It has come to my attention that crazy girls never win in the boy department. We don’t and it seriously sucks. Yeah, we’ll be ridiculously successful and potentially become famous, but some days it really sucks.
Like when you’re on the bus and you “accidently” overhear someone stupid asian chick start talking about her boyfriend right after saying such a profound statement, and I quote, “I ate so much gummy bears!!!”
Really asian chick, really?! Maybe you should should put some grammar in your head before you give head again missy.
And it’s days like these that I refer to my favorite bible excerpt: from the book of Tina Fey.
AP: There are a lot of girls who look at you as a role model. Maybe they're really smart and funny but aren't quite getting a lot of boy attention, and they're stressed out about it. What would you say to them?
TF: You know what? Let the boys practice on other girls. Let them treat other girls like crud, let them learn how to French kiss for, like, 10 years, let them give some other girl a bunch of crappy Valentine's Day gifts, and then you just move in when they're fully formed.
Never fear crazy ladies, let them silly whores be used and you’ll just swoop in later.
For the full bible verse:
http://www.marieclaire.com/celebrity-lifestyle/celebrities/interviews/tina-fey-amy-poehler-interview
This is how I always pictured my Disney Princes
Okay so we all know Disney Movies gave us false hopes about love. (Walt you frozen bastard!) But in my opinion it also made us a very sex crazed generation. (Walt you frozen genius!)
The princesses where hot, and the princes were dreamy and there were penises all over Ariel's castle. (which um...hello is the greatest disney movie ever!)
Let's just be happy our beloved princes and princesses weren't taught that inner beauty was the most important quality in a person...cause let's be honest. It's not.
Check out these sexed up princesses ladies, and enjoy.
http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/39849010.html#cutid1
The princesses where hot, and the princes were dreamy and there were penises all over Ariel's castle. (which um...hello is the greatest disney movie ever!)
Let's just be happy our beloved princes and princesses weren't taught that inner beauty was the most important quality in a person...cause let's be honest. It's not.
Check out these sexed up princesses ladies, and enjoy.
http://community.livejournal.com/ohnotheydidnt/39849010.html#cutid1
Penises
Penises have always, always confused me. And when I say confuse, I kind of really mean that I have always been jealous of any person with a penis. You people with your penises; you live a charmed life.
But alas, no matter how long I chased after this “fairy tale” life. I was never able to capture this wanting. No, this need, to pee standing up.
It happened when I was seven. I accidently walked in on my brother in the bathroom, and there he was. Peeing and standing! It made absolutely no sense. How was the pee making it into the toilet? How did I not know I could do this?
I closed the door, allowing my brother to finish his “important” business and impatiently waited. And waited.
“Come on, Nathan! You’re like a girl in the bathroom!”
He opened the door, with the putrid smell of ass wafting in the bathroom.
“Enjoy.”
But I didn’t care. This was going to be my moment. Adrenaline rushing, I flew into the bathroom –forgetting to close the door –unbutton my pants and wait for the sound of tinkling. But it didn’t happen.
“Natalie Paige Wall!” screamed my horrified mother as she caught me hovering over the toilet and staring down at my pee-drenched underwear.
“What are you doing?!”
“Peeing.”
She grabbed my hand, shoved me into new clothes (which was a dress that I absolutely hated and threw a fit about) and dragged me outside to my father.
“It’s time for the talk.” She said airily to my dad.
“Really?”
“Talk to your daughter!”
Twenty minutes later and a lot of awkward phrases from my father, I was pissed off. All of a sudden god seemed like a dirty little bastard to me. Life was so unfair. Never would I get to write my name in the snow with my own pee. Never would I be able pee wherever I wanted. It was so wrong, so unjust. But God couldn’t have thought of everything. There must be a loophole.
“Wait, so why don’t I have a penis again?”
“Cause, you are a girl.”
“Wait, can I grow one?”
“No.”
“Can I make one?”
“No.”
“So you are telling me that I can never pee standing up.”
“Yes.”
“What if I arch my back?
“No.”
My father was lying! This was bullshit. I know I can pee standing up. I can just feel it. So, whatever, I don’t have a penis. Saying I can’t pee standing up just cause I’m a girl, well, that’s just racist, dad. I just need practice, that’s all.
And oh, did I practice. I practiced in my bathroom, I practiced in my parent’s bathroom, I even practiced in public bathrooms at the mall, but my mom always seemed to catch me.
“Natalie, why are your feet facing the toilet?”
“I don’t know.”
“God dammit, Natalie!”
But it never happened. No matter how hard I tried and no matter how far I arched my back. I never heard that tinkling sound of success.
To this day, I still sigh a breath of jealously any time I see a guy pee standing up. It was never a hygiene thing for me or some OCD thing. It was pure laziness. You men get everything, and you don’t even appreciate it.
But alas, no matter how long I chased after this “fairy tale” life. I was never able to capture this wanting. No, this need, to pee standing up.
It happened when I was seven. I accidently walked in on my brother in the bathroom, and there he was. Peeing and standing! It made absolutely no sense. How was the pee making it into the toilet? How did I not know I could do this?
I closed the door, allowing my brother to finish his “important” business and impatiently waited. And waited.
“Come on, Nathan! You’re like a girl in the bathroom!”
He opened the door, with the putrid smell of ass wafting in the bathroom.
“Enjoy.”
But I didn’t care. This was going to be my moment. Adrenaline rushing, I flew into the bathroom –forgetting to close the door –unbutton my pants and wait for the sound of tinkling. But it didn’t happen.
“Natalie Paige Wall!” screamed my horrified mother as she caught me hovering over the toilet and staring down at my pee-drenched underwear.
“What are you doing?!”
“Peeing.”
She grabbed my hand, shoved me into new clothes (which was a dress that I absolutely hated and threw a fit about) and dragged me outside to my father.
“It’s time for the talk.” She said airily to my dad.
“Really?”
“Talk to your daughter!”
Twenty minutes later and a lot of awkward phrases from my father, I was pissed off. All of a sudden god seemed like a dirty little bastard to me. Life was so unfair. Never would I get to write my name in the snow with my own pee. Never would I be able pee wherever I wanted. It was so wrong, so unjust. But God couldn’t have thought of everything. There must be a loophole.
“Wait, so why don’t I have a penis again?”
“Cause, you are a girl.”
“Wait, can I grow one?”
“No.”
“Can I make one?”
“No.”
“So you are telling me that I can never pee standing up.”
“Yes.”
“What if I arch my back?
“No.”
My father was lying! This was bullshit. I know I can pee standing up. I can just feel it. So, whatever, I don’t have a penis. Saying I can’t pee standing up just cause I’m a girl, well, that’s just racist, dad. I just need practice, that’s all.
And oh, did I practice. I practiced in my bathroom, I practiced in my parent’s bathroom, I even practiced in public bathrooms at the mall, but my mom always seemed to catch me.
“Natalie, why are your feet facing the toilet?”
“I don’t know.”
“God dammit, Natalie!”
But it never happened. No matter how hard I tried and no matter how far I arched my back. I never heard that tinkling sound of success.
To this day, I still sigh a breath of jealously any time I see a guy pee standing up. It was never a hygiene thing for me or some OCD thing. It was pure laziness. You men get everything, and you don’t even appreciate it.
I love you mom, seriously
I could never find my mother the perfect Hallmark card for Mother’s Day. Believe me I tried. But none of them captured the essence of my mom. Yeah sure there was the:
“I love you mom, you’re the bomb!”
And the never fail:
“You’re beautiful inside and out, let’s go fishing for some trout!”
But never:
“You’re racist and an ex-druggie, now let’s go shopping and scream profanities at assholes who can’t drive!”
Not even,
“Remember that one time you asked if I bought you and dad porn for your 31st anniversary? Next time I promise!”
Come on Hallmark! What the fuck? Whose the one mom you are writing all these God damn cards for? My mom was never the cookie-cutter type, Hallmark. Time to expand your rhyming schemes.
Why can’t you write a card about the lies our mothers tell:
“I have the two most beautiful children ever.”
“Really? Cause I’m fat and Nathan’s ugly.”
“Go watch The Simpsons.”
With my father an officer in the Army, often spending months overseas, I became very dependant on my mother. We’d go everywhere together, hand in hand; unless I was being a little demon, which, not going to lie, was often.
“Remember, when we are in the grocery store, call me Sharon. Not mom.”
“But Sharon!”
Sharon has always been there for my brother and I. Even willing to die for us. One time when I was seven there was a chillingly scary noise outside of our front door. Dad was in Bosnia. Nathan and I crept out of our rooms to find my mom clutching a rifle, ready to shoot, in one of my dad’s oversized shirts and no pants.
“Stay in your room.”
It was the most beautiful display of white-trashness, I had ever seen.
She’s beautiful, hilarious and classy. She’s not a Jackie O. She’s a Gilda Radner. Free and beautiful; without that whole bulimia thing. A Madonna gap between her two front teeth which as she likes to say:
“You’re father finds it sexy. Don’t you, my big man.”
Discretion is always key with her.
“You probably shouldn’t give head until your married,” she said nonchalantly one summer day by the pool. “You’re generation is too fixated on oral. Just have sex.”
I was 14.
Her only two rules for my brother and I have been: 1. Don’t lie. And: 2. Don’t drink and drive. Sadly, I have broken both, too many times than I am willing to admit. And every time she discovered the “slightly bent truth” the sparkle would leave her piercing green eyes, but just for a second. And every time I would beat myself up. How could I have no soul? How could I lie to the person who has been so truthful to me (with the exception of my childhood weight)? How could I hurt my best friend.
But like any great mom, she has always forgiven and always continued the previous conversation before our epic screaming battles.
“Now if you do do ‘shrooms. Do not do them in the woods. You will think there are bugs crawling all over you.”
“I love you, mom.”
“I love you mom, you’re the bomb!”
And the never fail:
“You’re beautiful inside and out, let’s go fishing for some trout!”
But never:
“You’re racist and an ex-druggie, now let’s go shopping and scream profanities at assholes who can’t drive!”
Not even,
“Remember that one time you asked if I bought you and dad porn for your 31st anniversary? Next time I promise!”
Come on Hallmark! What the fuck? Whose the one mom you are writing all these God damn cards for? My mom was never the cookie-cutter type, Hallmark. Time to expand your rhyming schemes.
Why can’t you write a card about the lies our mothers tell:
“I have the two most beautiful children ever.”
“Really? Cause I’m fat and Nathan’s ugly.”
“Go watch The Simpsons.”
With my father an officer in the Army, often spending months overseas, I became very dependant on my mother. We’d go everywhere together, hand in hand; unless I was being a little demon, which, not going to lie, was often.
“Remember, when we are in the grocery store, call me Sharon. Not mom.”
“But Sharon!”
Sharon has always been there for my brother and I. Even willing to die for us. One time when I was seven there was a chillingly scary noise outside of our front door. Dad was in Bosnia. Nathan and I crept out of our rooms to find my mom clutching a rifle, ready to shoot, in one of my dad’s oversized shirts and no pants.
“Stay in your room.”
It was the most beautiful display of white-trashness, I had ever seen.
She’s beautiful, hilarious and classy. She’s not a Jackie O. She’s a Gilda Radner. Free and beautiful; without that whole bulimia thing. A Madonna gap between her two front teeth which as she likes to say:
“You’re father finds it sexy. Don’t you, my big man.”
Discretion is always key with her.
“You probably shouldn’t give head until your married,” she said nonchalantly one summer day by the pool. “You’re generation is too fixated on oral. Just have sex.”
I was 14.
Her only two rules for my brother and I have been: 1. Don’t lie. And: 2. Don’t drink and drive. Sadly, I have broken both, too many times than I am willing to admit. And every time she discovered the “slightly bent truth” the sparkle would leave her piercing green eyes, but just for a second. And every time I would beat myself up. How could I have no soul? How could I lie to the person who has been so truthful to me (with the exception of my childhood weight)? How could I hurt my best friend.
But like any great mom, she has always forgiven and always continued the previous conversation before our epic screaming battles.
“Now if you do do ‘shrooms. Do not do them in the woods. You will think there are bugs crawling all over you.”
“I love you, mom.”
Um America...we need to talk
Okay, so this in not the to be continued to my epic story but I had to pause and say what the fuck America!?!?!
Spending a little to much time on the interweb has led me to the most horrifyingly funny thing I have ever found. No its not porn… but it has made me question all humanity.
Enjoy!!
http://whipitoutcomedy.com/2009/09/04/11-weirdest-sex-questions-on-yahoo-answers/
11 Weirdest Sex Questions On Yahoo! Answers
Friday September 4, 2009 3:19 PM
We here at Comedy.com like our Yahoo! Answers–the more retarded, the better. This week we found some epic sex advice questions that cannot be ignored. If you did, we would ask Yahoo! Answers users why you ignored them. Here are the 11 Weirdest Sex Questions asked on Yahoo! Answers, with the hope that none of these people ever procreate.
I am Class
There are two choices to every decision: the right choice and my choice. The right choice ends with success and entitlement. My choice ends up with me being pushed out two taxi’s belligerent, incoherent and texting my boss “I can’t find my jews”…but maybe I should start this story at the beginning.
It was a glorious Thursday afternoon at Bloomingdales with my boss and general manager of “Cool Place.” After 3 hours of dressing the GM for her date Friday night I was getting anxious; there was a kegger at “Cool Place” with some cool people and I didn’t want to shop any more I wanted to get crunk.
We arrived back to the 27th floor of “Cool Place” around 6 p.m. and were surrounded by Taco Bell, kegs and fat guys in skinny jeans: pretty much my Mecca. The boss relieved me of any photographic duties and I run, literally run to the Bell, shove a taco in my face and begin to play beer pong with my friends.
Side Cup in one hand, ping-pong ball in the other, I chat up my friend Mary, (who really isn’t named Mary, but I could never remember her name, and still can’t, so I always just call her Mary…which I don’t think she really liked that, but whatever), who interned for the hottest guy I have ever laid eyes on. Like ever. Dennis from It’s Always Sunny, hot. Jude Law, hot. Completely out of my league, hot.
“How can you not want to shove him against a wall and do terrible terrible things to him?!?
“Eh.”
“You shut your mouth!”
After losing 3 games and consuming a shit ton of alcohol (thanks to gluten allergic partner) by 7p.m. I found myself in a herd of “Cool Place” employees and interns that I barely knew staggering to none other than the classiest dive bar I had ever laid eyes on.
Hot Employee was in the group so in my head, higher BAC meant higher chance with Hot Employee. I was wrong.
9 P.M.
Shot. Shot. Beer. Shot. Shot. Beer. I was feeling blitzed but it was only 9p.m. I couldn’t be that light-weight that left ridiculously early. Lame. Chubby Employee, seeing that I was getting restless, swooped in and started a conversation.
“My name is blah blah blah, it’s like the cheese blah blah blah.”
Now seeing as that is exactly what I heard, this should have been the cue to go home and vomit in a toilet like a normal person. Instead, I drank two more beers, grabbed Chubby Employee’s ass and started hooking up with him, in the bar in front of EVERYONE.
Classy.
TO BE CONTINUED
It was a glorious Thursday afternoon at Bloomingdales with my boss and general manager of “Cool Place.” After 3 hours of dressing the GM for her date Friday night I was getting anxious; there was a kegger at “Cool Place” with some cool people and I didn’t want to shop any more I wanted to get crunk.
We arrived back to the 27th floor of “Cool Place” around 6 p.m. and were surrounded by Taco Bell, kegs and fat guys in skinny jeans: pretty much my Mecca. The boss relieved me of any photographic duties and I run, literally run to the Bell, shove a taco in my face and begin to play beer pong with my friends.
Side Cup in one hand, ping-pong ball in the other, I chat up my friend Mary, (who really isn’t named Mary, but I could never remember her name, and still can’t, so I always just call her Mary…which I don’t think she really liked that, but whatever), who interned for the hottest guy I have ever laid eyes on. Like ever. Dennis from It’s Always Sunny, hot. Jude Law, hot. Completely out of my league, hot.
“How can you not want to shove him against a wall and do terrible terrible things to him?!?
“Eh.”
“You shut your mouth!”
After losing 3 games and consuming a shit ton of alcohol (thanks to gluten allergic partner) by 7p.m. I found myself in a herd of “Cool Place” employees and interns that I barely knew staggering to none other than the classiest dive bar I had ever laid eyes on.
Hot Employee was in the group so in my head, higher BAC meant higher chance with Hot Employee. I was wrong.
9 P.M.
Shot. Shot. Beer. Shot. Shot. Beer. I was feeling blitzed but it was only 9p.m. I couldn’t be that light-weight that left ridiculously early. Lame. Chubby Employee, seeing that I was getting restless, swooped in and started a conversation.
“My name is blah blah blah, it’s like the cheese blah blah blah.”
Now seeing as that is exactly what I heard, this should have been the cue to go home and vomit in a toilet like a normal person. Instead, I drank two more beers, grabbed Chubby Employee’s ass and started hooking up with him, in the bar in front of EVERYONE.
Classy.
TO BE CONTINUED
Fat Kid Saga
“Mom, am I fat?”
“No…its just baby fat.”
It wasn’t.
I was fat. Not kind of fat. Not chunky. Not big-boned. And definitely not baby fat. Baby fat is allowed till the age of what? Five? I was at least 10 when I asked my mom this infamous question. And the truth is, I was fat. Like ate spoonfuls of sugar at one time, fat. Stole candy bars from the grocery store, fat. Fat fat. Scurrying barefoot on the kitchen countertops looking for the elusive sugar that my parents “continently misplaced” two weeks after I was discovered in a corner eating spoonfuls of sugar, fat. (Those bastards.)
Walking into the grocery store on that autumn afternoon just seemed like the right moment to ask. I probably was going to steal a Snickers bar anyways, and that should have been proof enough but I wanted to hear it verbally. I wanted the words to ring in my ears; I wanted them to sear the fat right off of my love handles.
However, my plan backfired:
“No…its just baby fat.”
Wait…what? My mom just lied! Straight to my face. Wasn’t my mom, if anyone, supposed to tell her child that while yes, they had a stellar personality and yes, they were super funny, that sadly they were fat and kind of going through an, um I don’t know, ugly…I mean, awkward stage? How could she? How could she just lie like that?!
I stood there, shocked, in the middle of the crosswalk in my bright orange leggings with the elastic band, (I couldn’t technically fit into jeans until I was 14), oversized black sweater splattered with bright orange pumpkins and candy corn (to divert ones eye from the fat, of course), and bright orange pumpkin bow placed strategically in the middle of my disproportionate head. Yeah, I was that kid.
My mouth opened, but there was no food to shove into the black hole. How do I argue that?
“Nuh uh!”
But wasn’t that what I wanted to hear? Didn’t I want to hear that yes, I wasn’t fat? That yes, it was okay to steal candy? Yes, Cheese Whiz was a valid form of calcium? And yes in actuality, it’s vegetables that fuck you up?
It was in this moment that I learned a valuable lesson: Moms lie. They really do. Years later (and pounds skinner) I confronted my mom about this pivotal question in my chubby childhood:
“Oh god, you were soooooo fat!”
“I knew it. You lied to me!”
“Technically, but you were always skinnier than your brother.”
“No…its just baby fat.”
It wasn’t.
I was fat. Not kind of fat. Not chunky. Not big-boned. And definitely not baby fat. Baby fat is allowed till the age of what? Five? I was at least 10 when I asked my mom this infamous question. And the truth is, I was fat. Like ate spoonfuls of sugar at one time, fat. Stole candy bars from the grocery store, fat. Fat fat. Scurrying barefoot on the kitchen countertops looking for the elusive sugar that my parents “continently misplaced” two weeks after I was discovered in a corner eating spoonfuls of sugar, fat. (Those bastards.)
Walking into the grocery store on that autumn afternoon just seemed like the right moment to ask. I probably was going to steal a Snickers bar anyways, and that should have been proof enough but I wanted to hear it verbally. I wanted the words to ring in my ears; I wanted them to sear the fat right off of my love handles.
However, my plan backfired:
“No…its just baby fat.”
Wait…what? My mom just lied! Straight to my face. Wasn’t my mom, if anyone, supposed to tell her child that while yes, they had a stellar personality and yes, they were super funny, that sadly they were fat and kind of going through an, um I don’t know, ugly…I mean, awkward stage? How could she? How could she just lie like that?!
I stood there, shocked, in the middle of the crosswalk in my bright orange leggings with the elastic band, (I couldn’t technically fit into jeans until I was 14), oversized black sweater splattered with bright orange pumpkins and candy corn (to divert ones eye from the fat, of course), and bright orange pumpkin bow placed strategically in the middle of my disproportionate head. Yeah, I was that kid.
My mouth opened, but there was no food to shove into the black hole. How do I argue that?
“Nuh uh!”
But wasn’t that what I wanted to hear? Didn’t I want to hear that yes, I wasn’t fat? That yes, it was okay to steal candy? Yes, Cheese Whiz was a valid form of calcium? And yes in actuality, it’s vegetables that fuck you up?
It was in this moment that I learned a valuable lesson: Moms lie. They really do. Years later (and pounds skinner) I confronted my mom about this pivotal question in my chubby childhood:
“Oh god, you were soooooo fat!”
“I knew it. You lied to me!”
“Technically, but you were always skinnier than your brother.”
adult braces...fuck.
I’ve grown up a lot. Like really a lot. I’ve matured. Stopped being ridiculously awkward. Learned how to tie my shoes the right way. But I’m about to step 8 years back by getting adult braces @ age 21. I’m not okay with this situation. I keep on telling myself it’s a career move. Career move for what, I have no fucking clue.
I know the end outcome will be great, no more weird fangs that my mom always told me would fall into place naturally. Lies, you whore! Lies! No more vampire references. Maybe a bigger dating pool, I don’t know maybe. Maybe an actually chance @ comedic acting, I dunno maybe?!
But before I can get to the end result, I have to get braces. Braces. Not even Invisalign, but that weird ass metal shit. And this is so not cool.
For more than a year I have to face the ridicule and torture of adult braces. Fuck all of you who had normal parents that allowed you to get braces @ 12. You have no clue you truly lucky you are, you bastards.
So what’s gonna happen to me, my senior year of college? Hmmmm….well
1. No sex life. Lets be honest, braceface @ 21 does not equal doable. (Not to self. Buy brown paper bag to put over face.)
Whatever, I always wanted to be celibate. anyways. I am catholic. We are a celibate group.
2. Friends? Um no. Sorry, Miss Natalie but its time to realize most people have not been hanging around because of your “amazing personality.” (Time to develop a skill people can exploit me for.)
3. Ability to buy booze legally. Nope. No, cashier with a functioning brain is going to actually believe your real driver’s license is, well, real , when you're smiling @ her with a mouthful of metal. Good luck with that one missy.
4. Landing a job? Ha, you look like you're 12. Who the hell is going to hire you, idiot? Maybe some Web site will hire you site unseen…Maybe.
5. Let’s be honest. My life is ruined. For a year @ the minimum, which whatever, a year isn’t that long….I'm fucked.
God damn, insecurity, people seem to like True Blood, why can’t fangs be cool?
I know the end outcome will be great, no more weird fangs that my mom always told me would fall into place naturally. Lies, you whore! Lies! No more vampire references. Maybe a bigger dating pool, I don’t know maybe. Maybe an actually chance @ comedic acting, I dunno maybe?!
But before I can get to the end result, I have to get braces. Braces. Not even Invisalign, but that weird ass metal shit. And this is so not cool.
For more than a year I have to face the ridicule and torture of adult braces. Fuck all of you who had normal parents that allowed you to get braces @ 12. You have no clue you truly lucky you are, you bastards.
So what’s gonna happen to me, my senior year of college? Hmmmm….well
1. No sex life. Lets be honest, braceface @ 21 does not equal doable. (Not to self. Buy brown paper bag to put over face.)
Whatever, I always wanted to be celibate. anyways. I am catholic. We are a celibate group.
2. Friends? Um no. Sorry, Miss Natalie but its time to realize most people have not been hanging around because of your “amazing personality.” (Time to develop a skill people can exploit me for.)
3. Ability to buy booze legally. Nope. No, cashier with a functioning brain is going to actually believe your real driver’s license is, well, real , when you're smiling @ her with a mouthful of metal. Good luck with that one missy.
4. Landing a job? Ha, you look like you're 12. Who the hell is going to hire you, idiot? Maybe some Web site will hire you site unseen…Maybe.
5. Let’s be honest. My life is ruined. For a year @ the minimum, which whatever, a year isn’t that long….I'm fucked.
God damn, insecurity, people seem to like True Blood, why can’t fangs be cool?
Lower standards isn't neccessarily a bad thing...
Everyday I tell myself I’m going to exercise, or that today is the day I’m going to starve myself. But I never do. Why? Cause I’m fat…and lazy. It’s true. I’m not searching for those fake, “You don’t need to starve yourself….that much,” sympathy compliments. I’m on the chunkier side, and while yes my amazingly charming personality will get me far in life, it will not get me far bed.
And rather than actually get off my fat ass and do something about it, I’d rather just complain and lower my standards. Which if you know me, you know there pretty low to begin with. Well maybe not low, just “different.”
My mom once said to marry someone fatter than you, so that way when you let yourself go about five months after the wedding, you still won’t be the “fat one” in the relationship. Dear God, I think she may be right.
She also said to marry a Jew. So I have combined the two and made a hybrid of the perfect man: a Fat Jew. They’re great with their money and yet their self esteem is low enough that they’ll spend thousands to keep you around.
Ladies and Gentlemen this is the perfect man: The Fat Jew.
Fat Jews come in all shapes and size. Each one as juicy as the last:
#1 Fat Jew: Seth Rogen: Chunky, cheeky and a fro could a girl (or guy) ask for more? Um…no.
Seth Rogen is by far my dream man. Sexy, jewey, and all sorts of love. This man will keep your jelly roll flappin’ with all his funny one liners.
Seth Rogen I will make a porno with you! I will!
Fat Jew numero 2: Jonah Hill
Even though you may have lost some weight mister, you are still a Jew I would do.
Oh blue eyes, I’ve always wanted to date a jew with bigger boobs than me. Jonah Hill I say yes!
And last but not least…..
Fat Jew numero 3: Jason Segal.
You make me laugh, you make me giggle. Now let’s force feed each other lard and kosher bacon.
But you’re looking a little chunky….can you gain weight please? Thank you!
And rather than actually get off my fat ass and do something about it, I’d rather just complain and lower my standards. Which if you know me, you know there pretty low to begin with. Well maybe not low, just “different.”
My mom once said to marry someone fatter than you, so that way when you let yourself go about five months after the wedding, you still won’t be the “fat one” in the relationship. Dear God, I think she may be right.
She also said to marry a Jew. So I have combined the two and made a hybrid of the perfect man: a Fat Jew. They’re great with their money and yet their self esteem is low enough that they’ll spend thousands to keep you around.
Ladies and Gentlemen this is the perfect man: The Fat Jew.
Fat Jews come in all shapes and size. Each one as juicy as the last:
#1 Fat Jew: Seth Rogen: Chunky, cheeky and a fro could a girl (or guy) ask for more? Um…no.
Seth Rogen is by far my dream man. Sexy, jewey, and all sorts of love. This man will keep your jelly roll flappin’ with all his funny one liners.
Seth Rogen I will make a porno with you! I will!
Fat Jew numero 2: Jonah Hill
Even though you may have lost some weight mister, you are still a Jew I would do.
Oh blue eyes, I’ve always wanted to date a jew with bigger boobs than me. Jonah Hill I say yes!
And last but not least…..
Fat Jew numero 3: Jason Segal.
You make me laugh, you make me giggle. Now let’s force feed each other lard and kosher bacon.
But you’re looking a little chunky….can you gain weight please? Thank you!
Plan B is usually the right plan....right?
So I wake up hung over as fuck (you know our generation really needs to get out of this whole “fuck can be used for anything” bubble) That being said, I am as hung over as fuck and have to make the treacherous walk from trashby to the fine eating establishment I call my job in less than an hour due to the fact that my car got totaled in the Trashby parking lot. How the fuck that happens. I do not know.
Now I can’t move. Literally. I have sex sprains up the kazoo. ( and no not cause of position but location. Location. Location. Location.) I can’t bend down to tie my converse let alone walk the 20 minutes down Port Republic to J.J.’s
But I face the music and walk the walk and yet still get walk of shame calls in my uniform. It may have had something to do with the fact that my uniform includes the slogan “We deliever 8 inches in the cold.”
Maybe.
After 6 grueling hours of work. I somehow manage to pass out on my couch from 5p.m. to 9p.m. At 9:03 exactly I woke up. Still hung over, still nauseous. And then it hits me. I’m pregnant! I’m pregnant? Oh, dear god I am pregnant!
My parents even said if you have sex and you don’t use a condom you will get pregnant and die! Or wait was that Mean Girls? Either way, Tina Fey and my mom would not lie to me… would they?
Fuck.
Still disheveled from my five -hour nap, I run and manage to trip over a book, a table and a bed in search of my phone. I must call CVS. I must get this elixir they call Plan B.
But wait? I don’t have a car. How will I get there? The Roommate! The roommate will save me! I call the roommate. The roommate says CVS is closed. Fuck.
But there is a 72-hour gap. Eureka! It’s only been like what 13 hours? Right? Yeah? Yeah. I’m good. I’m so good. I’m soooo not going to be pregnant…
THE NEXT DAY
Easter Sunday.
Hair disheveled. Red Soffee shorts and a black T-shirt with “YEARBOOK NERD” plastered on the front. (This is the right attire to pick up Plan B I presume.) The roommate drops me off @ CVS. The pharmacy is closed. Fail. God damn you Jesus. You and your resurrection. There are more important things such as erasing this potential mistake, mister.
CVS numerous 2. Pharmacy is open! Not fail! The half-Jewish roommate is scouring through the Easter greeting cards as I stumble towards the back forcing down the vomit that I now assume is morning sickness.
Children are frolicking all around. Singing, “We are your future! We are your future! Fuck with god and he will torture!”
I fall to the ground and begin to hurl bouncy balls and transformer figurines at these demons…I mean children, screaming, “God will not prevail!!” (Okay this didn’t happen but whatever.)
I walk back to the pharmacy, and timidly ask for Plan B.
“What?” Said with a Southern accent.
“Plan B!” I repeat as I hand the pharmacist my drug money. An obese overweight child eating something orange out of his belly-button stops, forms words in his head and then turns to his also obese mother and asks:
“Momma? What is a Plan B?”
“Well Dwayne.” As she begins to rub her mistakes belly. “Plan B is a baby killer used by sinners who would rather murder an innocent child than deal with the terrible mistakes they have chosen to make…. and they usually go to hell.“
I think she was talking about me.
THERE IS A HUGE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BEING A WHORE AND PUTTING OUT....
And as any female neophyte, I am the latter. (It’s probably funny cause, it’s probably not true.) I may be the only girl who actually aspires to put out. (but just for the stories I swear!)
So I’d like to begin my stories (I like to call my whoreish personality traits, stories) on a typical Friday morning. I woke up, ate some mayo and meat, shimmied on my black pleather pants and declared to the roommates @ ten a.m.: “I am having sex tonight.”
“With who?”
“I dunno.”
Silence.
“I just know I am.”
“Sure you are…”
Now this prediction was more than just a hunch; it’s actually a psychic trait I developed after tripping on some crazy weed. Now I can’t see who it is going to be. I can’t see the exact place. Or the exact time of the actual said sex. I just know I will be having sex at some place, with someone, during some particular point on said day.
I think it’s useful (and honestly no one really believes those people who claim to predict tomorrow’s lottery numbers.)
I am also on a train as I write this entry and I am getting some very interested looks from some geriatric neophytes to my right. (Just thought that had to be stated.)
Any who! I am convinced I am having sex today. Completely convinced. So convinced I was telling everyone I came into contact with.
“Good Morning!”
“Was sup Brundmann! I’m having sex tonight.”
“Good for you., I…will not.”
“Oh we know, Brundmann, We all know.”
People standing by point and laugh @ said professor. As I frolic down the Harrison hallway throwing up fairy dust in search of people who will listen to my latest prediction.
The Breeze runs a special Friday edition reading “WALL WILL SEX!”
Now, the day has turned into night and herds of overly make-upped and under-dressed whores.. I mean freshman, have come out from under their UV tanning beds in search of one thing: boyfriends. These are the girls that think sex equates into a relationship.
You know the type. They sulk near the bathroom in hopes to lure a potential male specimen for 5-15 minutes. This usually the amount of time it takes for the drunk male specimen to realize that he will get laid if he pretends to stay interested for 9 more minutes.
Sorry girls but if you believe sex equals a relationship this you are not only a whore, but a dumb whore @ best. Which falls right below whore, but two steps above fat, ugly, dumb whore. Gosta be smart wit yo sex!
After watching these girls travel the treacherous Port Republic hill ill equipped for their trip into sexual transmitted disease land (Ashby) I am absolutely positive that I am having sex tonight. So positive that I walk into a party, where thus “sex ” is located, by myself. ALONE. I was on a mission and that mission was unprotected sex.
The beer is flowing, BAC’s are lingering at a staggering .407, bodies caressing through the sea of unidentified blobs and this was just the keg line. So I know it’s going to be a good night. If I remember it (I did, don’t worry).
“Sex” is flirting with me. I’m flirting with “Sex.” (And now there is a 3-year old sitting next to me as I write this. Yay…awkward. and the mom is so totally judging! How do you think that child got next to me Mom?!? By hugging?)
Anyways, “Sex ” declares: “We should go inside.” And this drunken sex neophyte (me) quickly agrees. Staggering into a dark stairwell, I had to ask the inevitable.:
“Do you have a condom?”
“Eh…No?”
Now I don’t know what it is about guys and not having condoms. I think subconsciously they think it will jinx them if they do have one, but seriously guys! Take one for the team! We have to deal with everything else. You can buy the goddamn condoms.
But the best part wasn’t that “Sex” didn’t have a condom but the fact that ”Sex” said and I quote: “But my cock is clean I promise.”
Really? Did you scrub it alcohol right before this moment? Cause that’s not really what I wanted to hear.
However, I make bad decisions. I always have and probably always will. I like to blame it on my “fuck it mentality.” But it’s more so because I’m a dumb ass that seems to like putting myself in bad but awkwardly funny situations.
Also, we were practically doing it @ this point so my response was slightly obscured by the dry humping. So I said and I quote:
“Eh….fuck it.”
TO BE CONTINUED.
Who actually writes in their blog anyways....
So I have kind of, sort of noticed that my blog is lacking well, blogs. Probably due to laziness and lack of creativity. But, I have decided to give myself another push, however this time scratch out the NYC part. (just for the time being) and focus on the awkward sex part. Because I do. I do have awkward sex. And awkward sexual exchanges. And these stories are hilarious. (Three weeks after the fact, tweaked with some vodkha , weed and a tiny bit magic.) And I feel if Tucker Max can do it! Then gosh darn it so can this young sexual brooding catholic! (And girls are such better storytellers.) So this fact just helps my confidence as I am about to let you into my dark cave of sexual endeavors. Also known as the most embarrassing moments of my life. Yay….sex.
10 things that made me realize I am poor
1. Had toast one morning, but soon discovered I had no butter, so I put mayo on it instead...and I liked it...
2. Next day... I did it again.
3. Bought cocktail peanuts cause they were the cheapest, turned the label and saw they expired april 2008.
4. The next week... I bought them again.
5.Won't buy an umbrella at a street vendor cause I am determined I can find one cheaper than $5 dollars.
6.First name basis with the street-meat vendors.
7.Found myself lingering at a street corner, in red heels, leather pants, a blonde wig and red lipstick.
8. 99 cent stores are glorious.
9. Being paid for sex is very empowering.
10. Caught a pigeon on 51st and 7th, and I didn't let it go.
2. Next day... I did it again.
3. Bought cocktail peanuts cause they were the cheapest, turned the label and saw they expired april 2008.
4. The next week... I bought them again.
5.Won't buy an umbrella at a street vendor cause I am determined I can find one cheaper than $5 dollars.
6.First name basis with the street-meat vendors.
7.Found myself lingering at a street corner, in red heels, leather pants, a blonde wig and red lipstick.
8. 99 cent stores are glorious.
9. Being paid for sex is very empowering.
10. Caught a pigeon on 51st and 7th, and I didn't let it go.
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