavement Pizza. He came home… I’m pretty sure he was hiding under the porch the whole time I was calling him. Asshole.