So, this week I’ve decided to make this a fun-filled week of posts about my mother. (She knows and she’s not happy.) Granted, she doesn’t read my blog… God that be awkward…but she thinks all I do is blog about her anyway, so might as well fulfill her wishes.
Shit my mom says. Edition #1.
My mother and I are pretty much the same person. Inside and out. (She has worse gas.) Same height, same hair color, same shoe size, same weight ( I know shoot me). We look so much alike people think we are sisters…. she’s 52…I’m 22. What the fucking fuck?!
Of course we have the same exact personality. Which made this post so easy to write. I literally just followed her around for a day with a notepad and pen, with my mother complaining the whole time… “What are you writing down…Wait I didn’t mean that don’t fucking write that down…. Jesus Christ this better not end up in your fucking blog.”
Sorry mom:
“Every time I hear that god damn umbrella song, I want to punch Rihanna in the god damn face.”
“Fucking toast the bird.”
“God I wish I could tan like that.” In reference to a chicken’s skin on the grill.
“Come on Bubba, just bubba up and grow some bubba stuff.” She was talking to a tree.
“You want to know the secret to a successful marriage? Beer.”
“How could I hate something that looks exactly like me? If you didn’t you’d be screwed.”
“Whoops…that may have been a shart…don’t fucking write that down!”
“You know she ate paint right?” In reference to me to my best friend when I went left the room.
“I don’t want the Mexican’s hair.”
“You better get famous, I want to walk around naked in your house in the Hamptons and walk in on you and your husband doing it… and be like ‘yeah this is awkward isn’t it’…next time knock!”
…I love you mom.
You still like me!!!
So I got another award and instead of waiting a month later to do the shout outs I thought I’d do them now. Thank you again PhillyGirl.
Again I’m supposed to tell you 7 random facts about me, but since I’ve already done that I thought I’d be a little more specific. And thus I give you (drum roll please)....
7 THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY THAT SHOULDN’T….
1. The sound of a zit popping.
… it’s the sound of perfection and poor hygiene.
2. People fitting a racial stereotype
… doesn’t this make us all feel warm and gooey inside? Doesn’t it?
3. Guys with really really really light eyebrows.
…I t makes their eyes look all crazy and just makes me giggle.
4. This guy…
... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0DKV0bYJ5s
…
5. When boyfriends are obligated to think you are funny.
… it’s true…. You aren’t getting laid if you don’t tell me I’m funny.
6. Mo’Nique.
…come on! Did you not see her oscar interview? She talked about how she never shaved…. I almost pissed my pants laughing.
7. Ridiculous amounts of mayo.
… yes this was on the old list….but I fucking love it!
Now on to the awards….
1. TOAR
2. When Red Means Go
3. The Blonde Beer Babe
4. Steam Me Up, Kid
5. Tales from Whiskey-Ville
6. Sara Swears A lot
7. One Crazy Brunette Chick
8. One Sassy Vixen
9. NYC Island Gal
10. Mommy Wants Vodka
11. What Would Ninja Do
12. Livit, Luvit
13. Laugh Out Loud
14. In Review: Stuff and Things
15. Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder
Enjoy.
Again I’m supposed to tell you 7 random facts about me, but since I’ve already done that I thought I’d be a little more specific. And thus I give you (drum roll please)....
7 THINGS THAT MAKE ME HAPPY THAT SHOULDN’T….
1. The sound of a zit popping.
… it’s the sound of perfection and poor hygiene.
2. People fitting a racial stereotype
… doesn’t this make us all feel warm and gooey inside? Doesn’t it?
3. Guys with really really really light eyebrows.
…I t makes their eyes look all crazy and just makes me giggle.
4. This guy…
... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=s0DKV0bYJ5s
…
5. When boyfriends are obligated to think you are funny.
… it’s true…. You aren’t getting laid if you don’t tell me I’m funny.
6. Mo’Nique.
…come on! Did you not see her oscar interview? She talked about how she never shaved…. I almost pissed my pants laughing.
7. Ridiculous amounts of mayo.
… yes this was on the old list….but I fucking love it!
Now on to the awards….
1. TOAR
2. When Red Means Go
3. The Blonde Beer Babe
4. Steam Me Up, Kid
5. Tales from Whiskey-Ville
6. Sara Swears A lot
7. One Crazy Brunette Chick
8. One Sassy Vixen
9. NYC Island Gal
10. Mommy Wants Vodka
11. What Would Ninja Do
12. Livit, Luvit
13. Laugh Out Loud
14. In Review: Stuff and Things
15. Life Just Keeps Getting Weirder
Enjoy.
I'm going to tell you a story.
Gather around boys and girls, today I’m going to tell you a story of love and heartache. Of joy and sorry. Of a little girl trying to make it in the world. Yes, today I’m going to tell you about one of the worst days of my life: My first colonoscopy.
And yes, this story ends with a camera shoved up my butt.
My father had colon cancer 10 years ago, so when I saw a massive amount of blood in the toilet one day, you better believe I sat in my room rocking back and forth humming the theme song of Barney.
After 3 hours of hysterical crying, a phone call was made, and a date was set for the butt rape.
The actual procedure (the camera-ass thing) isn’t all that bad, seeing as they dope you up like crazy. It’s the day before, I repeat. The day BEFORE, the prep, that becomes a living hell.
You are presented with a gallon jug and a solution mix (available in a plethora of flavors, orange, blueberry, you’reabouttopeeoutofyourassberry) and must chug the first half of a gallon within 20 minutes. Shit. Then chug the other half, and well, shit some more.
Sounds easy right? Not exactly.
The solution itself is so thick and salty, your brain immediately screams “I’m not swallowing” and you soon find yourself in the fetal position gagging up this “devil’s drink” onto the kitchen floor.
At this point, time was running out, poop was building up, and my dad was screaming at me to man up and chug. My brother told me to start taking the “nectar of death” like a shot. And seeing as I’m a pussy. I attempted to sandwich it.
Orange soda. Witches brew of death. Orange soda.
Didn’t work. I kept hearing these high-pitched screams and then I realized it was me.
Supposedly your body can’t handle that much liquid. A flaw in God’s design, obviously. I had never seen projectile puke until I watched 34 seconds of orange soda escape my mouth like an unruly crowd stampeding toward the entrance of Wal-Mart on black Friday. It wasn’t pretty.
Let’s just say orange soda isn’t my favorite drink and more.
I slept in the bathroom that night. Well, I sat on the commode for 5 hours straight that night. There really was no point in moving. I don’t think I know of any other way to say you literally shit for 24 hours. Literally.
When you arrive to the doctor’s office. They hand you a paper dress and ask you to “relieve yourself once more” which is such a slap in the face. Like I didn’t “relieve myself” 24 hours straight. Mother-fuckers.
Um, well, turned out they were right. There was still some “relieving” to be done.
I walked out of the bathroom, bare-assed and defeated. (Nothing new there, really.)
The anesthesiologist walks in to find me nervously attempting to cover my bare ass from the cold steel, but to no avail.
“Oh don’t worry sweetie, you’re in good hands,” she squealed as she attached the elephant syringe to my IV. “This is the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson. Sleep tight.”
“Wait, w----”
And that was the day I got ass-raped by a camera four days before my 21st birthday.
And this is my PSA telling all you sons of bitches to get a colonoscopy. Who knows, you might like the camera.
And yes, this story ends with a camera shoved up my butt.
My father had colon cancer 10 years ago, so when I saw a massive amount of blood in the toilet one day, you better believe I sat in my room rocking back and forth humming the theme song of Barney.
After 3 hours of hysterical crying, a phone call was made, and a date was set for the butt rape.
The actual procedure (the camera-ass thing) isn’t all that bad, seeing as they dope you up like crazy. It’s the day before, I repeat. The day BEFORE, the prep, that becomes a living hell.
You are presented with a gallon jug and a solution mix (available in a plethora of flavors, orange, blueberry, you’reabouttopeeoutofyourassberry) and must chug the first half of a gallon within 20 minutes. Shit. Then chug the other half, and well, shit some more.
Sounds easy right? Not exactly.
The solution itself is so thick and salty, your brain immediately screams “I’m not swallowing” and you soon find yourself in the fetal position gagging up this “devil’s drink” onto the kitchen floor.
At this point, time was running out, poop was building up, and my dad was screaming at me to man up and chug. My brother told me to start taking the “nectar of death” like a shot. And seeing as I’m a pussy. I attempted to sandwich it.
Orange soda. Witches brew of death. Orange soda.
Didn’t work. I kept hearing these high-pitched screams and then I realized it was me.
Supposedly your body can’t handle that much liquid. A flaw in God’s design, obviously. I had never seen projectile puke until I watched 34 seconds of orange soda escape my mouth like an unruly crowd stampeding toward the entrance of Wal-Mart on black Friday. It wasn’t pretty.
Let’s just say orange soda isn’t my favorite drink and more.
I slept in the bathroom that night. Well, I sat on the commode for 5 hours straight that night. There really was no point in moving. I don’t think I know of any other way to say you literally shit for 24 hours. Literally.
When you arrive to the doctor’s office. They hand you a paper dress and ask you to “relieve yourself once more” which is such a slap in the face. Like I didn’t “relieve myself” 24 hours straight. Mother-fuckers.
Um, well, turned out they were right. There was still some “relieving” to be done.
I walked out of the bathroom, bare-assed and defeated. (Nothing new there, really.)
The anesthesiologist walks in to find me nervously attempting to cover my bare ass from the cold steel, but to no avail.
“Oh don’t worry sweetie, you’re in good hands,” she squealed as she attached the elephant syringe to my IV. “This is the same stuff that killed Michael Jackson. Sleep tight.”
“Wait, w----”
And that was the day I got ass-raped by a camera four days before my 21st birthday.
And this is my PSA telling all you sons of bitches to get a colonoscopy. Who knows, you might like the camera.
My worst fear
My biggest fear if I ever become a successful stand-up comedian with my own television special (now this wouldn’t be for a long time seeing as I still need to do the whole “stand-up” part) is the inevitable fact that some guy I’ve screwed is going to be flipping through the channels, recognize my face/shrill voice/cankles, turn to the first person next to him, whether it a roommate/stranger/cellmate and say:
“Dude…fucked her.”
And now, it’s not really the guy I screwed I’m worried about because yeah, whatever, I made my bed now I have to lie in it. It’s the roommate’s/stranger’s/cellmate’s reaction I’m worried about.
“Gross….” Or “Nice…”
Look, cellmate 17389 you don’t know me. Maybe I chugged a few too many wine coolers that night, and Joey called me fat, okay? And I loved Joey and he didn’t love me back, and I was feeling chunky that night. And maybe, just maybe, your buddy, cellmate 71377 or as I like to call him, Jorge, told me I was a fine slice of white-heaven as he held my hair back while I vomited on his shoes.
Would you say no to that, cellmate 17389? Would you?!
Or maybe the guy I screwed was way out of my league. It doesn’t matter that it’s taking him way tooooooooo long to figure out that simple math in his head, stranger who is at a loss for words. And maybe, just maybe, he likes high-fiving more than the average male. Whatever, he’s hot, dumb and was filled with the adequate amount of ruffies at the time. Sorry if I saw this golden opportunity and jumped on it… literally.
I’m an opportunist, not a thismightbewrongist.
Jeez….
“Dude…fucked her.”
And now, it’s not really the guy I screwed I’m worried about because yeah, whatever, I made my bed now I have to lie in it. It’s the roommate’s/stranger’s/cellmate’s reaction I’m worried about.
“Gross….” Or “Nice…”
Look, cellmate 17389 you don’t know me. Maybe I chugged a few too many wine coolers that night, and Joey called me fat, okay? And I loved Joey and he didn’t love me back, and I was feeling chunky that night. And maybe, just maybe, your buddy, cellmate 71377 or as I like to call him, Jorge, told me I was a fine slice of white-heaven as he held my hair back while I vomited on his shoes.
Would you say no to that, cellmate 17389? Would you?!
Or maybe the guy I screwed was way out of my league. It doesn’t matter that it’s taking him way tooooooooo long to figure out that simple math in his head, stranger who is at a loss for words. And maybe, just maybe, he likes high-fiving more than the average male. Whatever, he’s hot, dumb and was filled with the adequate amount of ruffies at the time. Sorry if I saw this golden opportunity and jumped on it… literally.
I’m an opportunist, not a thismightbewrongist.
Jeez….
I-phone you get me and every other (man) whore in the world.
Apple’s I-phone just gets me and my inner whore. Granted I’m still in the “flip-phone” generation…I don’t really want to talk about it. But the day my beautiful lover is in my hands these are the first Apps to be purchased...
69 LITE
....Kama Sutra positions. From oral to exotic, I think get the urgency for this genius, genius app.
iPilule
....always forget your birth contol, men? Always think you might be pregnant? (Welcome to my world) Well this App is for you, you forgetful whore.
iBrate
....sure Apple...sure it's a "neck" massager. That's what we all say.
69 LITE
....Kama Sutra positions. From oral to exotic, I think get the urgency for this genius, genius app.
iPilule
....always forget your birth contol, men? Always think you might be pregnant? (Welcome to my world) Well this App is for you, you forgetful whore.
iBrate
....sure Apple...sure it's a "neck" massager. That's what we all say.
Your eyes say it all...
You’ve been given many “looks” over the years, haven’t you? Some good; some bad; some made you cry in the corner of your bathtub (gentlemen), but the truth is, that’s life.
We all get those looks from friends/strangers/DMV workers, so to make you feel a little less repulsed about yourself, I have compiled a list of looks I’ve been given over the decades:
1. “I’ve seen you naked” look.
2. “I’m not impressed at what I’m looking at while you stand in front of me” look.
3. “I’m pretending I don’t remember you vomiting at that party the other night” look.
4. “I know you just pooped” look.
5. “You’re the whore who had sex with my friend on the stairs” look.
6. “I bet you have no standards” look.
7. “I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell” look.
8. I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell and pay with change” look.
9. “I’m sexually repulsed by the thought of you” look.
10. “You’re hot” look. (Side note: This is only from Mexican construction workers.)
11. “You don’t know how to read, do you?” look.
12. “I bet you like fat guys” look.
13. “I just saw you vomit outside of a taxicab” look.
14. “You vomit a lot” look.
15. “I’m pretty sure there is a hell and I’m pretty sure you’re going” look.
16. “You’re antics are a drain on society” look.
17. “You going to Catholic school explains a lot” look.
18. “You think Candy land is a real country, don’t you?” look.
19. “I just watched you pop a zit in public” look.
20. “I’m still watching you pop a zit in public” look.
21. “Did you just tell that man to put 5 scoops of mayo on your sandwich?” look.
22. “Are you still talking?” look.
23. “You just said Danny Glover was your original fuck” look.
24. “You’re just pretending to understand science, aren’t you” look.
25. “You just ate something that fell on the ground” look.
26. “Why are you buying a 20-pack of condoms, toothpaste and a hot-pocket all at the same time?” look.
We all get those looks from friends/strangers/DMV workers, so to make you feel a little less repulsed about yourself, I have compiled a list of looks I’ve been given over the decades:
1. “I’ve seen you naked” look.
2. “I’m not impressed at what I’m looking at while you stand in front of me” look.
3. “I’m pretending I don’t remember you vomiting at that party the other night” look.
4. “I know you just pooped” look.
5. “You’re the whore who had sex with my friend on the stairs” look.
6. “I bet you have no standards” look.
7. “I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell” look.
8. I just saw you order seven quesadillas from Taco Bell and pay with change” look.
9. “I’m sexually repulsed by the thought of you” look.
10. “You’re hot” look. (Side note: This is only from Mexican construction workers.)
11. “You don’t know how to read, do you?” look.
12. “I bet you like fat guys” look.
13. “I just saw you vomit outside of a taxicab” look.
14. “You vomit a lot” look.
15. “I’m pretty sure there is a hell and I’m pretty sure you’re going” look.
16. “You’re antics are a drain on society” look.
17. “You going to Catholic school explains a lot” look.
18. “You think Candy land is a real country, don’t you?” look.
19. “I just watched you pop a zit in public” look.
20. “I’m still watching you pop a zit in public” look.
21. “Did you just tell that man to put 5 scoops of mayo on your sandwich?” look.
22. “Are you still talking?” look.
23. “You just said Danny Glover was your original fuck” look.
24. “You’re just pretending to understand science, aren’t you” look.
25. “You just ate something that fell on the ground” look.
26. “Why are you buying a 20-pack of condoms, toothpaste and a hot-pocket all at the same time?” look.
When yous guys piss me off...
I turn to youtube.com to laugh at all the other jack asses in the world….and if these don’t make you giggle, then seriously…you have no soul.
Jackie and Deborah+ Stephanie Berger
....one guy, 3 girls, and a shit ton of pig nose. Beautiful
Double Rainbow
....everyone loves to laugh at a liberal hippie douche.
The whitest kids you know
....this show is so underrated...and I totally want to bone everyone of these guys, especially the one in the dress
This one never fails to make me giggle…
....yes. that just happened.
Jackie and Deborah+ Stephanie Berger
....one guy, 3 girls, and a shit ton of pig nose. Beautiful
Double Rainbow
....everyone loves to laugh at a liberal hippie douche.
The whitest kids you know
....this show is so underrated...and I totally want to bone everyone of these guys, especially the one in the dress
This one never fails to make me giggle…
....yes. that just happened.
Old people...
I was reading an article in the paper the other day about how “millennials” (you) would rather text than talk on the phone, and for some odd reason old bitches best be pisssed.
They think we don’t love them or some crazy shit like that. Well, they’re right. We don’t.
Okay, that was harsh. Maybe its not that we don’t love you, maybe it’s because it’s impossible to vomit and talk on the phone at the same time. Your voice seems to have that affect on me.
It’s not that we don’t love love you; it’s just that we don’t love the sound of you.
You sound like death. Death makes me (and most young people) vomit. (Well a lot of things make me vomit, but death is definitely on the list.)
Look it’s a win-win situation, with texting you get to read the lies of how we love you on your cell-phone, while the angel of death whispers sweet nothings into your good ear.
Or maybe, you selfish geriatrics bastards could just stop complaining, stop getting old and suck it up. Did you ever think about that? Oh, of course not, you just do what you people always do and blame us, the higher beings in the world, the people here to replace your wrinkly asses.
And out of all the people in the world you guys know what its like to work for your patriotic rights. And believe me Susan B. Anthony did not not walk to the back of the bus those 100 years ago just to have your death-like fingers just swipe away our texting- privileges.
Ah, the joy of racism against the old.
They think we don’t love them or some crazy shit like that. Well, they’re right. We don’t.
Okay, that was harsh. Maybe its not that we don’t love you, maybe it’s because it’s impossible to vomit and talk on the phone at the same time. Your voice seems to have that affect on me.
It’s not that we don’t love love you; it’s just that we don’t love the sound of you.
You sound like death. Death makes me (and most young people) vomit. (Well a lot of things make me vomit, but death is definitely on the list.)
Look it’s a win-win situation, with texting you get to read the lies of how we love you on your cell-phone, while the angel of death whispers sweet nothings into your good ear.
Or maybe, you selfish geriatrics bastards could just stop complaining, stop getting old and suck it up. Did you ever think about that? Oh, of course not, you just do what you people always do and blame us, the higher beings in the world, the people here to replace your wrinkly asses.
And out of all the people in the world you guys know what its like to work for your patriotic rights. And believe me Susan B. Anthony did not not walk to the back of the bus those 100 years ago just to have your death-like fingers just swipe away our texting- privileges.
Ah, the joy of racism against the old.
You like me, you really like me!
Seeing as I suck @ life, I’ve been given 4 awards this past month from Alexandra @ The Tsaritsa Sez; Heather @ Boyfriend Challenged; Lilly @ Pre-Life Crisis; and Amber @ Anxious Amber, and have yet to return the wealth.
So first things first, I’m supposed to tell you 10 random facts about myself. Is it ten? Or seven? Fuck it; I’m doing ten.
1. My left knee has dislocated on me a million times. If the pain of dislocation is the same as childbirth…well fuck that noise. The first time I can remember it dislocating was when I was five. I just had it checked out a year ago, and supposedly my knee joint is misaligned so now I have to wear a knee brace when I work-out and I can’t do any sports where my knee pivots…not like I did to begin with. I usually wear the knee brace when I go to sleep to, unless I’m obliterated, which, is often.
2. One time this guy was so bad at “going-down” that I faked myself into hyperventilation. Too much shallow breathing, I guess. It got so bad that half my body went numb, and not in the good way. I even had to make him stop, cause the numbness of my arms really started to freak me out. The sex was good though.
3. I’m obsessed with SNL. I have seen every episode since it’s inception. When I was younger my summer vacations were planned around reruns of SNL on comedy central. It played from 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. and then from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m., and yes, I never missed an episode. I’m notorious amongst my friends for ditching them on Saturday nights when a new season is airing.
4. I used to be fat.
5. I get agnostics but I don’t really get atheists. It may just be because I’m Catholic, and not believing in God is something I don’t really want to risk. Eternal damnation is a long fucking time.
6. The first time I actually got high was sophomore year of college on a Wednesday night after taking 3 gravity bong hits. The first 10 minutes was awesome the next 3 hours was me vomiting in a toilet. The next day I skipped my anthropology class, and because I missed that one class I failed my final, bringing my A down to a C+. It was totally worth it.
7. I have a sick obsession with mayo. I know it’s going to kill me, but Jesus Christ, its fucking awesome.
8. My perfect man is a combination of Jim Gaffigan, Mike Birbiglia, the voice of Harold Ramis and Hyde from That’s 70s show, not the actor that plays him, but the fictional character itself.
9. I love popping zits. There I said it. And anyone who says they don’t is totally full of shit.
10. I wish I were a snake.
Now on to the awards,
Mikey @ Happy Berfday To Me I went to college with this guy and the dude is funny. Check him out.
Thoughts of a Randmonista @ TOAR I like her attitude and so should you!
And last but no leas,t Dan @ From the head of Danaconda . I swear he is the male version of me and it’s fucking awesome.
Thanks again guys for rocking my world!
So first things first, I’m supposed to tell you 10 random facts about myself. Is it ten? Or seven? Fuck it; I’m doing ten.
1. My left knee has dislocated on me a million times. If the pain of dislocation is the same as childbirth…well fuck that noise. The first time I can remember it dislocating was when I was five. I just had it checked out a year ago, and supposedly my knee joint is misaligned so now I have to wear a knee brace when I work-out and I can’t do any sports where my knee pivots…not like I did to begin with. I usually wear the knee brace when I go to sleep to, unless I’m obliterated, which, is often.
2. One time this guy was so bad at “going-down” that I faked myself into hyperventilation. Too much shallow breathing, I guess. It got so bad that half my body went numb, and not in the good way. I even had to make him stop, cause the numbness of my arms really started to freak me out. The sex was good though.
3. I’m obsessed with SNL. I have seen every episode since it’s inception. When I was younger my summer vacations were planned around reruns of SNL on comedy central. It played from 10 a.m. to 12 p.m. and then from 2 p.m. to 4 p.m., and yes, I never missed an episode. I’m notorious amongst my friends for ditching them on Saturday nights when a new season is airing.
4. I used to be fat.
5. I get agnostics but I don’t really get atheists. It may just be because I’m Catholic, and not believing in God is something I don’t really want to risk. Eternal damnation is a long fucking time.
6. The first time I actually got high was sophomore year of college on a Wednesday night after taking 3 gravity bong hits. The first 10 minutes was awesome the next 3 hours was me vomiting in a toilet. The next day I skipped my anthropology class, and because I missed that one class I failed my final, bringing my A down to a C+. It was totally worth it.
7. I have a sick obsession with mayo. I know it’s going to kill me, but Jesus Christ, its fucking awesome.
8. My perfect man is a combination of Jim Gaffigan, Mike Birbiglia, the voice of Harold Ramis and Hyde from That’s 70s show, not the actor that plays him, but the fictional character itself.
9. I love popping zits. There I said it. And anyone who says they don’t is totally full of shit.
10. I wish I were a snake.
Now on to the awards,
Mikey @ Happy Berfday To Me I went to college with this guy and the dude is funny. Check him out.
Thoughts of a Randmonista @ TOAR I like her attitude and so should you!
And last but no leas,t Dan @ From the head of Danaconda . I swear he is the male version of me and it’s fucking awesome.
Thanks again guys for rocking my world!
This ain't no disneyland wedding...
What I’m about to write is completely true. I have told friends, family, hobos and drag queens about my dream wedding, all of them waiting in intense anticipation for their frilly beige invitation.
I have even reenacted various moments for a select few of the ceremony, which have left me groaning in pain as I flip backwards in a fake drunken swagger. Yes…swagger.
My parents have already said that if I even attempt to make this dream wedding come to forewishen they will not pay…let alone attend. They said they’d be “disgraced.” Bitch please; I’m the epitome of grace.
But that’s cool I can rent a dad to walk me down the aisle… a black one.
Here are the basics: I want to be obliterated, stumbling down the aisle, with a bouquet of Keystone Light cans. Not that I like Keystone Light, I just think it’s a well-known staple in any white-trash life-style.
I plan on ripping about 10-27 shots of Malibu (I’m a pussy, I know) with the bridal party moments before the ceremony begins.
“Low rider” will be blaring in the Catholic Church, preferable with George Lopez jumping on a trampoline in the faint distance. Kegs spray-painted like tires will line the aisles. Each keg will have a ten-foot pole. (Don’t worry it will make sense in a second.)
My bridesmaids will be forced to dance on top of every pole they pass; while each groomsmen throws monopoly money or condoms at them. But not me, I’m too classy for that.
I will be staggering two steps behind my friends screaming obscenities such as, “I’m not a virgin!” or “I had sex with that guy (pointing to the groom)…and that guy (pointing to the best man)…” or my ultimate favorite (pointing to my who-hah), “Why does it burn down there?!”
At one point I hope to fall flat on my face, and pretend to be unconscious. But I probably won’t be “pretending” since I just ripped 27 shots. I will stay on the ground for 3 minutes, then jump up miraculously and scream, “I just got hammered with Jesus!”
Now, at this point in the ceremony, I’m assuming the priest will try to attempt to stop my fairytale moment for some ungodly reason like sobriety, or some stupid shit like that. But I will have already bribed him with male hookers; sodomy saves the day once again!
By this time I will have vomited on my off-white (who am I fooling) Juicy Couture pantsuit, strictly for the elastic waistband. (I’m assuming I will have gained an exponential amount of weight by the time I get married).
The look of love on my soon to be husband’s face, will again procure vomit from my black hole of a mouth.
We shall say our “I-do’s” and my husband will be forced to kiss my vomit-drenched mouth. And when you see me I’ll be laughing at the world…slipping on my own vomit, but laughing nonetheless.
Glorious.
I have even reenacted various moments for a select few of the ceremony, which have left me groaning in pain as I flip backwards in a fake drunken swagger. Yes…swagger.
My parents have already said that if I even attempt to make this dream wedding come to forewishen they will not pay…let alone attend. They said they’d be “disgraced.” Bitch please; I’m the epitome of grace.
But that’s cool I can rent a dad to walk me down the aisle… a black one.
Here are the basics: I want to be obliterated, stumbling down the aisle, with a bouquet of Keystone Light cans. Not that I like Keystone Light, I just think it’s a well-known staple in any white-trash life-style.
I plan on ripping about 10-27 shots of Malibu (I’m a pussy, I know) with the bridal party moments before the ceremony begins.
“Low rider” will be blaring in the Catholic Church, preferable with George Lopez jumping on a trampoline in the faint distance. Kegs spray-painted like tires will line the aisles. Each keg will have a ten-foot pole. (Don’t worry it will make sense in a second.)
My bridesmaids will be forced to dance on top of every pole they pass; while each groomsmen throws monopoly money or condoms at them. But not me, I’m too classy for that.
I will be staggering two steps behind my friends screaming obscenities such as, “I’m not a virgin!” or “I had sex with that guy (pointing to the groom)…and that guy (pointing to the best man)…” or my ultimate favorite (pointing to my who-hah), “Why does it burn down there?!”
At one point I hope to fall flat on my face, and pretend to be unconscious. But I probably won’t be “pretending” since I just ripped 27 shots. I will stay on the ground for 3 minutes, then jump up miraculously and scream, “I just got hammered with Jesus!”
Now, at this point in the ceremony, I’m assuming the priest will try to attempt to stop my fairytale moment for some ungodly reason like sobriety, or some stupid shit like that. But I will have already bribed him with male hookers; sodomy saves the day once again!
By this time I will have vomited on my off-white (who am I fooling) Juicy Couture pantsuit, strictly for the elastic waistband. (I’m assuming I will have gained an exponential amount of weight by the time I get married).
The look of love on my soon to be husband’s face, will again procure vomit from my black hole of a mouth.
We shall say our “I-do’s” and my husband will be forced to kiss my vomit-drenched mouth. And when you see me I’ll be laughing at the world…slipping on my own vomit, but laughing nonetheless.
Glorious.
It was all a dream...
I had a dream last night that I was having sex with this guy that I hate and my ring got stuck around his penis. And I don’t mean the ring was cleanly wrapped around, the penis was tangled inside the ring. I guess I was just a little too excited…
First off, let me explain the ring. The ring itself doesn’t fully enclose. Somehow way back in the day my mom broke the band, and tried to silly putty the band back together. Now this works 70% of the time. The other 30% of the time I find the ring stuck in my hair while I’m racing on the highway, or stuck on one of my jeans belt loops a little to close to my zipper at work, or stuck on some guy’s underwear. Yeah, I don’t know how the last one happened.
One time I lost my ring after (or during?) having sex, I was positive it was stuck on either me or the guy in some unseen orifice. But I never thought to look on the guy’s penis. Jesus, that’s just cruel. Turned out, I had taken it off right before we engaged in “intercourse.” I guess I had learned from the underwear mistake.
So the dream itself wasn’t that far of a stretch. My motive however was. In the dream, I was having sex with this guy, to get out of having sex with this guy. I can even remember in my dream, thinking how great of a plan this was. I just love knowing my inner –psyche is a dumb slut.
We were also having sex behind a Food Lion. Classy, I know. In the bushes. Without a condom. So, I obviously like the keep my sex dreams as realistic as possible.
Also I have very vivid dreams; I can never tell I’m dreaming until I come to screaming in a cold sweat because I had another “I’m preggers” nightmare. But this time the dream world gave me a clue: I wear my ring on my left hand, so for the ring to get stuck on his wee-wee I had to be using ol’ lefty, which I never do!
So while he’s screaming at his deranged penis, I ripped the ring off of his penis and walked away, naked, towards a beautiful sunset and climbed upon an unicorn that farted butterflies out of its ass and smiled because at the end of the day….
It was all a dream.
First off, let me explain the ring. The ring itself doesn’t fully enclose. Somehow way back in the day my mom broke the band, and tried to silly putty the band back together. Now this works 70% of the time. The other 30% of the time I find the ring stuck in my hair while I’m racing on the highway, or stuck on one of my jeans belt loops a little to close to my zipper at work, or stuck on some guy’s underwear. Yeah, I don’t know how the last one happened.
One time I lost my ring after (or during?) having sex, I was positive it was stuck on either me or the guy in some unseen orifice. But I never thought to look on the guy’s penis. Jesus, that’s just cruel. Turned out, I had taken it off right before we engaged in “intercourse.” I guess I had learned from the underwear mistake.
So the dream itself wasn’t that far of a stretch. My motive however was. In the dream, I was having sex with this guy, to get out of having sex with this guy. I can even remember in my dream, thinking how great of a plan this was. I just love knowing my inner –psyche is a dumb slut.
We were also having sex behind a Food Lion. Classy, I know. In the bushes. Without a condom. So, I obviously like the keep my sex dreams as realistic as possible.
Also I have very vivid dreams; I can never tell I’m dreaming until I come to screaming in a cold sweat because I had another “I’m preggers” nightmare. But this time the dream world gave me a clue: I wear my ring on my left hand, so for the ring to get stuck on his wee-wee I had to be using ol’ lefty, which I never do!
So while he’s screaming at his deranged penis, I ripped the ring off of his penis and walked away, naked, towards a beautiful sunset and climbed upon an unicorn that farted butterflies out of its ass and smiled because at the end of the day….
It was all a dream.
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