Retail…how the hell has no one written about this horseshit yet?
…let’s get one thing straight. I hate people…with the exception of whoever invented porn/mayo/zingers….and you…dur.
However, retail has definitely destroyed my hope in humanity…well honestly, I never really had any to begin with…but now I just like to fart (silently) when a customer is bitching for no real reason.
…and the moment my scent hits their nostrils…priceless.
Everyone in retail hates people. We all know it. We all except and respect that fact…but for the few out there who like to pretend this is a fallacy…
Riddle me this:
Has an associate at any retail store said, “I’m sorry,” to you?
…exactly.
In the mere month I’ve been working in retail, I’ve quickly learned that “I’m sorry,” translates to, “I really don’t give a shit.”
…”You forgot your coupons? I’m so sorry.”
Yeah, I don’t give a shit.
…”You’re mad that you have to wait in this big awful line on Christmas eve because you procrastinated…I’m so sorry.”
I really don’t give a shit…bitch.
…”Oh no, now because you procrastinated we are all out of boxes and now you’ll have to scour this town for the only Dollar Tree open that may be open, but will inevitably be sold out as well…and will probably smell like a constant fart cloud is slowly sprinkling into your mouth…I’m so sorry.”
I’m…I’m not.
“You’re trying to return the shirt that you are wearing…without any tags…or proof of purchase…I doubt that’s going to happen…I’m so sorry.”
What the fucking fuck???! You’re trying to return the shirt you are wearing? The shirt that is on your body at this very exact moment as I openly mock you?!
Hmmm…how do I put this politely?
Yeah…I don’t give a shit.
Lloyd.
Writing has always been very cathartic for me. Usually, my funniest writing comes from my darkest moments…well… as dark as you can get for a cute upper-middle class suburban white girl.
But try as I might, I’m experiencing my first real bout of writer’s block…and that shit is a bitch….
So instead of the previous post I was working on… I’m going to tell you a story…
In college, I worked at a Jimmy Johns. It was one of the greatest jobs ever… honestly, I don’t know how the fuck I didn’t get fired…
…Let’s just say I sexually harassed many a customers…whatever, I’m cute…they liked it… but that’s beside the point…
The store was right next to campus so we had a parking attendant to make sure students weren’t “illegally” parking….and that man’s name was…Lloyd.
He was a funny man, never missed an opportunity to hit on me, or any other female that passed that parking lot.
He called me Red… I’m pretty sure he never really knew real name… I worked there for a over a year.
He also thought my best friend (who also worked at JJ’s) was a boy….she wasn’t...she’s really pretty actually…and I was the one with adult braces…he was an older gentleman…maybe his eye-sight wasn’t what it used to be.
She was the only girl he wouldn’t hit on…one time he called us the Bobsy twins (or some shit like that)…so naturally we Googled it and it turned out to be some old-time stories about these twins that got into mischief…. a boy and girl twin.
Also…I may or may not have said (on more than one occasion)… “I’d bone him…”
I swear to God I was joking, but like I said I don’t know how I didn’t get fired…
Well I just found out Lloyd died last night…he had massive blood loss from a surgery, then broke his hip and got a bad infection and slipped into a coma.
I never really said goodbye…the last time I saw him was October/November? The only thing I can remember saying was… “Oh Lloyd…” as we watched him hit on another random passerby.
…and it warmed my heart.
It was one of those moments that you naively believe would never change, you’d come back years from now and the same scenario would be playing before you once again.
…and all would be right in the world.
He was a good man…who always stood on that sidewalk… rain or shine…in a bright orange vest labeled “PARKING ATTENDANT”…. He was happy.
We were happy.
I was happy.
…and thankful for that jack and coke you slipped me at work, Lloyd.
I’ll make sure they retire your vest, and hang it up in JJ’s so everyone can know the legend of Lloyd.
It wouldn’t be right any other way.
But try as I might, I’m experiencing my first real bout of writer’s block…and that shit is a bitch….
So instead of the previous post I was working on… I’m going to tell you a story…
In college, I worked at a Jimmy Johns. It was one of the greatest jobs ever… honestly, I don’t know how the fuck I didn’t get fired…
…Let’s just say I sexually harassed many a customers…whatever, I’m cute…they liked it… but that’s beside the point…
The store was right next to campus so we had a parking attendant to make sure students weren’t “illegally” parking….and that man’s name was…Lloyd.
He was a funny man, never missed an opportunity to hit on me, or any other female that passed that parking lot.
He called me Red… I’m pretty sure he never really knew real name… I worked there for a over a year.
He also thought my best friend (who also worked at JJ’s) was a boy….she wasn’t...she’s really pretty actually…and I was the one with adult braces…he was an older gentleman…maybe his eye-sight wasn’t what it used to be.
She was the only girl he wouldn’t hit on…one time he called us the Bobsy twins (or some shit like that)…so naturally we Googled it and it turned out to be some old-time stories about these twins that got into mischief…. a boy and girl twin.
Also…I may or may not have said (on more than one occasion)… “I’d bone him…”
I swear to God I was joking, but like I said I don’t know how I didn’t get fired…
Well I just found out Lloyd died last night…he had massive blood loss from a surgery, then broke his hip and got a bad infection and slipped into a coma.
I never really said goodbye…the last time I saw him was October/November? The only thing I can remember saying was… “Oh Lloyd…” as we watched him hit on another random passerby.
…and it warmed my heart.
It was one of those moments that you naively believe would never change, you’d come back years from now and the same scenario would be playing before you once again.
…and all would be right in the world.
He was a good man…who always stood on that sidewalk… rain or shine…in a bright orange vest labeled “PARKING ATTENDANT”…. He was happy.
We were happy.
I was happy.
…and thankful for that jack and coke you slipped me at work, Lloyd.
I’ll make sure they retire your vest, and hang it up in JJ’s so everyone can know the legend of Lloyd.
It wouldn’t be right any other way.
I probably should't tell people this...
I’m cute… but I’m disgusting….and lazy…and weird…and kind of an asshole…and a smidge pathetic….
And for a second I thought maybe that with the New Year nearing the corner that I should reflect on my lesser qualities/philosophies/addiction to mayo and you know…fix that.
…yeah…um…nahhhhhhh.
I started making a list of all my weird shit and it’s bad… like really bad (and sadly all true) ….pretty much… I’m literally wiping out any chance I have of getting laid with this one blog post.
…you’ve been warned.
1. I shave my big toes…they just have these 3 hairs that drive me crazy…and are a bitch to pluck.
2. I hate, hate, hate brushing my teeth…. I really do.
3. Mayo…dollops and dollops of mayo….enough said.
4. KFC Double Down…filled with dollops and dollops of mayo…
5. I’m convinced one day I’m going to be possessed by the devil…or maybe I already am…
6. My dream is to be famous based solely on all the disgusting shit I do… it’s a valid life choice.
7. I often ask myself…. “Why am I not slutty…er?”
8. Fuck flossing.
9. I think all jeans should have an elastic waist-band/spanx/a portable McFlurry maker installed in them.
10. My favorite dessert…hostess mini donuts topped off with a shit ton of vanilla icing fresh out of spray can….but, like 12 of them…in my mouth…at once.
11. My feet smell like fritos (when I don’t wear socks)…I don’t plan on fixing that.
12. My feet also sweat….like…all the time.
13. What does Grade D meat stand for? Damn Delicious meat…that’s what!
14. “Oh…it’s extra, extra, extra mayo girl again…”
15. In the winter I legit don’t shave my legs….it’s the closest I can get to feeling like a man.
16. On second thought… I’m pretty sure I do have a penis….
17. So what exactly is wrong with porn?
18. Fuck fruit.
19. If I had a penis…I wouldn’t wash it….deal with it.
20. One day some dude was staring at me in a truck when I was walking to campus…I screamed…”What the fuck are you looking at?!?”… it was my cousin.
21. I love the smell of chloroform.
22. I use my macbook to write/shield my food boner/conconct mayo masterpieces on….oh and watch porn.
23. I probably won’t care if you thought I was racist…as long as you think I’m pretty.
24. I have dandruff…I don’t plan on fixing that…
25. I like the taste of iron.
26. I just farted.
27. My soul mate is named Bell…Taco Bell.
28. Usually when I think my cell phone is vibrating…it’s just my upper thighs jiggling.
29. I hate nature…like legitimately hate nature.
30. Stereotypes are my favorite pastime….
There’s more…but you know I don’t want you to vomit in your mouth too much…
And for a second I thought maybe that with the New Year nearing the corner that I should reflect on my lesser qualities/philosophies/addiction to mayo and you know…fix that.
…yeah…um…nahhhhhhh.
I started making a list of all my weird shit and it’s bad… like really bad (and sadly all true) ….pretty much… I’m literally wiping out any chance I have of getting laid with this one blog post.
…you’ve been warned.
1. I shave my big toes…they just have these 3 hairs that drive me crazy…and are a bitch to pluck.
2. I hate, hate, hate brushing my teeth…. I really do.
3. Mayo…dollops and dollops of mayo….enough said.
4. KFC Double Down…filled with dollops and dollops of mayo…
5. I’m convinced one day I’m going to be possessed by the devil…or maybe I already am…
6. My dream is to be famous based solely on all the disgusting shit I do… it’s a valid life choice.
7. I often ask myself…. “Why am I not slutty…er?”
8. Fuck flossing.
9. I think all jeans should have an elastic waist-band/spanx/a portable McFlurry maker installed in them.
10. My favorite dessert…hostess mini donuts topped off with a shit ton of vanilla icing fresh out of spray can….but, like 12 of them…in my mouth…at once.
11. My feet smell like fritos (when I don’t wear socks)…I don’t plan on fixing that.
12. My feet also sweat….like…all the time.
13. What does Grade D meat stand for? Damn Delicious meat…that’s what!
14. “Oh…it’s extra, extra, extra mayo girl again…”
15. In the winter I legit don’t shave my legs….it’s the closest I can get to feeling like a man.
16. On second thought… I’m pretty sure I do have a penis….
17. So what exactly is wrong with porn?
18. Fuck fruit.
19. If I had a penis…I wouldn’t wash it….deal with it.
20. One day some dude was staring at me in a truck when I was walking to campus…I screamed…”What the fuck are you looking at?!?”… it was my cousin.
21. I love the smell of chloroform.
22. I use my macbook to write/shield my food boner/conconct mayo masterpieces on….oh and watch porn.
23. I probably won’t care if you thought I was racist…as long as you think I’m pretty.
24. I have dandruff…I don’t plan on fixing that…
25. I like the taste of iron.
26. I just farted.
27. My soul mate is named Bell…Taco Bell.
28. Usually when I think my cell phone is vibrating…it’s just my upper thighs jiggling.
29. I hate nature…like legitimately hate nature.
30. Stereotypes are my favorite pastime….
There’s more…but you know I don’t want you to vomit in your mouth too much…
What to do...what to do...
So I’m stuck between a rock and a hard place and I want your opinion…
While as hilarious my pathetic self can be…some days (when I’m being a little less gross/whorey/socially awkward) I just really want to write about… my parents.
And yes, my parents do know I have a blog…and I have told them that in fact, yes, it is kind of raunchy (baby steps people…baby steps).
But they have yet been given the permission to read my blog…I think you can understand why.
Here’s the catch. My parents do expect me to get famous and thus have put a price on their net worth…
… “We get 30% of your profits if you write anything about us.”
Come on! Thirty?!?! That’s a shit ton of money mom and pops.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my parents and all…but 30 percent… love….? Maybe 15 percent like…?
…it’s not like I’m going to let them live out of a box or anything when I’m rich.
I plan on buying them the two most expensive matching wind suits from Sears for Christmas…thank you very much.
But in all seriousness I really do love my parents and would never want to hurt their feelings with anything that I write…but they are a fucking GOLDMINE.
If you think I can joke about sex/porn/taco bell you should meet my mother.
Let’s just say, the phrase, “National porn league” has been thrown out on more than one occasion.
Oh, and let’s not forget… “I farted today…and I’m pretty sure the cashier heard me.”
She’s the future me…in every way possible…it’s really scary to watch actually…
This shit cannot go unwritten. In fact it hasn’t… I have a shit ton of these mom quotes written in my handy dandy notebook.
…But is it time to post them on the interwebs?
Is it worth 30% of all my net profits…?
I mean seriously I’ve made, what? Ten bucks from this blog already…that would be a whopping three whole dollars. Three! Count em’. One …two…three. (Right? I don’t do math…) But that seems like a lot.
So what do I do? Do I make the deal?
Would you guys even want to read about my parents?
Or should I just stick with writing about my unnatural consumption of mayo?
It’s a tough choice I know. Some have even likened it to “Sophie’s Choice” and by some, I mean me…and by me… I mean Mark Walhberg.
Yeah. That’s right…Mark Fucking Walhberg.
While as hilarious my pathetic self can be…some days (when I’m being a little less gross/whorey/socially awkward) I just really want to write about… my parents.
And yes, my parents do know I have a blog…and I have told them that in fact, yes, it is kind of raunchy (baby steps people…baby steps).
But they have yet been given the permission to read my blog…I think you can understand why.
Here’s the catch. My parents do expect me to get famous and thus have put a price on their net worth…
… “We get 30% of your profits if you write anything about us.”
Come on! Thirty?!?! That’s a shit ton of money mom and pops.
Now don’t get me wrong, I love my parents and all…but 30 percent… love….? Maybe 15 percent like…?
…it’s not like I’m going to let them live out of a box or anything when I’m rich.
I plan on buying them the two most expensive matching wind suits from Sears for Christmas…thank you very much.
But in all seriousness I really do love my parents and would never want to hurt their feelings with anything that I write…but they are a fucking GOLDMINE.
If you think I can joke about sex/porn/taco bell you should meet my mother.
Let’s just say, the phrase, “National porn league” has been thrown out on more than one occasion.
Oh, and let’s not forget… “I farted today…and I’m pretty sure the cashier heard me.”
She’s the future me…in every way possible…it’s really scary to watch actually…
This shit cannot go unwritten. In fact it hasn’t… I have a shit ton of these mom quotes written in my handy dandy notebook.
…But is it time to post them on the interwebs?
Is it worth 30% of all my net profits…?
I mean seriously I’ve made, what? Ten bucks from this blog already…that would be a whopping three whole dollars. Three! Count em’. One …two…three. (Right? I don’t do math…) But that seems like a lot.
So what do I do? Do I make the deal?
Would you guys even want to read about my parents?
Or should I just stick with writing about my unnatural consumption of mayo?
It’s a tough choice I know. Some have even likened it to “Sophie’s Choice” and by some, I mean me…and by me… I mean Mark Walhberg.
Yeah. That’s right…Mark Fucking Walhberg.
Screw you....
I hate people who think I’m mentally inept to accomplish anything just because I’m cute.
It’s like, “ooohhhh…ahhhh…she’s adorable….I doubt she can read.”
…Fuck you.
Some people just have so much baggage from middle school/high school/yesterday when I called that chick fat, that their subconscious won’t even allow them to believe someone could be cute and smart, or god forbid cute and funny.
…Fuck you!
You know I’d might even sympathize with you…or feel some version of pity…but you know what? I used to fucking be you.
Yeah that’s right, whore (or asshole).
I used to be fat/ugly/socially awkward/wear brightly colored leggings because I couldn’t fit into jeans like a normal person… for a whopping 14 years. I paid my fucking dues so you can shut the fuck up.
And guess what….fuck you!
Get over it… .and get off you fucking high horse, bitch (or dick).
And here’s the thing, I’m not even that cute. Put a picture of me next to Angelina Jolie and people would be like “Who’s the dude?”
I’m a solid 6.5 if you don’t catch me shoving mayo in my mouth.
So… let’s be honest, if you’re getting this bitchy (or dicky) based on the way I look…you may never want to turn on a television/read a magazine/ eat Taco Bell…because they have these things called…."models".
… and just in case you did not know what a “model” was…”models” are what mundane people call very pretty people (boys or girls) who get paid based solely on their looks.
I know I know…you could never be one.
Oh wait you think you could?
Stop it…stop it! You’re going to make me go!
…oh…wait…I just peed a little.
You, my friend, are a riot.
Oh wait…that’s right…I’m the riot…not you.
Suck on that.
Bitch (or dick).
It’s like, “ooohhhh…ahhhh…she’s adorable….I doubt she can read.”
…Fuck you.
Some people just have so much baggage from middle school/high school/yesterday when I called that chick fat, that their subconscious won’t even allow them to believe someone could be cute and smart, or god forbid cute and funny.
…Fuck you!
You know I’d might even sympathize with you…or feel some version of pity…but you know what? I used to fucking be you.
Yeah that’s right, whore (or asshole).
I used to be fat/ugly/socially awkward/wear brightly colored leggings because I couldn’t fit into jeans like a normal person… for a whopping 14 years. I paid my fucking dues so you can shut the fuck up.
And guess what….fuck you!
Get over it… .and get off you fucking high horse, bitch (or dick).
And here’s the thing, I’m not even that cute. Put a picture of me next to Angelina Jolie and people would be like “Who’s the dude?”
I’m a solid 6.5 if you don’t catch me shoving mayo in my mouth.
So… let’s be honest, if you’re getting this bitchy (or dicky) based on the way I look…you may never want to turn on a television/read a magazine/ eat Taco Bell…because they have these things called…."models".
… and just in case you did not know what a “model” was…”models” are what mundane people call very pretty people (boys or girls) who get paid based solely on their looks.
I know I know…you could never be one.
Oh wait you think you could?
Stop it…stop it! You’re going to make me go!
…oh…wait…I just peed a little.
You, my friend, are a riot.
Oh wait…that’s right…I’m the riot…not you.
Suck on that.
Bitch (or dick).
I Just Had Sex ...
The world must see the new SNL Digital Short...genius...Akon's best song ever...never thought I'd say that.
God damn, Jorma, you are one jew I would do.
God damn, Jorma, you are one jew I would do.
I probably should be embarrassed...
My sex dreams are always shameful. I usually wake up drenched in a sin sweat questioning out loud…
“Was I drunk in my dream?”
“Is my subconscious more of a whore than awake Natalie?”
“Did I eat a whole package of bologna slathered in mayo before bed…again?”
And I must admit, this makes me really worry about subconscious…well to be frank…it’s not like I wasn’t concerned before…it’s just the past 13 sex dreams I’ve had have been kind of a red flag. A huge fucking red flag.
Sex dreams are not supposed to be embarrassing.
It’s like my inner psyche has lower standards than my only reality…and that’s really low…
…dreams are the one place that Catholics can hide their sinful thoughts from God/Santa/the assistant manager at Taco Bell…
Whatever don’t act like he isn’t a god. Did Jesus give you 89-cent taco Sundays? Um, no he didn’t…all he did was die for you sins…big whoop.
…and I just proved my point.
Anyways, I’m convinced that my local pizza delivery boy has pulled an Inception shenanigans on my dreams because I wake up way too many mornings crazy deep dish pizza and sex.
…That or I watch way too much amateur porn.
…or I eat more than the average consumption of bologna…I also just had to sing the Oscar Meyer Wiener song out loud to correctly spell bologna.
God damn you, original speller of bologna…god damn you.
So is this what my life has come too? A plethora of meat/mayo/porn/shameful sweating… sprinkled with a few SNL marathons every Tuesday and Thursday?
And yet boys still want to boink me with their man junk?
It’s the riddle of the sphinx…I swear to god.
“Was I drunk in my dream?”
“Is my subconscious more of a whore than awake Natalie?”
“Did I eat a whole package of bologna slathered in mayo before bed…again?”
And I must admit, this makes me really worry about subconscious…well to be frank…it’s not like I wasn’t concerned before…it’s just the past 13 sex dreams I’ve had have been kind of a red flag. A huge fucking red flag.
Sex dreams are not supposed to be embarrassing.
It’s like my inner psyche has lower standards than my only reality…and that’s really low…
…dreams are the one place that Catholics can hide their sinful thoughts from God/Santa/the assistant manager at Taco Bell…
Whatever don’t act like he isn’t a god. Did Jesus give you 89-cent taco Sundays? Um, no he didn’t…all he did was die for you sins…big whoop.
…and I just proved my point.
Anyways, I’m convinced that my local pizza delivery boy has pulled an Inception shenanigans on my dreams because I wake up way too many mornings crazy deep dish pizza and sex.
…That or I watch way too much amateur porn.
…or I eat more than the average consumption of bologna…I also just had to sing the Oscar Meyer Wiener song out loud to correctly spell bologna.
God damn you, original speller of bologna…god damn you.
So is this what my life has come too? A plethora of meat/mayo/porn/shameful sweating… sprinkled with a few SNL marathons every Tuesday and Thursday?
And yet boys still want to boink me with their man junk?
It’s the riddle of the sphinx…I swear to god.
You have to admit...
It’s like there is no good way to reject a boy anymore.
You act like a bitch and they think you are flirting with them. You act like a jackass, and they text you…”Why did you leave without saying good bye to me?”
Hmmm…er….well… “You disgust me.”
And there’s something you have to respect about a girl that’s a complete jackass.
So let’s get one thing straight….I’m a jackass. Not a bitch…oh no no no. A total jackass.
…respect me.
It’s a curse really. You’d think being a jackass one would be able to narrow down the amount of men one has to come in contact with…however…it has the complete opposite effect.
…I’ve been at my job…two…count em two weeks…and I’ve already been asked out by two guys.
And I’ll say it again… I’m a fucking jackass to these guys….A FUCKING JACKASS… cause here’s the thing…I don’t hide my disgust for other people very well…or at all…
Majority of the shit I say…I’m not trying to be funny.
“You’re really funny.”
No, I’m just being brutally honest and you’re lack of experience in a situation like this is mistaking it as sarcasm.
“…I really am.”
Look gentlemen, if I’m being a jackass to your face then it means that I am disgusted by the sight of you…or that I want to have sex with you.
…okay, okay you have like a 50-50 chance of getting laid.
…75 % chance if I’m drunk.
…99.3% chance if I’m drunk and high.
…but that’s besides the point.
Maybe I just look too nice. Maybe that’s why my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.
I try to even it out with my jackassyness, but obviously I need to concoct a plan that’s a little more foolproof.
Like lies…and lots of them.
Oh, don’t act like you haven’t done it before.
I’m currently in three fake relationships to ward off unwanted boy attention.
Oh hey Matt…I forgot to tell you…if this dude at work who won’t stop asking me out facebooks me…like he says he’s going to too…we’ve been dating for the past year…we met in our feature writing class…and you said you couldn’t resist my cankles…
But let’s be honest…no one can resist my cankles.
You act like a bitch and they think you are flirting with them. You act like a jackass, and they text you…”Why did you leave without saying good bye to me?”
Hmmm…er….well… “You disgust me.”
And there’s something you have to respect about a girl that’s a complete jackass.
So let’s get one thing straight….I’m a jackass. Not a bitch…oh no no no. A total jackass.
…respect me.
It’s a curse really. You’d think being a jackass one would be able to narrow down the amount of men one has to come in contact with…however…it has the complete opposite effect.
…I’ve been at my job…two…count em two weeks…and I’ve already been asked out by two guys.
And I’ll say it again… I’m a fucking jackass to these guys….A FUCKING JACKASS… cause here’s the thing…I don’t hide my disgust for other people very well…or at all…
Majority of the shit I say…I’m not trying to be funny.
“You’re really funny.”
No, I’m just being brutally honest and you’re lack of experience in a situation like this is mistaking it as sarcasm.
“…I really am.”
Look gentlemen, if I’m being a jackass to your face then it means that I am disgusted by the sight of you…or that I want to have sex with you.
…okay, okay you have like a 50-50 chance of getting laid.
…75 % chance if I’m drunk.
…99.3% chance if I’m drunk and high.
…but that’s besides the point.
Maybe I just look too nice. Maybe that’s why my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.
I try to even it out with my jackassyness, but obviously I need to concoct a plan that’s a little more foolproof.
Like lies…and lots of them.
Oh, don’t act like you haven’t done it before.
I’m currently in three fake relationships to ward off unwanted boy attention.
Oh hey Matt…I forgot to tell you…if this dude at work who won’t stop asking me out facebooks me…like he says he’s going to too…we’ve been dating for the past year…we met in our feature writing class…and you said you couldn’t resist my cankles…
But let’s be honest…no one can resist my cankles.
Do I want to be a crazy bitch or just a whore?
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...like...so much...”
Really asian chick, really?! Maybe you should should put some grammar in your head before you give some 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
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...like...so much...”
Really asian chick, really?! Maybe you should should put some grammar in your head before you give some 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
If men are from Mars and women are from Venus...
Then why the fuck do guys love doggy so much?! Alright guys, it’s time to chat. Let’s settle this never ending argument about doggy style.
Now, as far as I’m aware most men love doggy and most girls don't. Why? The men ask. Is it because it’s not emotional? Is it because girls can’t make love to us with their eyes as I pork them from behind and make awkward grunting sounds?
Um.... no.
Let’s look at the facts, boys, or really the one and only fact. You are screwing us from behind. And maybe I’m alone on this position, but my ass is not my greatest asset.
My boobs are. I’m so pale I could be an extra on Twilight, so do you think the body part that the sun don’t shine on, is looking hot. Yeah, I didn’t think so. Let’s not forget to add the cottage cheese factor to it, either.
There’s a reason why girls never look at their butts in the mirror. There is a reason we ask our girlfriends how our butts look in new jeans, because we know they will lie! Just like that whore who says she loves doggy, that bitch is lying (or not she may really like...I guess)!
It’s not about some stupid “emotional connection.” Fuck that.
And the greatest argument guys use is “that way I can touch her tits.” (Real quote, I did research for this blog post.) Oh, but wait, you can grab a girls boobs in ANY position. (Well…most.)
Obviously, I’m not a fan. And yes, obviously I will still partake. But let’s get one thing straight, gentlemen, next time you’re porking your lady friend from behind, make sure you don’t stare to closely at the pastey-white cottage cheese jiggling very closely to your man package, because you may lose your cottage cheese all over her back.
And that’s just icky...
Now, as far as I’m aware most men love doggy and most girls don't. Why? The men ask. Is it because it’s not emotional? Is it because girls can’t make love to us with their eyes as I pork them from behind and make awkward grunting sounds?
Um.... no.
Let’s look at the facts, boys, or really the one and only fact. You are screwing us from behind. And maybe I’m alone on this position, but my ass is not my greatest asset.
My boobs are. I’m so pale I could be an extra on Twilight, so do you think the body part that the sun don’t shine on, is looking hot. Yeah, I didn’t think so. Let’s not forget to add the cottage cheese factor to it, either.
There’s a reason why girls never look at their butts in the mirror. There is a reason we ask our girlfriends how our butts look in new jeans, because we know they will lie! Just like that whore who says she loves doggy, that bitch is lying (or not she may really like...I guess)!
It’s not about some stupid “emotional connection.” Fuck that.
And the greatest argument guys use is “that way I can touch her tits.” (Real quote, I did research for this blog post.) Oh, but wait, you can grab a girls boobs in ANY position. (Well…most.)
Obviously, I’m not a fan. And yes, obviously I will still partake. But let’s get one thing straight, gentlemen, next time you’re porking your lady friend from behind, make sure you don’t stare to closely at the pastey-white cottage cheese jiggling very closely to your man package, because you may lose your cottage cheese all over her back.
And that’s just icky...
Ok, hear me out...
There’s nothing hotter than a boy that’s got his shit together.
Seriously, I’d totally get naked (with the lights off) for a dude that’s got a college degree.
However, I seem to repeatedly find myself involved/infatuated with/stalking a man of the complete opposite of someone who, how do you say “has his or her shit together.”
You know the type…losers/fuck-ups/boys who ask “Who’s Chevy Chase?”
So now after years and years of following the same toxic pattern I decided to do some research on the Google machine and found this:
“Women who follow a specific toxic pattern with fuck ups/losers/assistant manager’s of McDonalds suffer from an insatiable need of dominance,” according to a clinical study that I just made up for this blog post.
This makes sense to me.
…I would also like to point out that I have played with my boobs five times while writing this post. Why, you ask? Well honestly, anytime I get writers block I play with my boobs. And two they are sublime…really…they are…
Seeing as women will never get to experience the insurmountable bliss followed by a sexual facial or as I like to call it “dude jizzing on a hoe’s face.”
Overpowering a man with sure brainpower is quite obviously the next best thing.
For women, the only way to really dominate a man nowadays is by finding one of equal or lesser value, publicly humiliate him…repeatedly, then throwing globs of mayo on his face.
So until America discovers the female equivalent to a facial, I think every woman has the choice…NO…the right! To only choose men who are easily embarrassed by math equations/general social norms/uncontrollable flatulence.
…and still be allowed to throw mayo on their faces.
It’s only fair.
Why shouldn’t I be able allowed to socially demean men with my figurative penis?
…exactly.
Seriously, I’d totally get naked (with the lights off) for a dude that’s got a college degree.
However, I seem to repeatedly find myself involved/infatuated with/stalking a man of the complete opposite of someone who, how do you say “has his or her shit together.”
You know the type…losers/fuck-ups/boys who ask “Who’s Chevy Chase?”
So now after years and years of following the same toxic pattern I decided to do some research on the Google machine and found this:
“Women who follow a specific toxic pattern with fuck ups/losers/assistant manager’s of McDonalds suffer from an insatiable need of dominance,” according to a clinical study that I just made up for this blog post.
This makes sense to me.
…I would also like to point out that I have played with my boobs five times while writing this post. Why, you ask? Well honestly, anytime I get writers block I play with my boobs. And two they are sublime…really…they are…
Seeing as women will never get to experience the insurmountable bliss followed by a sexual facial or as I like to call it “dude jizzing on a hoe’s face.”
Overpowering a man with sure brainpower is quite obviously the next best thing.
For women, the only way to really dominate a man nowadays is by finding one of equal or lesser value, publicly humiliate him…repeatedly, then throwing globs of mayo on his face.
So until America discovers the female equivalent to a facial, I think every woman has the choice…NO…the right! To only choose men who are easily embarrassed by math equations/general social norms/uncontrollable flatulence.
…and still be allowed to throw mayo on their faces.
It’s only fair.
Why shouldn’t I be able allowed to socially demean men with my figurative penis?
…exactly.
I'm a bitch but it's cool cause I'm funny...
I’m a bitch, but whatever it works cause I’m funny. I think. However I have come to realize this bitchiness has sneaked its way into my sexual bedside manners. Not good. No guy wants a saracastic two-thumbs up, during your fake orgasm. Believe, I’ve tried.
So to save you, my 4 readers, from awkward before, during and after sex moments, I have ranked my top five bitchiest moves via sex, that you should never ever do when you are in a loving and sweet relationship… now if it’s just sex and you actually sort of hate the guy, then by all means, go for it.
5. AWKWARD 2 THUMBS UP.
Now, I know some guys think they are the shit in bed and yes, they do need to be knocked down a couple of notches, but this technique is just lazy women, and yes, quite unoriginal. Maybe you did have to get on top when you were a little too drunk and, maybe yes, doggy isn’t your favorite position. But being lazy just makes you look like a bitch. Just throw in a sarcastic, sigh, or a classic “you’re awesome at this…not!’’ Or even a classic, “Really? Really? You think that’s what you should be doing now?”
4. “DID YOU ‘O’?” “YES.” “HOW MANY TIMES?” SILENCE… “SO MANY…”
Okay, now obviously lying works. It really does. It has gotten me so many places. But lying works only when you commit to that lie. Remember what Costanza said, “It’s not a lie, if you believe it.” But when you don’t believe your own lie, you may inadvertently forced your man to stifle back tears as he cries in the back corner of your bathroom.
3. “DID YOU ‘O’”? “YES.” “REALLY?” “NO.”
The truth never makes people happy. It’s a gold mine for broken spirits and battered souls. Can’t take the criticism men, then stick to your hand. No more of this Cosmo, ‘This is how you make your man happy’ shit. We ladies want an orgasm, and if you can’t give it to us. Next please.
2. THE CLASSIC POINT TO THE SKY AND MAKE NO EYE CONTACT.
Is he gross? Does his sex face, look more like a rape face? It’s okay if you answered yes, we’ve all been there. Whatever, goes through a guys mind during sex, is beyond me. How am I supposed to know you like it, if you put a bag over my face? Anyways, this classic move is a win-win. You don’t have to watch the sweat drop from his beat red nose and he doesn’t have to watch you lie to yourself as you try to mak love with your eyes.
1.I’M ON MY PERIOD.
Don’t want to have sex with the guy? Screwing another guy when you get the 3 AM sexual text. Nothing is scarier to a man than blood, let alone blood out of your who-hah. One swift “I’m on my period,” text, and you just bought yourself 5-7 days to think of a new excuse to never have a sexual experience with that man again.
So to save you, my 4 readers, from awkward before, during and after sex moments, I have ranked my top five bitchiest moves via sex, that you should never ever do when you are in a loving and sweet relationship… now if it’s just sex and you actually sort of hate the guy, then by all means, go for it.
5. AWKWARD 2 THUMBS UP.
Now, I know some guys think they are the shit in bed and yes, they do need to be knocked down a couple of notches, but this technique is just lazy women, and yes, quite unoriginal. Maybe you did have to get on top when you were a little too drunk and, maybe yes, doggy isn’t your favorite position. But being lazy just makes you look like a bitch. Just throw in a sarcastic, sigh, or a classic “you’re awesome at this…not!’’ Or even a classic, “Really? Really? You think that’s what you should be doing now?”
4. “DID YOU ‘O’?” “YES.” “HOW MANY TIMES?” SILENCE… “SO MANY…”
Okay, now obviously lying works. It really does. It has gotten me so many places. But lying works only when you commit to that lie. Remember what Costanza said, “It’s not a lie, if you believe it.” But when you don’t believe your own lie, you may inadvertently forced your man to stifle back tears as he cries in the back corner of your bathroom.
3. “DID YOU ‘O’”? “YES.” “REALLY?” “NO.”
The truth never makes people happy. It’s a gold mine for broken spirits and battered souls. Can’t take the criticism men, then stick to your hand. No more of this Cosmo, ‘This is how you make your man happy’ shit. We ladies want an orgasm, and if you can’t give it to us. Next please.
2. THE CLASSIC POINT TO THE SKY AND MAKE NO EYE CONTACT.
Is he gross? Does his sex face, look more like a rape face? It’s okay if you answered yes, we’ve all been there. Whatever, goes through a guys mind during sex, is beyond me. How am I supposed to know you like it, if you put a bag over my face? Anyways, this classic move is a win-win. You don’t have to watch the sweat drop from his beat red nose and he doesn’t have to watch you lie to yourself as you try to mak love with your eyes.
1.I’M ON MY PERIOD.
Don’t want to have sex with the guy? Screwing another guy when you get the 3 AM sexual text. Nothing is scarier to a man than blood, let alone blood out of your who-hah. One swift “I’m on my period,” text, and you just bought yourself 5-7 days to think of a new excuse to never have a sexual experience with that man again.
What has the world come to...?
I watch porn. Shocking, I know. And not the girly type either, with these ridiculously unbelievable story lines.
You know, the ones with the banging hot farm-boy, and the banging hot farmer’s daughter, and the farmer’s daughter comes out of the farmhouse looking for milk, and the farm-boy says a perfectly timed one-liner, “I’ve got some milk for you.” And they start banging immediately.
No. I don’t watch that type of porn. I’m too distracted by all the fallacies flying around my head to enjoy the entertainment value.
Like, first of all, in the real world these two people are NOT going to be hot. And even if they were semi- decent looking, farm-boy over there was just shoveling pig-shit. So, I doubt he smells good, at all.
And farm-girl, don’t even get me started on her, and her perfectly symmetrical boobs. Where’s the cellulite? Where’s the missing teeth, porn-making people?
I am paying decent money for these free online videos. I want some goddamn realism. I thought that was the allure of porn, you know “sex-type situations” that could actually happen.
You can’t even rent an adult film with a man and a woman and a man and two other men in an intimate moment together, without all this salty language. Where’s the integrity?
I don’t care if you’re getting rammed in the ass missy, what would your mother think if she heard you say, “Fuck me harder”?
You know, the ones with the banging hot farm-boy, and the banging hot farmer’s daughter, and the farmer’s daughter comes out of the farmhouse looking for milk, and the farm-boy says a perfectly timed one-liner, “I’ve got some milk for you.” And they start banging immediately.
No. I don’t watch that type of porn. I’m too distracted by all the fallacies flying around my head to enjoy the entertainment value.
Like, first of all, in the real world these two people are NOT going to be hot. And even if they were semi- decent looking, farm-boy over there was just shoveling pig-shit. So, I doubt he smells good, at all.
And farm-girl, don’t even get me started on her, and her perfectly symmetrical boobs. Where’s the cellulite? Where’s the missing teeth, porn-making people?
I am paying decent money for these free online videos. I want some goddamn realism. I thought that was the allure of porn, you know “sex-type situations” that could actually happen.
You can’t even rent an adult film with a man and a woman and a man and two other men in an intimate moment together, without all this salty language. Where’s the integrity?
I don’t care if you’re getting rammed in the ass missy, what would your mother think if she heard you say, “Fuck me harder”?
A gift or a curse?
It’s like my clothes have a mind of their own. I see a hot guy…next thing I know…my clothes are off.
A gift some might say….a curse…said by many, many more.
Now usually I’d totally say this brilliant feat is a gift (that I should cherish until my boobs start to sag), unless I’m on an interview…like I was last week.
The interview is going well, great I might say (it’s an unpaid internship, those bitches always love me). I’m getting the general tour of the media company. Which is pretty much my mecca, hot guys in skinny jeans and glasses and I’m pretty much jizzing all over the office (…don’t worry I brought napkins).
“I want you to meet…”
My jaw drops. I’m drooling. I’m motioning with my hand many dirty motions I would like to perform to his man junk.
I’m losing it. Smiling for no reason, smirking every time he does something quirky with his face. I’m pretty sure I winked at him too… I don’t want to talk about it.
I’m singing, yes, singing. Well okay, I’m techinally singing in my head. I’m singing a little jingle that I wrote a fortnight ago…a jingle that I’m pretty known for if I’m being honest with you…
“I want to have sex with you…I want to have sex with…sex with you I want to have…sex sex sex…yeah!”
I know. I know. No applause needed. I’ve been called the songbird of my generation. (Name that movie).
I can’t tell if it’s cause of his red slip on Vans, or the fact that he seems to have very…very… nimble fingers.
And then it happens.
My bra unhooks.
Pop!
He smiles.
My button down shirt starts unbuttoning.
Pop!
He laughs at my retarded joke.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
All this sexual tension happening in a matter of seconds, concealed neatly under my leather jacket.
Fuck. My leather jacket.
Do I looked flushed? Will they ask me to take my jacket off? Of course they will, my face is beet red from the heat/sexual fantasies/my lack of Taco Bell intake in the past 48 hours.
Look, really cool social media girl interviewing me, who is going to judge me immediately once you realize I’m naked under my jacket, I just wanted to have sex with the guy. Okay?! Is that okay with you, you judgemental whore, you?!?
What? My shirt? What the fuck is wrong with my shirt? Nothing! You whore. Yeah that’s right you’re the whore for keeping your shirt all neat and buttoned-up.
It’s opposite day, mother fucker. Suck on that…bitch.
Wait… no…don’t go…I’m really cool…I promise…I interned at Atlantic Records!!!! I only hooked up with one guy there…I’ll keep it in my pants…I swear to God!
Fine…whatever…this place is lame anyway…fuck you…I love you…
I start in January…that boy will be mine…my bra will make sure of it.
A gift some might say….a curse…said by many, many more.
Now usually I’d totally say this brilliant feat is a gift (that I should cherish until my boobs start to sag), unless I’m on an interview…like I was last week.
The interview is going well, great I might say (it’s an unpaid internship, those bitches always love me). I’m getting the general tour of the media company. Which is pretty much my mecca, hot guys in skinny jeans and glasses and I’m pretty much jizzing all over the office (…don’t worry I brought napkins).
“I want you to meet…”
My jaw drops. I’m drooling. I’m motioning with my hand many dirty motions I would like to perform to his man junk.
I’m losing it. Smiling for no reason, smirking every time he does something quirky with his face. I’m pretty sure I winked at him too… I don’t want to talk about it.
I’m singing, yes, singing. Well okay, I’m techinally singing in my head. I’m singing a little jingle that I wrote a fortnight ago…a jingle that I’m pretty known for if I’m being honest with you…
“I want to have sex with you…I want to have sex with…sex with you I want to have…sex sex sex…yeah!”
I know. I know. No applause needed. I’ve been called the songbird of my generation. (Name that movie).
I can’t tell if it’s cause of his red slip on Vans, or the fact that he seems to have very…very… nimble fingers.
And then it happens.
My bra unhooks.
Pop!
He smiles.
My button down shirt starts unbuttoning.
Pop!
He laughs at my retarded joke.
Pop! Pop! Pop!
All this sexual tension happening in a matter of seconds, concealed neatly under my leather jacket.
Fuck. My leather jacket.
Do I looked flushed? Will they ask me to take my jacket off? Of course they will, my face is beet red from the heat/sexual fantasies/my lack of Taco Bell intake in the past 48 hours.
Look, really cool social media girl interviewing me, who is going to judge me immediately once you realize I’m naked under my jacket, I just wanted to have sex with the guy. Okay?! Is that okay with you, you judgemental whore, you?!?
What? My shirt? What the fuck is wrong with my shirt? Nothing! You whore. Yeah that’s right you’re the whore for keeping your shirt all neat and buttoned-up.
It’s opposite day, mother fucker. Suck on that…bitch.
Wait… no…don’t go…I’m really cool…I promise…I interned at Atlantic Records!!!! I only hooked up with one guy there…I’ll keep it in my pants…I swear to God!
Fine…whatever…this place is lame anyway…fuck you…I love you…
I start in January…that boy will be mine…my bra will make sure of it.
Gotta love those holidays...
The holidays always remind me of one thing…MRSA.
Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.
It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.
This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to Google image “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.
“Stop being a pussy, it’s just a spider bite… “
…It wasn’t.
I think I went about two days dragging my thigh along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”
When I showed my parents “it”, “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.
“Well shit…this is not good.”
“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”
So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite” but of course not before he could say…
“You have 24 hours to live if these antibiotics don’t work.”
…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.
My parents thought I was 5 and thought ice cream would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.
…It worked.
“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, okay?”
“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”
Now here’s the thing…my mother didn’t understand the difference between hot…and scalding…or she did but she wan hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.
…They didn’t.
Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…
“Shit! Damn! Fuck! Holy fucking Jesus.”
“Natalie…stop being a pussy.”
After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…not having my leg amputated…
“Hey Nat, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”
“Really, cause I’m worried about you dying…good night.”
…I cried all night.
Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case if you were wondering…
Yes, my fine-fellowed friends, MRSA.
It was a cold November day when I looked down at my thigh and saw a red oblong blotch.
This worried me…I was perturbed…and being too afraid to Google image “Red oblong blotch on upper thigh that hurts like a bitch when I move” I went to the next best scientific thing…my friends.
“Stop being a pussy, it’s just a spider bite… “
…It wasn’t.
I think I went about two days dragging my thigh along, because at this point walking properly required a constant look of “Why yes, I am getting an enema shoved up my ass at this very moment. Good day to you!”
When I showed my parents “it”, “it” had now spread from my upper thigh, down to an inch above my knee.
“Well shit…this is not good.”
“Wait…it’s not just a spider bite?”
So like every normal family, the day before Thanksgiving started with an emergency trip to the hospital, followed by a doctor running out and screaming bloody murder at the sight of my “spider bite” but of course not before he could say…
“You have 24 hours to live if these antibiotics don’t work.”
…and finished off with a tall, cool, Oreo McFlurry.
My parents thought I was 5 and thought ice cream would temporarily distract me from the eminent danger I was so knowingly in.
…It worked.
“Now, listen, your doctor said we need to put an extremely hot washcloth on the opening to bring the infection away from your knee joint immediately, okay?”
“You know Oreo Mcflurry’s are the best. So smooth and refreshing, with the prefect blend of choco flakes and vanilla fro-yo…it’s a beautiful union really.”
Now here’s the thing…my mother didn’t understand the difference between hot…and scalding…or she did but she wan hoping the ridiculous amount of drugs they put me on would take the edge off.
…They didn’t.
Next thing I know, I’m screaming in agony as the scalding wash cloth slowly seared off my skin…
“Shit! Damn! Fuck! Holy fucking Jesus.”
“Natalie…stop being a pussy.”
After seven hours of this personal hell, it was time to go to bed and dream about turkey legs… stuffing…not having my leg amputated…
“Hey Nat, are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m okay. I’m just worried about losing my leg.”
“Really, cause I’m worried about you dying…good night.”
…I cried all night.
Oh, and I didn’t die…just in case if you were wondering…
Let's all say it together...I'm brilliant.
While perusing Urbandictionary.com, I quickly realized the web site is lacking on sexual terms for women. No, not things like Superman that hoe or angry pirate, I’m talking about phrases that are the equivalent to M.I.L.F.
Yeah, sure, we women have D.I.L.F. (Dad I’d Like to Fuck) and silver fox (old man with gray hair I’d like to fuck). But where’s the originality? Where is the underlying racism?
Seeing as I’m such a creative racist, I’ve taken the liberty to coin a few terms, which are all pretty much the same, but whatever they are still awesome. It’s time to be more organized with our sexual relations. And quite honestly, more racist.
1. B.G.I.F.
Now this one is my favorite and coined by my best friend and I. We all have that one Black Guy I’d Fuck. We’ve all seen him. We’ve all stared at him like a Mexican construction worker. He’s beautiful. He’s burly. And yes ladies, He’s black. He’s the Terrance Howard’s of the world. The Danny Glover’s. What? Don't judge (or I'll call you a racist) have you not seen Lethal Weapon 4?
2. J.I.L.F.
Again, same concept as B.G.I.F., different stereotype. Jew I’d Like to Fuck. Oh, John Stewart you beautiful, beautiful Jew. And Paul Rudd, your Judaism is just spectacular. And if any woman says they wouldn’t want to have a little S &M with these men, well then quite frankly, I don’t believe you like penises.
3. A.M.A.R.I.R.L.F
Now this one is pure genius: Any Man of Any Race I’d Really Like to Fuck. If you are ashamed of your racism, then this is the term for you! How is it racist, if you combined every race in one term? God. I love loopholes.
Each breed brings a different, I guess you could say, experience, in a woman’s sexual life. This is a scientific fact, mastered over thousands of years, by woman just like you. There is a caste system in the sexual realm. Know your role. Know your role.
Yeah, sure, we women have D.I.L.F. (Dad I’d Like to Fuck) and silver fox (old man with gray hair I’d like to fuck). But where’s the originality? Where is the underlying racism?
Seeing as I’m such a creative racist, I’ve taken the liberty to coin a few terms, which are all pretty much the same, but whatever they are still awesome. It’s time to be more organized with our sexual relations. And quite honestly, more racist.
1. B.G.I.F.
Now this one is my favorite and coined by my best friend and I. We all have that one Black Guy I’d Fuck. We’ve all seen him. We’ve all stared at him like a Mexican construction worker. He’s beautiful. He’s burly. And yes ladies, He’s black. He’s the Terrance Howard’s of the world. The Danny Glover’s. What? Don't judge (or I'll call you a racist) have you not seen Lethal Weapon 4?
2. J.I.L.F.
Again, same concept as B.G.I.F., different stereotype. Jew I’d Like to Fuck. Oh, John Stewart you beautiful, beautiful Jew. And Paul Rudd, your Judaism is just spectacular. And if any woman says they wouldn’t want to have a little S &M with these men, well then quite frankly, I don’t believe you like penises.
3. A.M.A.R.I.R.L.F
Now this one is pure genius: Any Man of Any Race I’d Really Like to Fuck. If you are ashamed of your racism, then this is the term for you! How is it racist, if you combined every race in one term? God. I love loopholes.
Each breed brings a different, I guess you could say, experience, in a woman’s sexual life. This is a scientific fact, mastered over thousands of years, by woman just like you. There is a caste system in the sexual realm. Know your role. Know your role.
You know it's true...
So I have another great guest blogger...and let me just say...I like the way she thinks. Straight from http://potter-den.blogspot.com/ I present to you Ms. Denise and her feelings about sex:
Why Premarital sex is a good idea:
I have so many reasons to back this up I don’t know where to begin… maybe I’ll start with the fact that the human life span is far far too long… thus we don’t want to get married when we’re twelve anymore but we still want to bone everything we see.
Modern science has made abstinence nearly impossible; I think I discovered my clitoris when I was two or three… all I remember was my mother telling me to keep my hands out of there, I remember her telling me that a lot. How can anyone expect people to keep it in their pants till they get married if our bodies are ready sometime around twelve years old (younger for me…) but people don’t get married till mid to late twenties? The fact that I waited to have sex till I was seventeen is more impressive than waiting till I’m twelve and getting married to my farm husband who expects me to pop out 15 kids and cook over a fire while darning his socks and never speaking lest I’ve been spoken too. All I’m saying that waiting till you were married wasn’t’ a big deal back in the day… they only lived till they were thirty or so to begin with, so marrying someone at ten or whatever meant you spent more than half your life with them, and waiting ten years is nothing. Nothing I tell you!
Now, we live till we’re 70, so… if we don’t get married till we’re 34 we’re still going to be spending half our lives with this one person. Who wants to wait thirty years to get their dick wet?
Or a P in the V…?
Or a V next to the V? I don’t discriminate here people.
All sex is good, and from what I hear lesbian sex is the best. I wish my door swung the other way sometimes; I’d be down for good sex, nice smells, and both people wanting to snuggle after. I do enjoy being the big spoon.
So, this I guess leads to my next point, why the heck can’t you get married if you’re gay? The only thing preventing this is people being discriminating ass holes, if we let them get married they could have all the gay sex they wanted under the protection of the sacrament of marriage and no one could say anything else. According to Slaughter House Five every baby has 7 parents anyways, and two of them age gay men. And we all know that Fiction is really the only place to get reliable scientific fact… oh wait, no, that’s from the Bible… Scientific fact comes from the Bible.
Please excuse me while I go do some Lutheran stuff so I can get into Heaven. Thank you.
I guess the next reason, and I know everyone says it, but why buy a car without test driving it first? You’re not going to marry a guy (or gal) if he can’t cook, right? Okay, well, yes, you probably still are. But, you can get around that. You can eat out (hahaha), you can get hot pockets and those pizzas that are supposed to be really good but aren’t, or you could even cook yourself (please, only as a last option). But what to you do if they are terrible in the sack? Eventually they get better or you get out. Amirite? If it wasn’t the case I’d still be having bad sex in my not-boyfriends basement while we watch reruns of Seinfeld and talk about calculus because I’ve been a nerd since birth, okay.
Sadly that’s not the case. Sadly I’m not having any sex. But, I’d rather have no sex than bad sex and so I’m here, waiting to find some guy on match dot com who I think is worthy of putting more than his face between my legs. Back to not feeling sorry for myself:
Cooking is pretty important though; so, if that is important and you test that out on each other from really early on in the relationship, why not sex? Why not something so fundamentally important for overall well being that there are doctors who devoted their entire career to it? Doctors. Career. Devote. Sex. Doctors. Sex.
It’s important people, and I am not going to wait till I fall in love to do it. Religion is one thing, God is one thing, being a pent up asshole that refuses to get some release is entirely something separate. It makes no sense. Our bodies were made to do it, they need it. It’s a fundamental hunger that grows and grows, we need to feed the desire, be who we were made to be. With the invention of condoms (not just for infant prevention, also keeping your girl parts fresh and smelling like fruit) you can be on your back as often as you’d like and there are no consequences…
Okay, maybe I should say that differently. How you look at sex from the beginning (i.e. when you first discovered that cleaning it was way more fun than cleaning all your other part) and depending on what you were taught and believed reflect on how you’ll view it once you start doing it, regardless of if you’re married or not. Just because you now have a ring on your finger doesn’t mean the guilt you felt every time you looked at your hot math tutors ass goes away. It’s all about how you look at it, and I think people look at it wrong.
If you look at sex as a way to make babies; then you’ll see sex as a way to make babies. You’ll be afraid to fully enjoy yourself because even though your intent isn’t to make a baby, the thought is always there, looming in the distance, threatening to impregnate you.
If you look at sex as a dirty act that is sinful, even after you’re married you’ll still see it as that. All the pressure from seeing your body as dirty and wrong your entire life up to that point will be too much. You won’t be able to enjoy yourself and you won’t be able to get all the benefits (pain release, sinus health, sleep inducing, cardio…) because your stupid brain and your mother’s voice will get in the way of a seriously good time.
But, if you look at sex as an adventure, a fun journey to take your body on that can be done with someone (or by yourself) then you will get the benefit. You will feel better after because it also relieves stress, and we all could use some good old fashioned stress reduction. There is no medical reason to wait till you’re married, your period doesn’t wait till you’re married, your wet dreams where you wake up stuck to the sheets don’t wait till you’re married, why should you wait to use those working parts till you’re married?
All I know is Jesus died a virgin for my sins so I wouldn’t have to… that’s how it goes, right?
Why Premarital sex is a good idea:
I have so many reasons to back this up I don’t know where to begin… maybe I’ll start with the fact that the human life span is far far too long… thus we don’t want to get married when we’re twelve anymore but we still want to bone everything we see.
Modern science has made abstinence nearly impossible; I think I discovered my clitoris when I was two or three… all I remember was my mother telling me to keep my hands out of there, I remember her telling me that a lot. How can anyone expect people to keep it in their pants till they get married if our bodies are ready sometime around twelve years old (younger for me…) but people don’t get married till mid to late twenties? The fact that I waited to have sex till I was seventeen is more impressive than waiting till I’m twelve and getting married to my farm husband who expects me to pop out 15 kids and cook over a fire while darning his socks and never speaking lest I’ve been spoken too. All I’m saying that waiting till you were married wasn’t’ a big deal back in the day… they only lived till they were thirty or so to begin with, so marrying someone at ten or whatever meant you spent more than half your life with them, and waiting ten years is nothing. Nothing I tell you!
Now, we live till we’re 70, so… if we don’t get married till we’re 34 we’re still going to be spending half our lives with this one person. Who wants to wait thirty years to get their dick wet?
Or a P in the V…?
Or a V next to the V? I don’t discriminate here people.
All sex is good, and from what I hear lesbian sex is the best. I wish my door swung the other way sometimes; I’d be down for good sex, nice smells, and both people wanting to snuggle after. I do enjoy being the big spoon.
So, this I guess leads to my next point, why the heck can’t you get married if you’re gay? The only thing preventing this is people being discriminating ass holes, if we let them get married they could have all the gay sex they wanted under the protection of the sacrament of marriage and no one could say anything else. According to Slaughter House Five every baby has 7 parents anyways, and two of them age gay men. And we all know that Fiction is really the only place to get reliable scientific fact… oh wait, no, that’s from the Bible… Scientific fact comes from the Bible.
Please excuse me while I go do some Lutheran stuff so I can get into Heaven. Thank you.
I guess the next reason, and I know everyone says it, but why buy a car without test driving it first? You’re not going to marry a guy (or gal) if he can’t cook, right? Okay, well, yes, you probably still are. But, you can get around that. You can eat out (hahaha), you can get hot pockets and those pizzas that are supposed to be really good but aren’t, or you could even cook yourself (please, only as a last option). But what to you do if they are terrible in the sack? Eventually they get better or you get out. Amirite? If it wasn’t the case I’d still be having bad sex in my not-boyfriends basement while we watch reruns of Seinfeld and talk about calculus because I’ve been a nerd since birth, okay.
Sadly that’s not the case. Sadly I’m not having any sex. But, I’d rather have no sex than bad sex and so I’m here, waiting to find some guy on match dot com who I think is worthy of putting more than his face between my legs. Back to not feeling sorry for myself:
Cooking is pretty important though; so, if that is important and you test that out on each other from really early on in the relationship, why not sex? Why not something so fundamentally important for overall well being that there are doctors who devoted their entire career to it? Doctors. Career. Devote. Sex. Doctors. Sex.
It’s important people, and I am not going to wait till I fall in love to do it. Religion is one thing, God is one thing, being a pent up asshole that refuses to get some release is entirely something separate. It makes no sense. Our bodies were made to do it, they need it. It’s a fundamental hunger that grows and grows, we need to feed the desire, be who we were made to be. With the invention of condoms (not just for infant prevention, also keeping your girl parts fresh and smelling like fruit) you can be on your back as often as you’d like and there are no consequences…
Okay, maybe I should say that differently. How you look at sex from the beginning (i.e. when you first discovered that cleaning it was way more fun than cleaning all your other part) and depending on what you were taught and believed reflect on how you’ll view it once you start doing it, regardless of if you’re married or not. Just because you now have a ring on your finger doesn’t mean the guilt you felt every time you looked at your hot math tutors ass goes away. It’s all about how you look at it, and I think people look at it wrong.
If you look at sex as a way to make babies; then you’ll see sex as a way to make babies. You’ll be afraid to fully enjoy yourself because even though your intent isn’t to make a baby, the thought is always there, looming in the distance, threatening to impregnate you.
If you look at sex as a dirty act that is sinful, even after you’re married you’ll still see it as that. All the pressure from seeing your body as dirty and wrong your entire life up to that point will be too much. You won’t be able to enjoy yourself and you won’t be able to get all the benefits (pain release, sinus health, sleep inducing, cardio…) because your stupid brain and your mother’s voice will get in the way of a seriously good time.
But, if you look at sex as an adventure, a fun journey to take your body on that can be done with someone (or by yourself) then you will get the benefit. You will feel better after because it also relieves stress, and we all could use some good old fashioned stress reduction. There is no medical reason to wait till you’re married, your period doesn’t wait till you’re married, your wet dreams where you wake up stuck to the sheets don’t wait till you’re married, why should you wait to use those working parts till you’re married?
All I know is Jesus died a virgin for my sins so I wouldn’t have to… that’s how it goes, right?
You've been warned...
Okay America,
I get it. I look exactly like my mother. But …Oh. Dear. God. The next person that comes up to me and says, “By golly, it’s like looking at the Olsen twins…except wrinklier….and fatter…and not blonde/famous/or cute.”
…I’m going to cut you.
No seriously, bitches who feel the need to point of the obvious while wolfing down a McRib, I’m going to take my butcher knife out of my party poof and cut you…. yes cut you, with a smile on my face.
That’s my bread and butter, bitches…my bread and butter.
So let me just say this… you’ve been warned, America.
Seriously, last week someone said, “You can definitely tell ya’ll are kin.”
….There are so many things wrong with that statement.
First of all, who the fuck says kin anymore?
And B…what the fucking fuck?
Is it really that weird for a 22 year-old daughter to look EXACTLY like her 52 year-old mother.
Isn’t that the basic philosophy of Botox/Low-Carb Diets/Quiznos?
I’d show you a picture of my madre and me so you could see the resemblance, but my bro keeps snitching on me when I write about my parents.
Bro, you’re 26, stop snitching, or I won’t be your DD to the strip club this week...but thanks for reading my blog.
The worst part is my mom fucking loves that shit. Never fails to plaster a shit-eating grin on her face when she gets compared to someone 30 years younger than her.
“I bet I get carded today.”
“…Sure you will.”
She did… get carded that day. Whatever, I had braces then…it was a very weird scenario.
Well, to be perfectly honest she loved getting compared to me until just recently….
I shit you not, a cashier said this to me and my mother on Sunday….
“Well at least… when your mother dies, every time you look in the mirror…it will be like she never left.”
“…Great.”
I don’t think this pleased my mom….
“What the fucking fuck?!”
I get it. I look exactly like my mother. But …Oh. Dear. God. The next person that comes up to me and says, “By golly, it’s like looking at the Olsen twins…except wrinklier….and fatter…and not blonde/famous/or cute.”
…I’m going to cut you.
No seriously, bitches who feel the need to point of the obvious while wolfing down a McRib, I’m going to take my butcher knife out of my party poof and cut you…. yes cut you, with a smile on my face.
That’s my bread and butter, bitches…my bread and butter.
So let me just say this… you’ve been warned, America.
Seriously, last week someone said, “You can definitely tell ya’ll are kin.”
….There are so many things wrong with that statement.
First of all, who the fuck says kin anymore?
And B…what the fucking fuck?
Is it really that weird for a 22 year-old daughter to look EXACTLY like her 52 year-old mother.
Isn’t that the basic philosophy of Botox/Low-Carb Diets/Quiznos?
I’d show you a picture of my madre and me so you could see the resemblance, but my bro keeps snitching on me when I write about my parents.
Bro, you’re 26, stop snitching, or I won’t be your DD to the strip club this week...but thanks for reading my blog.
The worst part is my mom fucking loves that shit. Never fails to plaster a shit-eating grin on her face when she gets compared to someone 30 years younger than her.
“I bet I get carded today.”
“…Sure you will.”
She did… get carded that day. Whatever, I had braces then…it was a very weird scenario.
Well, to be perfectly honest she loved getting compared to me until just recently….
I shit you not, a cashier said this to me and my mother on Sunday….
“Well at least… when your mother dies, every time you look in the mirror…it will be like she never left.”
“…Great.”
I don’t think this pleased my mom….
“What the fucking fuck?!”
Hmmm, well...this is embarrassing...
I think I might have an issue...
....i think I'll go read a bible now...or some shit like that....
....i think I'll go read a bible now...or some shit like that....
Bitch is the new black...
It really is. Bitches get shit done...deal with it.
And now I'd like to introduce miss Dana from pushingthirtyy.wordpress.com with her take on being a bitch...
What Makes Me a Bitch
Being a bitch is a privilege one must not take lightly. I mean, not everyone has the talent, sass, or gall to be a bitch. And perfecting one’s bitchiness takes a lifetime of exposure to the elements, and developing the appropriate reaction to situations. Let’s practice.
You invite you friends over. They decide to invite their friends over without your permission. How do you react?
Non-Bitch, but passively annoyed: “Oh, it’s cool. I think I have enough food/beer/weed to go around. Just make sure they don’t break anything, or sleep with anything.”
Clearly annoyed Pro-Bitch: “I really don’t want your skivvy friends skanking up the place. They better bring a stripper/weed/food/beer to make up for it, or I’m throwing their shoes out the window.”
Obviously the only rational reaction is to be a Bitch. Don’t hate. Just learn.
I don’t have a problem being a bitch. My problem is controlling my bitchiness so I don’t cross that fine line between Bitch and Psychobitch. My dear friend at Dezolutions just reminded me of a time where I did cross the line. Here’s how that went down. I’ll let you be the judge of the appropriate reaction to get a message across.
Your boyfriend is drunk and pushing your buttons. You give him fair warning, but he persists:
Non-bitch: Ignore him and hang out with your friends
Bitch: Embarrass him and call him out for being a douche
Psychobitch: Pummel him on the train in front of strangers so that boy will know who's boss...
Yea... so maybe I overreacted. But I did make a point, and leave a mark. :)
As I’ve gotten older, my anger levels have gotten insanely high. I can actually feel the anger in my veins. I’ll be completely fine one minute, then one little thing will set me off (I hear you people whispering bipolar -- guess what? fuck you!). So before I burst I need to find out why. So I turn to the obvious. PMS? Maybe. I’m on the pill, so maybe it’s that I’m fucking with my hormones too much? I took this one to the bank, or in this instance, to the gyno. I don’t usually consult a doctor about anything, but I figured it was worth a shot.
Here’s how that conversation went:
“I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten bitchier lately. I’m wondering if it has something to do with my birth control. What do you recommend?”
“So let me get this straight -- you think your birth control is making you bitchy?”
Great. Even my doctor thinks I’m a bitch. As long as he doesn’t think I’m a psychobitch...ok maybe he does. Whatever, I’m a bitch so I don’t care.
So maybe I just need to vent about what exactly makes the Bitch in me come out. Here it goes:
Repeating myself. If I have to say it more than twice, you need to get your ears checked.
Stupid people. Stupid people should be used to bitches, because it’s all their fault. If you continuous say stupid shit, expect to be bitch slapped.
Rude people. I know the city is crowded, but if you bump into me, show some fuckin manners. Otherwise I may trip you next time.
Technology failing. Damn all the companies that have made me rely on technology to live. If my ipod, camera, computer, cell phone, or tv isn’t working, don’t come near me, unless you want a remote control in your forehead.
Overly sensitive people. I’m not politically correct. Deal with it. There is a reason why stereotypes exist. As a Jew, I am the first to make fun of jews. If you can’t take a joke, go lock yourself back into the bubble you came from.
Ok, if I go any further, I’m going to be bitchy all night. Not that I mind, but I’m pretty sure my boyfriend would like to be able to come home tonight.
Just one more thing. Try to love a bitch. If you can learn to love a bitch, you will open your eyes to a better world. A world without pansies and pussies. What can I say? Bitches do it better.
And now I'd like to introduce miss Dana from pushingthirtyy.wordpress.com with her take on being a bitch...
What Makes Me a Bitch
Being a bitch is a privilege one must not take lightly. I mean, not everyone has the talent, sass, or gall to be a bitch. And perfecting one’s bitchiness takes a lifetime of exposure to the elements, and developing the appropriate reaction to situations. Let’s practice.
You invite you friends over. They decide to invite their friends over without your permission. How do you react?
Non-Bitch, but passively annoyed: “Oh, it’s cool. I think I have enough food/beer/weed to go around. Just make sure they don’t break anything, or sleep with anything.”
Clearly annoyed Pro-Bitch: “I really don’t want your skivvy friends skanking up the place. They better bring a stripper/weed/food/beer to make up for it, or I’m throwing their shoes out the window.”
Obviously the only rational reaction is to be a Bitch. Don’t hate. Just learn.
I don’t have a problem being a bitch. My problem is controlling my bitchiness so I don’t cross that fine line between Bitch and Psychobitch. My dear friend at Dezolutions just reminded me of a time where I did cross the line. Here’s how that went down. I’ll let you be the judge of the appropriate reaction to get a message across.
Your boyfriend is drunk and pushing your buttons. You give him fair warning, but he persists:
Non-bitch: Ignore him and hang out with your friends
Bitch: Embarrass him and call him out for being a douche
Psychobitch: Pummel him on the train in front of strangers so that boy will know who's boss...
Yea... so maybe I overreacted. But I did make a point, and leave a mark. :)
As I’ve gotten older, my anger levels have gotten insanely high. I can actually feel the anger in my veins. I’ll be completely fine one minute, then one little thing will set me off (I hear you people whispering bipolar -- guess what? fuck you!). So before I burst I need to find out why. So I turn to the obvious. PMS? Maybe. I’m on the pill, so maybe it’s that I’m fucking with my hormones too much? I took this one to the bank, or in this instance, to the gyno. I don’t usually consult a doctor about anything, but I figured it was worth a shot.
Here’s how that conversation went:
“I’ve noticed that I’ve gotten bitchier lately. I’m wondering if it has something to do with my birth control. What do you recommend?”
“So let me get this straight -- you think your birth control is making you bitchy?”
Great. Even my doctor thinks I’m a bitch. As long as he doesn’t think I’m a psychobitch...ok maybe he does. Whatever, I’m a bitch so I don’t care.
So maybe I just need to vent about what exactly makes the Bitch in me come out. Here it goes:
Repeating myself. If I have to say it more than twice, you need to get your ears checked.
Stupid people. Stupid people should be used to bitches, because it’s all their fault. If you continuous say stupid shit, expect to be bitch slapped.
Rude people. I know the city is crowded, but if you bump into me, show some fuckin manners. Otherwise I may trip you next time.
Technology failing. Damn all the companies that have made me rely on technology to live. If my ipod, camera, computer, cell phone, or tv isn’t working, don’t come near me, unless you want a remote control in your forehead.
Overly sensitive people. I’m not politically correct. Deal with it. There is a reason why stereotypes exist. As a Jew, I am the first to make fun of jews. If you can’t take a joke, go lock yourself back into the bubble you came from.
Ok, if I go any further, I’m going to be bitchy all night. Not that I mind, but I’m pretty sure my boyfriend would like to be able to come home tonight.
Just one more thing. Try to love a bitch. If you can learn to love a bitch, you will open your eyes to a better world. A world without pansies and pussies. What can I say? Bitches do it better.
Well shit...
So it has recently come to my attention that I am no longer on my parents health insurance, and…um…yeah, it’s safe to say that now I’m freaking the fuck out.
I don’t think you quite understand how my mind works, while yes my brain talks in constant perverse one-liners; my mind also has a very dark side. A very dark, superstitious, slightly OCD side…and then I freak the fuck out.
I blame Catholicism for that one, you god damn superstitious fucks.
And now with this new development, I’m afraid to do anything, and I mean anything.
For example, I shouldn’t be writing this post. One, I’m superstitious as fuck and don’t want to jinx myself and two, what if my macbook gets like really, really fucking hot (like it always does) and then burns my stomach/thighs/love junk?
What if I get carpal tunnel from writing too much at a 90 degree angle? My wrist has been hurting a lot lately…is that a symptom? What if it’s broken? Or a hairline fracture? Maybe it’s just gas…
I’ll WebMD that shit tonight…that will make me feel better, or tell me I’m dying…I’ve heard it’s a very reliable source.
And, and, and, I can’t eat. What if I choke? And, and, and, I can’t not not eat. What if I starve to death? And I definitely can’t spray icing on mini-donuts anymore…god damn you, possible chance of type 2 diabetes, god damn you.
And I definitely can’t do the laundry anymore. What if I trip and fall over the pile of dirty clothes…nope, nope, nope…we just can’t have that. I think febreezing them will suffice. Wait…those fumes aren’t toxic right?
Shut up. I’m pretty, don’t contradict me.
Wait, why is my stomach hurting now? Is that from the laptop? Mad cow diease? SARS?
Fuck.
What is that saying? “An apple a day will keep the mad cow away?”
Great, lack of health insurance, great. I don’t fruit…ever… Unless there is a –tini behind the name or a carmel in front of it’s name.
Maybe if I just shotgun a shit-ton of vitamin gummies with some boxed-wine it will diffuse the situation.... yeah, yeah, yeah, that will work... I don't need health insurance...I'll just drink a shit ton of wine.
Wine is considered a fruit, right?
I don’t think you quite understand how my mind works, while yes my brain talks in constant perverse one-liners; my mind also has a very dark side. A very dark, superstitious, slightly OCD side…and then I freak the fuck out.
I blame Catholicism for that one, you god damn superstitious fucks.
And now with this new development, I’m afraid to do anything, and I mean anything.
For example, I shouldn’t be writing this post. One, I’m superstitious as fuck and don’t want to jinx myself and two, what if my macbook gets like really, really fucking hot (like it always does) and then burns my stomach/thighs/love junk?
What if I get carpal tunnel from writing too much at a 90 degree angle? My wrist has been hurting a lot lately…is that a symptom? What if it’s broken? Or a hairline fracture? Maybe it’s just gas…
I’ll WebMD that shit tonight…that will make me feel better, or tell me I’m dying…I’ve heard it’s a very reliable source.
And, and, and, I can’t eat. What if I choke? And, and, and, I can’t not not eat. What if I starve to death? And I definitely can’t spray icing on mini-donuts anymore…god damn you, possible chance of type 2 diabetes, god damn you.
And I definitely can’t do the laundry anymore. What if I trip and fall over the pile of dirty clothes…nope, nope, nope…we just can’t have that. I think febreezing them will suffice. Wait…those fumes aren’t toxic right?
Shut up. I’m pretty, don’t contradict me.
Wait, why is my stomach hurting now? Is that from the laptop? Mad cow diease? SARS?
Fuck.
What is that saying? “An apple a day will keep the mad cow away?”
Great, lack of health insurance, great. I don’t fruit…ever… Unless there is a –tini behind the name or a carmel in front of it’s name.
Maybe if I just shotgun a shit-ton of vitamin gummies with some boxed-wine it will diffuse the situation.... yeah, yeah, yeah, that will work... I don't need health insurance...I'll just drink a shit ton of wine.
Wine is considered a fruit, right?
This probably isn't a good thing...
My parents have been happily married for 33 years…disgusting, I know. Every time they kiss in my presence I want to vomit (and I usually do).
True love is so 90s, yet they seem immune to the social norms of our society…lame.
But what really confuses me is the adverse affect this situation has seemed to have had on my general psyche; my parents 33 years of happy fidelity has produced a “fear of intimacy”, with a smidge of “fear of commitment” and a dab of “narcissim” with just a splash of “gassiness” within my black soul.
I mean, come on, I have a fucking blog…so yes, one can safely assume I am a narcissistic lady douche (with bad gas)… not that I would know or anything.
Any who, this douche (me) has an intimacy problem…and it’s gotten bad.
I can’t even stay in the same bed with a guy I just had sex with anymore. I usually try to kick the guy out right after the deed, but a couple of them caught on and pretended to be “asleep” as I profusely kicked them in the kidneys…those selfish bastards.
I have an issue and I am aware of that. I purposely go out of my way to find men that are emotionally unavailable, because I am one of them….small penis and all.
And for the most part, I don’t have an issue with this issue, unless I’m going through a dry spell, then I get pissed I don’t have a guy who is legally forced to have sex with me based soley on the fact that he is my boyfriend.
Most women are more emotional about sex than I am too, supposedly they even have a different word for it… they call it, love-making or even worse…cuddling.
And let me be frank, but thought of cuddling makes me gassy. The act of cuddling makes me gassy. Skittles after this so called “love-making” makes me gassy. So me kicking a dude out of my bed after sex, isn’t necessarily an intimacy issue it’s more of a “get the fuck out of my bed, or I’ma cut you fool and then fart into your flesh wound” issue.
…Whatever, it’s my fucking bed…house rules.
True love is so 90s, yet they seem immune to the social norms of our society…lame.
But what really confuses me is the adverse affect this situation has seemed to have had on my general psyche; my parents 33 years of happy fidelity has produced a “fear of intimacy”, with a smidge of “fear of commitment” and a dab of “narcissim” with just a splash of “gassiness” within my black soul.
I mean, come on, I have a fucking blog…so yes, one can safely assume I am a narcissistic lady douche (with bad gas)… not that I would know or anything.
Any who, this douche (me) has an intimacy problem…and it’s gotten bad.
I can’t even stay in the same bed with a guy I just had sex with anymore. I usually try to kick the guy out right after the deed, but a couple of them caught on and pretended to be “asleep” as I profusely kicked them in the kidneys…those selfish bastards.
I have an issue and I am aware of that. I purposely go out of my way to find men that are emotionally unavailable, because I am one of them….small penis and all.
And for the most part, I don’t have an issue with this issue, unless I’m going through a dry spell, then I get pissed I don’t have a guy who is legally forced to have sex with me based soley on the fact that he is my boyfriend.
Most women are more emotional about sex than I am too, supposedly they even have a different word for it… they call it, love-making or even worse…cuddling.
And let me be frank, but thought of cuddling makes me gassy. The act of cuddling makes me gassy. Skittles after this so called “love-making” makes me gassy. So me kicking a dude out of my bed after sex, isn’t necessarily an intimacy issue it’s more of a “get the fuck out of my bed, or I’ma cut you fool and then fart into your flesh wound” issue.
…Whatever, it’s my fucking bed…house rules.
Hmm, I'm listening...
I’ve been told that I have a look that says, “I like black guys.” So does my best friend…and don’t get me wrong... we do…we really do.
But it’s a weird thing to hear from random passersby, “You like black guys don’t you?”
Granted, it probably doesn’t help that I’m usually screaming, “Yeah…uh huh… you want it!” to these random passersby as I grab my love junk, which is either my boobs/ass/belly or a combination of the three, depending on my level of intoxication.
And for the record, I’m usually joking when I say that…usually.
Now the real question is: what is the “look?” What exactly is it about me that says “I am a lover of dark chocolate/fried chicken/majority of the Waynes brothers?”
Can strangers just tell that I’ve been watching “In Living Color” since I was seven? Or that my panties get all in a twist when someone buys me a 40? (Preferably a Hurricane.) Or the fact that I have a preference when it comes to 40’s, which means one could safely assume that I’ve consumed more than type of malt liquor on multiple occasions? Preferable when I’m watching “Intervention.”
… I’m sorry but there is no other way to watch “Intervention” than a 40 in one hand, and a crack pipe in the other… it’s better than porn…ha, who am I kidding there is nothing better than porn…nothing.
And why is it that I cannot see the “look” within myself, yet I can see the “look” in others? However, I can see the black guy in me… actually that’s a lie… it’s usually too dark for me to tell.
My best friend and I have deduced that it is more of an essence than a look. An essence of sass one could say. It cannot be seen, only felt… and it feels oh so good.
There are three types of men that like obnoxiously sassy girls: 1. The hobo on uppers down the street, 2. Gay guys, and 3. Black men. And um, I’m a little obnoxious (if you haven’t already noticed) so why wouldn’t I love all three? They are FABULOUS!
White guys like obnoxiously sassy girls too, it’s just the majority doesn’t know how to handle them. Probably because we are wild and free, like the unicorns running rampant in your minds.
Hence, the “I look like I like black guys” look.
But it’s a weird thing to hear from random passersby, “You like black guys don’t you?”
Granted, it probably doesn’t help that I’m usually screaming, “Yeah…uh huh… you want it!” to these random passersby as I grab my love junk, which is either my boobs/ass/belly or a combination of the three, depending on my level of intoxication.
And for the record, I’m usually joking when I say that…usually.
Now the real question is: what is the “look?” What exactly is it about me that says “I am a lover of dark chocolate/fried chicken/majority of the Waynes brothers?”
Can strangers just tell that I’ve been watching “In Living Color” since I was seven? Or that my panties get all in a twist when someone buys me a 40? (Preferably a Hurricane.) Or the fact that I have a preference when it comes to 40’s, which means one could safely assume that I’ve consumed more than type of malt liquor on multiple occasions? Preferable when I’m watching “Intervention.”
… I’m sorry but there is no other way to watch “Intervention” than a 40 in one hand, and a crack pipe in the other… it’s better than porn…ha, who am I kidding there is nothing better than porn…nothing.
And why is it that I cannot see the “look” within myself, yet I can see the “look” in others? However, I can see the black guy in me… actually that’s a lie… it’s usually too dark for me to tell.
My best friend and I have deduced that it is more of an essence than a look. An essence of sass one could say. It cannot be seen, only felt… and it feels oh so good.
There are three types of men that like obnoxiously sassy girls: 1. The hobo on uppers down the street, 2. Gay guys, and 3. Black men. And um, I’m a little obnoxious (if you haven’t already noticed) so why wouldn’t I love all three? They are FABULOUS!
White guys like obnoxiously sassy girls too, it’s just the majority doesn’t know how to handle them. Probably because we are wild and free, like the unicorns running rampant in your minds.
Hence, the “I look like I like black guys” look.
I present to you the greatest game of all!
Once again, boys have been given everything. Not only do they have penises and better porn, they now can add “Bros Icing Bros” to the list of everything a girl really wants in life.
If you are stupid and unfamiliar with this beautiful game, it’s pretty simple. Bro 1 gives Bro 2 the girliest drink possible, a warm, diabetes ridden, Smirnoff Ice. Bro 2 must then get into pussy position (drop to one knee) and chug. However, if Bro 2 has an Ice hidden in his man purse and/or satchel, then Bro 1 must drop to one knee and chug not only one BUT two Ices.
Honestly, it’s genius. It’s riddled with humiliation, name-calling and good-hearted blood alcohol poisoning.
And it’s time for girls to catch up, thus ladies I give you a new game, or one should say, the female counterpart to “Bros Icing Bros.”
Ladies and (Gentlemen if your man enough) I give you: “Hoes Dogging Hoes.” It’s the same exact game as “Bros Icing Bros,” without the Smirnoff. Instead, girls must be presented Mad Dog. Any flavor, any color, any size. My preference being the Bling Bling edition.
So ladies, you know your mission: open your purses, shove as many MDs as you can and start dogging some bitches.
If you are stupid and unfamiliar with this beautiful game, it’s pretty simple. Bro 1 gives Bro 2 the girliest drink possible, a warm, diabetes ridden, Smirnoff Ice. Bro 2 must then get into pussy position (drop to one knee) and chug. However, if Bro 2 has an Ice hidden in his man purse and/or satchel, then Bro 1 must drop to one knee and chug not only one BUT two Ices.
Honestly, it’s genius. It’s riddled with humiliation, name-calling and good-hearted blood alcohol poisoning.
And it’s time for girls to catch up, thus ladies I give you a new game, or one should say, the female counterpart to “Bros Icing Bros.”
Ladies and (Gentlemen if your man enough) I give you: “Hoes Dogging Hoes.” It’s the same exact game as “Bros Icing Bros,” without the Smirnoff. Instead, girls must be presented Mad Dog. Any flavor, any color, any size. My preference being the Bling Bling edition.
Wait...that's not right...
I once knew a man with a penis;
That wasn’t quite smooth from side to side.
Try as I might;
I couldn’t help but be freaked out by the sight,
By a penis that zig-zagged all throughout the night.
Creepy right? But it’s true… this guy I had “relations” with had a “zig-zaggy” penis. It made absolutely no sense. We’ve all heard of the chode…and the infamous curved penis or as I like to call Mr. Curved curvy McCurvster… but zig-zagged? A penis that not only zigged…but zagged?
This did not please me. Or should it please anyone (male or female).
I have to admit, one of the good things about being a girl, is every girl’s lady junk pretty much looks the same (for the most part). Well…until you have babies…and then it’s just icky.
But boys, if you have a weird penis…people are going to know… and soon.
It’s the first thing we talk about really. When I say, “what was it like?” It means penis. At least among my friends.
When I first encountered Mr. Zig-Zag I didn’t know how to explain it.
“So what was it like?”
“Um…his penis was jagged…”
“What, were there shards of glass on it?”
“…maybe?”
Words made no sense. I had to draw it. My friends hovered around me for hours as I attempted to draw this infamous…member. It soon became a terrible name game of Pictionary.
“Is it a Christmas tree?!”
“No.”
“Wait! Wait! Wait! It’s a lightening bolt, isn’t it!?”
“No.”
“Charlie Brown?”
“God damnit….no.”
In the end, the best way to describe Mr. Zig-zag, was that well, the penis did in fact zig and then zagged. Picture three square boxes stacked on top of each other and then someone accidently pushed them off kilter, but was too lazy to straighten the boxes back to their normal position.
…and that’s how anatomy was explained to me in Catholic school.
But hey, let’s give Jesus a break, he has to make a lot of dicks everyday… not every man’s boinking-membobber can be perfect.
Am I right ladies? Am I right?
I think I am….gentleman.
Conclusion of this and that...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 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 to work.
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.
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 to work.
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's nothing worse than clowns...
For girls, you don’t get funny by being skinny when you’re ten. And you definitely don’t get funny by being pretty any year before your 18th birthday. Oh, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no…
The gift of humor comes when your 21 with adult braces and you are forced by your delusional intermediate acting teacher (who is paid by the university) to wear clown make- up for 12 hours straight. And I mean full on white face, with abnormally red cheeks and frizzy ass hair.
… okay the hair was my fault…but I had a feeling that straightening my hair that day wouldn’t exactly diffuse the situation.
You know what’s scarier than clown porn? A clown with ceramic braces…. it’s just doesn’t look right…
I made a girl in my media law class run into a wall and cry that day….she didn’t like clowns/sexually based jokes/me with or without whiteface. Granted, I didn’t like her, so it kind of worked out in my favor. But that’s beside’s the point.
And yet I seemed to be the only person in my acting class that was not okay with this infamous “Clown Day.” Like, I was the freak for not wanting unwarranted attention based solely on my outer appearance.
Um, sorry musical theatre majors, but I couldn’t fit into blue jeans for 12 years and was forced to wear elastic leggings by my mother, that were color coded with the season, my mood and whatever fast food I was eating that day…so, um, yeah…I think I already got my fix of gawking stares from random passerby’s.
We weren’t supposed to talk for those 12 hours either, but after I had my first interaction with Mr. Obvious at nine in the morning, my inner bitch came out real quick.
“Dude, that chicks got clown make-up on.”
“Yeah, no shit, dickwad.”
… Did I mention that I’m not a morning person… or an afternoon person… or an “If it were socially acceptable to wear clown make-up on a daily basis…I so would” person.
Now don’t get my wrong… I love looking disgusting… but only on my own accord. I call it the Amy Sedaris syndrome: beautiful girl just dying to be ugly and wrinkly and sexually perverse for an audience. (Watch, Strangers with Candy).
But, next time someone tells me I’m required to wear white-face and frolic amongst the normal’s (and knowing my life this will happen again), I’m totally throwing out the race card…
“Wait…fuck you…why do I have to wear white-face...why can't I be black? You racist.”
The gift of humor comes when your 21 with adult braces and you are forced by your delusional intermediate acting teacher (who is paid by the university) to wear clown make- up for 12 hours straight. And I mean full on white face, with abnormally red cheeks and frizzy ass hair.
… okay the hair was my fault…but I had a feeling that straightening my hair that day wouldn’t exactly diffuse the situation.
You know what’s scarier than clown porn? A clown with ceramic braces…. it’s just doesn’t look right…
I made a girl in my media law class run into a wall and cry that day….she didn’t like clowns/sexually based jokes/me with or without whiteface. Granted, I didn’t like her, so it kind of worked out in my favor. But that’s beside’s the point.
And yet I seemed to be the only person in my acting class that was not okay with this infamous “Clown Day.” Like, I was the freak for not wanting unwarranted attention based solely on my outer appearance.
Um, sorry musical theatre majors, but I couldn’t fit into blue jeans for 12 years and was forced to wear elastic leggings by my mother, that were color coded with the season, my mood and whatever fast food I was eating that day…so, um, yeah…I think I already got my fix of gawking stares from random passerby’s.
We weren’t supposed to talk for those 12 hours either, but after I had my first interaction with Mr. Obvious at nine in the morning, my inner bitch came out real quick.
“Dude, that chicks got clown make-up on.”
“Yeah, no shit, dickwad.”
… Did I mention that I’m not a morning person… or an afternoon person… or an “If it were socially acceptable to wear clown make-up on a daily basis…I so would” person.
Now don’t get my wrong… I love looking disgusting… but only on my own accord. I call it the Amy Sedaris syndrome: beautiful girl just dying to be ugly and wrinkly and sexually perverse for an audience. (Watch, Strangers with Candy).
But, next time someone tells me I’m required to wear white-face and frolic amongst the normal’s (and knowing my life this will happen again), I’m totally throwing out the race card…
“Wait…fuck you…why do I have to wear white-face...why can't I be black? You racist.”
All right, I’m going to say it…
Nature. Not impressed. It’s so tall and arrogant. Like, “look at me my pretty leaves sway in the wind as I blow gnats into your face.” You little whore. Waving your leaves for all the boys to see. That’s what skanks do nature. That’s what skanks do.
And don’t be such a cliché, nature…that annoys me. And why do you have to be such a bitch? You just can’t seem wait another month for me to lose my summer weight, now can yah? Oh no of course not, Mother Nature. You want the whole world to see my muffin top….bitch.
Honestly, nature you have become a drain on the society. With all your “save me! Save me!” bullshit. Beggars disgust me, and you nature, are a beggar. You don’t see me begging passerby’s for Tasti-Delite, now do you? Okay only on Friday… whatever, fuck you, I have needs.
I think we can all agree that technology supplies that with the sufficient amount of nature to satisfy our natural needs. If you even have any. You sick fuck.
If I could sum up nature with one word it would be, “meh, it looks better on TV.”
When I want to see nature at its “finest” (which is never) I’ll just DVR the Discovery Channel or watch Shark Week high.
I’ve never trusted nature, and I never will. What are you hiding up in those red woods, you sadist bastards? It seems like some voodoo magic to me. Think I’m crazy? Well we’ll just see whose laughing when the Velociraptors come out at night during your “night hike”. And who the fuck hikes at night? Velociraptors with guns, that’s who. Well them and liberal hippie douches.
We need to be careful, or nature will try to fight for it’s natural right on this planet. Which, um hello, it has no right. Can nature vote during presidential elections? Does nature shovel Ben & Jerry’s into its mouth when Joey doesn’t call when he said he would? Does wear pants?
No. It doesn’t.
Know your role, nature. Know your role. Or we’ll just keep replacing you with those synthetic plants from Home Depot.
And don’t be such a cliché, nature…that annoys me. And why do you have to be such a bitch? You just can’t seem wait another month for me to lose my summer weight, now can yah? Oh no of course not, Mother Nature. You want the whole world to see my muffin top….bitch.
Honestly, nature you have become a drain on the society. With all your “save me! Save me!” bullshit. Beggars disgust me, and you nature, are a beggar. You don’t see me begging passerby’s for Tasti-Delite, now do you? Okay only on Friday… whatever, fuck you, I have needs.
I think we can all agree that technology supplies that with the sufficient amount of nature to satisfy our natural needs. If you even have any. You sick fuck.
If I could sum up nature with one word it would be, “meh, it looks better on TV.”
When I want to see nature at its “finest” (which is never) I’ll just DVR the Discovery Channel or watch Shark Week high.
I’ve never trusted nature, and I never will. What are you hiding up in those red woods, you sadist bastards? It seems like some voodoo magic to me. Think I’m crazy? Well we’ll just see whose laughing when the Velociraptors come out at night during your “night hike”. And who the fuck hikes at night? Velociraptors with guns, that’s who. Well them and liberal hippie douches.
We need to be careful, or nature will try to fight for it’s natural right on this planet. Which, um hello, it has no right. Can nature vote during presidential elections? Does nature shovel Ben & Jerry’s into its mouth when Joey doesn’t call when he said he would? Does wear pants?
No. It doesn’t.
Know your role, nature. Know your role. Or we’ll just keep replacing you with those synthetic plants from Home Depot.
Oh you know this and that...
So, two things real quick.
1. This really awesome girl @ TOAR made me this kick ass badge for my blog and you guys should totally like grab it and shit (once I figure out how to download it correctly to my blog) and like make me famous....I don't know....I don't know... I might give you candy as well...
2. I'm lazy on the weekend, so I'm bringing back a post that I really like that I'm pretty sure none of you have read (okay maybe three of you have read)....enjoy while I go drink now...
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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 random professor! I’m having sex tonight.”
“Good for you., I…will not.”
“Oh we know, random professor, 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.
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 trip into sexual transmitted disease land, 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.
1. This really awesome girl @ TOAR made me this kick ass badge for my blog and you guys should totally like grab it and shit (once I figure out how to download it correctly to my blog) and like make me famous....I don't know....I don't know... I might give you candy as well...
2. I'm lazy on the weekend, so I'm bringing back a post that I really like that I'm pretty sure none of you have read (okay maybe three of you have read)....enjoy while I go drink now...
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
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 random professor! I’m having sex tonight.”
“Good for you., I…will not.”
“Oh we know, random professor, 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.
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 trip into sexual transmitted disease land, 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.
And they're off!
For the three of you that were reading my blog a year ago, then you know I had a very very hard decision to make: to get adult braces or to not.
I had finally admitted to myself that I wanted to be a comedian/comedic actor/stripper and my teeth were an issue.
Seriously, it was a huge issue. I had fangs. Well that is an under statement, in all honesty, I looked like an extra from Twilight. And I would have kept them (the fangs) too, but I was pretty sure that this whole TV vampire shit was going to end soon.
Long story short, I picked the former and after a year of antagonizing embarrassment produced from a 21 year-old mouth of metal, as of yesterday I am no longer a freak of nature.
I have fixed my one facial flaw. Ok that is an exaggeration…I could be tanner.
I can still remember my hand shaking as I signed my life away (they make you sign a contract…those bitches) , or more accurately signing my sex life away. Coincidently, my sex life actually got a little better…. I think the guys could smell the desperation on my face…I don’t know… well actually I do know, that’s exactly what happened.
The worst moment was when I encountered my own kind…the other adult bracerers. It’s the equivalent the ginger head nod, but more embarrassing...because you soberly chose this life. You both know your decision was just (in your narcissist minds), but still you stand their in front of each other two defeated adults stuck in a limbo of metal and roast beef…. The roast beef always seemed to get stuck…
And after this post I am blocking out my “brace face” year out of my mind. I will never talk about it again. I will never think about it. Why? Because it never happened.
Never.
I’m also getting headshots in the near future so get ready to blow your loads (prepubescent boys who accidently ended up at my blog by googling “masturbating too much”).
And for the record my new stripper name is Tequila Mockingbird…
I had finally admitted to myself that I wanted to be a comedian/comedic actor/stripper and my teeth were an issue.
Seriously, it was a huge issue. I had fangs. Well that is an under statement, in all honesty, I looked like an extra from Twilight. And I would have kept them (the fangs) too, but I was pretty sure that this whole TV vampire shit was going to end soon.
Long story short, I picked the former and after a year of antagonizing embarrassment produced from a 21 year-old mouth of metal, as of yesterday I am no longer a freak of nature.
I have fixed my one facial flaw. Ok that is an exaggeration…I could be tanner.
I can still remember my hand shaking as I signed my life away (they make you sign a contract…those bitches) , or more accurately signing my sex life away. Coincidently, my sex life actually got a little better…. I think the guys could smell the desperation on my face…I don’t know… well actually I do know, that’s exactly what happened.
The worst moment was when I encountered my own kind…the other adult bracerers. It’s the equivalent the ginger head nod, but more embarrassing...because you soberly chose this life. You both know your decision was just (in your narcissist minds), but still you stand their in front of each other two defeated adults stuck in a limbo of metal and roast beef…. The roast beef always seemed to get stuck…
And after this post I am blocking out my “brace face” year out of my mind. I will never talk about it again. I will never think about it. Why? Because it never happened.
Never.
I’m also getting headshots in the near future so get ready to blow your loads (prepubescent boys who accidently ended up at my blog by googling “masturbating too much”).
And for the record my new stripper name is Tequila Mockingbird…
How to deal with racism...
It’s so hard to know what’s kosher to say with this generation, what with the P.C. police acting like the S.S. nowadays.
And I think the world would be a better place if we would just admit that we all are a little racist.
Every time a W.A.S.P. whispers, “I don’t see color” an angel dies.
Seriously, it’s true. Just like when it thunders angels are bowling and when there is a sun shower the devil is beating his wife. This is how science works, bitches.
Can we just all agree that we all giggle at a good black joke? Or that it warms our hearts when we see the old Asian lady back her car into a ditch? Or that Dave Chappelle’s impression of a white guy is fucking spot on?!
I’m sorry, but you politically correct people can get off your fucking high horse and kiss my fucking ass.
And I don’t care if you think I’m a racist, as long as you think I’m hot.
But the best part of this whole politically correct era is the people that are truly offended are the “Caucasians”…and first off, what the fuck are Caucasians? Seriously, what are they? Where is this elusive Caucasia? I heard it’s next to GAP, but that might just be a rumor.
Placing me within a certain group of people just because I have no pigment in my skin, well….that’s just racist. And I won’t fucking stand for it.
I like to believe that politically correct people lack acceptable personalities, have mediocre sex at best and smell like self defeat and L.L. Bean….
It’s really the only way I can really feel better about my offensive self, but fuck it, I’m not changing shit.
I bet you wont either. And if you laugh at this video….you shouldn’t change a thing.
And I think the world would be a better place if we would just admit that we all are a little racist.
Every time a W.A.S.P. whispers, “I don’t see color” an angel dies.
Seriously, it’s true. Just like when it thunders angels are bowling and when there is a sun shower the devil is beating his wife. This is how science works, bitches.
Can we just all agree that we all giggle at a good black joke? Or that it warms our hearts when we see the old Asian lady back her car into a ditch? Or that Dave Chappelle’s impression of a white guy is fucking spot on?!
I’m sorry, but you politically correct people can get off your fucking high horse and kiss my fucking ass.
And I don’t care if you think I’m a racist, as long as you think I’m hot.
But the best part of this whole politically correct era is the people that are truly offended are the “Caucasians”…and first off, what the fuck are Caucasians? Seriously, what are they? Where is this elusive Caucasia? I heard it’s next to GAP, but that might just be a rumor.
Placing me within a certain group of people just because I have no pigment in my skin, well….that’s just racist. And I won’t fucking stand for it.
I like to believe that politically correct people lack acceptable personalities, have mediocre sex at best and smell like self defeat and L.L. Bean….
It’s really the only way I can really feel better about my offensive self, but fuck it, I’m not changing shit.
I bet you wont either. And if you laugh at this video….you shouldn’t change a thing.
Just be glad this wasn't you...
First things first I'm over @ http://www.funnynotslutty.com/ today, so go check it ouuuuuuuuuwt!
And next, I would like to present an honorable mention from my contest last month, Aggy, who has so graciously let me post her hilarious story...
Be sure to check her out at http://www.aggykryss.blogspot.com/ and now on to the story...
I used to work at a restaurant and there was this SUPER HOT guy who came in all the time and sat in my section. This was back when I was really into tattoos and piercings ("You have a tattoo? Here, look at my boobs!"), and this guy had 163, or so he said, with plans for more. He also had a tongue ring and eyebrow ring. And even without all the decoration, he was pretty to look at. He was also very nice and had a very sexay voice that could soak my panties in one phrase. Usually that phrase was, "I'll have the fried chicken and fish plate, please." I know, super sexy.
One day, he asked me to come hang out with him at his place after work. After my shift, I ran home to shave the hairs off my vag and legs and scrub the grease from the restaurant off my skin. I wore a pink tank top and even PUT ON MAKE UP. Woah. I was stoked.
I get to his house, and we sit in the front room and proceed to get fall on our asses drunk. His front room is quite normal (he was almost 30... I was 20... I was impressed with his lack of slovenliness that most other guys' apartments seemed to contain). After a while, the usual "lets-make-out-and-make-our-way-to-my-room" routine begins.
At this point, it is important to tell you I'd only slept with TWO other people in my life. This is very important information, keep it in the back of your mind.
Things are going good in the bedroom. Really good, in the dark, quiet room. His dick is gigantic, and I am excited to sample the biggest penis I had ever felt!
Things started to get awkward for me when he started saying things like, "Oh, you're such a dirty whore. Let me lick your A-hole." But I tried to roll with it, finger up the A and all, because hey, he was hot and I didn't want him to know how inexperienced I was! Duh!
Then, he turns on the lights. Because he wants to see how beautiful I am.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I'm lying on my back, on his bed, and he's sliding his giant dick into me, when I notice that over the bed he has hung a MOTHERFUCKING NAZI FLAG.
I look around the room and there are Confederate flags, there are Satanic posters, there are all SORTS OF CRAZY INSANE THINGS hanging all over this guy's room!!!!! And I'm too scared to stop him from slamming into me like a freaking horse on PCP because he's a MOTHERFUCKING NAZI!
After he finishes, he puts on a MOTHERFUCKING G.G. Allen video (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GG_Allin) and tells me THAT is his hero. At which point I gather my clothes in shame. And of course, thank him for the lovely time but I must be going now it's 6:00 am and I have class in two hours...
And he tells me, "Good. I gotta go pick my girlfriend up to take her to school anyway."
!!!
"Oh, does she go to the university too?" I ask.
"Nah. She goes to NAME OF LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL."
Ummmmmm...
And what's even weirder is that he called me a bunch of times to try to lure me back to his fortress of psycho.
The end!
And next, I would like to present an honorable mention from my contest last month, Aggy, who has so graciously let me post her hilarious story...
Be sure to check her out at http://www.aggykryss.blogspot.com/ and now on to the story...
I used to work at a restaurant and there was this SUPER HOT guy who came in all the time and sat in my section. This was back when I was really into tattoos and piercings ("You have a tattoo? Here, look at my boobs!"), and this guy had 163, or so he said, with plans for more. He also had a tongue ring and eyebrow ring. And even without all the decoration, he was pretty to look at. He was also very nice and had a very sexay voice that could soak my panties in one phrase. Usually that phrase was, "I'll have the fried chicken and fish plate, please." I know, super sexy.
One day, he asked me to come hang out with him at his place after work. After my shift, I ran home to shave the hairs off my vag and legs and scrub the grease from the restaurant off my skin. I wore a pink tank top and even PUT ON MAKE UP. Woah. I was stoked.
I get to his house, and we sit in the front room and proceed to get fall on our asses drunk. His front room is quite normal (he was almost 30... I was 20... I was impressed with his lack of slovenliness that most other guys' apartments seemed to contain). After a while, the usual "lets-make-out-and-make-our-way-to-my-room" routine begins.
At this point, it is important to tell you I'd only slept with TWO other people in my life. This is very important information, keep it in the back of your mind.
Things are going good in the bedroom. Really good, in the dark, quiet room. His dick is gigantic, and I am excited to sample the biggest penis I had ever felt!
Things started to get awkward for me when he started saying things like, "Oh, you're such a dirty whore. Let me lick your A-hole." But I tried to roll with it, finger up the A and all, because hey, he was hot and I didn't want him to know how inexperienced I was! Duh!
Then, he turns on the lights. Because he wants to see how beautiful I am.
Holy. Fucking. Shit.
I'm lying on my back, on his bed, and he's sliding his giant dick into me, when I notice that over the bed he has hung a MOTHERFUCKING NAZI FLAG.
I look around the room and there are Confederate flags, there are Satanic posters, there are all SORTS OF CRAZY INSANE THINGS hanging all over this guy's room!!!!! And I'm too scared to stop him from slamming into me like a freaking horse on PCP because he's a MOTHERFUCKING NAZI!
After he finishes, he puts on a MOTHERFUCKING G.G. Allen video (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/GG_Allin) and tells me THAT is his hero. At which point I gather my clothes in shame. And of course, thank him for the lovely time but I must be going now it's 6:00 am and I have class in two hours...
And he tells me, "Good. I gotta go pick my girlfriend up to take her to school anyway."
!!!
"Oh, does she go to the university too?" I ask.
"Nah. She goes to NAME OF LOCAL HIGH SCHOOL."
Ummmmmm...
And what's even weirder is that he called me a bunch of times to try to lure me back to his fortress of psycho.
The end!
I think you will agree...I hope.
So it's Friday and we've all got better things to do than read my blog. So let me be frank. There are just some people I could never see having sex. The thought haunts my virgin mind everyday and so of course I feel the need to share it with you.
1. Condoleeza Rice
Nope, she doesn't have sex. Nope. Nope. Nope. In all reality she is probably a freak in the sheets but again for my sanity, there's no way this woman has sex.
2. Roseanne O'Donnell
I heard when she has sex she takes on the form a a praying mantis... and well I think you know the end of that story....
3. Me
I am a saint! I tell you! A saint. But I don't seem to be able to find a picture proving that so....
4. Tom Arnold
Oh who am I kidding. We've all sexually fantasied about this man (gentlemen).
5. The Real Peter Griffin
That's icky....
6. Jeb Bush
I just assume every time he has sex he's thinking about George and I dunno, a brother thinking about a brother while he's doin' it....bug gah.
7. Daniel Radclife
Harry potter is a saint I tell you! A saint!
8. Ann Coulter
Any woman with man hands is on the "i can't see you having sex list," Ann Coulter.
9. Glenn Beck
Just change your personality. Just change it. Or talk to god G. Beck and see if he'll let you reproduce asexually....
10. Mom's With Mom Haircuts
1. Condoleeza Rice
2. Roseanne O'Donnell
3. Me
I am a saint! I tell you! A saint. But I don't seem to be able to find a picture proving that so....
4. Tom Arnold
5. The Real Peter Griffin
That's icky....
6. Jeb Bush
7. Daniel Radclife
Harry potter is a saint I tell you! A saint!
8. Ann Coulter
9. Glenn Beck
10. Mom's With Mom Haircuts
Let your freak flag wave...
There are few things that I pride myself on, well actually there is only one: the amount of meat I can eat in one sitting.
I eat meat like it’s no one’s business. And I mean that in the most unsexual way possible. If I were speaking with a sexual tone, that “meat eating “ business would have a name and that name would be prostitution/stripping/Brett Farve’s publicist.
Now I know. I know. This is a huge turn-on (the nonsexual meat eating). And yes, the phrase “soul-mate” may be lingering in your mind (Mitchell). And god see me with a tub of mayo and I am irristable. So let me get to the chase.
I’m a disgusting human being. If I wasn’t so gosh darn cute, I’d probably be shunned by society. If you haven’t already guessed, then yes, I am going through a dry spell.
At this point you may be talking out loud to your computer.
“But Natalie, how could this be? Your top three favorite subjects are meat/mayo/masturbation. How does every man not find you sexually appealing and mysterious?”
So true ladies (and the two guys) that read my blog. So true.
However, watch me shovel three pounds of roast beef drenched in a gallon of mayo down my gullet as I dispute the deep philosophies of youporn.com and I’m pretty sure you’ll be holding back vomit, like so many others in my past.
Now many of you may find these revelations repulsive…Mother.
And I don’t know why I feel the need to write about this (blame my writing partner Samuel Adams), yet here I am just typing away, half naked with a beer to my right and a plate of meat to my left. Sadly this is not an exaggeration. And I may be wearing zebra stripped shorts right now…I don’t know. I don’t know.
I feel like many of you can relate. All it takes is one freak, and the rest will follow. I also, think this has something to do with my hatred of stupid girls. They act so prim and perfect and well I all I want to do is wait till they accidently fart in public and then tweet about it for five hours straight.
My feet sweat. Penises used to scare me. I’ve been afraid of vomiting since I was seven. I hear voices in my head, well technically it’s just my own voice but still… I find Louis C.K. sexy, sometimes when my phone vibrates I think I farted. I’ve “accidently” eaten dog food on more than one occasion.
This post was probably more for me than anyone else, but whatever it’s my fucking blog.
Hi, my name is Natalie and I’m a fucking freak.
I eat meat like it’s no one’s business. And I mean that in the most unsexual way possible. If I were speaking with a sexual tone, that “meat eating “ business would have a name and that name would be prostitution/stripping/Brett Farve’s publicist.
Now I know. I know. This is a huge turn-on (the nonsexual meat eating). And yes, the phrase “soul-mate” may be lingering in your mind (Mitchell). And god see me with a tub of mayo and I am irristable. So let me get to the chase.
I’m a disgusting human being. If I wasn’t so gosh darn cute, I’d probably be shunned by society. If you haven’t already guessed, then yes, I am going through a dry spell.
At this point you may be talking out loud to your computer.
“But Natalie, how could this be? Your top three favorite subjects are meat/mayo/masturbation. How does every man not find you sexually appealing and mysterious?”
So true ladies (and the two guys) that read my blog. So true.
However, watch me shovel three pounds of roast beef drenched in a gallon of mayo down my gullet as I dispute the deep philosophies of youporn.com and I’m pretty sure you’ll be holding back vomit, like so many others in my past.
Now many of you may find these revelations repulsive…Mother.
And I don’t know why I feel the need to write about this (blame my writing partner Samuel Adams), yet here I am just typing away, half naked with a beer to my right and a plate of meat to my left. Sadly this is not an exaggeration. And I may be wearing zebra stripped shorts right now…I don’t know. I don’t know.
I feel like many of you can relate. All it takes is one freak, and the rest will follow. I also, think this has something to do with my hatred of stupid girls. They act so prim and perfect and well I all I want to do is wait till they accidently fart in public and then tweet about it for five hours straight.
My feet sweat. Penises used to scare me. I’ve been afraid of vomiting since I was seven. I hear voices in my head, well technically it’s just my own voice but still… I find Louis C.K. sexy, sometimes when my phone vibrates I think I farted. I’ve “accidently” eaten dog food on more than one occasion.
This post was probably more for me than anyone else, but whatever it’s my fucking blog.
Hi, my name is Natalie and I’m a fucking freak.
The similarities are uncanny...
So, um lately I’ve realized that the noises I make while I’m exercising are the same exact noises I make while having sex.
A lot of moaning and grunting, a couple of “Jesus Christ!” and “Mother fucker(s)!” and the occasional “Where are my pants?”
….That’s weird right? Since one of those things is a pleasurable experience and one makes me want to (and I usually do) vomit.
I’ll let you decide which one is which.
The similarities are uncanny. I have wrinkles. WRINKLES mother fuckers! From the faces I make during sex/running/watching HGTV. I’m 22, this is not fucking fair.
And the end result is always the same; a little dazed and confused (great movie btw) unsure of my current surroundings and with the insatiable craving for skittles.
I feel like you’ll appreciate my candor, so I’m just going to say this flat out. This scares the living shit out of me. And it leaves only one necessary question in my mind…why the fuck do I always want skittles?
Seriously, I’m not that big of a fan. I’m more of a Zero bar type of girl. Their commercials are so fucking annoying, but it never fails once the deed(s) is done, I want a skittle in my mouth. And I want it in my mouth immediately.
Maybe it’s a white girl thing.
What doesn’t scream upper white middle class than popping a few skittles after marathon training/emotionless sex/playing wii golf? And by skittles I mean xanex and by xanex I mean exactly.
And furthermore, to make myself feel like less of a freak, I’m going to say that people who don’t do this are un-American. No worse than that, anti-American. No…worse than that….liberal hippie douches.
Yeah, that’s right, you liberal hippie douche, you. So while you go and rally to get “Free Bird” as America’s new national anthem, while you drink your PBR and pretend that you actually like the taste. I’ll go live in my diluted sense of reality and continue to ignore my uncontrollable sexual/exercising/bodily functions induced tourettes and finish with a tall, cool bag of skittles.
There. We both win. You freak.
A lot of moaning and grunting, a couple of “Jesus Christ!” and “Mother fucker(s)!” and the occasional “Where are my pants?”
….That’s weird right? Since one of those things is a pleasurable experience and one makes me want to (and I usually do) vomit.
I’ll let you decide which one is which.
The similarities are uncanny. I have wrinkles. WRINKLES mother fuckers! From the faces I make during sex/running/watching HGTV. I’m 22, this is not fucking fair.
And the end result is always the same; a little dazed and confused (great movie btw) unsure of my current surroundings and with the insatiable craving for skittles.
I feel like you’ll appreciate my candor, so I’m just going to say this flat out. This scares the living shit out of me. And it leaves only one necessary question in my mind…why the fuck do I always want skittles?
Seriously, I’m not that big of a fan. I’m more of a Zero bar type of girl. Their commercials are so fucking annoying, but it never fails once the deed(s) is done, I want a skittle in my mouth. And I want it in my mouth immediately.
Maybe it’s a white girl thing.
What doesn’t scream upper white middle class than popping a few skittles after marathon training/emotionless sex/playing wii golf? And by skittles I mean xanex and by xanex I mean exactly.
And furthermore, to make myself feel like less of a freak, I’m going to say that people who don’t do this are un-American. No worse than that, anti-American. No…worse than that….liberal hippie douches.
Yeah, that’s right, you liberal hippie douche, you. So while you go and rally to get “Free Bird” as America’s new national anthem, while you drink your PBR and pretend that you actually like the taste. I’ll go live in my diluted sense of reality and continue to ignore my uncontrollable sexual/exercising/bodily functions induced tourettes and finish with a tall, cool bag of skittles.
There. We both win. You freak.
So I'm assuming you already know but...
As you’ve probably already heard there has been another sex scandal at Duke. Surprise, surprise.
The “Duke Fuck List” a 42 page Power point presentation has gone viral. Many of them men listed were lacrosse players…again. Surprise. Surprise. The presentation goes into vast amounts of detail for each sexual conquest.
While I have my opinions on this scandal (and seeing as all I do is rant)… I really want to know… what do you think of Miss Karen Owen? And of the "fuck list"?
For more details go here.
(when I pulled this image off of google it automatically named itself "duke black cock" muahahahah)
While I have my opinions on this scandal (and seeing as all I do is rant)… I really want to know… what do you think of Miss Karen Owen? And of the "fuck list"?
For more details go here.
Really? Really?!
There are two types of girls in the world: girls that think Katherine Heigl is the best thing since sliced bread and those who think Heigl is a menace to society and should be locked up in a cage, with someone shoving lard down her gullet and forced to watch “The Ugly Truth”…repeatedly.
I fall into the latter.
But can we please talk about this pandemic of dumb girls? (Not my readers, of course, if you find my blog funny, then you are a genius on so many levels.)
Seriously though, so many girls are the same nowadays. I have to make some of you wear Bump It’s just to remember who’s who.
Please stop being a cliché, girls with no personalities… that annoys me.
Maybe it’s just me, but I like my girls bitchy. I like my girls with some gusto. I like my girls to actually understand the definition of gusto.
I went to a college where majority of the girls had no names and just sucked dick…with their mouths and their overall personalities.
Girls that said:
“The movie “Letters to Juliet” just speaks to me in a way that no man really ever can.”
and…
“Wait…I thought Britney Spears wrote ‘(I cant get no) satisfaction’…”
and my all time favorite…
“I ate too much gummy bears last night.”
Really, small Asian girl on the bus that probably gives great head? Really?!
So I may be a little jaded…
But come on!
I’m no feminist, far from it. They annoy me, too. But where did this resurgence of “I have to act dumb to get laid” philosophy come from?
It would make me feel a whole lot better if you at least pretended that “When in Rome” was a movie based on pure fiction and not your slutty’s friends trip to Italy last summer while you intern at the pentagon.
“No, I swear to God! Jackie went to Rome and threw some coin into a fountain and then had sex with some Guido tourist and now they are getting married cause he knocked her up. Who are we looking for again, Osama or Obama?”
Just change your personality. Just change it. Change it or we’re going to do this the hard way, and yes the hard way contains lard.
I fall into the latter.
But can we please talk about this pandemic of dumb girls? (Not my readers, of course, if you find my blog funny, then you are a genius on so many levels.)
Seriously though, so many girls are the same nowadays. I have to make some of you wear Bump It’s just to remember who’s who.
Please stop being a cliché, girls with no personalities… that annoys me.
Maybe it’s just me, but I like my girls bitchy. I like my girls with some gusto. I like my girls to actually understand the definition of gusto.
I went to a college where majority of the girls had no names and just sucked dick…with their mouths and their overall personalities.
Girls that said:
“The movie “Letters to Juliet” just speaks to me in a way that no man really ever can.”
and…
“Wait…I thought Britney Spears wrote ‘(I cant get no) satisfaction’…”
and my all time favorite…
“I ate too much gummy bears last night.”
Really, small Asian girl on the bus that probably gives great head? Really?!
So I may be a little jaded…
But come on!
I’m no feminist, far from it. They annoy me, too. But where did this resurgence of “I have to act dumb to get laid” philosophy come from?
It would make me feel a whole lot better if you at least pretended that “When in Rome” was a movie based on pure fiction and not your slutty’s friends trip to Italy last summer while you intern at the pentagon.
“No, I swear to God! Jackie went to Rome and threw some coin into a fountain and then had sex with some Guido tourist and now they are getting married cause he knocked her up. Who are we looking for again, Osama or Obama?”
Just change your personality. Just change it. Change it or we’re going to do this the hard way, and yes the hard way contains lard.
Um Lorne...can we talk?!?
First and foremost....what the fuck Lorne?!? How the fucking fuck could you get rid of Jenny Slate?! She's one of the funniest women I've ever seen live. And if you're in NYC go see her one woman show @ UCB, you'll piss your pants laughing. And here's just a taste of her comic genius....
!!!!!!! [BESTIE x BESTIE 1] !!!!!!! from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.
Did you love it? ...did you?........did you?!?!
Well I love everything about Jenny Slate, especially her opinion about Eat, Pray, Love. So you should love her to. Why? Cause I said so...
I also love these people and so should you guys....
They're funny, bitchy and your new best friends...check em out!
These bad boys have featured me 2..count em...2 times!
This is an effing hilarious site, that has also featured yours truly...so of course this web site fucking rocks.
And last but not least... This girl!
She let me do a guest post for her this week and yeah she kind of fucking rocks! So check her ouwwt!
!!!!!!! [BESTIE x BESTIE 1] !!!!!!! from Dean Fleischer-Camp on Vimeo.
Did you love it? ...did you?........did you?!?!
Well I love everything about Jenny Slate, especially her opinion about Eat, Pray, Love. So you should love her to. Why? Cause I said so...
I also love these people and so should you guys....
These bad boys have featured me 2..count em...2 times!
This is an effing hilarious site, that has also featured yours truly...so of course this web site fucking rocks.
And last but not least... This girl!
She let me do a guest post for her this week and yeah she kind of fucking rocks! So check her ouwwt!
The Cycle Must End...
I have a huge ego. I blame it on my parents.
“You have a gift, you really do.”
“I really do. Now laugh bitches. Laugh.
And you know I’m glad my parents have always blown this much smoke up my ass. It will probably make me famous, because I will expect nothing less.
However, I will not be doing this same shit to my child(ren).
Oh no, no, no, no.
My little bitches or bastards (which is probably going to be more accurate in my future years) are going to hate me.
Why you ask? Well, mainly because I’m probably going to hate them first. With their cute faces and their baby soft skin and perfect fucking complexions. Fuck that. I can’t even compete with them.
And don’t even get me started on how many fucking marshmallows they can shove in their fucking mouths. It’s not even …it’s just not even fair…
They will be my perfect little scapegoats. I’ll get to blame them on my failed comedic career/ my inevitable obesity/ my late night trips to Taco Bell and Long John Silver.
“You want hush puppies and fucking steak quesadillas?! Good choice, but don’t get mad at me when you’re washing me with a cloth on a stick, little fuckers.”
I don’t think I’ll name them either. I don’t want them feeling entitled or some shit like that. I mean Jesus, all they did was come out of my lady-junk.
Big. Fucking. Whoop.
And last time I checked, that’s going to be all me. Fuck that. I get to get their names instead. When I have my first you can just call me: Conway Liz Lemon Natalie Mayonique.
Mayonique… it will totally catch on….Fuck you. It will.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I know this may sound bad. I’ll totally give them money and trust funds for their early teen drug addiction… but they will definitely love their nanny more than me.
“You have a gift, you really do.”
“I really do. Now laugh bitches. Laugh.
And you know I’m glad my parents have always blown this much smoke up my ass. It will probably make me famous, because I will expect nothing less.
However, I will not be doing this same shit to my child(ren).
Oh no, no, no, no.
My little bitches or bastards (which is probably going to be more accurate in my future years) are going to hate me.
Why you ask? Well, mainly because I’m probably going to hate them first. With their cute faces and their baby soft skin and perfect fucking complexions. Fuck that. I can’t even compete with them.
And don’t even get me started on how many fucking marshmallows they can shove in their fucking mouths. It’s not even …it’s just not even fair…
They will be my perfect little scapegoats. I’ll get to blame them on my failed comedic career/ my inevitable obesity/ my late night trips to Taco Bell and Long John Silver.
“You want hush puppies and fucking steak quesadillas?! Good choice, but don’t get mad at me when you’re washing me with a cloth on a stick, little fuckers.”
I don’t think I’ll name them either. I don’t want them feeling entitled or some shit like that. I mean Jesus, all they did was come out of my lady-junk.
Big. Fucking. Whoop.
And last time I checked, that’s going to be all me. Fuck that. I get to get their names instead. When I have my first you can just call me: Conway Liz Lemon Natalie Mayonique.
Mayonique… it will totally catch on….Fuck you. It will.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I know this may sound bad. I’ll totally give them money and trust funds for their early teen drug addiction… but they will definitely love their nanny more than me.
You really are a D Lite in my eyes...
I’m a slut for ice cream. Jesus Christ, am I ever.
Well… more accurately, I’m a prostitute for ice cream.
Seriously, if someone tried to barter sex with ice cream…I’d hesitate. There would be no “what the fuck” exclamation or some immediate look of disgust and/or constipation. More of a “this guy gets me”/ “did I just meet my soul mate” look.
It’s sad really. I’d have sex in exchange for some Tasti-D Lite. To be quite honest, Tasti-Delight is legal tender in my fantasy world, as it should be in everyone’s fantasy world.
And if you don’t know what Tasti-D Lite is, get the fuck out of my face, get on Google maps, find the nearest one, buy a pint, come back to my face, spoon feed me the whole pint, and then we’ll have sex.
I may be a little gassy though…. Dairy products always seem to make me gassy…
Like I’ve said before (and if you haven’t already noticed) my life is pathetic/sick/mildly entertaining for anyone how is not me.
My top favorite places in NYC are Tasti-D Lite, Yogurtland, Serendipity, (terrible movie, fucking awesome ice-cream) and McDonalds. I don’t care if there are McDonalds everywhere in the fucking world; their ice cream is like fucking crack. And for that I will always be indebted to Ronald McDonald, you brilliant, brilliant clown you.
I have an addiction. Seriously. I have to eat it everyday or I go ape-shit.
Ever see the movie Requiem for a Dream? That’s my life in a nutshell. And by Requiem for a Dream I mean Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. And by Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles I mean, The Apple Dumpling Gang. But I think you get the similarities.
But I may have/probably/most definitely woken up half-naked in a pool of my own vomit before…and by before I mean yesterday.
I wish we could do more things with ice cream really. I wish we could snort it, inject it into our veins, use it as shampoo/body wash/lotion.
I’m pretty sure ice cream is the elixir of life. I’m also pretty sure a pint of Ben and Jerry’s would end the war on terror.
What if bullets were made out of ice cream?! Dear god, why hasn’t anyone thought of this before.
And, I think I just figured out how I’m going to get rich, bitches.
Well… more accurately, I’m a prostitute for ice cream.
Seriously, if someone tried to barter sex with ice cream…I’d hesitate. There would be no “what the fuck” exclamation or some immediate look of disgust and/or constipation. More of a “this guy gets me”/ “did I just meet my soul mate” look.
It’s sad really. I’d have sex in exchange for some Tasti-D Lite. To be quite honest, Tasti-Delight is legal tender in my fantasy world, as it should be in everyone’s fantasy world.
And if you don’t know what Tasti-D Lite is, get the fuck out of my face, get on Google maps, find the nearest one, buy a pint, come back to my face, spoon feed me the whole pint, and then we’ll have sex.
I may be a little gassy though…. Dairy products always seem to make me gassy…
Like I’ve said before (and if you haven’t already noticed) my life is pathetic/sick/mildly entertaining for anyone how is not me.
My top favorite places in NYC are Tasti-D Lite, Yogurtland, Serendipity, (terrible movie, fucking awesome ice-cream) and McDonalds. I don’t care if there are McDonalds everywhere in the fucking world; their ice cream is like fucking crack. And for that I will always be indebted to Ronald McDonald, you brilliant, brilliant clown you.
I have an addiction. Seriously. I have to eat it everyday or I go ape-shit.
Ever see the movie Requiem for a Dream? That’s my life in a nutshell. And by Requiem for a Dream I mean Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles. And by Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles I mean, The Apple Dumpling Gang. But I think you get the similarities.
But I may have/probably/most definitely woken up half-naked in a pool of my own vomit before…and by before I mean yesterday.
I wish we could do more things with ice cream really. I wish we could snort it, inject it into our veins, use it as shampoo/body wash/lotion.
I’m pretty sure ice cream is the elixir of life. I’m also pretty sure a pint of Ben and Jerry’s would end the war on terror.
What if bullets were made out of ice cream?! Dear god, why hasn’t anyone thought of this before.
And, I think I just figured out how I’m going to get rich, bitches.
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