Christmastime in the Emerald City











(editors note, WordPress appears to be fucking up, and I can not reformat this post to have any spaces between the paragraphs, this is not because I am retarded, it’s because the internet is retarded. Thank you for your time)

There’s a lot of damn things out there that make me happy, but I think I’ve been spewing enough lately about how awesome my boyfriend is, how cute my rabbits are, and how I’m so awesome my farts smell like Cinnamon Buns (seriously, Josh made a shirt telling me so.)

Yes, I am this awesome

Yes, I am this awesome

It is time, I feel, to get back on the rant wagon once in a while. It’s not good to keep all that well-worded rage bottled up inside. It wouldn’t be fair for me to clock a preppy blonde soccer mom in the face just because she reminds me of that bitchface in the Tostitos commercials. I’d at least have to clock her for the right reason – being a preppy blonde soccer mom in the first place. So lets get this show on the road.
The Tostitos Bitch
I can’t find anything on Youtube for this, mostly because only funny and worthwhile stuff is on Youtube, not mindless media propaganda. But I’m sure you can imagine it: some ridiculously well manicured preppy blonde is standing in her kitchen while a gaggle of healthy teens and doofusy dad barrel through – clearly she is super busy, just like EveryMom. Oh but she has the solution for that after school or mid game snack, oh yes! And it’s quick too, that’s the whole premise of these commercials: she finishes whipping up a Tostitos themed masterpiece with time left on the clock and cutely retardedly stands there looking at the camera.
Firstly, I don’t know about you, but it takes me a fuck of a lot longer than 30 seconds to blend expensive brand name shit in a food processor, pour it in a bowl and surround it by expensive brand name chips. Secondly, this attempt to appeal to EveryMom and give her the impression that she should be able to do the same pisses me off *almost* as much as the clear indication that she will turn into superefficientperfectlycoordinatedeverymom if she only adds Tostitos products to her next grocery list.
Fuck you! Do you know how expensive that shit is? Do you have any idea how quickly those three and a half dollar jars of fake cheese add up? Do you really think that once I squeeze out a few kids I’m really going to care about whipping out the food processor every day after school? Or quickly slicing up some buffalo mozarrella with a leaf of fresh basil and placing it daintily on a chip thirty times over? You better believe that if I have that kind of energy, it’s because I don’t have to work full time in which case I A) won’t be able to afford Tostitos brand products on a near daily basis and B) would rather spend the time, energy and money on something far more creative. Like a pie.
You want a quick and easy snack? Open a bag of chips you overachieving cow. Shut your thirty second face.
Middle Aged Suburbanites on the Subway
Okay, all you mommies and daddies that have to spend a fortune on a babysitter for your spoiled brats and then justify it by leaving your gas guzzling SUV in the driveway and taking the subway into the downtown core for the first date you’ve had since the drugstore ran out of condoms eight years ago, listen up: You’re not cool or hip, or whatever else you used to call yourselves back when you had a life. Your pressed jeans and new top freshly purchased at Winners piss me off, and you stick out like a fat chick at an anti-carb convention. Likewise your cheap highlights, fake leather jacket and tendency to compete for the SAME GODDAMNED HAIRCUT AS EVERYONE ELSE ON YOUR KIDS HOCKEY TEAM! Have you ever seen these creatures? These suburbanite flocks that all do the same weird over-the-age-of-30 shuffle on a bar-and-grill dance floor? Because that’s what they do on their big trip into town, and they talk about it ALL THE WAY THERE!
Pizza Pops
Because they go out the same way they go in. Orange and greasy ūüė¶
Beer Bottles Without Twist Tops
Do I really need another device between me and my beer? If I’m having a beer it’s because it’s been a long ass day and I feel like hanging out and being a lazy ass. Why is it necessary, so absolutely essential, that I now have to get up and get the fucking bottle opener that I forgot to get on the way back from getting the beer since it’s so unnatural to have to stop and fetch an implement to facilitate drinking the beer that I’ve already spent the effort on getting into my hand? That was a long sentence, did you catch all that? I’ve already spent all the energy I want to spend today on GETTING THE BEER TO MY HAND. And now you want me to do more stuff? Does this not crush the spirit of beer? Some of you are nice, some of you play by the rules! Them other ones, the ones I can just pop off with my sweaty little girl hands, those guys are alright. But you assholes who give me some excuse about how it affects the bottling process or flavour or some such micro-brewery connoisseur bullshit, you motherfuckers slice my drunken hand open with your sharp non-twist edges! I hate you guys.
And if you want to know why I don’t just get beer in a can it’s because I already feel trashy enough drinking beer by myself with dirty hair in an un-airconditioned apartment next to a bag of cheetos without the can of Pabst or whatever you get in cans. I might as well just prop a car up on cinderblocks in my non-kitchen.
Cars with Ridiculous SubWoofers and the Assholes Behind the Wheel
So what’s the first thing you think when you see that sweet upgrade on your tiny dick little ride? “Oh fucking sweet dude, now everybody I drive past is going to instantly hate me for interrupting their movies, sleep, conversation, and awkward sexual advances. I rule!” What the fuck? If you’ve got this sound system, you’re automatically an idiot. If you weren’t an idiot, you’d know that you can only hear to a certain extent, and below this frequency you can’t hear a thing – you can only feel it, and you can only feel it twenty feet away where you AREN’T! You’re paying for a system that does not much extra for you, but does fucktons to irritate people nowhere near enough to your proximity to have done anything to deserve your overpriced interruption. If you’re paying to be an asshole, you suck.
And lastly, my personal favourite:
Motherfucking Greyhound
I don’t have near enough energy to go into the precise details of how much I hate Greyhound, but let me put it this way. Greyhound kept me waiting from 1am to 5:45 am in Richmond, Virginia surrounded by blaring TVs going into incessant depth on the latest Hulk Hogan death threat. Greyhound doesn’t seem to understand how to tell crazy bitches who clearly just had their hair did that their tater tot kids don’t get to strut in front of the other 150 people in the lineup – some of whom also have kids. Greyhound apparently pissed me off enough in Washington that I can’t remember a thing about the city. Greyhound had me run around the New York City bus stop with unidentified gates and passengers trying to get to Switzeland. Greyhound advises their new drivers to wander away from the vehicle when it breaks down for two hours at a truckstop halfway to Syracuse to better facilitate the crazy toothless truck driver who feels like climbing aboard to tell everyone all about the horrible bus crash he saw three weeks ago where eleven people died, despite my insistent questions “Who are you and why are you on my bus?” Greyhouse likes to advise dispatch of the wrong directions, sending my driver into the wrong end of some asswipe of a town nowhere near where I’m supposed to be. Greyhound likes to say “‘Dat ain’t mah prawllum, ma’am” instead of “this query of yours does not pertain to my job description, please go to the help desk where nobody is waiting to assist you.” Greyhound throws your shit to the ground hard enough to send your lipstick rolling through the gutters of the US Border Patrol. Greyhound doesn’t clean their bathrooms. Greyhound likes to thank me for choosing them. Greyhound is how I kicked my hardshell suitcase hard enough to break my toe.
Greyhound, you suck.
*Shakes fist*
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We all know that just about every news story you see, from the indepth expose to the little reel of text across the bottom of the screen, has one form or another of bias. Frustrating isn’t it? All you want to know is what’s going on outside but somewhere out there is a huddled mass of enigmatic shadows deciding whether you should donate all your money to a lost cause or lock yourselves up in a basement against all the unholy evil in the world. How often do you watch a thirty second clip and think “what the hell is really going on?”

Well I have all the answers, natch. And so I share my insight with all you wonderful people. Of course, I don’t have time to explain the glorious, glorious truth behind every single flicker of media out there, so let’s just focus on a fantastic few.

By the way I might not be able to link you to all the stories because most of them were stumbled upon in a hazy stupor involving OMNI News South Asian Edition (I’m Caucasian for those who haven’t noticed) and a¬†pot of French Onion soup, fancy bowl included.

 

FOURTH FOOT FOUND

HOLY FUCKING GROSS BATMAN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: So the article mentions the third foot found this past February,¬†which¬†I guess means Google hasn’t caught up yet since I just caught wind of the fourth. Four random feet have washed up along the west coast and nobody knows what the hell is going on. Always a right foot, in a sock, in¬†a shoe. Meanwhile, CSI ratings are skyrocketing.

The Ugly, Ugly Truth: You know that fresh Pacific sushi? Yeah. Take that you trendy west coast hippie bastards.

 

DEADLY WATERMELONS

DEADLY DEADLY WATERMELONS

 

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Kid at Wal-Mart reaches into a bin of seedless watermelons imported from Mexico¬†and gets stung by a fucking scorpion. Like shopping at Wal-Mart isn’t scary enough. Hippies everywhere are freaking out about the co-demon of Wal-Mart feat. Genetically Modified Foodstuffs.

Cold Hard Fact: Mexico is coming. Run.

 

PIRATE ATTACKS UP TEN PERCENT

THIS PIRATE CAN TAKE MY NINJA STARS ANY DAY....WHICH IS A PRETTY CRAP INNUENDO. I FIND JOHNNY DEPP ATTRACTIVE. THERE...YES THAT'S MUCH BETTER

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Thank you George Stroumboulopoulos (or Snuffleupagus if you ask Josh) for bringing the most important news into my living room on a nightly basis. Unfortunately, last nights episode isn’t up on YouTube yet, and the hockey game screwed up CBC’s schedule, meaning it was on an hour later than usual. Consequently, I don’t remember much of it, particularly which coast it pertains to, but I do know this: pirate attacks are up ten percent. Yes pirates do exist and they have guns instead of swords, but the swashbuckling spirit of stealing other people’s loot is still high and mighty.

What You Only Wish You Had Realized: The nerdy 1337speak subdwellers controlling the counterculture of witty tshirts, webcomics, humorously captioned felines and the eternal pirates vs. ninjas battle have broken the fourth computer wall to bring the epik crusade right into our living rooms. Or high seas. Whatevs noobs.

TENNIS PLAYERS NARROWLY AVOID DEATH

DEATH BY TENNIS. YOU TOTALLY HAD IT COMING.

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Completely accidental collapse of tree narrowly misses four tennis players who get together on a weekly basis to flash their sweater sets and call each other Muffy. No ankle socks were injured, and the group continued their game on another court after 911 was called to remove the tree so they could get out.

Reality Bites: Attempted insurance scam by the guy who sweeps the court after every adorable game. His car was crushed by the tree that was in actual fact coated with a blend of molecular particles designed to seep into the roots and rot them out, causing the crash. Unfortunately, the car was not only under the MacGuyvered tree but under a No Parking sign as well. Fail.

TRUCK PLOWS INTO GARDEN CENTRE AND OLD LADY THEREIN

I DIDN'T MEAN PLOW IN THE SENSE THAT YOU MAY HAVE ASSUMED

 

 

 

 

 

Premise: Some dude crashes his big ass truck into a garden centre, and then passes out with his foot still on the pedal, burning rubber until the paramedics drag him out. Both he and the little old lady he smacked into are taken to the hospital with non-life threatening injuries. Passerby scratch their heads and wonder what the dealio. Police suspect a possible medical condition.

Stranger Than Fiction: Medical condition indeed, but on the part of the little old lady, not the driver. She was up to her ass in debt from all the medicinal marijuana the driver has been selling since he confiscated that first baggie from his son back in 1993. Attempted smackdown. Fail.

 

So there you have it folks. Sorry I couldn’t explain the entire universe and such, but I have bills to pay and therefore a job to do and all that noise. But feel free to ask for my crystal clear bias free opinion on anything that’s been nagging at your little brains. I’ll hook you right up with the facts, yo.



I’m going to qualify that header with a little bit of information: I dropped out of University after my first year. Yeah, I know. Me, the prodigal child who went to gifted school, was in all advanced classes and spent most of highschool on the honour roll.

Was it too hard? Well it kicked my ass, but I probably could have plowed through – I passed a history course without even going to the exam, clearly I was doing something right. Did I spend all my money and time partying? No. I was poor and didn’t like anybody in my residence building. Did I decide to switch my major from Forensic Psychology to Interpretive Dance? Kind of, I guess. I did spend a fortune going to the best school for makeup artistry in North America before realizing that the Toronto beauty market is completely oversaturated. But hey, people spend that kind of money on vacations and I¬†acquired some serious skills. No regrets at all. So why did I drop out?

Because it sucked.

Plain and simple, I didn’t like it. It’s not that I don’t have the wherewithall to haul my ass through difficult times in the hope of a great future ahead. I just didn’t see a great future ahead. Sure, I could have had a career as a forensic scientist, growing slowly more obsessed and insane (my fellow apartment dwellers were disturbed¬†by the¬†“motivational” photos plastered to my wall on the rare occasion I opened my door). But I lived with this lingering fear of spending all that time and money only to change my mind. I saw so many people achieving degrees only to find them useless, and so many people doing alright without them. I’m not saying higher education is useless. I’m just saying I was disillusioned. Everything I learned was through¬†textbooks, holing up in my tiny bedroom for literally months at a time.¬†The daily get up and go process, the classes and interaction with other humans only served as an example of why an education doesn’t make you smart. So I shunned it all very quickly, moved out on my own and threw myself into the real world for a whirlwind tour of poverty, uncertainty, adventure, heartache, exploration and a few good life lessons that all the overpriced tuition in the world could never have afforded me, and as is becoming increasingly obvious, has not been afforded to a great many of the more educated ‘others’.

THINGS UNIVERSITY DOESN’T TEACH YOU:

 

When it comes right down to it, your electric bill is the last one that needs to be paid. At least in Toronto where they will go for over a year before sticking that orange tab of paper on your door. On a related note, your account number is attached to your address, not you personally. So when you move, it’s not a very good idea to keep making online payments to the old account number because even though you will be credited for it, it’ll take them a year to figure it out and it’s a super pain in the ass.

 

 

 

 

¬†To prevent crack addicts from rummaging through your shit, don’t put out your recycling until you hear the truck coming. Empty beer cans are like gold. This of course, depends on where you live. If you can’t figure out whether or not you are surrounded by crackheads, you should probably just give up and wander into traffic. They don’t all look like Dave Chapelle, by the way.

 

 

There is no greater skill than being able to lie.

 

It’s all about who you know. I got this job because someone I made a brief impression on called me up to offer it. Talea got her job because I¬†got that same someone to call her. At our previous place of employ, I was promoted from lowly phone monkey to reception because Talea knew me and¬†my¬†hyperorganization. Sure, the job was posted and technically available to anyone, and plenty of more educated and more senior people were a little miffed, but¬†at the end of the day people hire you, not your resume.

 

 

 

Experience trumps education. I suppose some kind of college degree in business administration (What the hell do they teach in those classes? How to file? Did we not learn the alphabet and therefore how to alphabetize in kindergarten?) might beef up my salary. But if I walk into an interview with years of customer service and a list of references attesting to my skills, that meek little girl in her first suit and a newly framed degree doesn’t stand a chance.

 

Don’t bring your parents to a job interview¬†you stupid, stupid twit.

 

You really, REALLY¬†don’t need a swiffer.¬†

 

 

 

If you live in a sketchy place, make friends with the scariest looking person you can find. Again, it’s all about who you know.

You have to start doing the job you want before they will start paying you for it.

 

A four apartment quadplex with simple slots at the door for mail is going to be more secure than a two level series of bachelor apartments with 12 locked boxes. The former indicates an established level of trust. The latter…well, lets just say that I can still go back to my old apartment and open up most of the mailboxes with my fingernail.

 

 

 

Knowing city by-laws like the back of your hand is very useful, especially with jackass neighbours. Also become familiar with any rules and regulations pertaining to renting and lease agreements. Landlords will fuck you the minute they can.

 

 THERE IS NO SUBSTITUTE FOR GOOD LUBE

 

OH GOD MY EYES!!!!

 

When scouting for a dwelling, check all the taps and flush the toilets. Sure it might have a great view and tons of amenities, but you won’t care so much about the concierge service when you have cold shampoo running in your eye and you end up tripping on the shower curtain and are found by the paramedics staring blindly up into the still running ice cold spray. “Oh God, my eyes!” should never be anybody’s last words.

  

 

Learn how to break someones nose. You probably won’t ever have to, but it’s a good skill to have.

Not doing your own laundry by the age of 20 is wrong. Sending your laundry home to your parents makes you a sad, pathetic individual. Girls at school, I’m talking directly to you.

 

 

Find a good doctor. Don’t assume they all know what they’re talking about,¬†¬† because a frightening percentage of them don’t. That nagging feeling of frustration like you’ve spent three hours trying to assemble a shoddy piece of Ikea furniture except you’ve been doing nothing of the sort? Yeah, it’s not the product of allergies and isn’t going to go away any time soon. It’s probably¬†the sinking realization that you’re grown up and have to start acting like one, but you should still do something about it.

 

 

A good pair of heels can get you further than you think. So will a good tie and a good set of cufflinks. So will a chainsaw.

Get it in writing. People will doublecross you for a latte, nevermind a dollar.

 

If you’re getting calls from a collections agency, you probably already know that you’re fucked. You don’t have to stay on the line with them or let them scare you – feel free to hang up, laugh maniacally or make animal sounds. See that guy there? He’s screaming about the¬†Manson muders and their relation to his mothers favourite Borscht recipe. And he’s having a grand old time. You can too!

 

 

Your printer didn’t just run out of ink on the day that you’re expected to bring a resume to an interview, and you don’t have a family emergency. For the love of all the is decent, just learn to say “I’m no longer interested in the position.” You’re not going to hurt anyone’s feelings.

 

Stop being afraid of hurting the feelings of people you are never going to see again. It’s very liberating. Feel free to walk out on a bill when the service was really that terrible. You don’t have to be nice to your ex. That pizza guy doesn’t need to be tipped 20% unless you have the same delivery guy all the time. If you do, make friends with him, man, make friends. You never know when a pizza guy is going to come in handy.

 

 

 

Nobody is interested in your regurgitation of the social theories you learned in school. If confronted with such a character, ask them if they’re going to introduce any original thoughts any time soon or if you should just break out the Communist Manifesto and get it over with.

 

If a taxi driver forgets to put the meter on, you don’t have to pay him out of sympathy. In this and in many other situations, asking for a name or employee number will get you a hell of a lot. If your cab gets in an accident you do not owe him anything other than a screaming shitfit. Learn how to throw a screaming shitfit, they can be very, very helpful. If your taxi driver happens to be a squirrel, pay the fuck up. Squirrels will lay the smackdown.

 

 

Return policies in most stores are more flexible than you think depending on how long you are willing to stand in line and argue.

 

 

Your first apartment isn’t going to come with a garbage can, toilet paper or a mop. You’ll also find yourself amazed at all the shit you need that you would never have thought of. Whether you’re a do-good bakeasaurus rex moving into a cute little condo or a hash smoking layabout living in the slums, YOU WILL NEED ALUMINUM FOIL.

 

 

 

A life well lived is the best revenge, but paired up with¬†a wad of spit in the eye it’s damned near perfect.

And lastly:

BEING EDUCATED AND BEING SMART ARE TWO VERY DIFFERENT THINGS!!!

 

 

 



So there’s a couple of things in life that are pretty unavoidable. Death and taxes, for example, at least until I finish up with the cryogenic reasearch (not for me, I’m already immortal, but for the bastards who keep taking my money).¬†Another is¬†celebrity gossip, at least in snippet form. I know none of you would dream of picking up the US weekly going on about Brangelina’s latest addition to their multicoloured genetic sampling, or Oprah’s most recent weighing in. But the information still manages to worm its way into your innocent bystander brain. You know Beyonce and Jay-Z got married whether you give a shit or not, and that Britney has gone from being tasteless to flat out fucking nuts. Because when you’re in a lineup at the grocery store and the feeble old lady in front of you insists on counting out her pennies, your eye will naturally wander to the giant bold font of every colourful magazine with its scantily¬†clad wares on full display. You know Lindsay Lohan is about as classy as a puke filled tobacco spittoon, and I can guarantee that nobody wants to hear the name Miley Cyrus ever again.

Frankly, it’s getting a little old. I really can’t see much of a difference between Britney and Lindsay. They’re both blonde, strung out fodder for magazine punchlines, and neither of them have a smidgen remaining of any potential they may have once had. Mariah Carey is STILL struggling with her image and posing with the exact same facial expressions that she’s been carrying around in her luggage for the past decade and a half since she decided to flatiron her hair. And yes, J-Lo still has a great big booty. BORING!

You know what I miss? The fun-tastic celebrities of yore. The face-slapping antics of Macaulay Culkin and the goggle-wearing goodness of the entity forever known as “that Urkel kid”. We all know where Will Smith is nowadays, but what about Carlton? Or Hilary, who once made a huge deal over a boyfriend with a mole and was given the snappiest line ever: “You’re making a mountain out of a mole, Hill!” What’s¬†Emilo Estevez up to these days? I haven’t heard anything about him since Will Ferrell drunkenly rambled his name back at the Roxbury. And Screech! Come on! Why aren’t these guys on the Surreal Life?

Well fine then. I’ll do it my damn self. I’ll find out what the hell happened to these people. And in the meantime, I’ll think up some fun alternate endings that would have ensured their lasting memory instead of their imminent disolve into obscurity.

Macaulay Culkin:

I really don’t know if I can come up with anything more¬†insulting or outlandish than this photo, but just for the sake of morbid curiosity, I’ll switch from Google images to just plain Google.

Let’s see. Well firstly, he was arrested for marijuana possession back in September of 2004, probably still self-medicating after his harrowing Michael Jackson ordeal. He’s had a failed marriage or two, but who hasn’t? Oh here’s an interesting tidbit: he apparently bought Marilyn Manson his first pack of cigarettes for his role in Party Monster (yeah, I’ve never heard of it either). And it seems he stopped accepting roles while his parents were seperating because they were squabbling over his money like wonderful parents do, and after the flop of such atrocities as Richie Rich, never made it back into the limelight.

Cause of Obscurity: Fucked over by parents. It seems all the fame and money in the world can’t stop the inevitable.

Far Better Explanation: While he may have thought it ironic that he was corrupting a previously cancer free Marilyn Manson with his bad boy smoking ways, the tables were clearly turned shortly thereafter when Macaulay was roped into the Mechanical Animals as an understudy. He never got a chance to wear the boob-suit however, because his outlandish choice of personal styling was what Marilyn describes as “just a little too weird for my taste.” Macaulay currently remains in Marilyn’s employ by licking makeup brushes clean in exchange for petty cash and vitamins. Jackson is coming for him soon, he promised, he promised.

Steve Urkel:

Although the irony of the actors name – Jaleel White – does not escape me, the simple truth is that you probably didn’t even know what it was. He is, and always will be, just plain Urkel. But after his final nasally rendition of “Did I do thaaaaaat?” he was never heard from again. At least not so that anyone would notice. Did you know Bea Arthur performed the Urkel dance with him on stage at the American Comedy Awards? That’s cause Bea Arthur kicks your mothers ass.

After Family Matters got the boot, Urkel tried to write and star in his own show called GrownUps, which was a clearly failed attempt to carry along his childhood fame into adulthood. Bringing along Punky Brewster didn’t help, and the show tanked. Since then, he has managed to get a few bit parts here and there instead of tastefully hanging up the suspenders and calling it a day.

Cause of Obscurity: Cancer of the pseudonym. Without Urkel, there is no Jaleel White. I’m sure his friends and family will claim otherwise, but they are wrong.

Far Better Explanation: Urkel and Bea Arthur got married on the hills of Pasadena and now own a ranch known affectionately as “Burkel.” They have three children, all named “Argyle” and rivalled only by Michael Jackson’s kids for the collective title of “Most Obscure and Probably Really Ugly”. We’re not quite sure how, but they are in fact responsible for the crisis in the Middle East. Something about¬†a¬†Burkel brand Burka, with a terrible, terrible misunderstanding along the way. A camel was also involved.

Alfonso Ribeiro:

You probably didn’t know his real name either, but it was mentioned on Family Guy, so that’s good enough validation for me. I do know he was on another show, since that was the point of the reference, but I can’t for the life of me find it. And by “find” I mean “click more than one Google link”.

At any rate, Alfonso went through a divorce as well, and handed physical custody of his daughter over to his wife while still insisting on joint legal custody. Clearly this child is being primed for showbiz and a future battle over the assets gained by her no doubt gapped teeth. Alfonso himself appears to have never gotten over the loss of fame once promised him when he was cast in one of Michael Jackson’s Pepsi commercials, and has most recently been seen in a McDonalds’s ad.

Cause of Obscurity: Graciously exited the scene after McDonald’s told him he wasn’t black enough for them. He is now a professional dancer. I’m not even kidding.

Far Better Explanation:¬† Are you retarded?!? He’s doing the Carlton Dance for a living! What could possibly be better than that?!?

Hilary Banks:

Unworthy of any mention of her real name, not much is known¬†about this elusive character except that she was a bit of a jerk on Fresh Prince. She was also on Blossom before that, as clearly indicated by the headgear, and had a brief stint on Melrose Place as well. Nobody has seen or heard of her since she appeared in The Ladies Man back in 2000. It was filmed in Toronto, and yet I don’t recall it – either a testament to our more presitgious productions or to just how lame a gig one gets after sporting ridiculous hats for a decade. Either way, she seems to have been filtered out of the far more talented (term used liberally) ranks we see on television today.

Sidebar: IMDB member blaque108 informs us that Hilary was on the cover of Ebony once upon a time. Thanks blaque108.

Cause of Obscurity: The hat, clearly. Whereas Michael Jackson absolutely made his career by sporting a mysteriously bedazzled¬†white glove, this atrocious number never made it out of the early 90’s. Not seen in this photo are tendencies towards spandex, wild prints, mirrorball earrings, parachute pants and other era-approrpriate faux-pas including the themesong to Darkwing Duck playing constantly in the background.¬†

Far Better Explanation: Anything to do with Michael Jackson because that fucker has clearly ruined the life of every single celebrity I once loved and cherished.

Emilio Estevez:

We all remember Emilio Estevez from his days as the Mighty Duck Coach. But do you remember in the third installment when the story replaced him for the most part with a tight-ass college coach who looked distressingly identical to him? Yes my friends, it was a sign of the times to come. Our most recent recollection of¬†Mr. Estevez¬†was his not-quite-cameo in A Night At the Roxbury with Will Ferrell screaming Emiliooooo!!!!! Emilioooo!!!! Before that, and before Mighty Duck fame, he was an apparent member of what was known as the Brat Pack. I’m a tad young for this to have any bearing on my consciousness whatsoever, and only know this as a fact because I was too lazy to turn off a biography on Demi Moore a few weeks back. I also recall it having something to do with Molly Ringwald whose cause for celeb I still can’t figure out.

Since hanging up the skates that were never his in the first place, Emilio has actually continued to act, just not in anything worth mentioning. His name does not conjure up the same initial absence of recognition that Alfonso Ribeira does, but rather a feeling of “Awww, yeah, I remember him!” We remember his talent fondly.

Cause of Obscurity: Suckage. While his most recent stint “Bobby” ¬†actually did fairly well, Emilio made a crucial mistake by abandoning the Mighty Duck bandwagon all those years ago. Apparently he only agreed to appear in the third installment¬†at all in exchange for Disney’s financial backing in his actor-director fiasco “The War At Home.”¬†Critics liked it, but nobody else did. And thus began his tailspin. His failed engagement and marriage to Demi Moore and Paula Abdul respectively didn’t do much for him either.

Far Better Explanation: It’s a little-known fact that his engagement to Demi Moore failed after she discovered Emilio canoodling with fellow Brat-Packer Molly Ringwald. Unfortunately, Molly also had a severe case of ringworm, as indicated by her unfortunate family name. The medication involved in the treatment affected his ability to make clear decisions later on in life. Emilio is currently a stockholder in Neverland Ranch, a further testament to the devastating effects of this illness. Please contact the author of this blog for info on where to send your charitable donations. A food drive will also be set up, as Mr. Estevez claims to be shockingly low on Doritos and Mr. Pibb

Screech:

This guy goes by a whole plethora of awesome names. Firstly, the character he played was actually Samuel Powers and would have been a super mega hunk with a super rad name like that if the writers hadn’t already decided to turn him into Screech. The actor himself is named Dustin Deschaine or Dustin Diamond, depending on which Wiki article you look at. And considering that he was with Saved By the Bell right from its early inception in ’88 to the final curtain on several modernized versions in 2000, he’s had a fairly good haul. Since then he’s apparently been trying to get his standup comedy routine up and off the ground, and was also a member of Celebrity Fit Club Season Five. His shitty attitude during the latter and tardy arrivals in regards to the former have kept¬†him well out of the public eye. Apparently he was also a bass guitarist for the now-defunct band “Salty Pocketknife” but of course just because you and your friends got drunk in a basement within proximity to some instruments and gave yourself a clever name, it¬†doesn’t constitute a “band”. Especially since Salty Pocketknife isn’t really that clever.

Most recently, Screech has been seen in his own sex tape scandal, leading one to wonder how anyone would get in bed with someone most notably associated with the name Screech. Assuredly, a bad vocal pun was made somewhere in the film. He has also been on radio shows explaining how broke he is, and hawking $15 Tshirts that say “I Gave Screeech Fifteen Dollars to Help Save His House,” explaining that there is an extra e in Screeech because he does not own the legal rights to his namesake.

Cause¬†of Obscurity: Poor financial planning, the plague of most child actors. Anybody remember how Will Smith was nearly bankrupt after Fresh Prince went off the air? And how he resorted to cheesy feel-good rapping? Well, apparently the original Mr. Smith had a few things that Screech here didn’t, including talent and work ethic.

Far Better Explanation: Never got together with Michael Jackson.

So there you have it folks. I hope you enjoyed this trip down memory lane. Wasn’t it far more adventurous than seeing Lindsay in her umpteenth teary-eyed snot-nosed photo, or speculation over Mariah’s actual weight? And it was far more informative too. Knowing Brangelina’s exotic humanitarian vacation getaway details is not going to save your own children. Realizing that Michael Jackson secretly controls the world is vital to their survival. Remember these important things people. And now, just because I’m so generous:

 CREEPY BONUS ROUND!!!!

The Zodiac Killer:

Instead of continuing on with the shoddy actor theme, I decided to go a little more morbid. This fun little fellow killed a few people in Northern California back in the 60’s, and is most notably known for stumping police with his cryptic messages, some of which have never been deciphered. Five confirmed killings are on the record, as well as two survivors and his own claim to as many as 37 victims.

He was never apprehended, and the killings stopped inexplicably. To this day, nobody knows exactly who he was or what his motives were, though he still retains his boogeyman status with frequent pop culture references including a movie with Jake Gyllenhaal. Interestingly enough, the Zodiac Killer himself once told the media “i am waiting for a movie about me i wonder who will play me the world is in my hands now.” Fantastic grammar and everything.

Cause of Obscurity: Stopped killing. This freaks people out because serial killers usually continue until they are caught, as it is a terrible compulsion not easily ignored by even the smartest of fiends. Some speculate that he went into hiding or simply moved to a different state and continued his plan unrecognized.

Far Better Explanation: Hit by car on the way to pick up a box of cat food.

 



So I’ve found myself a little stuck with writing lately, only because I’ve been generally less pissed off thanks to my awesome boyfriend and my overall improved ability to not let the world’s jackassery spin me into a trauma that’s much less eloquent outside these virtual perameters.¬†And unfortunately,¬†it’s when I’m pissed off that I write my best. It gives me the outlet to be snappy, sharp-witted, and sarcastic in my observations; to provide¬†helpful suggestions as to storage places within various bodily orifices for the¬†idiodic ideas of the masses; in other words, the chance to be a bitch.¬†

On a day to day basis, I am actually very nice. Karma and such – I go out of my way to help friends and complete strangers where I can. Even when I call someone an asshole on the subway, it’s for the greater good. But there is a side of me that just really gets a kick out of being mean. Not to “people” really, because when I get pissed off enough,¬†you’re no longer human, and I can be as mean¬†as I want. This doesn’t work well in person though, because people cry and leak and stuff and then they’re human again and I feel like I’ve stepped on a starving African orphan. With AIDS.¬†

But¬†if they don’t blubber and wail, or if they are distant somehow¬†I’m GREAT. On the phone, for example, I can be as aggressive and mean as I wish I could be in real life. I had a super proud bitch moment a few weeks ago. Our internet went down and everyone was pissed. After an afternoon/evening of disarray, we figured out that a single phone¬†number had been disconnected by mistake. The next morning it was my job to get on the phone with Bell (who we no longer use) and figure out what the hell happened. The fun part is that these people on the other end of the phone aren’t real to me, so I had an absolute blast. “No, we aren’t waiting for a tech, 4-6 hours is unacceptable. I don’t think you realize the severity of the situation or precisely how much it has cost my clients so far. I need to know why this line was cut, and I need to know immediately. No, that’s not good enough. Your employee number please? Listen, we’re going to get a MASSIVE bill for tech support, and I need to know who’s going to pay for it. Yes, I realize you are just doing your job, but so am I and I have 60 people breathing down my neck – you have one, me. Then put me through to someone who can.” One hour and five different phone monkeys later I was put through to someone who told me exactly who’s fault it was, and it was AWESOME. A fantastic feeling of accomplishment. Me, *I* figured out who’s fault it was. And it was an important person. Delicious.

Last weekend, my internet blipped for thirty seconds. Twenty minutes on the phone later, I was discounted up the ass. “I’m sorry but this is not at all what I plan to continue paying for. You’re¬†automated menu has mentioned internet difficulties in my area since the¬†minute I signed up. But I give¬†you the benefit of the doubt and am left with unreliable service in return.¬†Do you think I¬†feel like a valued customer at the moment? No, I don’t.¬†No, discounting me for the offline time is not acceptable. It¬†doesn’t matter that I¬†couldn’t get online for thirty seconds. It matters greatly that for¬†several weeks, I have been unable to write an email, or transfer funds¬†between my bank accounts (right, because I’ve got SO many with SO MUCH money in them) or go about any of the activities I pay for the convenience of having online access to without wondering if my internet will go down. Really? That’s what I’m paying for? One more thing to worry about? I want these charge reversed. Your name and employee number please”¬†So the bill comes along¬†with two months worth of phone charges, and only ONE month of internet charges.¬†Because my internet went down for thirty seconds. I wasn’t even online at the time. If I hadn’t been in the room, I wouldn’t have noticed the little light blip off and then on again. SWEET. Next time they ask if they may know to whom they have the pleasure of speaking, those faceless little monkeys will be calling me Princess HottenTots.

Notice the absence of any swearing or personal attacks. These are ineffective measures in getting what you want, because they make you look desperate and flawed. I’m right, and perfect. The insects on the phone, they are not. And don’t give me shit for dehumanizing people, you all know you hate those headset wearing liars. They do lie, they hold out the serious discounts for the people who demand them. And if you are one of these people, well hey, I would probably hold the door for you out in the real world somewhere, but as soon as you adjust your little foam covered mouthpiece, your ass is MINE.

In real life, I sometimes get a rare chance to fuck with people legitimately. Because it’s not about being a bitch. I’m really an awfully nice person. But there’s that funny little side of me that needs to be let out once in a while, so if I’m given good reason to fuck around with someone, I’ll take it and laugh with glee. One of our very pleasant clients came up to my desk and said “I just got a call for someone asking for someone I used to work with. It’s a very unpleasant matter, and I don’t wish to speak with them. Is there any way to screen those calls out?” I said absolutely, it would be my pleasure, and proceeded to demonstrate: “Hello? No, I’m sorry but there’s nobody here by that name. No, you have a wrong number. I can’t imagine how you just spoke with him, there’s nobody here by that name. No, you weren’t just speaking with me. I can’t imagine what you dialed earlier, but you simply have a wrong number. No, you can’t. No. No. No. Well I hardly think your opinion of my personal character has any significance in the matter. Goodbye now.” He was quite pleased.

We’ve got someone in the office who likes me to screen people for her. She’s got me on instant messenger and will often send me instructions.

Client: “She’s here for an interview, I’m still trying to find an assisstant who isn’t a total retard. What does she seem like?”
Me: “Rather timid, really. You seem like you’re looking for someone aggressive. She seems frightened of me, and mispronounced your name.”
Client: “I don’t want her.”

“I’m sorry, but we’re going to have to reschedule your interview. She was called away a few moments ago, I just spoke to her on her cell phone. There’s no need to leave your resume, we’ll be in touch. Bye now.” Nothing personal. I don’t dislike you as a person. But you’re unnecessary, so you can continue being a pleasant individual elsewhere.

Client: “Thanks, you’re great. Can’t you be my assistant?”
Me: “I like realistic pay and benefits.”
Client: “Shit.”

The same client had someone show up a day or two ago. I greeted her very politely, asked who she was here to see, and then her name. I left a voicemail and within ten seconds received an instant message:

Client: “She had an appointment hours ago and didn’t show up. She’s been jerking me around and it’s wasting so much of my time and money. Get rid of her, feel free to be rude.”
Me: “Yes ma’am!”

Me: “Ma’am? Hi. Unfortunately, you missed your appointment this morning. So you won’t be able to speak with anybody. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “But I just need to speak with her for five minutes.”
Me: “She’s unavailable. You were expected at 9:30 this morning, and it’s nearly noon.”
Her: “Yes, I was unable to come in. I just need a form. It’s very urgent, my court date is tomorrow.”
Me: “You should have called.¬†She’s unavailable now, and won’t be available any time today.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yeah, she’s STILL not available. You’ll have to call and reschedule.”
Her: “Okay, I will come tomorrow morning then.”
Me: “No. How do you know she’ll be here? You could drive all the way for nothing. Call and make an appointment, and show up on time.”
Her: “Can you make the appointment for me?”
Me: “No.”
Her: “Well then what time tomorrow she is here?”
Me: “I don’t know. Call to make an appointment with her.”
Her: “But my court date is tomorrow!”
Me: “Yes. It is. Call to reschedule. Thaaaank You!”

Saying thank you at the end of a sentence is a really good way to indicate that the conversation is over and the other party must now leave. And they can’t even say you were rude – they just didn’t like the answer you gave them.

Anyways, I’ve rambled enough. You see, the thing is, this sort of ability to see someone as not so much a human but more of a bundle of cells comes in very handy when you work for a corporation. Corporations are recognized legally as seperate entities – this being the benefit of incorporating. But if you look at a corporation as a seperate individual and run a few diagnostic tests, you’ll find that¬†they are quite psychotic. Cold, emotionless, unable toform any lasting bonds.¬†They will be super nice and bend over backwards for you as long as you have something they want, but the minute you bounce a cheque you’re dead to them. No love lost. Goodbye corporate luncheons, hello call to security the moment you step foot back in the door. As Talea put it so well “If I took my job personally, I’d be on the floor crying all day”. So it is really an asset to be able to detach yourself in this manner when you need to wring necks in order to find out who’s going to foot the mile high tech bill for pulling the plug on everyones life internet.

Outside of work, it’s considered a ‘problem’. A ‘symptom’ actually if you want to get up close and personal. It’s actually pretty nice that my job gives me an outlet for the dark side. But I figure I should probably work on other outlets as well. What if I don’t need to squeeze answers, discounts and apologies out of people? What if I start lashing out at people I like because I just haven’t gotten my bitch-fix lately? This is not good.

So I’ve decided on some new goals. For my very nice wish-I-could-fix-the-world side, I’d like to have my finances in good enough order by this approximate time next year so that I can buy one of those $100 lottery tickets that donates proceeds to childrens hospitals. And for my holy-shit-I-am-SO-good-at-bitching-people-out-and-secretly-really-LOOVVVE-it side, my goal is this:

I want to make a collections agent cry.

I know what you’re thinking, and it’s true: I would make an excellent collections agent. But I’ve been on the other end of that, and while I was never intimidated I know there are a ton of people who are just trying to make ends meet to feed their kids. So the morals of that don’t sit right with me. I want to use my evil for greater good. But I’ve already gotten rid of all the creditors in my life. So I need some Karma. If anyone has someone out there who owes them money, or who’s hassling them for money, let me know. Is the phone company threatening you? Is your internet bill astronomical? Well I can help, because I am good at being a bitch for constructive purposes.

It’s a new marketing campaign. Call me. Please.

 



{April 18, 2008}   I’m Not Sorry At All :D

Okay, so maybe I’m just the teensiest bit sorry, but I really do have a good reason for being so absent as of late.

I kind of fell in love. Like, retardedly in love. As in, sweet old ladies probably vomit in my presence kind of love. Cause I’m so cute and all. I know! What the shiznat, right? Me?!?! How did that happen? Just about two months ago, I was all “Valentines Day is for suckers!!!” and such. I’m what you might call an angry kind of girl. A little bit crazy, definitely twisted, and not an awful lot about me makes much sense. I think everyone and his mother is a douchebag, and I’m a big fan of throwing the word cunt around needlessly. Plus, I’ll smack you in the mouth for the last nacho. Not the kind of girl you want to introduce to your parents, you know?

Well apparently the air between 800 miles has some an interesting qualities of refraction. It turns out that was the precise distance needed for this fellow to see through all of my bullshit and get me for who I am, as opposed to the plethora of things I like to think I am (like someone who’ll actually smack somebody over a nacho as opposed to just call you a cunt behind your back, ha!) When someone is able to think your thoughts for you at least five times a day and can completely appreciate your desire to run down the street in a pink dress while carting along the gas tank of a flame thrower in a little red wagon, well…800 miles doesn’t seem that far anymore.

Anyways, if you don’t know who I’m talking about yet, you really need to get around the internet more, cause it’s kind of obvious. It’s really a wonderful place, the internet. You can spout off whatever lies you feel like portraying as truth, edit the shit out of your photos until you’re perfect just the way photoshop made you (thank you Lovely Friend Cait, for that memorable line), and find someone who fits you as perfectly as an Escher print through a random series of little 0s and 1s. I love the internet! All these bitchface pedophiles are giving it a bad rap.

This here is Josh, in all his manly glory:

Here’s a few excerpts from the inside of his head, in all their excellence.

So here’s the tale of it all. I’m sure you’re all avidly drinking in the details and have already read his account of how we met, but here’s more. You know those sickly sweet couples that are always holding hands and telling you adorable stories about how they met and you really just want to stick ’em with a chopstick? Well I’ve never gotten to be on the other end of that chopstick, so just patronize me a little bit here, okay? I’m obnoxious about everything else, I might as well be obnoxious with spreading the love.

I owe a lot to May and Talea I suppose. Talea because it was through her post that Josh found me, with my gloriously biting tale of woe from the Toronto Independent Music Awards, which I still say sucked big ass donkey balls. Also because she is completely supportive of my internet love (as are all my friends, but Talea’s sort of a pioneer to me). And May because it was she who sent me along to cover that fateful disaster of a show in the first place! And who is now my shining beacon of domesticity now that I find myself rapidly turning wifish. And because they both called me up within minutes of Josh proclaiming his love for me in the public forum that is his blog to read me excerpts and fawn over my deliciously sweet boyfriend. Think about it: your best friend announces that despite all her left-wing, city loving vegetarian ways, she has falled madly in love with a rebel flag waving meat worshipping southern boy she hasn’t even met. The first thing any girl would do is try to talk her out of it. But no, they got past the initial oddities of it all and now give their full fledged support. And as any lady with a strong group of ladies knows, this is of the utmost importance. And Josh, in his infinite manly wisdom, knows the importance of and appreiciates their support too. Also a shout out to Romi for listening to us both gush about each other to her before we finally started gushing about each other to each other.

So all that having been said and explained, where have I been? Well shit, I sure as hell haven’t been in North Carolina, that’s for damn sure. I’m kind of broke right now, and a lot of shit is up in the air with work and life and the fact that I don’t even have a passport. So instead of facebooking and blogging, or even paying enough attention to the world around me to find something worth blogging about, I’ve been spending nearly every waking minute of my time online with him, sinking my nails into every precious second. He most often comes home from work at lunch to chat with me, and races home afterwards again, and I’d stay late at the office just to have a few more words. Eventually I sucked up the idea of paying for the internet and got it at home just because I missed him so much on the weekends. I even got myself a webcam, wooooaaah! I know, you’d think someone who now spends nearly all her free time sitting in the glow of that little blue light would be all over the blogging, the doritos and the mountain dew, but no. We’ve been folding laundry in two seperate worlds and watching shared youtube clips for kicks. And as for my wifishness, or wifeliness, or whatever it’s called, well I’m hardly recognizable sometimes.

However, now that I do have the internet at home, I should probably stop ignoring the rest of my life (Seriously, the dishes? Let’s not even go there, my OCD will start screaming) and maybe pay a little more attention to the medium that brought us together in the first place, right? So here I am, back in blog world, and while I can’t promise I’ll be able to spit out a daily dose of observatory sass-back like I once could, I’ll try not to disappear for weeks at a time. And I’ll try to avoid asking the world their opinions on baby names and such (you probably won’t like them anyways, shut up Talea). I’ll still be all “Oprah-bitch this! And fucktardery that!” and all the rest of that deliciousness you’ve gotten nice and used to, but to make a long and super-awesome story short, that’s where I’ve been. On my ass in love.

Anyways, I know I just said I wouldn’t be all “ooh, what do you think of these curtains?” and all that stuff that makes even a newfound cute-bot such as myself gag, but another thing I’m sure you’ve gotten used to besides my rampant awesomeness is my tendency to post pictures. (Also my tendency to exclude myself from my own rules.) And it just so happens that my pictures as of late revolve around my latest and greatest ability: concocting super awesome birthday ideas for loved ones! May has lovingly taken me under her super-wife wing and is coddling my emerging urge to get my bake on! And since Josh is the latest and greatest addition to the list of loved ones, and since it was indeed his birthday recently, it only makes sense that an appropriate level of well documented fun was had on his behalf. Just because he’s 800 miles away doesn’t mean he can’t have….

JOSH’S SUPER MANLY AWESOME BIRTHDAY PARTY!!!

That’s right biznatches, pictures ahoy!

So I realize that the frilly whipped cream is not that manly, but I did make sure to get blue candles. It took me a hell of a long time to wade through the mountains of pink candles first, apparently a lot of males were born in April?

Okay, I know I’m not exactly starting off on the right foot with the whole “manly” birthday party business, but I’m the one getting drunk, okay? Also, I don’t have wine glasses. They got broken by a former roomie, who happened to be psychotic. And clumsy.

Look, I couldn’t get it off, okay?!?

Next up on the wifely to-get list: apron. Don’t worry, I’ll stitch skulls and crossbones all over it or something to make it extra rad.

Veggies rolls! Thanks for the sushi Talea! This is like the McSushi that you can get just about everywhere up here (not actually at McDonalds though, that would be gross). You can even get sushi at the drug store.

Home made whipped cream motherfuckers!!!!! YEEEAAHHHHH!!!! You have no idea how good this was, and it ended up pretty much everywhere. There was no way in hell I was going to use some junk like coolwhip to make this masterpiece:

WOOAAAAHHHH!!! LOOK AT THAT!!!! How awesome am I? Very. Very, very awesome. Dudes, this took hours, mostly because I’m lacking in counter space, but also because absolutely everything was made from scratch. Even the berries, I combined the carbon based molecules myself. No I didn’t.

Talea posing very sexily with a very sexy morsel of deliciousness.

Consuming said sexy morsel of deliciousness and realizing how delicious said sexy morsel of delciousness really is. Yes. Try saying that through a mouthful of deliciousness.

And I didn’t just make one thing. This is a man’s birthday party, and men eat a lot. They require a smorgasboard of fun and yummy things. Hence:

Almond lemon squares!!! OOHHHH MY GOD. Oh. Oh, oh, oh. Smorgasmically good. Like ridiculously, retardedly good. Moving on before I make a mess.

Got kind of messy anyways. And as much as this depiction of chowing down may imply otherwise, I did not in fact consume the entire pie right there, even though it was key lime. I did consume it, don’t worry. It just took me nearly a week is all.

Mid smorgasm.

You might think I snuck up on Talea and smooshed her face with a forkful of pie. However, while this would have been hilarious, it would also have resulted in my face getting smooshed with a forkful of fork. And no pie. Which would be sad.

I spilled mah wine. I has a waste ūüė¶

Um, yeah, I kind of spilled it down my shirt as opposed to on my shirt. Because I’m classy like that.

Clearly, Talea is also very classy.

That business about being hungry again an hour after eating sushi must be true since at about midnight I decided that I needed to cook some pasta tubes, stuff them with ricotta and spinach, shred some cheese and stand in front of a hot oven for half an hour. You know, just a quick bite.

We are running out of alcomahols! This is a bad thing!

Maybe just a bit left at the bottom? Jes? Jes? No.

No!!!! Not me too!!!

It is gone. I am sad. Sad and confused. For a birthday party, I am not nearly drunk enough.

This is the next day at May’s house. It was a two day birthday bash! And she made more pie! Awesome, awesome pie!

Look at that love! Personalized pie! It took both May and I to get that little J in there. Please notice the attention to detail in the form of a heart and a tree. That’s because earlier that day Josh had chopped down a tree, and I hearted him for it.

So there you have it, a fun filled weekend of long distance birthday goodness. And may I please take this time to reiterate that just because I’m now an official love-bot, it doesn’t mean I’m any less hardcore. In fact, I’m even MORE hardcore, cause now I’ve got someone who is just as hardcore as me to add his own special brand of awesomeness to our newfound sweet blend of hardcore kickassery! I can kick your ass in life AND the kitchen!¬†Up yours¬†world, you’re in trouble! Now it’s not just me you’ve got to deal with, I’ve got a partner in crime who’s just as bad ass as I am. Hide your women, children, beer, flamethrowers and nachos!

Oh, and I know I said “I think everybody and his mother is a douchebag” but Josh isn’t a douchebag. And his mom’s pretty sweet. It’s just a figure of speech, people.



{March 26, 2008}   Spitz or Swallowz

Are we seriously still talking about this guy?!? Holy God, it’s been over a month since this whole Eliot Spitzer shiznat barreled its way onto that unavoidable little tv in my corporate elevator, and while the coverage has decreased to the status of satire on This Hour has 22 Minutes, it’s still hard to believe that the squawking box hasn’t tired of this yet. Are you guys in need of a little more excitement maybe? Hmm? Not getting enough in the bedroom?¬†It seems¬†that¬†as soon as a political figure admits to having a dick you go absolutely apeshit, and I just don’t understand.

Now don’t go thinking I’m defending the idiot. There’s nothing I love more than seeing the life of a douchebag go up in media flames. We all love car wrecks, we slow down to gaze at the carnage¬†– don’t deny it –¬†and at the end of the day, I get a certain sick little kick out of all the shebang. Does that make me a bad person? Well, maybe, but my ass isn’t on the news now, is it?

My question is why does it always have to do with sex? I know other shit is going on, but with my ongoing attempts to avoid a steady influx of political crap, only the most outrageous incidents filter through. It’s a decent gauge, I find: if I know about it, then holy crap it must be a HUGE story. And it’s not¬†as though¬†we Canuck’s don’t have our own scandals. It’s just that they’re not about sex, so¬†why would¬†the American media notice? Not that they notice much about us, a fact that sometimes pisses me off and sometimes makes me grateful that the world doesn’t hate us. If anything,¬†our scandals are¬†far more interesting. Everybody knows what hookers are all about, but how about a political party trying to gain the support of a certain important figure by offering him a million dollar life insurance policy? The catch – the guy’s on his deathbed. I know, freaking Days of Our Lives or what?! Now that is awesome.

But no, you settle for the humdrum. Oh wow, look, another public figure who claimed that he was SO not about the paid-for poontang up and got himself caught with his dick in a borrowed pot of honey. Fantastic. And on Valentines day too! Double trouble! I bet all those years of sneakily ruining people lives, stock value and reputations in the press instead of in the actual courtrooms looks pretty regrettable now, doesn’t it you two-faced douchebag? And when you settled things out of court, effectively beefing up your own reputation while still letting people you called criminals go free, why didn’t anybody call you on your douchebaggery back then? Because you managed to keep your dick in your pants, that’s why. America loves a good dick story. Don’t you have better things to worry about? For example….hey, do we have that clip of ANYTHING GEORGE BUSH HAS EVER SAID?

But admittedly, there are a few things that caught my interest. The story did, after all, manage to worm its way into my consciousness. Firstly is the bill he footed. Holy fuck. If you have that kind of money, good for you, but in all honesty, there are only so many tricks Cosmo can teach you, and only so many orifices on the human body. Unless her pussy was gold fucking plated, I’m not buying. And even then I’m not buying because who wants to fuck a gold plated pussy? Was it stuffed with blow? Small children willing to do your gardening? Elves? I’m not only assuming she swallows, I’m assuming she swallowed several balloons worth of peruvian heroin to be marked up and sold on the streets, because that is only justification I can see for spending thousands of dollars on one overused funbox. What the hell?! You can get it cheaper!!! I’m not saying go for the Costco version but shit dude! Maybe if you spent a little less on the hookers and a little more on paying off the press you wouldn’t be in such hot lube right now. And maybe if you spent a little more on your wife’s Valentines Day present, you might have had a little more support from her – something the public tends to appreciate, we women have funny little powers that way – instead of winding up in this memorable photo, in which she is instead very clearly plotting his demise.

 

It’s a patient, smug, cold look. It’s the kind of look I like to think I wear whenever I succeed in getting someone fired. It’s the kind of look that let’s you know you’re in serious, serious shit. Obviously, she got a card. Obviously, he lost his testicles later that evening.

The other thing that caught my attention and honestly bugs me the most, as immature as it may seem, is that he was known as Client 9. Why? There’s nothing impressive about single digit numbers. I, for example, live in apartment number 3 in my particular little flat. You didn’t think apartments came in single digits, did you? That’s because they usually don’t. When you live in a real apartment building with things like elevators and fire escapes and garbage chutes and laundry rooms, you get numbers like 103, 1408, 217, fun things like that. When you go to a hotel, you get suite numbers of the same variety. When you go to a shitty motel, you get room number 4, maybe even 11 or 12. You get the idea. I can’t imagine such a high class escort service wouldn’t have hundreds of clients, so why such a low number? I don’t suppose he happened to be their 9th client, this is the oldest profession in the world we’re talking about. Seriously? 9?

I know you’re all thinking it. Why the fuck wasn’t he Client 007? COME ON!!! How cool would that have been? If absolutely nothing else, it would have given him a clever out by way of the good old Section Eight*. Clearly he’s got some delusions of grandeur, right? And we all know that politicians need only the most transparent of excuses to get away with downright murder, so why the hell didn’t he think of this?

Really, to be completely honest, if he had been known as Client 007, I would totally have been on his side, because that is just plain rad.

*By the way, if this image didn’t come immediately to mind when I mentioned Section Eight, then you suck and Alan Alda is coming after you in your sleep.

 



I stole this from cowgal because I saw it while doing my rounds of reading and it looks like fun.

1. If you were to attend a costume party tonight, as what or whom would you go?

I don’t really have much in the way of costumes just laying about, so I’d probably have to improvise with my makeup. This would probably lead to something horrific, like “sex games gone terribly wrong”, which was my Halloween costume a few years ago, or another botched abortion, which was the costume last year. Probably something involving sex, zombies, death, or whatever is causing unrest in the media that day. Cause, you know, that’s how I roll, yo.

2. What are your choice of toppings on a hamburger? And do you prefer gas or charcoal grilling?

Oookay, well, vegetarian, but I do have veggie burgers. Usually grilled onions and mushrooms with honey mustard and mozarella. Sometimes avocados if I’m feeling adventurous. Pesto and goat’s cheese are really good too. As for gas or charcoal, ha! I live in an apartment, you think I have a barbeque? Frying pan, baby. If I did have a BBQ, though, I would probably have Talea over very often, so I’d have to use whatever was most environmentally friendly or she’d yell at me. If the boyfriend was over, he’d get full reign of the grill, yelling Talea or no.

3. You are chosen to have lunch with the President. The condition is you only get to ask one question. What do you ask?

What fucking drugs are you on and where can I get some?

4. It’s your first day of vacation, what are you doing?

Studying maps furiously so as not to look like a tourist when I step outside.

5. What is your concession stand must-have at the movies?

Nachoes with shitbuckets of that fake cheese crap, and salsa and jalapenos if they’ve got them. And a ginormous bucket of iced tea with no ice. Yes, I get the joke.

6. Which do you dislike most, pop-up ads or spam email?

Pop-ups. I can ignore spam email, pop-ups get in the goddamned way. Rollover ads are even worse. 

7. What do you think Captain Hook’s name was before he had a hook for a hand?

Dr. Barnswell A. Lovingtouch, registered massage therapist.

8. Rock, paper, or scissors?

A shot in the face beats all three, sucker! Ha!

9. How long was it from ‚Äėthe first date‚Äô until the proposal of marriage?

Um…I’m not married yet.

10. Which is worse, being in a place that is too loud, or too quiet?

Too much quiet is not always a terrible thing. For short periods of time. If it was total silence for too long, I’d start thinking I’d gone deaf and start gibbering like a lunatic. Too much noise can be good if I’m in that kind of mood. If I’m not in that kind of mood, I start hitting things and screaming. So…it depends on which version of crazy you feel like dealing with.

11. What is one quality that you really appreciate in a person?

Hey, if you can deal with my neuroses, psychoses, loud mouth ways and tendency to recite comedic monologues or bust out into interpretive dance moves at any given time…well, I can appreciate that.

12. At the good old general store, what particular kind of candy would you expect to be in the big jar at the counter?

Um…I live in a city? The only ‘good old general store’ I know of is in Pioneer Village, where you can get bits of chewable wood that tastes like black licorice.¬†Cause,¬†you know, that’s probably where it comes from. I keep¬†getting that shit every time I go there even though I don’t really like it. ¬†

13. What is the most distinguishing landmark in your city?

CN Tower, yo! Formerly the tallest freestanding building in the world. Recently outdone by some tower in Malaysia. Fucking Malaysians. Maybe you wouldn’t be such a crap country if you didn’t spend all your money trying to compete with our bad asses. We would totally make out tower taller if we weren’t spending all our money on more important things, like, you know, being a first world country, bitches! In your face!

14. Everyone hears discussions that they consider boring. What topic can put you to sleep quicker than any other?

Pretty much anybody on the subway talking about their day, and how, you know, John in accounting is just *so* unreasonable, and oh my gawwwwd, where did you get that purse? And then, so, like, anyways, OH MY GOD SHUT UP!!!

15. How many times did it take you to pass your drivers test?

None, suckers! Nobody drives in downtown Toronto, there’s too much traffic.

16. If you had to have the same topping on your vanilla ice cream for the rest of your life, what topping would you choose?

Sex. Wait, what?

17. What food item would need to be removed from the market altogether in order for you to live a healthier, longer life?

Canned soup, believe it or not.

18. You are offered an envelope that you know contains $50. You are then told that you may either keep it or exchange it for another envelope that may contain $500 or may be empty. Do you keep the first envelope, or do you take your chances with the second?

I fall on the floor in a panic attack. When I get over it, I take both envelopes and pants you.  

19. If you had to choose, which would you give up: cable TV, or DSL/cable internet?

You mean give up my five fuzzy non-foreign channels?!?!? Never! Ha, and I don’t have internet at home, but that will soon be remedied. I’m willing to pay for internet, not tv.

20. What is your highest level of education?

You’d think being so fucking smart that I’m some kind of well educated genius. Not so. I’ve done all kinds of crazy Mensa tests, but I couldn’t get through one year of university without going fucking nuts. This is what happens when I’m surrounded by jackasses and shitty architecture. So yeah, high school, extra credits, and one useless year of University.

21. How much is a gallon of gas in your city?

I don’t know, we buy them by the litres here. It’s over a dollar a litre now. For all you Americans, that is approximately “retarded”.

22. What kind of lunch box did you have as a kid?

I didn’t have a lunch box, I went to daycare until I was way too old because I lived too far from my house to go home for lunch. Then we moved, and I lived close enough to go home for lunch. Not that anyone ever had any actual lunch boxes. Oh wait! By the time I was in highschool, I went out of my way to use a lunchbox. I rotated between my Spinal Tap lunch box and my Ozzy Osbourne Bark at the Moon lunchbox. I’m hard to the core, yo.

23. What would you rather have, a nanny, a housekeeper, a cook, or a chauffeur?

I don’t need a nanny since I don’t have kids, and I don’t need a chauffeur since I think cars are retarded. You’d think I’d like a housekeeper with all the rabbit shit I’ve got to sweep up, but I have this funny thing about people I don’t know being in my space. She’d probably steal all my weed too.

24. Would you rather be trapped in an elevator, or stuck in traffic?

Traffic, because 1) I’m almost never in a car and it’s therefore less likely to happen 2) I can stay sitting 3) less likely to be surrounded by jackasses in ties 4) radio equals not going mental and 5) windows equal air.

However, I’m assuming I’m stuck in the car due to traffic. If I were stuck due to, say, rolling flames pouring out of the engine, I might choose the elevator. Unless that was on fire too, something tells me I’ve got¬†a better chance in a flaming car than a flaming elevator.

25. Lets say a brick fell on your foot, and your kid is standing right next to you, what is your ‚Äėcleaned up‚Äô swear word?

I don’t have a cleaned up swear word. If I can’t say shitass motherfucker in front of you, then get away from me. My kids will learn to swear good and proper and learn when they’ll get a smack for saying it in front of the wrong people. And they’ll learn grammar too. The correct past tense term of shit is shat, not shitted. My brother got a smack for that one.



{February 21, 2008}   BUNNIES!!!!!!!!

It’s motherfucking BUNNY TIME!!! I love my bunnies. I heart my bunnies. I adore my bunnies so much that I gave up my bedroom in my teeny weeny apartment and converted it into a room just for the bunnies. I stripped the tiles from the floor because they would chew them up and that’s bad for them. I peeled the shitty paint from the walls and scrubbed off the horrifically multicoloured acrylic job underneath that was starting to show through as the bunnies¬†chewed at the edges of the baseboards. My Awesome Aunt and I patched up all the holes the bunnies made – and that I made trying vainly to even out the walls. I painted it a nice green, with white trimming, and got some raw pine slats to nail up cottage style about half way up all around the room (my dad helped with a lot of that, I’m not very good with a saw). Safe chewing now, all the wood is untreated and chemical free! There are no wires, no electrical outlets, no phone jacks, nothing. The floor is painted a soft brown and there are chewy toys and hay everywhere! It’s bunny land!!!

On a side note, I am short a few animals now. I got rid of my cats. I had to. Come on people, I had a bit of an unexpected bunny explosion and I had to deal with it. Apparently they can copulate through cage-dividers, hence more bunnies than I had anticipated. And you just can’t have seven animals running around a junior one bedroom without going insane. Especially not when two of them are whiny fucking cats who cry at all hours of the night just for attention. Not for lack of food, that was always in supply. They just wanted me to be awake because they were awake. I got cats because they’re supposed to be independent!!! Not on par with infants who don’t yet sleep through the night!!! So it was an easy decision. They will now be taken care of by someone who doesn’t resent them, and I can actually SLEEP! Seriously, my life has improved just by having a full nights sleep for the first time in months. Sorry kitties, I got you off the streets, now it’s someone else’s turn.

I also had to give up one of my bunnies, which was very difficult but necessary. You see, four of the five bunnies are family. The other was outcasted. Not allowed to play, not allowed to bond, not allowed to do anything except mope around away from all the other bunnies. If he went near their cages, he would get scratched or bitten. Poor little guy was becoming very depressed, and it wasn’t fair. So I called up a¬†very sweet¬†coworker who adores bunnies and all things cuddly, and who had recently lost her own big eared little friend to the great garden patch in the sky. I asked if she would be interested in giving him a new home. She thought about it and decided yes, she was ready for another bunny. So he now lives with her and is doing wonderfully! I still have visitation rights, natch, and he is adjusting perfectly. If I really love my bunnies, I have to do what’s¬†best for them, right? Right.

Here is a short tribute to the not late but still absent Darth Vader. Posing for an emo album cover, apparently.

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Dark and mopey on the outside, super soft and cuddly and easily beat-up-able on the inside. 

So! Carrying on. Now that things are all adjusted and good, I thought it would¬†be a good time to take some pictures and show the world my awesome house of bunnies! While looking around the room just after it’s completion, I decided that I want a picture of each rabbit over¬†each respective cage¬†with a brief bio for visitors. And for my own amusement, of course. And since many of you live far, far away and may never have the chance to visit said land-of-the-rabbits, I decided to sketch out the first drafts and general ideas here.

Enjoy!

First, some pictures of the room itself to give you a general idea:

Before and after!

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Woo improvement! And look at all the room they have!

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This is their litter box corner! Complete with random chunks of wood for chewing, and a big ole basket of pine shavings for easy refills.

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Hannibal is supremely happy to no longer be my coffee table. And that chair to the left is basically one giant chew toy. I don’t know if you can tell, because the wood behind is the same colour as the chairs innards, but there is a giant chunk missing out of the top of it. This is what happens when I get mad and don’t have anyone around to say PUT DOWN THE SAW!!! Yeah. Well, like I said, it’s been destroyed by rabbits already, it’s not like I damaged something I cared about. So it’s their’s now.

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Free! Out in the open! Well, not yet, it’s not their turn to be out, but at least they’re not under a desk anymore! Okay, it was a table, not an actual desk. It’s not like they were confined or anything, it was just a pain in the ass to clean when the door only opened enough for them to get in and out, but not for me to reach in . Now I can move the cage around to clean without having to lift furniture! Sanitary!

Individual bios now, woohoo!

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This is Finnegan Cabbage Esquire. He’s the head bunny ’round these here parts. First bunny, first love. Very well socialized and a very strong personality. He’ll come up to you if he feels like it, and ignore you if he feels like it. Let him do his thing, and you’ll get along fine. Piss him off, and he’ll stamp his feet, ignore you for days, or give you a nip. He won’t do much damage though, mostly he just headbutts your hand away if he doesn’t want attention, or pick your hand up with his mouth and fling it away. He’ll also fling his food dish around when in¬†his dramatic I’m-not-coming-out-of-my-dressing-room-until-I-get-Evian-water-and-not-this-Aquafina-shit!!!¬†mode. He’s a Netherlands Dwarf and very energetic. He’s responsible for most of the damage to the walls in the apartment.

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This is Sunshine, named so because she doesn’t look very sunny. I’m down with the irony. She’s a very sweet girl, and very timid. Really not a fan of being picked up, but every now and then she’ll come up and try to climb your leg or give you kisses on your arms when you’re not looking. She can be noisy when she’s excited or stressed out, making these strange screechy noises. She doesn’t bite, unless you count floor tiles, which she will chew to her hearts content. Also, she seems to think she’s constantly pregnant. This means ongoing nesting behaviour, jumping in the litter box and pushing the shavings around,¬†bouncing back on forth on her front legs to pat it down and starting all over again. She’ll do this to couch cushions, blankets, your face, anything. She’s a mini rex, a breed known for their super soft velvety fur. She and Finnegan fell instantly in love, and share a cage. They can’t be seperated for very long or they get depressed, especially her. She’s also the biggest of all the bunnies, nearly twice as big as Finnegan (he being a dwarf, her being a mini, the next size up). He likes the fat-bottomed girls, methinks.

Here they are in love:

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They spend the majority of the day licking each others faces.

On to the babies! Sunshine had six babies, only two of which survived, Hannibal and Brutus. This is what they used to look like:

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Gah! So precious and gross at the same time! They used to make little squawky noises and wobble around on their useless little legs. They grew so fast though – within two weeks they had grown a teeny bit of fine fur like peach fuzz, and their eyes opened. Watching them trying to hop and just falling over was hilariously cute. Anyways, that’s Brutus on the left, Hannibal on the right. You can tell Brutus apart really easily because of the pink strip up his head. That turned into the white mohawk he still has, just like his daddy, while Hannibal is a solid brown.

Now six and a half months old, these twins are all grown up and as different as night and day. Let’s start with Brutus!

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A little traumatized by living with his psychotic brother before being removed for his own safety, Brutus is still coming out of his shell. He’s timid, like his mom, and doesn’t care for unexpected petting or handling. He’s becoming friendlier, though, and when he is in the mood for human contact, he’ll rub his nose into the palm of your hand or put his paws on your shoulder. He has his mothers weight and shyness, but physically looks almost identical to his dad. The easiest way to tell them apart is that Finnegan¬†has more white around his head and shoulders, and is¬†the only bunny to have a lovestruck mate at his heels at all times. Brutus doesn’t seem to get along very well with others, and it may¬†require some extra effort to socialize him. He’s still very much an enigma and hasn’t really bonded with either myself or the rest of his clan.

I’m sure he’ll be fine. After all, I managed to tame this little monster:

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That’s right. Hannibal. You all remember him and the damage he did to my fingers and various limbs. He got a good chunk out of my lip and nose once too, and my leg is still scarred up. But he’s gotten better! I’ve been working on the whole social thing with him. Sure, he still bites on occasion, that’s just his homicidal nature. But instead of biting with his razor sharp teeth and tearing flesh, he bites with his jaws, leaving only a bruise. Yes, rabbits can choose how they injure you. And overall he is far less malicious. He usually only bites when I’m doing something he doesn’t like, such¬† trimming his nails or moving too fast when reaching into his cage to fetch his upturned food dish. Gone is the crazy little monster who would fly up off the floor and attack anything that moved:

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He’s much tamer. I can even do the bunny trance on him more easily than with any of the other bunnies. For those not in the know, this involves cradling the bunny on his back and stroking his nose slowly until his eyes half-close and his head starts to fall back. He’ll be completely hypnotized with his little paws sticking straight up in the air, and he’ll usually stay that way for quite some time until you lift him right side up again or something startles him. It’s very useful when you have to trim nails or check their teeth and would rather not be injured. That’s right, I tamed the monster. Look at him now:

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Still got that crazy look in his eyes, but he’s lounging, relaxed. See the paw splayed out in front there? He’s chilling,¬†not all wound up ready to pounce. Sometimes he’ll even spread all the way out on his tummy with his two legs sticking out behind him like chicken drumsticks. That means super relaxed bunny. And when he doesn’t think anybody is looking he’ll even go¬†up to¬†mom’s cage and give her¬†a kiss! That’s right. Super crazy psycho bunny has some lovey dovey tendencies deep down.

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Awwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww.

Well, that’s all for now folks. Thanks for indulging me on one of my rare sappy moments. I’m sure next week I’ll be all pissed off at something else while I try to get a phone installed in my apartment, then a decent smoke alarm, then a doorbell, then a proper shower head holder, all the while continuing to battle the constant idiocy of the world around me. But for now, I’ve finished a major project, my quality of life has gone up now that I have the majority of my apartment to myself again (Sleep! Oh precious sleep! And no fur on everything! And I can buy a new futon and not have it chewed to shreds!)

All is well in bunny land!

ūüôā



{February 14, 2008}   Happy Valamatimes, Suckers!!!

I hate Valentines Day. I think it’s stupid. Some random saint or another who I’m pretty sure was a little too down with the children somehow conjures up five dollar cards that smart people throw away after a week and idiots keep in a box for the rest of their lives? No thanks. Flowers? Cute, I guess, but they’re going to die. Kind of a waste of money. Fancy dinner? I’m always up for that, but why today? It’s fucking Thursday! And have you looked outside?!?

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Really?! You want me to go out in that?!? You want me to even consider stepping out the door, or asking some guy to step out of his door to come see me?! No. Fucking. Way. Even if I wasn’t single, I wouldn’t be going outside. I’d be all “Yeah, you’re totally sexy too, dude, let’s hook up and get naked as soon as it’s not FORTY DEGRESS BELOW FUCKING FREEZING!!!” Jesus Christ!

Okay, so the truth is that while I am all “blargh!” about the stupid sappy shit, it does occasionally get to me that I’m not seeing anyone. Not that I want to be tied down, but never? Really? Sure I’ve got fellows here and there, but I can’t say I’ve ‘dated’ anybody in, well, just about forever. What the hell?! Seriously?! I’m totally sexy and fantasy worthy, but not actually girlfriend-status-worthy? Ugh! Fuck that, and fuck Valentines day.

So again, in my ongoing effort to kick the shit out of my pissy moods, I’m going to focus on the super awesome things about being a Bachellorette. I’m not going to focus on the fact that unlike the ideal Bachellorette state, I haven’t gotten any since before fucking Christmas!

And yeah, really, it’s just another excuse to post a shit-load of pictures because I’m an exhibitionist like that. So enjoy!

My Bachellorette life! Woot! My Bachellorette Pad (Pad as in apartment, not Maxi. Gross.):

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There is an actual bedroom, but it’s being renovated. And because I live with me and the critters and nobody else, I can take as damn long as I like and paint it whatever colour I like. Observe:

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Sure, the landlords might not like me ripping out tiles and nailing planks of wood halfway up the wall, but my place isn’t exactly up to code anyways. So they can just bite me. Seriously, I had my dad come in to change my light fixtures. It wasn’t just a matter of screwing a few bolts in the wall, he had to do some nasty rewiring shit that would most certainly have made me cry just looking at it. On the plus side, I now have lights that look like boobies!

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And I have two of them! So let’s see what else is awesome about living the bach-style.

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I can kick my smelly feet up and watch the hockey game while smoking weed and staring into my kitchen, ignoring the dirty dishes and farting to myself. And then I can turn to nobody in particular and say “God, keep it to yourself once in a while, can’t you?” and laugh out loud with nobody around to think I’m a nut job. Sweet! And yes, my coffee table is a large dog cage containing a crazed rabbit. Sort of like fish-tank platform boots, only a bit more practical. Oh, and I can yell at the tv when dumb commercials come on and nobody is around to disagree with me.

Speaking of adverts, I assume you’ve all¬†seen those shitty commercials for women’s razors that are all “Ooh, you won’t need to steal your boyfriends razor anymore!” Fuck that shit. Those razors still suck. I don’t know why it’s so fucking hard to just take a Gillette Mach 3 Turbo or whatever it is and just put a pink handle on it. For some reason they’re all ‘specially designed for your curves’ and all that shit, like I’m shaving my ass or something. I can assure I am not. I’m shaving my legs and I want a damn good razor. And I don’t have to steal my boyfriends razor, I can just get my own damn razor – there’s no male around to say “That one’s mine! It must be, it’s not pink!” Mine! All mine! No sharing!

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And I wear men’s deoderant too, you all know that. But that’s about the extent of manly things in my bathroom. I have TONS of girly things! And they take up the WHOOOLLLLE bathroom. All the shelves. Observe:

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That’s right! No room for your Aqua-whatever the hell. Get that shit out of my girly place, my Tampax is way more important. So is my hairdryer, my makeup, my lotion, and my girly toy cleverly hidden behind the mousse and vaseline (not related to each other in any way.)

What else is in my bathroom? My underwear! On the floor, which is right where it belongs!

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And yeah, I forgot to close the bathroom door, which means the rabbits got into unfamiliar territory and had to to leave pellets around to stake their claim. Whatever. Sweep, sweep, gone, like cleaning up macaroni bits that you’ve spilled or whatever. Not like cat shit…cat shit is the worst. And yes, those are the ones I was wearing when I answered that meme that asked me what colour panties I was wearing. Do I see anything wrong with showing my panties to the world? No. It’s just a pile of fabric, jeez.

Mmmkay, what else?

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I don’t have to shop for anyone but myself! Look at that empty fridge! Brita? Empty. Beer? Empty. Pizza box? Empty. Box-of-8 of yogurt? Empty. When did I get around to cleaning it? Whenever I damn well felt like it.¬†And look at my bookshelf! It’s alphabetized. I can’t sleep unless it’s alphabetized. I’m a little more lenient with the cd’s, but not the books. Nobody moves my books around, lest you end up in the book of crime scene photos on the left there. Don’t touch my shiznat!

I can make myself an uber delicious veggie burger for dinner without having someone there to say “veggie burger, ew, that’s not the same” and then get into an argument, because yes-it-fucking-is. It’s yummy, it’s protein and it fills me up without making my stomach go “Ugh!” or having to explain to the bunnies they’re different from cows even though some people think rabbits are food. And even if said person agrees with me, I don’t want to share! My seven dollar box of burgers, mine!

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Tasty tasty faux-meat! MMMMMM!!!!!! Mine, all mine!!!! Mahahahahahaha!!!!

Or, if I don’t feel like cooking, I can have this for dinner:

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That’s right! Mmmmmm. You boys just WISH you lived with me! Too fucking bad, suckers, those Doritos are MINE.

And best of all, when I go out with the ladies, I always hear them calling to say “I’m going to be home a bit later, okay? Okay, bye!” Not that the ladies have overbearing boyfriends or anything. They’re quite lovely in fact. I just don’t want to have to call anyone. That’s why I moved out on my own. Because you know what? Sometimes I don’t know what time I’ll be home, okay? I’ll be home eventually, I’ve got animals to feed. But hey, if I had someone living with me to feed them, who knows how long I’d stay out? I might just stay out all night with Sassy Talea on a night such as this:

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¬†Awesome!!! So all you Valentiners can keep your flowers and fuzzy pink heart boxes of Russel-Stover crap. It’s a pretty simple equation.

  = cute, sweet, but BORING!!!

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So maybe you’re getting laid tonight and I’m not. Fine. But I’m eating a juicy chunk of deliciousness that leaves a better aftertaste. SO THERE!!!

Mmmmm, Valentines burger.

Tomorrow, stay tuned for Behind-the-Music with the bunnies! Sid Vicious vs. Conner Oberst! Exciting times! Same bat time, same bat channel!



et cetera