Things only a lady-douche would hate...

1. 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 you did last night or I wouldn’t have awkwardly run into you at the local CVS pharamacy 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.”

“Close enough…you are now the proud owner of the douchiest, of the douchiest bumper stickers.”

“Will some pale peusdo-ginger whose awkwardly cute come and kick the back of my car now?”

“Oh absolutely.”

…and I will (and have), too.


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.

…douche(s).

6. People who don’t understand that there is an imaginary line separating your seat from there seat on the MEGABUS.

…there is an imaginary line separating your seat from my seat on the Megabus! So get your fat ass off the god damn imaginary line!

7. Running.

…I’m pretty sure running is the root of all evil.

8. Orange juice.

…stop being such a sour bitch, orange juice. No seriously, if you weren’t so fucking sour I’d probably like you.

9. People who have never tasted a Zero Bar before.

…Go straight to hell, I say! STRAIGHT. TO. HELL.

10. This whole, “no pants, no service” policy.

…look, sometimes I don’t want to put pants on…and sometimes I want to buy a couple of forties sans pants. And let’s be honest here…don’t the two go hand-in-hand really? I really hope your nodding your head because you agree and not because you are trying to distract me from the fact that you are calling the police. I applaud your effort, but I really want that fucking forty now, cashier lady-man!

My family knows me well...

Why don't they make mayo flavored candles?!?!

...by the way, the candle smelled like Type 2 diabetes, so yes...I was pleased.

Oh wait? What is that? Mayo? In a bag?!?! It's all the rage in London.

That's dog shit! Well not really, it's just chocolate...I hope...because I definitely still ate it.

Actually, I lied...it's a glob of melted meth in a christmas bag. It. Was. Awesome. 

You little fucker, Monte. You're cute as hell but you're basically a demon spawn, that I love. Monte is a dog, btw.

I will say this Monte, I am impressed by your ability to shit into a bag...few possess such talent. You have a gift my friend, don't hide it under a bushel basket! 

Oh Hellmann, you do bring out the best...the best in ME!

Why yes...that is Dora the Explorer. And why yes...I did proclaim, "What the fuck?!" When I saw Dora's whorish eyes staring back at me when I opened the gift.

Oh wait, what's that Dora? You say you brought me gifts? Now what could a little whore like yourself give a drunk? Check your backpack? Well fuck a duck. I did want two 24 ounce Michelob Ultra cans! I really did!!!

Side note: I was plastered by 2 p.m. and spilling beer on myself by 8 p.m. pretty sure my dad said something along the lines of "Well Nat's been throwing back the beers since twelve...I couldn't be prouder."

So yes...Christmas was awesome.

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.

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.

This is why I was fat when I was younger...

1. Dunkaroos.

....i used to just hoard all the vanilla icing cups and finger to the mouth with that shit.

2. That gooey pure sugar shit that came in tubes.

....oh don't even pretend like this wasn't crack for 4-year olds...I used to sell this shit in the back alley of my private school in 2nd grade...I kind of wish that was a lie.

3. Reading.

...this probably didn't help...but god damn those Captain Underpants comics were fucking epic.

4. Corndogs.

....it's a gateway drug, really.

5. Ramen noodles (cooked or uncooked).

...god damn I could eat that shit any way/shape/form...and that is why I am proud to be an AMERICAN...and white.

6. Cake

...fat kids love cake...or so I've been told in numerous rap songs.

7. This guy.

...god damn you cookie monster...you brilliant genius you.

8. Ellio's Pizza.

...it's a gateway drug, really.

9. Eating spoonfuls of sugar...multiple times a day...

...no seriously I used to sit on my kitchen counter and eat pure sugar...then one day the sugar container was "misplaced" by my parents...only to have my parents find me hiding in the living room shoving spoons full of sugar into my mouth hours later.

10. Being fat probably made me fatter.

...well...it did.

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 forwishen they will not pay…let alone attend. They said they’d be “disgraced.” Bitch please; I’m the epitome of class.

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 (bitch drink, 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.

Random facts about myself that I'm proud of...but shouldn't be

I'm basically about to ruin any chance with any dude that ever found me remotely cute.

Enjoy!

1. I buy mayo in economized sized vats as big as a horses head.
2. I used to like Vienna sausages.
3. I've had sex with a dude named Mordecai.
4. I still like Vienna sausages.
5. I've eaten a whole birthday cake in one sitting.
6. I am almost always half-naked while eating....it's really the only way to thoroughly enjoy food.
7. Web MD has brought me to tears because it made me think I was pregnant...on multiple occasions.
8. Almost threw up in class because of taking Plan B the day prior.
9. I've found Cheetos residue in my bra...on multiple occasions.
10. One time I got super duper high and dipped tortilla chips in vanilla icing. It. Was. Amazing.
11. I'm obsessed with the song "Electric Avenue."
12. The Cosby Show is probably my favorite sitcom.
13. I like Kesha...she's a lyrical genius, god damnit.
14. Cheez Whiz? Yes, please!
15. I don't believe in science....well I "believe" in it, I just don't respect it.
16. I used to have a rock collection.
17. I have a very distinct look, it's a little bit white trash...a little bit, "Does she have a roofie in her  hands?"And a smidge..."Meh, she's doable."
18. I just had to Google "roofie" so I could spell it correctly.
19. When I place my cell phone on my stomach, I can't feel it vibrate.
20. I really have a gift at making friends with older black ladies in random places...I think it has something to do with my sassitude.
21. Hate sex is my favorite type of sex.
22. My first reaction to a dude staring at me will always be to check if there is food on my face...and there usually is.
23. A couple of weeks ago I killed a shit ton of nature with a stroller. It was the best day of my life.
24. I have sexually fantasized about my 11th grade AP english teacher...and I know I'm not the only one (ladies...and gentlemen).
25. I have febreezed my jeans...on mulitple occasions.

I was sooooooo cool when I was younger.

“Mom, am I fat?”

“No…its just baby fat.”

It wasn’t.

I was fat. Not kind of fat. Not chunky. Not big-boned. And definitely not baby fat. Baby fat is allowed till the age of what? Five? I was at least 10 when I asked my mom this infamous question. And the truth is, I was fat. Like ate spoonfuls of sugar at one time, fat. Stole candy bars from the grocery stores, fat. Fat fat. Scurrying barefoot on the kitchen counter tops looking for the elusive sugar that my parents “conveniently misplaced” two weeks after I was discovered in a corner eating spoonfuls of sugar, fat. 

Those bastards.

Walking into the grocery store on that autumn afternoon just seemed like the right moment to ask. I probably was going to steal a Snickers bar anyways, and that should have been proof enough but I wanted to hear it verbally. I wanted the words to ring in my ears; I wanted them to sear the fat right off of my love handles.

However, my plan backfired:

“No…its just baby fat.”

Wait…what? My mom just lied. Straight to my face. Wasn’t my mom, if anyone, supposed to tell her child that while yes, they had a stellar personality and yes, they were super funny, that sadly they were fat and kind of going through an, um I don’t know, ugly…I mean, awkward stage? How could she? How could she just lie like that?!

I stood there, shocked, in the middle of the crosswalk in my bright orange leggings with the elastic band since I couldn’t technically fit into jeans until I was 14, over sized black sweater splattered with bright orange pumpkins and candy corn (to divert ones eye from the fat, of course), and bright orange pumpkin bow placed strategically in the middle of my disproportionate head. Yeah, I was that kid.

My mouth opened, but there was no food to shove into the black hole. 

“Nuh uh!”

But wasn’t that what I wanted to hear? Didn’t I want to hear that yes, I wasn’t fat? That yes, it was okay to steal candy? Yes, Cheese Whiz was a valid form of calcium. And yes in actuality, it’s vegetables that clog your arteries and fuck you up.

It was in this moment that I learned a valuable lesson: Mothers lie. A shit ton. Years later (and pounds skinner) I confronted my mom about this pivotal question in my chubby childhood:

“Oh god, you were huge!”

“I knew it. You lied!”

“Technically yes, but you were skinnier than your brother.”