I think we can all agree…I’m kind of a douche…sooooo I hate a lot of things I probably shouldn’t.
Enjoy.
1. I always hate when people say shit like, “No regrets!” “Never live with regrets ya’ll!” “I’ll never regret any decision I’ve ever made….ever!”
Really? You don’t have a single regret? Ummm….yeah…I’m calling bullshit on that one….
…because I’m pretty sure you regret whatever the fuck you did last night or I wouldn’t have awkwardly run into you at the local CVS pharmacy picking up your weekly prescription of plan B now would I?
“You know it’s only one pill now.”
“Oh is it.”
“Yeah…no regrets…”
2. Those god damn mother-fucking “CO-EXIST” stickers that I see on every god damn liberal hippie douches Datsun.
That’s not even an eco-friendly car. Jesus Christ. I swear to god, it just has the fucking word “sun” in it, so now you think it’s all pro-environment. Who isn’t pro-environment?! Oh wait…I’m not.
…I swear to God there must be requirements to buy this fucking sticker.
“Do you have dreadlocks?”
“Yes.”
“Do you shave your legs?”
“Only in the summer.”
“Good enough…you are now the proud owner of the douchiest, of the douchiest bumper stickers.”
“Will some pale ginger, whose awkwardly cute, come and kick the back of my car now?”
“Oh absolutely.”
I will.
3. Nature.
….not a fan.
4. People who buy PBR because and I quote, “I like the taste.”
….douche.
5. People who like…no…looooooooooooove nature.
…go marry a tree or some shit like that.
6. Snow.
....oh you think you're sooooooooooo cool, with your whiteness and your fluffiness...you're so fucking arrogant. I hope my dog pisses on you.
7. The "I don't see color" people.
...sure you don't.
8. Over-patriotism.
...just go have sex with the American flag and leave me out of it...okay?
9. Those assholes who look at me weirdly when I ask for 5 scoops of mayo on my sandwich.
...oh I'm sorry you don't know how to enjoy life...don't drag me down your path towards miserableness.
Yeah...that's right. My list ends at nine. Why? Cause I'm lazy and my head hurts from lack of beer/sleep/mayo...
Deal with it.
I'm so traumatized I can't even think of a title...
Scene: watching tv with my parents....a girl with very short hair comes on to the screen.
Mom: She's a lesbian.
Me: Just because she has short hair, doesn't make her a lesbian.
Mom: Don't question me...I can always tell....she likes girls.
Dad: I'm a lesbian.
Mom: You're not a lesbian.
Dad: I like girls.
Mom: I know.
Dad: So I'm a lesbian.
Mom: You have a penis.
Dad: I know.
Mom: So you're not a lesbian.
Dad: But I like girls.
Mom: Do you have a strap on?
Dad: What?
Mom: Do you have a strap on?
Dad: I don't think so.
Mom: So have you been tricking me this whole time?
Dad: Tricking you with what?
Mom: A strap on.
Dad: I don't have a strap on.
Mom: But you've been tricking me?
Dad: Yes.
Mom: With what?
Dad: I use that penis pump thingy.
....I wish this was a lie....
Mom: She's a lesbian.
Me: Just because she has short hair, doesn't make her a lesbian.
Mom: Don't question me...I can always tell....she likes girls.
Dad: I'm a lesbian.
Mom: You're not a lesbian.
Dad: I like girls.
Mom: I know.
Dad: So I'm a lesbian.
Mom: You have a penis.
Dad: I know.
Mom: So you're not a lesbian.
Dad: But I like girls.
Mom: Do you have a strap on?
Dad: What?
Mom: Do you have a strap on?
Dad: I don't think so.
Mom: So have you been tricking me this whole time?
Dad: Tricking you with what?
Mom: A strap on.
Dad: I don't have a strap on.
Mom: But you've been tricking me?
Dad: Yes.
Mom: With what?
Dad: I use that penis pump thingy.
....I wish this was a lie....
oh no she didn't...
If I could sum up my sex life in one word it would be: “Meh, I’ve had better.”
Isn’t that so true though? At least for women. Sex is like meth or crack (whatever your racial preference may be). You keep doing it to achieve that ultimate high and yet you find yourself ultimately disappointed after every hit. And thus the vicious cycle continues.
Wanna stop the massive drug use in America, America? Make people better at sex. I wish I knew how to quit you, Inevitable Bad Lay.
Whew. Edgy stuff.
I think about sex nonstop. I swear to God there is a penis hiding somewhere up in my who-hah. No, not yours. (Well maybe, I’ll check later.)
It’s not that weird to think about sex. I’ve heard other people do it to. Did you know, even your parents have had sex? I never knew.
I doubt they think you’ve done it though, unless your like me and your mother finds your dog chewing on an unopened Trojan in your room.
God damnit even my dog is a whore. Give her a cap full of Michelob Ultra and she is humping everything in sight. I’m so proud.
I am picky about my sexual escapades. I literally will bone any guy who thinks I’m funny. (Sorry, Ladies, you’re out. Vaginas are icky.)
Let’s say I’m great with men, whatever you don’t know me.
“You’re hilarious.”
“Let’s have sex now.”
“Oh god no. You’re funny but sexually I’m repulsed.”
Okay that’s never happened. The trick is always to have a paper bag handy.
I’ve made a couple of sacrifices for my career. The main one being I want to go on this journey alone (for the beginning at least). And I definitely cannot be with someone who doesn’t think I’m funny.
I’m not complaining; I made this decision. I think it’s just too apparent that way to many women give up their dreams for their husband. And I just can’t be one of those girls.
I hope to make a new path for female comedians/writers.
And if not at least I’ll get to bone some D list celebrities along the way.
Isn’t that so true though? At least for women. Sex is like meth or crack (whatever your racial preference may be). You keep doing it to achieve that ultimate high and yet you find yourself ultimately disappointed after every hit. And thus the vicious cycle continues.
Wanna stop the massive drug use in America, America? Make people better at sex. I wish I knew how to quit you, Inevitable Bad Lay.
Whew. Edgy stuff.
I think about sex nonstop. I swear to God there is a penis hiding somewhere up in my who-hah. No, not yours. (Well maybe, I’ll check later.)
It’s not that weird to think about sex. I’ve heard other people do it to. Did you know, even your parents have had sex? I never knew.
I doubt they think you’ve done it though, unless your like me and your mother finds your dog chewing on an unopened Trojan in your room.
God damnit even my dog is a whore. Give her a cap full of Michelob Ultra and she is humping everything in sight. I’m so proud.
I am picky about my sexual escapades. I literally will bone any guy who thinks I’m funny. (Sorry, Ladies, you’re out. Vaginas are icky.)
Let’s say I’m great with men, whatever you don’t know me.
“You’re hilarious.”
“Let’s have sex now.”
“Oh god no. You’re funny but sexually I’m repulsed.”
Okay that’s never happened. The trick is always to have a paper bag handy.
I’ve made a couple of sacrifices for my career. The main one being I want to go on this journey alone (for the beginning at least). And I definitely cannot be with someone who doesn’t think I’m funny.
I’m not complaining; I made this decision. I think it’s just too apparent that way to many women give up their dreams for their husband. And I just can’t be one of those girls.
I hope to make a new path for female comedians/writers.
And if not at least I’ll get to bone some D list celebrities along the way.
oh... come on!
All right Chick-Fil-A….let’s talk.
You bitches need to get your shit together.
The only time I fucking want your savory chickeny chick chick chicken goodness, is on Sunday…and you guys are conveniently closed…what the fuck, Christians?
What. The. Fuck.
Now, look….I get it…God wrote on some tablets and said some crap about Sunday being his fun day…blah, blah,blah…but when someone’s religion get’s in the way of my fast food consumption, I gets pissed.
And when this bitch is hungry and pissed….aw helllllllllll nah. Shit’s going down.
Deal with it.
Taco Bell’s got their shit together. Get on there level, Mr. Fil-a.
Their best deals are on Sunday. Why, you ask? Because it’s the Lord’s day…and on that sacred day…God said, “My fellow minions will one day run the earth straight to hell from too much boozing, unprotected sex and women/Asian drivers, and thus I would at least like their stomachs and hearts filled with the greatest gift I could give.”
… and thus created the greatest hangover elixir ever….Grade F meat, steak quesadillas.
And all you vegetarians can shut the fuck up….we all know that shit isn’t really meat, so shut your hole with a beautiful “steak” quesadilla and finally live.
So come on Chick- Fil-a? What’s your fucking deal man? You’ve created a drug mister and let me tell you, word around the street mister, business is a booming.
And I know…I know…you think God will be a little peeved, that you’re working on the “Lord’s Day” and he said not to do that and shit…but honestly, if you really think about it…you’re doing him a disfavor.
God love’s everything he ever created…including a number 4 with an extra side of polynesian sauce….and you wouldn’t bitch out on God? Would you?
I didn’t think so.
…I’ll see you this Sunday, Mr. Fil-a.
You bitches need to get your shit together.
The only time I fucking want your savory chickeny chick chick chicken goodness, is on Sunday…and you guys are conveniently closed…what the fuck, Christians?
What. The. Fuck.
Now, look….I get it…God wrote on some tablets and said some crap about Sunday being his fun day…blah, blah,blah…but when someone’s religion get’s in the way of my fast food consumption, I gets pissed.
And when this bitch is hungry and pissed….aw helllllllllll nah. Shit’s going down.
Deal with it.
Taco Bell’s got their shit together. Get on there level, Mr. Fil-a.
Their best deals are on Sunday. Why, you ask? Because it’s the Lord’s day…and on that sacred day…God said, “My fellow minions will one day run the earth straight to hell from too much boozing, unprotected sex and women/Asian drivers, and thus I would at least like their stomachs and hearts filled with the greatest gift I could give.”
… and thus created the greatest hangover elixir ever….Grade F meat, steak quesadillas.
And all you vegetarians can shut the fuck up….we all know that shit isn’t really meat, so shut your hole with a beautiful “steak” quesadilla and finally live.
So come on Chick- Fil-a? What’s your fucking deal man? You’ve created a drug mister and let me tell you, word around the street mister, business is a booming.
And I know…I know…you think God will be a little peeved, that you’re working on the “Lord’s Day” and he said not to do that and shit…but honestly, if you really think about it…you’re doing him a disfavor.
God love’s everything he ever created…including a number 4 with an extra side of polynesian sauce….and you wouldn’t bitch out on God? Would you?
I didn’t think so.
…I’ll see you this Sunday, Mr. Fil-a.
What the?!
What is this new thing with hot dumb guys, that they are obsessed with getting head?
They’re all like (in a dumb man voice), “Yeah, I’m easy…I just like head.”
And then I’m all like (in a really pissed off voice), “Oh really, cause I just want to have sex….cause at least when I’m having sex with you I can pretend like I’m having a good time.”
When you’re giving head…there is no pretend time.
You’re pretty pissed there is a penis in your mouth.
…sometimes I’ll even pause during the act of and be like, “Hey, you. Yeah, I’m talking to you. See this face. See it? Remember this face… This is not a happy face…..”
I’m like a five year old that’s just been told they have to eat all their vegetables.
“Nuh uh…you’re going to have to pry my mouth open…mother fuckers.”
Yeah…that’s right. I said motherfucker when I was five…badass, mother fuckers.
(Also…five bucks this is the one post my dad will accidently reads on my yellow legal pad that I leave EVERYWHERE in my parents house…and he will not be a happy camper.)
Any who…
It’s not like I’m all “I only like it when guys go down on me and my lady junk”….and shit.
And yes, I know some girls fucking live for that shit.
Fuck that. I hate it. I don’t even want to know what you guys are thinking about down there. Your thought process never makes logical sense in the matters of lady junk.
“Well maybe if I put this…there.”
“Don’t…don’t do that.”
“Whoops…sorry…I thought that made sense.”
“….that will never make sense.”
I’ve never…NEVER…. had a good/decent/normal experience down under.
So, stop listening to that one dude who’s been telling everyone women LOVE that…that sick fuck.
Yeah that’s right…I’m talking to you…I will never understand why you thought that was a good idea…
…ever.
They’re all like (in a dumb man voice), “Yeah, I’m easy…I just like head.”
And then I’m all like (in a really pissed off voice), “Oh really, cause I just want to have sex….cause at least when I’m having sex with you I can pretend like I’m having a good time.”
When you’re giving head…there is no pretend time.
You’re pretty pissed there is a penis in your mouth.
…sometimes I’ll even pause during the act of and be like, “Hey, you. Yeah, I’m talking to you. See this face. See it? Remember this face… This is not a happy face…..”
I’m like a five year old that’s just been told they have to eat all their vegetables.
“Nuh uh…you’re going to have to pry my mouth open…mother fuckers.”
Yeah…that’s right. I said motherfucker when I was five…badass, mother fuckers.
(Also…five bucks this is the one post my dad will accidently reads on my yellow legal pad that I leave EVERYWHERE in my parents house…and he will not be a happy camper.)
Any who…
It’s not like I’m all “I only like it when guys go down on me and my lady junk”….and shit.
And yes, I know some girls fucking live for that shit.
Fuck that. I hate it. I don’t even want to know what you guys are thinking about down there. Your thought process never makes logical sense in the matters of lady junk.
“Well maybe if I put this…there.”
“Don’t…don’t do that.”
“Whoops…sorry…I thought that made sense.”
“….that will never make sense.”
I’ve never…NEVER…. had a good/decent/normal experience down under.
So, stop listening to that one dude who’s been telling everyone women LOVE that…that sick fuck.
Yeah that’s right…I’m talking to you…I will never understand why you thought that was a good idea…
…ever.
its going to happen i swear...
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.
A girl can dream...
I can’t wait until religious channels sell their souls and start producing reality TV…let’s be honest it’s only a matter a months before you’re flipping through your TV guide when this gem of a show pops up….
Check it.
“Pregnant Sister with No Mister.”
The show opens with a balding British man staring ominously into camera, “Is this nun bearing Jesus Christ? Or is she just a whore in a habit…tune in next week to find out if Sister Mary Lisa is in fact the next mother of God….or if she is just another statistic.”
Oh god…I just peed a little.
Or what about… “Joseph and His 12 Under-Aged Wives Idol”?
It would be the Mormon polygamist version of American Idol. The 12 girls have to compete with each other to be the number one wife (out of the 12)….and our votes decide the winner.
Ryan Seacrest or as I like to call him…El Diablo… saunters onto the stage only to giggle and announce the next contestant.
“He married 12 girls and you, America, decides these poor unwilling contestants votes.…Up next, Mary Sue, 16, whose going to sing a little diddie by a girl named Taylor Swift.”
Only for you to roll your eyes and turn to your best friend/mom/cellmate and exclaim…
“I can’t believe that bitch thinks she can sing….Jesus Christ… I’m voting for Eunice.”
WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!
What about….”What Would Jesus Do…on drugs?”
Do you see what I did there? Do you?
Except Jesus isn’t really Jesus but… some illegal immigrant named Jesus (pronounced Hey-Suce)…and someone just follows him with a camera while he does drugs/stupid things/eats pickles….kind of the male version of Snooki.
Oh, I’ve got it!
Temptation Synagogue?
Ten Jewish Bachelorettes fight to the death for the love and prestige of marrying their local…and exceptionally hot Rabbi.
“Oi…I like my men jewie, circumcised and slightly smaller than average…those bitches better watch out or I’ll go all Fran Drescher on their asses…fucking whores.”
Oh god…I need a life.
Check it.
“Pregnant Sister with No Mister.”
The show opens with a balding British man staring ominously into camera, “Is this nun bearing Jesus Christ? Or is she just a whore in a habit…tune in next week to find out if Sister Mary Lisa is in fact the next mother of God….or if she is just another statistic.”
Oh god…I just peed a little.
Or what about… “Joseph and His 12 Under-Aged Wives Idol”?
It would be the Mormon polygamist version of American Idol. The 12 girls have to compete with each other to be the number one wife (out of the 12)….and our votes decide the winner.
Ryan Seacrest or as I like to call him…El Diablo… saunters onto the stage only to giggle and announce the next contestant.
“He married 12 girls and you, America, decides these poor unwilling contestants votes.…Up next, Mary Sue, 16, whose going to sing a little diddie by a girl named Taylor Swift.”
Only for you to roll your eyes and turn to your best friend/mom/cellmate and exclaim…
“I can’t believe that bitch thinks she can sing….Jesus Christ… I’m voting for Eunice.”
WAIT! WAIT! WAIT!
What about….”What Would Jesus Do…on drugs?”
Do you see what I did there? Do you?
Except Jesus isn’t really Jesus but… some illegal immigrant named Jesus (pronounced Hey-Suce)…and someone just follows him with a camera while he does drugs/stupid things/eats pickles….kind of the male version of Snooki.
Oh, I’ve got it!
Temptation Synagogue?
Ten Jewish Bachelorettes fight to the death for the love and prestige of marrying their local…and exceptionally hot Rabbi.
“Oi…I like my men jewie, circumcised and slightly smaller than average…those bitches better watch out or I’ll go all Fran Drescher on their asses…fucking whores.”
Oh god…I need a life.
ahhhh snap.
Birth control scares the shit out of me and I mean really scares the shit out of me.
I pretty much think it’s going to trick me into thinking I’m not pregnant and then 10 months later I’m watching the premier episode of me, on “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.”
..That, or it’s just going to kill me.
We’ve all seen those commercials:
“Have you taken Yaz?”
“Yes…”
“Did you die?”
“No…wait…what the?!”
Now, I’ve never used the pill and I never will, because yes, I think it’s going to kill me. So instead, I use condoms, but those are only 99.99% effective.
So, um fuck.
Of course any time I have protected sex, I think I’m pregnant, and my period is so fucked up to begin with, it’s impossible to track.
So instead of being smart and calming the fuck down, I just get on webmd.com and cry myself to sleep because webmd.com says I’m either pregnant or I have a brain tumor that about to explode out of my left earlobe, and at this point of my hysteria, I’ll take the brain tumor.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m pro-life, well technically, I’m pro-my life, and a baby would just really mess that up right now.
My friends have even offered to take care of my potential “love mistakes”, and probably only because they know I’m retarded and that I’m not pregnant.
So what needs to be done? Well I should probably just smarten up and realize most birth control isn’t secretly plotting to destroy my future.
Or maybe I should stop being a whore. But until that I guess I should just get ready from my television debut…
I pretty much think it’s going to trick me into thinking I’m not pregnant and then 10 months later I’m watching the premier episode of me, on “I Didn’t Know I Was Pregnant.”
..That, or it’s just going to kill me.
We’ve all seen those commercials:
“Have you taken Yaz?”
“Yes…”
“Did you die?”
“No…wait…what the?!”
Now, I’ve never used the pill and I never will, because yes, I think it’s going to kill me. So instead, I use condoms, but those are only 99.99% effective.
So, um fuck.
Of course any time I have protected sex, I think I’m pregnant, and my period is so fucked up to begin with, it’s impossible to track.
So instead of being smart and calming the fuck down, I just get on webmd.com and cry myself to sleep because webmd.com says I’m either pregnant or I have a brain tumor that about to explode out of my left earlobe, and at this point of my hysteria, I’ll take the brain tumor.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m pro-life, well technically, I’m pro-my life, and a baby would just really mess that up right now.
My friends have even offered to take care of my potential “love mistakes”, and probably only because they know I’m retarded and that I’m not pregnant.
So what needs to be done? Well I should probably just smarten up and realize most birth control isn’t secretly plotting to destroy my future.
Or maybe I should stop being a whore. But until that I guess I should just get ready from my television debut…
I love you mom, seriously...
I could never find my mother the perfect Hallmark card for Mother’s Day. Believe me I tried. But none of them captured the essence of my mom. Yeah sure there was the:
“I love you mom, you’re the bomb!”
And the never fail:
“You’re beautiful inside and out, let’s go fishing for some trout!”
But never:
“You’re racist and an ex-druggie, now let’s go shopping and scream profanities at assholes who can’t drive!”
Not even,
“Remember that one time you asked if I bought you and dad porn for your 31st anniversary? Next time I promise!”
Come on Hallmark! What the fuck? Whose the one mom you are writing all these God damn cards for? My mom was never the cookie-cutter type, Hallmark. Time to expand your rhyming schemes.
Why can’t you write a card about the lies our mothers tell:
“I have the two most beautiful children ever.”
“Really? Cause I’m fat and Nathan’s ugly.”
“Go watch The Simpsons.”
With my father an officer in the Army, often spending months overseas, I became very dependant on my mother. We’d go everywhere together, hand in hand; unless I was being a little demon, which, not going to lie, was often.
“Remember, when we are in the grocery store, call me Sharon. Not mom.”
“But Sharon!”
Sharon has always been there for my brother and I. Even willing to die for us. One time when I was seven there was a chillingly scary noise outside of our front door. Dad was in Bosnia. Nathan and I crept out of our rooms to find my mom clutching a rifle, ready to shoot, in one of my dad’s oversized shirts and no pants.
“Stay in your room.”
It was the most beautiful display of white-trashness, I had ever seen.
She’s beautiful, hilarious and classy. She’s not a Jackie O. She’s a Gilda Radner. Free and beautiful; without that whole bulimia thing. A Madonna gap between her two front teeth which as she likes to say:
“You’re father finds it sexy. Don’t you, my big man.”
Discretion is always key with her.
“You probably shouldn’t give head until your married,” she said nonchalantly one summer day by the pool.
“You’re generation is too fixated on oral. Just have sex.”
I was 14.
Her only two rules for my brother and I have been: 1. Don’t lie. And: 2. Don’t drink and drive. Sadly, I have broken both, too many times than I am willing to admit. And every time she discovered the “slightly bent truth” the sparkle would leave her piercing green eyes, but just for a second. And every time I would beat myself up. How could I have no soul? How could I lie to the person who has been so truthful to me (with the exception of my childhood weight)? How could I hurt my best friend.
But like any great mom, she has always forgiven and always continued the previous conversation before our epic screaming battles.
“Now if you do do ‘shrooms. Do not do them in the woods. You will think there are bugs crawling all over you.”
“I love you, mom.”
“I love you mom, you’re the bomb!”
And the never fail:
“You’re beautiful inside and out, let’s go fishing for some trout!”
But never:
“You’re racist and an ex-druggie, now let’s go shopping and scream profanities at assholes who can’t drive!”
Not even,
“Remember that one time you asked if I bought you and dad porn for your 31st anniversary? Next time I promise!”
Come on Hallmark! What the fuck? Whose the one mom you are writing all these God damn cards for? My mom was never the cookie-cutter type, Hallmark. Time to expand your rhyming schemes.
Why can’t you write a card about the lies our mothers tell:
“I have the two most beautiful children ever.”
“Really? Cause I’m fat and Nathan’s ugly.”
“Go watch The Simpsons.”
With my father an officer in the Army, often spending months overseas, I became very dependant on my mother. We’d go everywhere together, hand in hand; unless I was being a little demon, which, not going to lie, was often.
“Remember, when we are in the grocery store, call me Sharon. Not mom.”
“But Sharon!”
Sharon has always been there for my brother and I. Even willing to die for us. One time when I was seven there was a chillingly scary noise outside of our front door. Dad was in Bosnia. Nathan and I crept out of our rooms to find my mom clutching a rifle, ready to shoot, in one of my dad’s oversized shirts and no pants.
“Stay in your room.”
It was the most beautiful display of white-trashness, I had ever seen.
She’s beautiful, hilarious and classy. She’s not a Jackie O. She’s a Gilda Radner. Free and beautiful; without that whole bulimia thing. A Madonna gap between her two front teeth which as she likes to say:
“You’re father finds it sexy. Don’t you, my big man.”
Discretion is always key with her.
“You probably shouldn’t give head until your married,” she said nonchalantly one summer day by the pool.
“You’re generation is too fixated on oral. Just have sex.”
I was 14.
Her only two rules for my brother and I have been: 1. Don’t lie. And: 2. Don’t drink and drive. Sadly, I have broken both, too many times than I am willing to admit. And every time she discovered the “slightly bent truth” the sparkle would leave her piercing green eyes, but just for a second. And every time I would beat myself up. How could I have no soul? How could I lie to the person who has been so truthful to me (with the exception of my childhood weight)? How could I hurt my best friend.
But like any great mom, she has always forgiven and always continued the previous conversation before our epic screaming battles.
“Now if you do do ‘shrooms. Do not do them in the woods. You will think there are bugs crawling all over you.”
“I love you, mom.”
oh...i'm scared shitless...
I need to start doing stand-up, but I’m not even going to pretend that I’m not not scared shitless…
…also…I’ve been drinking (God damn you, Mr. Michelob Ultra, you sexy sexy man you) so this post may turn into a train wreck. But aren’t those the best wrecks to watch?
Any who…let’s get back to me being scared shitless…now I know…I know you think I’m infallible…and perfect… and let’s be completely honest…I am.
But I’m pretty sure, even Jesus would suck at stand-up…that cloth robe thingy he constantly wears? Talk about a heckler’s dream.
And that beard? Already perfected by Galifinakas.
Now I know I’m going to suck. That’s inevitable. Everyone has to suck at first. Right?
Right?!?!
And what’s my stage persona going to be? A bitch? No. no. no. That shits been done. I don’t want to be just another bitch. I want to be a jackass. How many jackass girls have you seen do stand-up? Exactly.
But I’m too cute to be a perceived as a jackass at first glance.
“Oh no…she’s pretty…she’s just going make jokes about having HPV…”
“Or accidently vomiting on herself at parties…”
It’s so much easier being funnier on paper (for me at least)…and unless I’m constantly vomiting on stage…I’m not quite sure what people are going to laugh at exactly.
At first I was just going to use my blog posts as materials, but my friends shut down that idea real quick.
“I would advise you not to do…that.”
“Wait…why not?”
“You talk about mayo……….a lot.”
“Your point being…”
“….”
“God damnit.”
I was totally going to talk about mayo the whole time.
Meat. Mayo. Porn. Honestly, those were going to be my staples of my act. Or maybe I should talk about being fat for what…17 years?
Or maybe I should get fat again and make that my act?!?
No.
Adult braces?
No.
Spray-can icing?
Yes…..?
Taco Bell? Oh…yeah….taccccccoooooo belllllllll. That’s a gold mine, mother fuckers. GOLD!
Oh. Dear. God. Help. Me.
Politics?
I’m not that smart.
Catholism?
If I do…the devil will eat my soul…
As you can see, I’m a very deep person, especially when my days only consist of mini-donuts and bean and cheese burritos….
…however, I do, do a good impression of my mother. It helps that I look and sound exactly like her, but whatever…fuck you. I still do a better impression that you do.
Hmmm.
…well I’m pretty fucked…and I haven’t even begun yet….this is not good.
…also…I’ve been drinking (God damn you, Mr. Michelob Ultra, you sexy sexy man you) so this post may turn into a train wreck. But aren’t those the best wrecks to watch?
Any who…let’s get back to me being scared shitless…now I know…I know you think I’m infallible…and perfect… and let’s be completely honest…I am.
But I’m pretty sure, even Jesus would suck at stand-up…that cloth robe thingy he constantly wears? Talk about a heckler’s dream.
And that beard? Already perfected by Galifinakas.
Now I know I’m going to suck. That’s inevitable. Everyone has to suck at first. Right?
Right?!?!
And what’s my stage persona going to be? A bitch? No. no. no. That shits been done. I don’t want to be just another bitch. I want to be a jackass. How many jackass girls have you seen do stand-up? Exactly.
But I’m too cute to be a perceived as a jackass at first glance.
“Oh no…she’s pretty…she’s just going make jokes about having HPV…”
“Or accidently vomiting on herself at parties…”
It’s so much easier being funnier on paper (for me at least)…and unless I’m constantly vomiting on stage…I’m not quite sure what people are going to laugh at exactly.
At first I was just going to use my blog posts as materials, but my friends shut down that idea real quick.
“I would advise you not to do…that.”
“Wait…why not?”
“You talk about mayo……….a lot.”
“Your point being…”
“….”
“God damnit.”
I was totally going to talk about mayo the whole time.
Meat. Mayo. Porn. Honestly, those were going to be my staples of my act. Or maybe I should talk about being fat for what…17 years?
Or maybe I should get fat again and make that my act?!?
No.
Adult braces?
No.
Spray-can icing?
Yes…..?
Taco Bell? Oh…yeah….taccccccoooooo belllllllll. That’s a gold mine, mother fuckers. GOLD!
Oh. Dear. God. Help. Me.
Politics?
I’m not that smart.
Catholism?
If I do…the devil will eat my soul…
As you can see, I’m a very deep person, especially when my days only consist of mini-donuts and bean and cheese burritos….
…however, I do, do a good impression of my mother. It helps that I look and sound exactly like her, but whatever…fuck you. I still do a better impression that you do.
Hmmm.
…well I’m pretty fucked…and I haven’t even begun yet….this is not good.
Penises
Penises have always, always confused me. And when I say confuse, I kind of really mean that I have always been jealous of any person with a penis. You people with your penises; you live a charmed life.
But alas, no matter how long I chased after this “fairy tale” life. I was never able to capture this wanting. No, this need, to pee standing up.
It happened when I was seven. I accidently walked in on my brother in the bathroom, and there he was. Peeing and standing! It made absolutely no sense. How was the pee making it into the toilet? How did I not know I could do this?
I closed the door, allowing my brother to finish his “important” business and impatiently waited. And waited.
“Come on, Nathan! You’re like a girl in the bathroom!”
He opened the door, with the putrid smell of ass wafting in the bathroom.
“Enjoy.”
But I didn’t care. This was going to be my moment. Adrenaline rushing, I flew into the bathroom –forgetting to close the door –unbutton my pants and wait for the sound of tinkling. But it didn’t happen.
“Natalie Paige Wall!” screamed my horrified mother as she caught me hovering over the toilet and staring down at my pee-drenched underwear.
“What are you doing?!”
“Peeing.”
She grabbed my hand, shoved me into new clothes (which was a dress that I absolutely hated and threw a fit about) and dragged me outside to my father.
“It’s time for the talk.” She said airily to my dad.
“Really?”
“Talk to your daughter!”
Twenty minutes later and a lot of awkward phrases from my father, I was pissed off. All of a sudden god seemed like a dirty little bastard to me. Life was so unfair. Never would I get to write my name in the snow with my own pee. Never would I be able pee wherever I wanted. It was so wrong, so unjust. But God couldn’t have thought of everything. There must be a loophole.
“Wait, so why don’t I have a penis again?”
“Cause, you are a girl.”
“Wait, can I grow one?”
“No.”
“Can I make one?”
“No.”
“So you are telling me that I can never pee standing up.”
“Yes.”
“What if I arch my back?
“No.”
My father was lying! This was bullshit. I know I can pee standing up. I can just feel it. So, whatever, I don’t have a penis. Saying I can’t pee standing up just cause I’m a girl, well, that’s just racist, dad. I just need practice, that’s all.
And oh, did I practice. I practiced in my bathroom, I practiced in my parent’s bathroom, I even practiced in public bathrooms at the mall, but my mom always seemed to catch me.
“Natalie, why are your feet facing the toilet?”
“I don’t know.”
“God dammit, Natalie!”
But it never happened. No matter how hard I tried and no matter how far I arched my back. I never heard that tinkling sound of success.
To this day, I still sigh a breath of jealously any time I see a guy pee standing up. It was never a hygiene thing for me or some OCD thing. It was pure laziness. You men get everything, and you don’t even appreciate it.
But alas, no matter how long I chased after this “fairy tale” life. I was never able to capture this wanting. No, this need, to pee standing up.
It happened when I was seven. I accidently walked in on my brother in the bathroom, and there he was. Peeing and standing! It made absolutely no sense. How was the pee making it into the toilet? How did I not know I could do this?
I closed the door, allowing my brother to finish his “important” business and impatiently waited. And waited.
“Come on, Nathan! You’re like a girl in the bathroom!”
He opened the door, with the putrid smell of ass wafting in the bathroom.
“Enjoy.”
But I didn’t care. This was going to be my moment. Adrenaline rushing, I flew into the bathroom –forgetting to close the door –unbutton my pants and wait for the sound of tinkling. But it didn’t happen.
“Natalie Paige Wall!” screamed my horrified mother as she caught me hovering over the toilet and staring down at my pee-drenched underwear.
“What are you doing?!”
“Peeing.”
She grabbed my hand, shoved me into new clothes (which was a dress that I absolutely hated and threw a fit about) and dragged me outside to my father.
“It’s time for the talk.” She said airily to my dad.
“Really?”
“Talk to your daughter!”
Twenty minutes later and a lot of awkward phrases from my father, I was pissed off. All of a sudden god seemed like a dirty little bastard to me. Life was so unfair. Never would I get to write my name in the snow with my own pee. Never would I be able pee wherever I wanted. It was so wrong, so unjust. But God couldn’t have thought of everything. There must be a loophole.
“Wait, so why don’t I have a penis again?”
“Cause, you are a girl.”
“Wait, can I grow one?”
“No.”
“Can I make one?”
“No.”
“So you are telling me that I can never pee standing up.”
“Yes.”
“What if I arch my back?
“No.”
My father was lying! This was bullshit. I know I can pee standing up. I can just feel it. So, whatever, I don’t have a penis. Saying I can’t pee standing up just cause I’m a girl, well, that’s just racist, dad. I just need practice, that’s all.
And oh, did I practice. I practiced in my bathroom, I practiced in my parent’s bathroom, I even practiced in public bathrooms at the mall, but my mom always seemed to catch me.
“Natalie, why are your feet facing the toilet?”
“I don’t know.”
“God dammit, Natalie!”
But it never happened. No matter how hard I tried and no matter how far I arched my back. I never heard that tinkling sound of success.
To this day, I still sigh a breath of jealously any time I see a guy pee standing up. It was never a hygiene thing for me or some OCD thing. It was pure laziness. You men get everything, and you don’t even appreciate it.
It's been rough...
Last May I graduated college… and I never thought it would this hard to be separated from my best friend…it’s like a part of my soul is missing…or like… going to make a sandwich only to realize there is no mayo left…and then I cry…yeah…that bad.
We are close…like really really close…we’ve even been likened to Seth and Evan from Superbad and I shit you not people were like… “Wait, what are you going to do without each other.”…. “Can there be one without the other.”… “Natalie? Whose going to spoon feed you mayo when you are too hung over to move?”
And we were all like (in perfect unison)… “Bitches, please…we’ll be fine…”
We weren’t. Well…I wasn’t.
The first month…I couldn’t sleep.
The second month…I started to uncontrollably twitch.
The eighth month you ask? Well, now I just drink heavily with my mother at night and ask questions like, “ How many sexual partners are too many sexual partners?”
But god when we are together it’s pure assholiness bliss…rolled up into cute little mayo balls and topped off with a cool refreshing budwiser (bud light to be exact).
So Ker Bear, this is pretty much my declaration of love to you because my period is coming and I’m like super duper emotional and I miss you…deal with it.
Remember when we were pissed off at the cunts that ran our apartment complex and we were going to call them and say our apartment was haunted? “Our apartment is haunted mother fuckers….fix it now! Get a priest up in this shit and save our souls!”
Or that one time those two douchebags were hitting on us in their car….and as we were screaming, “Fuck you, assholes!” (Even though they were technically hitting on us….) they crashed into the car in front of them.
Oh how we laughed and laughed and laughed.
And then there was the time at work when I was like, “I wonder what I feels like to get slapped with a loaf of bread?”
And you were like, “Let’s find out.”
And then you slapped me with a loaf of bread.
We just laughed and laughed and no one at work knew why were laughing as our faces turned purple…ah that was awesome….don’t worry Nick…we used a loaf that was going to be thrown away already.
Oh man and every time I called you right before any of your classes…. “Yeah so I skipped an bought a case….so um you should skip too.”
“Ehhhh, I should probably go to this class at least once this month.”
Only to have you call me back three minutes later…. “Well if you bring me a road beer…I’ll skip.”
Um yeah…let’s do that again.
We are close…like really really close…we’ve even been likened to Seth and Evan from Superbad and I shit you not people were like… “Wait, what are you going to do without each other.”…. “Can there be one without the other.”… “Natalie? Whose going to spoon feed you mayo when you are too hung over to move?”
And we were all like (in perfect unison)… “Bitches, please…we’ll be fine…”
We weren’t. Well…I wasn’t.
The first month…I couldn’t sleep.
The second month…I started to uncontrollably twitch.
The eighth month you ask? Well, now I just drink heavily with my mother at night and ask questions like, “ How many sexual partners are too many sexual partners?”
But god when we are together it’s pure assholiness bliss…rolled up into cute little mayo balls and topped off with a cool refreshing budwiser (bud light to be exact).
So Ker Bear, this is pretty much my declaration of love to you because my period is coming and I’m like super duper emotional and I miss you…deal with it.
Remember when we were pissed off at the cunts that ran our apartment complex and we were going to call them and say our apartment was haunted? “Our apartment is haunted mother fuckers….fix it now! Get a priest up in this shit and save our souls!”
Or that one time those two douchebags were hitting on us in their car….and as we were screaming, “Fuck you, assholes!” (Even though they were technically hitting on us….) they crashed into the car in front of them.
Oh how we laughed and laughed and laughed.
And then there was the time at work when I was like, “I wonder what I feels like to get slapped with a loaf of bread?”
And you were like, “Let’s find out.”
And then you slapped me with a loaf of bread.
We just laughed and laughed and no one at work knew why were laughing as our faces turned purple…ah that was awesome….don’t worry Nick…we used a loaf that was going to be thrown away already.
Oh man and every time I called you right before any of your classes…. “Yeah so I skipped an bought a case….so um you should skip too.”
“Ehhhh, I should probably go to this class at least once this month.”
Only to have you call me back three minutes later…. “Well if you bring me a road beer…I’ll skip.”
Um yeah…let’s do that again.
I have to ask myself...
There are days when I sit on one side of my couch, with my notebook on the other and I just glare at it.
…I actually wish death on an inatimate object. Wanting it to feel the same pain it gives me…and sometimes I wonder if I stare at it long enough… will it turn into a jar of Hellman’s mayo?
…a girl can dream.
Then there are days where I once again, falsely assume that throwing back a few (ten) Michelob Ultras (Low-carb mother fuckers) will bring me this magical power that defeats writers block but in actualality I just end up buzzed, dancing around my house half-naked…in front of a lot of windows
…and I’m pretty sure my neighbors already think I’m…odd.
Some days I have to ask myself, why am I even doing this? Why do I feel this constant need to find some sort of humor in my painfully mundane life…as I hide in my car on my lunch break, scribbling away in my blue composition notebook…and a co-worker stares at me as they walk past my car….like right now.
…that was awkward.
…he would find me doing the weirdest thing in my car possible…god damnit.
Only to have him approach me 30 minutes later…
“Oh, so you write. huh?”
“Absolutely not. That was not me hiding in my car after you asked me to have lunch with you…and I awkwardly declined.”
“I didn’t say anything about a car.”
“Oh…er…you know what sucks…herpes…and I would know…I have them.”
I don’t….seriously I don’t…but this dude will not take a hint…and honestly I’m willing to sacrifice my sexual reputation at this point…but I think if you’re reading this post…you already knew that.
And sometimes I wonder if the only reason I write is really just so I can constantly play with my boobs.
“It cures writer’s block.”
“Sure it does…whore.”
Sorry for this randomly sentimental post…but this is my 100th post (Heyo! Mother fuckers) and I’m just glad I haven’t quit yet…so you should go buy me some mayo…and congratulate me…and shit….
…I actually wish death on an inatimate object. Wanting it to feel the same pain it gives me…and sometimes I wonder if I stare at it long enough… will it turn into a jar of Hellman’s mayo?
…a girl can dream.
Then there are days where I once again, falsely assume that throwing back a few (ten) Michelob Ultras (Low-carb mother fuckers) will bring me this magical power that defeats writers block but in actualality I just end up buzzed, dancing around my house half-naked…in front of a lot of windows
…and I’m pretty sure my neighbors already think I’m…odd.
Some days I have to ask myself, why am I even doing this? Why do I feel this constant need to find some sort of humor in my painfully mundane life…as I hide in my car on my lunch break, scribbling away in my blue composition notebook…and a co-worker stares at me as they walk past my car….like right now.
…that was awkward.
…he would find me doing the weirdest thing in my car possible…god damnit.
Only to have him approach me 30 minutes later…
“Oh, so you write. huh?”
“Absolutely not. That was not me hiding in my car after you asked me to have lunch with you…and I awkwardly declined.”
“I didn’t say anything about a car.”
“Oh…er…you know what sucks…herpes…and I would know…I have them.”
I don’t….seriously I don’t…but this dude will not take a hint…and honestly I’m willing to sacrifice my sexual reputation at this point…but I think if you’re reading this post…you already knew that.
And sometimes I wonder if the only reason I write is really just so I can constantly play with my boobs.
“It cures writer’s block.”
“Sure it does…whore.”
Sorry for this randomly sentimental post…but this is my 100th post (Heyo! Mother fuckers) and I’m just glad I haven’t quit yet…so you should go buy me some mayo…and congratulate me…and shit….
I'm an asshole...
and I don't plan on changing...deal with it.
And to prove my point I’ve compiled a list of the top ten assholey things I’ve done this year….as in 2011….
1. Me: “God damnit”
Dude: “Please don’t say that around me.”
Me: “Yeah…I’m not going to stop.”
…other people laughed…just not him….
2. Customer: “I need a gift card.”
Me: “Well the Chanukah cards have been very popular this week.”
…she bought two…she wasn’t Jewish…
3. Laughed in a man’s face who requested size 7 shoe…for men.
4. Dude: “You’re probably going to make fun of me for this, but I’m a professional gamer.”
Me: “Not…but I’m going to make fun of that man vest you’re wearing.”
5. Dude: “Do you have your phone on you?”
Me: “Yes…don’t text me.”
6. Dude: “I haven’t met someone like you before.”
Me: “Yet, I’ve met so many people just like you…”
….well, I have…
7. I totally had the walking farts when showing some bitchy customer and her annoying as fuck kids to some product…and it was AWESOME.
8. Dude: “I forgot my package.”
Me: “…..”
Dude: “I try to keep my “package on me at all times.”
Me: “….”
Dude: “Do you get it?”
Me: “Yes.”
Dude: “….”
Me: “It wasn’t funny.”
9. Bestie: “I think I have carpel tunnel.”
Me: “Did you whack it too much this week?....or not enough?”
10. Dude: “You look more like an Ashley, than a Natalie.”
Me: “Every Ashley I know is a slut…so… I could see why you’d think that.”
….that’s more of an asshole comment about myself…but still an asshole thing to say.
And to prove my point I’ve compiled a list of the top ten assholey things I’ve done this year….as in 2011….
1. Me: “God damnit”
Dude: “Please don’t say that around me.”
Me: “Yeah…I’m not going to stop.”
…other people laughed…just not him….
2. Customer: “I need a gift card.”
Me: “Well the Chanukah cards have been very popular this week.”
…she bought two…she wasn’t Jewish…
3. Laughed in a man’s face who requested size 7 shoe…for men.
4. Dude: “You’re probably going to make fun of me for this, but I’m a professional gamer.”
Me: “Not…but I’m going to make fun of that man vest you’re wearing.”
5. Dude: “Do you have your phone on you?”
Me: “Yes…don’t text me.”
6. Dude: “I haven’t met someone like you before.”
Me: “Yet, I’ve met so many people just like you…”
….well, I have…
7. I totally had the walking farts when showing some bitchy customer and her annoying as fuck kids to some product…and it was AWESOME.
8. Dude: “I forgot my package.”
Me: “…..”
Dude: “I try to keep my “package on me at all times.”
Me: “….”
Dude: “Do you get it?”
Me: “Yes.”
Dude: “….”
Me: “It wasn’t funny.”
9. Bestie: “I think I have carpel tunnel.”
Me: “Did you whack it too much this week?....or not enough?”
10. Dude: “You look more like an Ashley, than a Natalie.”
Me: “Every Ashley I know is a slut…so… I could see why you’d think that.”
….that’s more of an asshole comment about myself…but still an asshole thing to say.
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