Tuesday, December 27, 2011

Bear Skin Condoms

I'm an idiot. No really and here's why. So I'm watching TV last night with my son and I was looking at my phone not really paying attention when this commercial came on

All of a sudden my eyes shot up and out of my little blonde mouth came the following: "Bear skin condoms??? omg how are they going to have bear skin condoms? I mean lambskin is already gross enough but bear skin?"

My precious son just turned to me and replied: Bare. B-A-R-E.

My bad.

First World Problems

Wait...there's a Domino's pizza tracker?

Do you like long hair and v-cards? - m4w - 20 (irvine)

Fucking awesome Craigslist ad of the day.... Is he serious with the V-cards? like from Outlook? Am I getting that right? All I know is I'm fucking eating lunch at Buffalo Wild Wings today.

I'm your guy. It'd be cool if you lived near the Buffalo Wild Wings on the 5 and Culver. I will sift through responses for this afternoon. Please be able to host or willing to meet in my car and find a cool place to park ;P

Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Blue Waffled Cunt

Ok so I recently picked up the phrase "Blue Waffled Cunt" from twitter and while I had no idea what it meant, I couldn't stop saying it which as one can imagine has lead to a punishable situation. Since I was going to go down for using this phrase I thought I should at least look it up and as it turns out...some things can not be unseen...but at least, now we know...

Blue Waffles

When someone refers to a 'Blue Waffle' they're not referring to your typical blueberry breakfast-food.

A 'waffle' is a a slang term for vagina.

A 'blue waffle' is a slang term for a severe vaginal infection.

It's basically a slang term for an extremely nasty or severe vaginal infection/STD on the vagina. The infection could cause lesions on the outside of the vagina, as well as bruising, which causes it to look blue in color.

Monday, December 12, 2011

3 Types of Crazy

Brilliant! http://jwundersworld.blogspot.com/2011_05_29_archive.html

She's sad that your ass is about to be sliced and diced

You know what? Bitches are fucking crazy. Not all bitches though. Just some. Like 65% of females. Big fucking number right? Damn straight. Before I start my sermon, I want you to realize, that not only are women fucking crazy, but dudes are too. The difference? Bitches do things that are a bit fucking extreme. For example, kill a mother fucker in their sleep with an ice pick.

Now, now...some of you are ready to grab a knife or a bat and hunt me down...so before some of you cunts do that, calm the fuck down, grab some goddamn wine and chill the fuck out.

Mr. Wunder's here to let everyone know which types of females can get a little insane from time to time. Wait, which types? There are types, J? Fuck yeah there are. So sit back, relax and get ready for: J-WUNDER'S CRAZY BITCH BREAKDOWN, BREAKDOWN, BREAKDOWN...

I Want Your Money Crazy: You ever watch Dateline on a Friday night around 9pm? You know...where there's always a murder mystery about how some dude "mysteriously" fucking died and they can't find his fucking body...anywhere? Oh, and no one knows where their goddamn killer is either? Meanwhile, back at the fucking ranch...the newly widowed wife is rolling around butt ass naked in a life insurance policy worth millions...sucking the neighbors cock for diamond necklaces and sipping on Mint Julips. Leave it to a crazy bitch, more than likely a honky, to do some shit like that and get away with it. You're probably asking, well why couldn't a female that was Hispanic or African American get away with it? You wanna know why?

They ain't white and Johnny fucking Cochran is dead.

You connect "murder accusation" with a Mexican or African American...one word: GUILTY. With no need of evidence because they know your ass is broke...and unless your name is Jennifer Lopez or goddamn Tootie from Facts of Life, you don't even know what $1,000's looks like. Fucking white people. Ya'll got a good fucking life.

I Love You Crazy: Ever watch Fatal Attraction? Glenn Close was a crazy cunt, right? You have yourselves a chick that you could shoot 50 times in the body and face and will not...I repeat, will not fucking die til you know, she's yours...FOREVER.

Look, I've dated a lot of fucking broads, but none stood out like some of these crazy twats. You could be 2 weeks into a relationship and guess what? This bitch will LOVE YOUR ASS...two fucking weeks. Don't be surprised if you start receiving Bridal Magazine and Kids 'R Us Catalogs once a month. Once you stick your dick inside that slippery vagina, you're royally fucked my friend. Wanna avoid meeting some gals folks too soon? Don't date those crazy "I love you two weeks in" bitches. If you do, just know that whatever you believed in, doesn't fucking exist anymore. If you don't put on the afterburners after a 1/4 mile head start, you will be with this crazy bitch forever.

Oh, you're Jewish? Not anymore mother fucker...welcome to Christianity. You don't eat meat? Fuck that shit, you eat bacon and her pussy 4 days a week, hell, you eat bacon out of her pussy. You're a jeans and t-shirt guy? No you're not...from now on, Dockers and Ralph Lauren button-ups. You don't drink beer, you drink Apple Martini's. You don't spread eagle, you cross your legs like a goddamn fag. Hey I get it, these bitches are crazy. So run mother fucker. Run.

One Night Stand Crazy: This has to be one of the most dangerous bitches you will ever encounter. Hey, we all love to fuck. Some more than others. But when you run into a girl that doesn't do "one night stands" and the only time you fucked her was a "one night stand"...head for the border asshole because you will not be able to escape. Real talk.

I don't know what it is with these chicks but they are by far the craziest bitches in the world. Why you ask? I have a few reasons:

1) Your dick must have been fucking SU-PERB and you made her cum for the first time...EVER. You broke the code...you my friend, hold the key to what she wants. FOREVER. Congrats on having an amazing cock, because you're more than likely never going to fuck anyone else again.

2) She was a virgin and one random Saturday night she said, "Fuck it. I'm down to bone tonight." And just your luck, you were able to show her that she could fit 8 inches of man meat all the way down to her sternum like a goddamn circus freak and fuck like she's been working in an Asian Massage Parlor since she was 15. Word of advice: becoming a virgin surgeon backfires 81% of the time.

3) She believed every bit of bullshit you were saying just to get in her pants. Hope it was worth it buddy because she's introducing you to her family next weekend. Across country.

A majority of women just don't throw their pussy out there like it's a goddamn 4 'o clock snack. Ok, yes they do, but they don't expect themselves to be spreading eagle three hours later saying, "Fuck me harder...finger my ass. Punch me, then choke my tits." Ooops...that's for another entry.

Like I was saying, they test the waters but find themselves in the situation where you're basically to blame if you end up fucking them. How does that work? I don't fucking know. I just run and give them the wrong number to call when I find myself in that dilemma.

I learned that technique after one bitch tried to run me over with her car. Apparently, she says I took her virginity. I say she was on her period. But hey, poppin' cherries, breaking hymens, same diff, right?. Regardless, the bitch was fucking crazy. But I digress...

These bitches are head cases and will find you if you try to hide. What's that? On Facebook? You're fucked. Got a cell? You're fucked. Live anywhere in the U.S.? You're fucked. Didn't use a condom when you banged her? You're super-duper fucked. Always remember, if a woman lays her force field on you and you break those boundaries as well as her vagina, you better fucking go kill yourself before this bitch finds you and does shit to you that they do to prisoners at Guantanamo Bay.

So there's a little appetizer into the world of the first 3 types of crazy bitches that can be identified. Are there more? Of course asshole, that's why I said, appetizer. Now how soon you get to hear about the others, is up to me I guess. So be patience and good things will come. I hope you took lots of notes and made sure that if you run into any of these types of crazy bitches, just remember: I fucking told you so. (and don't give them my number)

We Found Your Cat

Breaking up is hard to do... with your period.


ahaha this is such a rad blog!! Periods are no fucking joke!

A few days ago I tried to break up with my period. Maybe it was stupid to do it via email (and a little tacky too) but I had just HAD it!!! 'Cept, now I don't know what the fuck to do... here's our correspondence, tell me what you think....

Dear Period,
This is kind of awkward for me, and I'm not even really sure what words to use. You know I've always said I only wanted two kids right? Well now I have them and I do realize I couldn't have done it without you....

I remember when we first met. You of course, always the prankster, had me waiting for our introduction. Did you know I lied and told all the girls at school we had already met so that I wouldn't be the last one? It made me embarrassed then, but now I know it's because you had a special first appearance in mind, didn't you! Was it the white pants that drew you to me? Or was it because I was in a public park and you love a good laugh? You were so sneaky too! I didn't even know you had arrived until I got home and went to take a piss, but I bet a lot of other people knew it just by looking at my backside huh? Youuuuu. I remember it so well because I didn't just meet you for the first time that day. I also met Tampon, and really, I officially met my Vagina that day as well. We all had sooome party in the bathroom that afternoon didn't we? Ahhh, good times. I look back at these times and almost forget about the 'down days' you've caused me, which is really the reason I'm writing you this letter in the first place....

Look, I know I owe you for feeding my kids in utero and all, but when I think of how many times you've been a bastard to me, I'd say we're pretty goddamn even. A surprise laugh is fine once in a while, but do you know how much fucking money you owe me in underwear??? AND sheets?!?! AND towels!?!?! Sometimes I really think that your goal in life is to embarrass me and put me in the poor house. Oh, and by the way, all those times I was doubled over in excruciating pain... I knew it wasn't indigestion but YOU cramping the shit out of me. Cute. Very cute. Then there's the whole jealousy thing. You have many times ruined my sex life by popping by at completely the wrong moments. You are so rude and possessive that I have a ton of respect for any man who would turn the other cheek and put up with your fucking presence in the bed room. Asshole. Every fucking month I've had to deal with you. In fact, just the thought that you're coming over makes me anxious and angry! People tease me about it, but I don't find it very funny.... You probably do though. You probably get a real kick out of the way that I lash out at everyone around me all because of YOU, you ATTENTION WHORE! And you don't even take me anywhere or buy me anything.... ever! In fact, it is I that always ends up spending money on YOU when you're around. Do you think tampons are cheap?? And pads?? AND LINERS???????? Lets add it to the underwear towels and sheets and see YOU pay that fucking bill DEADBEAT!
God I really hate you. Which brings me to the point of this letter.

I've had enough bloating while you're gloating. I'm done, I've put up with you long enough and I just can't take one more month of you!!! There was a day I dreamed about your arrival, but now? Now I pray for your departure. Your services are no longer need here. I'm officially "closing up shop" and I'm afraid you've GOT TO GO. You can keep being your regular asshole self, just NOT HERE. So, I'm gonna need you to pack up your shit and get the fuck out of my life. I will grant you one last swan song because frankly, there's no other way for you to go but then THAT'S IT. I never want to see your bloody face EVER AGAIN! You hear me?!?! We're done, I hate you, now LEAVE.

Dear You,
You ungrateful BITCH! You would be NOTHING without me. All the money in the WORLD couldn't pay for what I've given your selfish ass. You want me to leave so bad??? MAKE ME SLUT..... oh, and I know just how much of a slut you are, or are we forgetting?? And the times you didn't feel like being a slut?? Who bailed you out?!! Who?!?! Or are we FORGETTING THAT TOO??? AND swim class, and I even fucking bailed you out of WORK many times!!!!! Like I said, you may be done with me, but I aint done with YOU and I aint goin' NOWHERE.
-your period.

You sadistic, creepy, uterine STALKER! I can see this isn't going to go nicely. You'll be sorry for this.

OOOOO I'm SO SCARED. You got me shaking in YOUR UTERUS. Listen carefully, here's a little FYI for ya, me and menopause are TIGHT. So, if you think I'M bad, just wait until I give my girl Meno a call. If you don't slow your roll.... you'll be PRAYING for CRAMPS over the HOT FLASHES we got in store for you.... so chill the fuck out, and step away from Seasonique bitch, or YOU'RE the one who's gonna be sorry.
-Your worst nightmare.

So that was the letter I got yesterday, and frankly, I'm a little scared.

When God Made PPS

Thanks EAM for this:

Get on My Shopping List

I think I just figured out how to get someone else to pay for and do all the work in getting all of my xmas shopping done. I'm gonna sit in the car all day, read some year old US Weekly's then when this fool is at his last store I'm going to go ahead and exit the parking lot with all the presents and minus the retard.

The Reason for Santa's Naughty List

Craigslist will Kill You

ok so I was sent two amazing Craigslist posts this weekend which had my lying on the floor crying and laughing at the same time so J-Wunders blog completely hit home.

Advice Column: Desperate Measures
Dear J-Wunder,

I'm a young, attractive girl in my late 20's but lately I've struck out in the dating scene. I've resorted to online dating, but the problem is that the way the process is set up, it takes soooo long to meet someone. I guess what it comes down to is that I really need to get laid. I've become so desperate for sex that I've resorted looking for dates on CraigsList's personal ads.

What do you think? Is this a good idea for a young, respectable girl like myself??

Just Need Some Lovin'

Dear Just Need Some Lovin',

Are you fucking kidding me woman? You ever hear of the fucking Craigslist Killer? He was a dorky ass white dude with a big dong that killed bitches? Ring a bell? They just premiered that shit on the Lifetime channel last night too.

If you don't know this story, let me give you the Cliff Notes version:

Dorky ass white dude who was a smart mother fucker. Went to school to become a doctor or some shit. Went to Yale or some yuppy ass school like that. Loves him some bitches. Boning was his hobby. So was killing a fucking chick. He found ads on Craigslist for chicks like yourself, who were looking for a pogo stick to jump on. He met these ladies in a hotel, fucked them til they're almost paralyzed, blew his load on their back then killed them.

Question: Do you want sex so bad that you wind up fucking dead in a goddamn Motel 6 with crime scene pictures of you face planted, butt ass naked with trails of cum left on your back and long blond hair? Seriously. Are you itching for cock that bad miss?

Any young attractive woman in their 20's should never, ever, EVER have a hard time finding a man. I don't give a fuck if you live in Amish country. You'll find a dude that wants to bone you, even if that dude is your fucking brother.

You wanna know why those dating sites take so fucking long in their matching process? It's because of mother fuckers like the Craigslist killer, that's why! If dating sites were like Craigslist, thousands of bitches would be found dead in cheap ass motels covered in semen. No parent wants that to be the last vision they see of their child. Hell no. Dead. With cum splattered all over their face and body. That shit ain't right.

Here's what I do know IS right...you stopping that internet/Craiglist "my pussy is available" bullshit. I may not know you, but I bet you are probably a hot piece of ass that no man would want to see dead floating in the goddamn river at 3am. Stop killing yourself with trying to find some internet fucking love connection and go to a bar with some friends. Trust me. If you want some cock, you'll find tons of sausage there. At a bar, you'll find a sea of big dicks, little dicks, thick dicks, pencil dicks, black dicks, brown dicks, yellow dicks, white dicks, bent dicks, STD dicks, dry skin dicks...you name it, your choice of dick will be there.

Meeting dudes in public places is the best method to get your panties wet. Why bother writing some paragraph on your fucking false hopes and dreams so some fucking stalker can read it on match.com, meet you at the Olive Garden, fuck your brains out at a Sunset Inn, then slice your fucking throat before you even have an orgasm? In a public place, you're surrounded by people. By your friends. By the things that you're familiar with. Nothing says, "I want to fuck you right now," then finding a drunk dude at a bar, grabbing his cock and whispering those 3 little words - "I love cock."

If you're willing to advertise that "your pussy is open for auction" on Craigslist, then what you're saying is that you're willing to go the extra mile to get some cock. That's why if you do it, do it the right way. At a bar, getting drunk and taking home the first guy you think will bang you the way you want, you dirty little slut you. The internet is cool for shit like watching free porn fetishes, not letting dudes know you need a 7 inch dick that can fill your large intestine up with his load. Don't do that. If you do, your ass will be dead and that would mean that's one less piece of desperate ass, men lose out on.

I know you want to get laid. So what do ya say? Let go grab a fucking drink so we can find Mr. Man-dingo to bang you so hard, that it really does sound like the Craigslist killer is on a mission to kill your ass.

Get Yours,


Self Defense Tips for Women

Two Types of Boobs

From Miss. PaRANThood:

There are two types of Boobs* known to man.

1. The Regular Boob. It's the one he knows and loves. It's comforting, soft and can be sexy if dressed up but can also easily be a signifier of all things wife and mommy. Think Golden Retriever.

2. The Period Boob. Whereas the 'Regular Boob' is golden retriever, the "Period Boob" is like a motherfucking Bengal Tiger. It's beautiful, it's big, it's full and exotic, tempting and unpredictable, and to men, it's worth possibly losing a goddamn hand just to savior a little touch.

Rarrr motherfuckers.

*I speak of the non-enhanced breed here.

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

I’ve got 99 problems, but being someone’s bitch ain’t one

Found yet another amazing blog: http://sexliesandbacon.com

I dated this guy a year ago that was the complete opposite of the type of man I’m usually attracted to. I should stop right here and clarify that “dated” basically means I had sex with him, or at least intended to. We never did get around to the sex part and you’ll understand why a bit later in this post.

We met one evening when I played co-host on my friend’s podcast. Mr. Potential Lover Lover happened to own the studio it was recorded in and had decided to sit in on my guest appearance after hearing so much about me. At first glance I didn’t have much interest in him. He was a geek. He was overweight. He was bald. But as we talked I found myself insanely attracted to him despite his exterior. Why? Because he made me laugh and was ridiculously witty.

Humor is my kryptonite.

During my guest appearance we flirted on-air. By the time I left the studio that night my mind was made up about wanting to have sex with him. We exchanged numbers and talked for several weeks afterwards, meeting up a few times at public events but never getting time alone. That is until we made plans to have a sleepover at his place following another appearance I was making on my friend’s podcast.
A few hours before my arrival he’d told me he went out and got me a gift.
“I can’t wait to slip this on you…” he’d said.
From his clues about it being red and something I could wear I thought it was a piece of lingerie. My mind began to fantasize about what it looked like and what his expression would be when I finally tried it on for him. The more I thought about it the hotter I got. I couldn’t wait to get him inside of me after I pranced around in that lingerie.

I arrived at the studio that night with condoms and a grin, but before we could be alone I had to record the podcast with my friend. He sat beside me in the studio the entire time, periodically teasing me by slipping his hands under my skirt beneath the table. The threat of someone else noticing turned me on immensely. By the time we finished recording that night I could hardly contain myself. I wanted my gift and I wanted him even more.

After everyone left we made our way up to the bedroom above the studio. I pressed myself against him as we kissed and in return he placed his hand between my thighs, using his fingers to push my panties to the side. He stared at me and gave a devilish grin, as he now felt just how much I wanted him.

He removed my clothes, tasting every inch of my skin with his tongue as it became bare, until I stood before him completely nude.

“Now about that present,” he said. And with that he reached beneath the bed and pulled out a small red bag filled with tissue paper.
“Go ahead, open it.”

I looked at him with a girlish smile and kissed him in appreciation. I’d never been gifted a piece of lingerie before and couldn’t wait to see what he’d picked out for me.

I took out the tissue paper and peeked inside. I could see something red, but couldn’t quite make out what it was in the dim lighting. That’s when I placed my hand inside and pulled out the gift. Two gifts actually. Only what he got me wasn’t the satin teddy or raunchy pair of crotchless panties I had hoped for.

What I found instead was a red dog collar and matching leash.

Please note: I do not own a dog.

This gave a whole new meaning to the term doggystyle.
At first I thought it was a joke, but from the way he was panting and attempting to place the collar around my neck I quickly realized he was serious. Like a dog caught in headlights I wasn’t sure what to do. I giggled nervously while my mind quickly formulated a plan.

I had two choices: I could allow this freak to parade me around the room like a toy poodle or I could get the fuck out of there.
I chose the latter.

“Sit,” I said.

As he sat on the edge of the bed I straddled his lap, lowered myself on top of him, and wrapped my legs around his waist. I then kissed his neck as I slipped the collar out of his hands.

“Stay,” I said.

I slowly placed the collar around his neck and told him to close his eyes. I then grabbed the leash and quickly looped it through the slots of his headboard, creating a makeshift knot as I clipped the other end onto the collar.

“Good boy.”

And with that I hopped off of him, grabbed my shit, and ran.
I’ve got 99 problems, but being someone’s bitch ain’t one.

Liar Liar Pants on Fire

At work right now dying laughing reading this blog.... http://jwundersworld.blogspot.com


Some are good. Some are bad. Some just need to shoot themselves in the fucking face because they are soooo goddamn awful. According to J-Wunder statistics...44.583% of the people you are either friends with or encounter, will be the worst fucking liars and story tellers you will run into during your lifetime. No bullshit.

So with that being said, let me tell you a story I heard from two friends of mine. Both bitches. Both funny. Both keep it real. There's only one problem...a friend of theirs (lets just call her an acquaintance now) ended up crossing the line with, what do you fucking know...her GODDAMN LIES. Basically, I heard this story, and of course, there was only one thing I could do about it. Write a fucking column, right? Damn straight.

See, it all starts off with a few funny stories. Nothing big...just something to strike conversation and get peoples attention. Because we all know...compulsive liars LOVE attention. But as time goes on, stories become...how do I say this - over the fucking top. For instance:

"My aunt was the Pink Power Ranger". Ummm bitch, ain't no Pink Power Ranger I know, is fucking Hispanic. How do I know? Well, unless you know a Hispanic with the last name Chang, then I'll shut my fucking mouth. A useless fucking fact to try to act cool, but come the fuck on...we all know your poor, 4 teeth missing, Mexican ass, don't have any relatives that live in Hollywood. The only family you have down south, live in Tijuana and are strippers at Adalita's night club sucking donkey dick for a buck fifty. Fool me once you dumb twat...strike one.

"I was a flight attendant during 9/11...that shit was so tragic." Back-up-the-mother-fucking-truck here sweet tits. If we do recall, on 9/11/01, your ass was 14 years old, getting tea-bagged by the older high school kids for menthol cigarettes. How in God's name were you a mother fucking flight attendant? Did they all of the sudden take 14 year old 6th graders (yes, she was the oldest fucking 6th grader in U.S. history) on as interns or something? Get the fuck outta here biz-natch! Wasn't it you, who thought 9/11 was the east coast version of 7-11 (true goddamn story). I think you did, you lying sack of shit. Fool me again...strike two.

"I'm going to Italy for a wedding tomorrow but will be back the very next day." Wait, what?! Unless they brought Italy to the mother fucking Olive Garden in Modesto, CA, just know that you're a goddamn, mother fucking, toothless ass, cottage cheese vaginal fucking liar. Wow! You planning to teleport there too, bitch?! *shaking my goddamn head*

Fool me three times...strike fucking three.

"That bitch, A.G., slashed my tires and I have proof. The cops have her fingerprints on the box cutters she used. Wait, I mean, we have her on a surveillance camera, slashing my tires with her box cutters then fleeing the scene. All in black. With a mask on. I think. Wait, um...yeah, that's right. She was wearing a cape too. Anyway, thank goodness I got my tires fixed within 2 hours of getting them slashed by this mean girl, but, could have possibly been the old lady from Titanic if I had to second guess it. Now who needs a drink?"

That's all she wrote, bitch.

For some reason, you literally had to make up this goddamn story and bring this girl in the middle of it:

Box cutting, tire slashing, cape wearing, bitch.
First off, who uses box cutters nowadays? Mother fuckers at U-Haul? Is our suspect a goddamn terrorists? For fuck's sake, of course not, goddamnit. She's a friend (was now)...who apparently (on this faithful night) wore all black, a mailman mask, Louis Vuitton cape, had a ninja sword AND AK-47 strapped to her back while running away because she was in a jealous fucking rage because you wouldn't tell her the secret on how you get your eyebrows looking like bent ass coat hangers. Lets not forget to mention she was angry that you wouldn't take her advice on getting dentures, since you felt men were more attracted to you by losing your teeth one by one. BTW - congrats on the 15 teeth you have left. It's a good look for you, fuck face.

And if it didn't get any worse, you decided to blame two more people who YOU claim were friends of your "Pink Power Ranger" aunt that were accomplices of the tire slashing homicide (please note these two ladies don't even know WHAT THE FUCK a Power Ranger is):

Ex Black and Red Power Rangers who worked with Chang during 9/11 on the Titanic

I wouldn't lie to you fucking people when I heard those words come out of my friends mouths. I'm 32 years old. A grown ass fucking man. So when I heard that some toothless bartender decided to tell a bunch of other degenerate drunk fucks about her tire slashing incident regarding Jackie Chan's niece (who's Mexican) and two Ex-Power Rangers who were involved, I froze. Froze because what I heard was something so unheard of, that I actually almost believed it. Can you actually believe, horrible fucking liars (like this) actually go to this extreme to get all the attention?!?! For fuck's fucking sake almighty of Jehovah Mahatma Ghandi King Jr.?!?!?! What the fuckety fucking shit mother fucking horse cock ass fucking cunt face?!?!?!?!?!

I have no words other than, whoever this broad is, needs to be hugged a little more. Please lay off the Charcoal Filtered Tequila. And quite honestly, check yourself into the loony bin. I realize people lie, but come the fuck on...Power Rangers, 9/11, 24 hour trips to Italy???? Get the fuck outta here you raggitty ass taint goblin. That shit ain't right. If you need attention that fucking bad, go to a strip club and flap around your saggy ass titties. Trust me, there are enough degenerate fucks to give you the attention you need.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a flight to catch with Osama Bin Laden. We're gonna go see Tupac in concert on my uncles island. You might have heard of the place...CANADA.


Satan's Way of Distracting U From Making Dinner

Bitches Be Crazy: The psychosis fueled by obsessing over relationships statuses

I've said it before, I'll say it again....http://the-momfia.blogspot.com

Bitches be crazy, this is pretty universally understood, but social networking has taken this to a whole new level with the Relationship Status. While Myspace had the opportunity to list your status, it didn't set-up for the anxiety of waiting for someone to approve or deny your request. Of announcing to your friends and family that you were seeing this one person. Forget whether or not you two have spent a sizable amount of time together, have met each others family, or have tagged photos with you both making that horrible smoochy-face. Prepare for the moment of building pressure where you wait for someone to "Accept you're in a relationship with:"

That's where the anxiety and pressure begins in a relationship: Am I ready to accept I'm only seeing this one person? Am I ready to send him/her this request and have them shoot me down? Here's a fucking idea, WHO GIVES A SHIT. Someone is spending their free time on you. Someone is (possibly) spending their money on you. Someone makes you laugh. Someone is hopefully at least decent in bed to keep you coming back for more. Why are you putting all this pressure on yourself and this status imposed by the fucking geeks behind Facebook who probably couldn't get a woman to suck their dick if they didn't have so much money? Does a Facebook relationship status change the person you're dating? No, it changes the way you THINK they feel about you. It creates doubts, suspicion, fears, and finger pointing. And I like to keep fingers exactly where they belong; inside of me.

That's the problem with making so much of our lives on the internet. We're so obsessed with Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, and being "plugged in" that we let it dictate our relationships and happiness. Who the FUCK cares if so-and-so unadded you from Facebook? You probably barely remember them from High School or that drunken hook up anyway. Yet because we're so "plugged-in" and obsessed with social networking we find ourselves feeling unworthy by someone simply fucking removing us from a generic list of assholes they're "friends" with online. Is your relationship any less valid because it isn't Facebook Official? If it is then you're an asshole who doesn't deserve whatever fuck wit is giving you a portion of their time. Actions make a relationship a relationship, not left-clicking the approve button on an imposed idea of what makes your feelings valid.

Why not take all the energy you're spending bitching and obsessing over Facebook and put that toward fucking? In my experience it has never mattered how batshit insane I am, if the sex is good the man is happy to openly label me as anything I damn well please. Less bitching on Facebook and more fucking, ladies.

What a Period Feels Like In case U Were Wondering

If you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em

hahaha I cannot stop reading this girls blog...http://the-momfia.blogspot.com...hilarious!!!

My New Years resolution was to become a bigger slut. Maybe that's not exactly a popular choice among the fake gym promises & carb-banning, but I was committed to having a resolution I could spread for. If you can't beat 'em, fuck 'em. Having made this resolution by 7pm on the last day of the year when I was already shit faced at a NHL hockey game, I decided in that moment of drunken clarity that this was going to be "THE YEAR OF THE SLUT"(not too unlike the Chinese year of the donkey). Having slept with a surprisingly low number of men and no lasting relationship to show for it, I decided to jump on the dick bandwagon and waste no time in kicking off my new whore year. As my Asian bestfriend and I stumbled out of the arena my night became a blur of shots, bad songs, and strobe lights. By the time the ball finally dropped I'd already been heavily drinking for more than eight hours and it was safe to say I'd surpassed down to fuck and entered can't stand up to fuck.

Somewhere in the chaos of this night I laid my sights on the cutest, small town Illinois, boy next door I have ever had the pleasure of corrupting. Mike was everything my mom has always wanted me to bring home, while I was everything his small town probably warned him about when they made dancing illegal. In my tequila haze I decided his actual name was fucking stupid and re-named him Matt, why I'll never give a shit.

At what must of been four in the morning, I realized in the bump and grind of my drunken attempts at dancing, I'd lost my Asian. Few things can I warn against like never going to a family dinner sober and never losing your Asian. Leaving the club, I drug "Matt" along on the widest Asian search since The Great Panda Adventure, instead of finding my Asian we stumbled into a backseat. My backseat. Which was good because I was rocking a very uncool mom-SUV that had just enough room for some decent sex, I know this because I've HAD decent sex in that car, this was not going to be that time.

You almost have to feel bad for guys with tiny dicks, they didn't ask for a three inch cock anymore than a woman would want to unwrap a three inch dick and pretend to be turned on. Well past drunk and willing to see if the size of the boat matter more than the motion of the ocean, I decided to take one for the team and go for the tiny gold. I don't think I've ever faked an orgasm drunk, but I should of won a god damn Oscar for that performance. Fuck Sophie's Choice, Emmerson's choice was deciding to give the small town boy the thrill he'd never have; the faint hope he ever pleased a woman.

I didn't ask for his number or give him my real name. I can only hope he Facebook stalked me & when he came up with nothing fondly jacked off to the memory of my amazing actress of a vagina.

Keep your Emotions Away From My Vagina

and yet another amazing blog I have found that I had to share...http://the-momfia.blogspot.com

The best part about FWB(friends with benefits) is that it is all benefit and not much friend, which is fine by me because the last thing I need is having to pretend to give a damn about someone else's problems. In the beginning its a big race to not only orgasm and get the fuck out, but prove who isn't going to be the one to get emotionally attached. Among orgasm's and late night hookups is an underlying competition: who's going to want more than just sex first?

Our culture typically depicts women as the emotional, needy, "I want more than just sex" types. While that's very often a valid case, it isn't always the situation. Men like to play aloof, but very often they find themselves caring about their FWD beyond a quick fuck. Feelings are complicated little bastards, unfortunately. What begins with calling your FWB over for an easy way to bang out your emotions with your personal life, ends with cuddling and someone staying over all night. Once breakfast starts getting made, someone starts sharing details, and before you know it you've found yourself in the worst hell possible; a label-less relationship.

The idea of FWB is an awesome one, endless blowjobs to the first guy who talked his best female friend into fucking without commitment. He's an innovator to relationships and fucking around the world(I say we dedicate Steak & a Blowjob day to him). However we have to be willing to improve upon his original idea(if we hadn't improved upon the phone we'd still not have sexting, NO THANKS Mr. G-Bell) of friends being perfect fucks and expand. We now have reach to the internet, which means MILLIONS of anonymous horny people we don't have to pretend to even be friends with(let alone give a shit about)!

Problems come up when even if an emotional attachment is SOMEHOW magically unavoidable by all parties, when do things stop? What if one person starts seriously dating someone else, but the other hasn't? Then it's no longer "Friends with Benefits" and just becomes "I used to sleep with my friend Corey who still sexts me when he's drunk and my new boyfriend isn't really fucking happy about that". That's the problem with Friends with Benefits, when the benefits stop, what happens to the friends? Someone is always the "left over party" or the "one who got attached". It's nearly impossible to recover a friendship once you've been on top of someone, then every time there after you so much as attempt at hanging out without letting it all hang out you end up with enough sexual frustration to rival my mother.

Sex is fun. Sex [can be] good. Sex with a friend rarely works beyond three months and ends a friendship that may have lasted years. My advice? Fuck perfect strangers, don't ask questions, and don't talk about your problems. Need someone to talk to? Call your fucking friends who aren't responsible for making you orgasm. Don't have any friends? First ask yourself why you're such an asshole that no one wants to be your friend, then join Facebook and complain.

Always remember: Keep your emotions away from your vagina and out of your friendships.

iPhone Commercial That Didn't Make the Cut

The 3 people that can ruin Thanksgiving

I have a new favorite blogger so I'm reposting his stuff cause it's that awesome. If you want to see more of his stuff:

Thanksgiving…a time when families get together and everyone enjoys each others company. If only it were that easy, right? Wrong.

Call me mother fucking crazy, but as we get older, it seems that more and more adults dread Thanksgiving like we do with any other family holiday function. And it's not because we hate the holiday's, but because we get soooooo goddamn annoyed with some family members. For example:

The Bitch Ass In-law:
Getting together this Thanksgiving got you fucking excited. Well, until you found out your goddamn brother and his bitch ass wife were gonna be there. You know…the fucking cunt that thinks she “runs shit” and has went through more life experiences then a homeless man that once was rich and pissed it down the shitter because 8 grams rocks and hookers became his hobby.

They never shut the fuck up and talk to you like you’re listening. She thinks she’s "Mom of the Year" but seems to let her kid run around in a diaper that looks like it has about a weeks worth of shit in it. Yeah, you know who I’m talking about. That bitch. I would say something about the annoying ass brother in-law too, but all that mother fucker does is get fucking drunk, say some "awkward moment" shit and get bitched at by your sister. Moving on…

The Loser Uncle:
We all got problems. But this mother fucker got some goddamn problems. More than likely, he’s at Aunt Ethel’s house on a warrant that no one knows about. Drugs: he’s on them and he has them. Weapons: a shank is duct taped to his leg and he has a stolen gun in the car…which he stole too. He doesn’t say much about what’s new in his life other than, “Things are good. Just looking for a job and trying to stay out of trouble. Where’s your bathroom…I gotta blow my nose.” Keep your kids away from this crazy sack of shit...there’s a 79% chance they’ll be drunk or high if they get the chance to be around him.

The Annoying Neighbor:
This is the loneliest mother fucker on the block. Parents probably died some years ago. Relatives all hate him because he fucked his 1st cousin and they ended up having twins. Basically, this poor bastard has been black listed from his whole goddamn family. Lucky for you, grandpa invited his ass over because “No one should be alone on Thanksgiving”. Thank gramps...you mother fucking asshole.

If you’ve never felt awkward in a social setting, your ass does now. The annoying neighbor doesn’t shut the fuck up. EVER. They talk more then everyone in the house combined. Ever given an autobiography on your life? Well, have no fear, because this mother fucker is about to ask you in a very creep-dog way, all the details of your human existence. And just to add a little more fuel to that fire, they will tell you how fucked up their life is and probably ask you out on a date. Weird? What the fuck do you think jack ass? Fuck yeah that’s weird.

Honestly, there is a laundry list of the shit you'll encounter with your family every Thanksgiving. This is just the most common problem that roughly 82.6739% of us will encounter this Turkey Day.

So how do we deal with such shenanigan’s and horse shit? Simple. Do the one and only thing that will get your ass through the torture.


Bottom line: booze makes everything better. And tolerable. It also gives you the balls to tell a mother fucker that they got problems and they need to shut their goddamn mouth because a mother fucker is about to get bitch slapped in the goddamn face. Sorry, that was harsh. Actually, no it wasn't.

Drink because you can. Drink because you will realize that your life isn't as fucked up as these three. Drink because booze is fucking delicious and it will make the time fly by. Just don't drink too much and cause a scene. You do that, your ass might be on this list.

Happy fucking Holiday's!

Thursday, November 3, 2011

Blonde Moments

Back to Halloween night we walked past this guy who was dressed like a scrabble board and he had a hat on that said WWF. My blonde girlfriend turns and asks me what he is supposed to be. In all of my own blonde wisdom I replied, Well his hat said WWF, I think that stands for World Wrestling Federation or something. Maybe it's one of the wrestling characters from that. We were about 2 blocks away before I turned around and started shouting Words With Friends!!! Words With Friends!!! Words With Friends!!! So anyways, speaking of being a complete idiot, I saw this picture and thought, this is so how I'm going to look on the autopsy table. Then I had to google whether your bones actually stay in the position of how you died. If your real quiet you can actually hear me getting dumber by the minute.

Where You Should Post Ur Status....

Wednesday, November 2, 2011

You's a Drrryyy Snitch

So this weekend I was visiting my girlfriend in San Francisco for Halloween. We wanted to get our dance on so we decided to hit up the Castro District aka The most FABULOUS gay area evahhh. Anyways what had happened was....we had gone out for coffee that morning and there's really no way to sugarcoat this....coffee was our gateway drink to cocktails. It's really simple math, our coffee got cold which reminded us that cocktails were cold and 12 hours later we find ourselves dressed in our Halloween finest dancing in a club full of sweaty guys who could give a shit about us. Perfect!

So there we are watching a male go go dancer in an assless Robin costume dance on top of a bar and my girlfriend and I are in full dance pants mode to my favorite Britney Spears jam when this black guy in a trench coat, do-rag and a Louis Vuitton handbag stuffed inside of a Victoria's Secret shopping bag comes up with his head moving side to side like a cobra pointing at us and says "You's a drrryyy snitch". We didn't even know what to get hung up on, the fact that he said You's or wtf a dry snitch was? We literally had to stop dancing to Urban Dictionary* that shit. Came the fuck up as you'd expect.

*dry snitching:
To indirectly tell secrets or offenses to a person of authority or any person meant to be kept away from a secret or offense, sometimes inadvertently.
If the telling of secrets or offenses is purposeful, minute details are usually left out as not to appear to be directly telling.
It is indirectly snitching.

Black guy in a trench coat? Unexpected. You should have seen my girlfriend and I standing there trying to take it all in. Token black guy....gay black guy.....token gay black guy in a trench coat??....and IF we are in fact a dry snitch then is there also a wet snitch? Deep thoughts for the inebriated.

This guy had set his bag on top of the controller for the lights to the entire club. Out of his purse (not a satchel, not a murse, his fucking purse) he pulls out a hand full of receipts, a full bottle of Merlot and one single blue latex glove. When he went to lift his bag he hit a switch and turned on all of the lights to the club at 11:52pm. Everyone stopped dancing and looked around trying to figure out why the lights were on so early. An employee finally came over and figured out the problem. Apparently Lil Miss....ter Trench Coat blamed us for telling through osmosis since we happened to be standing next to him the whole time. Little did he know that we had left for coffee that morning and 19 margarita's later we ended up there and when he turned on the lights we stopped drinking our vodka based hydration long enough to debate time travel. IF our drinks were still full AND our watch said midnight...BUT the lights were on....what was right? was this the weekend for time change? did we have to go home? would there be time to finish our drinks? WHAT WAS HAPPENING??? Pure panic and confusion on our part.I kid you not, the expressions on our faces were like we were trying to solve linear equations. Her and I were staring into a hot tub time machine (aka vodka cranberry) trying to make sense of it all, we had no time to "dry snitch".

Unrelated but equally confusing to us was trying to decipher between real cops and fake cops. Basically what we concluded was if they appeared to be in shape then they were definitely gay. Just cause your drunk doesn't mean your not right.

Friday, October 28, 2011

How Not to Rape

Thank you Di for sending me this poster on how not to rape...Good tips!

This is like when you're looking everywhere for your glasses and then finally you realize, they've been sitting on your head the whole time! Except instead of "looking everywhere for your glasses" it's "trying to stop rape." And instead of "they've been sitting on your head the whole time!" it's "you keeping raping stuff!" So if you want to stop rape, quit it with the rapes already! Jeez!

Wanted: New Work Wife

Sometimes my friends are funnier than me....


If you follow me on Twitter or are a friend of mine on Facebook, you may have heard the news that my great friend and coworker, Kristin, was let go the other day.

After I was done sobbing and lying on the ground in a fetal position and then caressing her chair while building a candlelit shrine to her on the desktop in our cube, I realized something:


Now sure, Kristin would go on about politics and her kids and generally shit I didn't care about half the time but we'd go get coffee and make fun of people together, like, all the time.

And now it was gone.

Sensing the urgency to fill this void, I created the following poster:

Cross your fingers this works.

Kristin would want it this way

Thursday, October 27, 2011

30 Days of Giving Love — a challenge for November (and beyond)

My friend Tim came up with such an amazing idea that I'm stealing it and I hope you all steal it from me.


30 Days of Giving Love — a challenge for November (and beyond)

I’m creating this challenge… for myself, and hoping to continue with it beyond just this next month of November… but I wanted to share it and challenge you all… any of you, to take it on yourself as well. Alter it if you want… but I would also challenge you: if you do alter it, make it more rather than less.

Take 30 minutes out of every single day to correspond with loved ones. Call an old friend for a half hour. Send out 30 texts; can’t take more than a minute to do, right? And for those of you who are really busy in your day and afraid of how this might lead to more conversation in a day than you have time for, just tell someone “I miss you”, “thanks for being my friend… talk to you next week?” or something that doesn’t have to start with “how are you doing this week?” if you just don’t feel you have the time for it right then. I know what the busy-ness of life is like, and I don’t want you other busy-bodies to put this off right off the bat just because you’re afraid of what this task might lead to, as wrong as that may sound.

** Hand-write a letter to someone and mail it two times this month, once during the first 15 days and once during the last 15 days. When was the last time you got an envelope in the mail that had your name and address hand-written on it? Okay, we all get birthday cards and stuff like that… so what about that envelope with a letter that is hand-written inside? The letter can be as short or as long as you like it to be… just get one in the mail to someone you choose. Get creative if you like. Have kids? Make a little card that just says “we love you, grandma / grandpa” to their grandparents and put a little note in there from yourself as well. Have a spouse or a significant other? Even if they live under your same roof, the mail does come to your place too. Send them a letter. Why not?

** Have a meal with a friend at least one time this month. Just you and them. Dinner, lunch… whatever. Maybe even someone you haven’t seen in a little while. Sit down and get to know how their month is going. How their life has been since you last spoke. Our time with other people is what helped make us who we’ve grown up to be. The people in our classes, in our neighborhood, in our own homes. They shaped our decisions whether we know it or not. Even if it was the decision to not be like some other people. It is important for us to spend face-to-face time with other people. Not just phone to phone, text to text, email to email. But to get to see their face when they talk and hear the inflection in their voice. And then to shake their hand before and after or even, hey…. give them a hug.

** Save a dollar each day for your kids. Don’t have kids? Well you can put this into your OWN savings then. Or an account you create for your loved ones. Don’t have any kind of account like that? Maybe it’s time to make one. You’ll want to some day… maybe now is the time to get that going. And hey, if you extend this past November, maybe spend less on Christmas presents and put a little more into that account for Christmas. Whether you tell them you did it or not, that will be a great “gift” for them when the account matures. Whether we like it or think about it or not, life ends. Death is a part of our lives. And caring for our loved ones is a large part of loving them. As much as I hate money and what it means and how it can shackle us in our lives, we do need it… and your loved ones will too… your kids will too… so prepare for them. Look down the road. It doesn’t make you a Debbie Downer or a Negative Nancy to think about that (where are the man names for people like that?)… it just means you are planning for something that is inevitable, at some point down the road.

** Spend an entire day “unplugged”. No social networking. No texting with everyone. No internetting. No gaming. Maybe even no TV / DVR. Shocking, right? Go retro maybe once a week or once every other week. I mean, really retro. Read a book. Read an actual newspaper. Get out and walk around with someone or some people. Are there any “nature spots” near you? Go to the beach, then. Go to the woods a bit down the road. Step back a little bit from all of our devices and allow yourself to breathe in a little bit of what’s outside. Not only can this allow you to re-fuel a little bit, but can also open up your world to some great possibilities for ways of interacting and spending time with people who matter to you.

** Start something new with your family or your friends on Thanksgiving. Something that will perpetuate more interaction with one another. Start a monthly poker game with your buddies. Or a book club. Or a running coffee morning on every third Friday of the month. Just instigate some kind of pattern of being with your loved ones, and put it forth to at least one of them on Thanksgiving Day.

** Save 50 cents each day. Fifty cents. I am not gonna get all Sally Struthers on you, but half of a dollar can mean so little to so many of us, but can make a huge difference when it’s put together with a large pocketful of its compatriots. That is the goal. Save two quarters each day, put it somewhere and at the end of the month give those 15 dollars to a charity. Any charity.

** Start the chain of giving. One day in the month, be the one to start the chain, any place you choose. Your local coffee spot. Your Saturday morning bagel store. The pay parking garage you have to go through every day at the office. The toll booth. Somewhere, one day, pay for the person behind you. One time. It shouldn’t cost you more than 5 bucks. And you may never know if they actually pass it on and it becomes an actual chain of giving or not. If it does, that’s great and kudos to the people who kept it going. If not, you did something kind that will affect that person behind you in at least one way: they got something free from a stranger. But who knows what’s going on in their life. Who knows what their day has been like. This one “random act of kindness” could pull them out of a funk they’re in. It could even re-start someone’s belief in human kindness in general.

** Make something for your significant other. Don’t have a significant other? Choose someone else that you love. The point is creating something on your own for someone that you love. Remember when we were kids, it didn’t matter how great your drawing was of something, or if you kept all the glued on macaroni’s inside the crayon lines… it was that you made it for your parents. That was what made it “fridge worthy”. So whether you write a 20 line poem that starts with “roses are red” or you go (yes, even as an adult) to a color-me-mine store and make your spouse a new coffee mug that says “I love you today more than yesterday” on it… make something for someone. Your level of work and time on it is all up to you.

** Every Monday, take 10 minutes to sit and breathe. At any time of the day. A new week is upon you, and we all love Mondays, right? So what better day to just take 10 short minutes to allow the silence to blanket us and regenerate us. Are you a stay-at-home-mom? After you drop your kid(s) off at school, take your 10. have a ton of housework waiting for you right when you get home from their school? Then pull over somewhere and take your 10 in your car. Kids not in school yet? Take your 10 when they go down for their nap. Working types: take your 10 during lunch. Don’t want to “waste” your precious lunch hour on this? Then take one of your 15 minute breaks you never take and do it then. Do it at the end of your day, before you head home. 10 minutes. It isn’t a long time in the scheme of things, but it can be so healing for us. And how does this fit in with “giving love” if it is spent on your own? We cannot be our best for others, if we are not at our best with ourselves. We all need to recharge our batteries. You’ll remember when you’re on a plane, they always tell you to put the oxygen mask on yourself before you help someone with their’s. So take 10 to recharge and get into another week of giving love to others.

This is your launching pad. Add some of your own ideas. Change some of mine. It’s not going to hurt my feelings if you do… I just want you to give it a shot. Print out a calendar or get out your iPad or iPhone’s iCal and put something down for every day of November. 30 days of giving love. And don’t forget to take your 10 for you every Monday, too. Some of you will wave your hand at this, some of you didn’t even get to read this far. But if 10 people do this, even for the first 2 weeks of the month, that has the possibility of at least 140 lives being affected by one of your acts of kindness. That’s not too shabby, right? I hope to positively affect the lives of 30 people in November. Bare minimum. Where that number may go from there, only God knows. But that is what I intend for my direct impact to be. And there are two people that I will work the most on this with in November… the people that are right under my roof with me, my wife and my daughter. I don’t dance around the subject: my little girl is why I am here on Earth. Period. I have been sure of it from the moment my wife showed me those two little lines on the “stick”. For those of you parents out there, I assume (and hope) you know what I mean by that… and I don’t want or intend for you to lose sight of them in the scheme of all of this. But the reality of how important all of the relationships in our lives are to us isn’t something we should allow to fade away either.

The main inspiration for all of this is two recent losses in my life: my best friend from high school, Jason and a good friend of mine Amy who just lost her daughter, aged 22. Two very different experiences for me. With Jason, I had allowed myself to get far too comfortable with the idea of our friendship always being accessible. Months could go by and when we re-connected any time disappeared and it was like we were in High School again. But those times in between connections became larger. “I’m just so busy, dude… sorry… let’s catch up next week” “I’ll call you back next week” … we have all said that to people, right? Well, next week will never come for us again. And Jason I am sure knew I loved him just as I know he loved me. But I wish I hadn’t put him off so much. I wish I had spent one less hour doing this or that and taking 10 minutes to talk to him and some other friends instead. On the other end of that spectrum is my friend Amy’s daughter, Alyssa. I never met her. Amy is a fellow photographer and we have become pretty close over some years now and have been trying to get together for a year or so to do photos of her other daughter. And who knows if I ever would have met her eldest. But now I won’t ever have that chance. I won’t be included in the number of people whose lives were touched by her in one way or another. The finality of it all is hitting me in so many different ways. And this is one of the things to evolve from it all. I plan to do a lot more to change my style of living, and how I approach the relationships in my life. This is just a fun way for me (and maybe you) to go about it in kind of an organized and challenging kind of way. Will you do it? Will you at least try it? At least some of you will likely be amongst my many targets in November. How you respond and maybe work it into your own life will be up to you.

Friday, October 21, 2011

Cheers from Your Local Planned Parenthood

So last night I found an old box I had forgotten about with tons of photo albums and scrapbooks. Among all the goodness and forgotten memories I stumbled upon this note. I read it a few times and immediately realized I wrote it from the treacherous waiting room of the old Planned Parenthood that was across from the high school. I couldn't afford insurance at the time so momma had to get her birth control pills with all the other broke ass fools.

Anyways I was trying to think of who I was writing this note to, like which one of my awesome friends volunteered to come sit next to me through 3 hours of uncomfortable waiting and pap cause they deserve an award or a smoothie at least from me. Then the more I read it the more I realized....I wrote that note to myself. Like straight up 2 way conversation, not only written, but then I felt the need to scrapbook that shit. I amaze myself each day. 2004 must of been a good year for me.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

My Time Machine is Departing from Riverside

Man I love Craigslist. It's an endless source of entertainment. Thank you Ms. Ducat for bringing this gem to my attention.

Time Travel (Riverside)

Date: 2011-09-21, 6:05PM PDT
Reply to: gigs-4sn6k-2610940126@craigslist.org [Errors when replying to ads?]

I have a functioning time machine (I know it sounds unbelievable, but I assure you it works) and I need a 2nd person to operate it with me.
I'm looking for someone who is adventurous and reliable. Preferable a male; or a female that can do heavy lifting.
I am leaving on October 15th, 2011, in the morning and plan to return December 10nd, 2011. I am going to June 1985 to purchase Billy Idol, Billy Joel, Bruce Springsteen, Shiela E, Cyndi Lauper, and Huey Lewis Cassette tapes and vhs music videos.
If you are serious about time travel and are reliable, then please contact me. You do not have to pay anything but must know how to handle a Ruger 10/22 22lr Boy Scout edition rifle. Time machine is suited with flat screen tvs with Direct tv sports pack and full bar.

We will be leaving from Riverside, Ca. Let me know if you want to go with me

P.S. On a side note, how much do you want to bet if Billy Idol had the chance to go back in the time machine he totally would.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Bartender Rants 16-21

Brought to you by: http://drunkbastardradio.tumblr.com/post/10359546603/the-bartender-rant-rules-16-21

SIXTEEN: BRING YOUR FUCKING ID. Unless you look as old as Strom Thurmond, you just MIGHT get carded. Most bars will not allow you in without one. In most states (if not all), walking around without some sort of state issued identification is against the law. They’re not fuckin’ heavy. I can’t tell you how many girls I’ve carded and it’s “My boyfriend has it and he’s parking the car,” or “I left it in the car,” or whatever piece of shit excuse you have that you’re not carrying it on you. You have a fucking hairbrush, two tampons, a compact, lipstick, a cordless drill, a snowboard, and whatever the fuck else you have in that Bag of Plenty that you carry around with you, but you couldn’t put your fucking driver’s license in there? Again, get a clue. While I don’t card EVERYONE, if I suspect you might be teetering on the edge of legality, I’m carding you. It’s not a power trip, I don’t get off on it, it’s the fucking law. And if you don’t have it, you’re probably fucked. Look at it this way: if something happens to you and we need to identify the body, well, at least you had your ID on you. And hopefully you were wearing clean underwear, or your mom is going to be VERY embarrassed.

SEVENTEEN: Do not call me over and then decide you’re going to get the group’s order together. Like this:
“Hey buddy!” (I walk over)
“Uh, yeah, I’ll have a Bud Light, um… hey Johnny, what do you want?”
(Long pause)
“Um, I think he’ll have a Heineken…”
(large baseball bat hits you upside the head).

If you get my attention and I come over, you damn fucking well better know what you want when I get there. In addition, don’t order, and when I come back with the drinks, order more. Give me the whole order at once. I’ve had jerkoffs do this:

Moron: “Can I have a Bud Light?”
Me: (Walk away, get beer, come back) “$3.50”
Moron: “I need two.”
Me: (Walk away AGAIN, get beer AGAIN, come back AGAIN) “OK, $7.00”
Moron: “I also need a vodka soda.”
Me: (Make drink) “$11.00”
Moron: “I think we need shots, too.”

You get the idea? It’s just fucking brainless. Get your shit together, order all at once, and HAVE YOUR FUCKING WALLET READY WHEN I COME BACK! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve had some fuckass order and when I tell him how much, then and ONLY then does he realize that (a) he has to pay and (b) his wallet is in his pants, and (c) it’s going to take him a friggin’ week to open it and find money.

EIGHTEEN: Have your fucking money ready. It’s fucking obnoxious to be busy, have some half-wit order drinks, and then after you get them and tell him how much it is, watch him fumble for his wallet, look inside, try to figure out simple math, etc. Have an ample amount of cash in your hand when the bartender comes back with your order. Act as if, when you order drinks, that unless you have a tab at the bar, you’re going to have to pay for them. I don’t have the time, energy, or patience to waste on watching you go for your wallet. It’s like watching some old bat start to slowly fill out her check AFTER the cashier rings in her basket full of Depends, Cat Chow, and applesauce at the grocery store. Be prepared. Expediency is always appreciated.

NINETEEN: Don’t bitch about the price. I currently work in a restaurant. The menus are posted on the door so people (morons) can see what the bill of fare is prior to making a commitment so great as walking into the establishment. The menu also has the prices on it. So, when the bill comes, I don’t want to hear how much everything was. You read the menu. You saw the prices. You sat your fat don’t-wanna-cook-ass in a chair, ordered off the menu, and ate it like the bottom-feeder you are. Pay the bill, tip, and go. No one put a gun to your head and told you that you HAD to be here. Same goes for the prices. Eight bucks for a glass of wine? Yes, sorry to get all 2011 on your ass, but… it’s 2011. If you can’t afford to eat with the big people, take you and your too-much-hairspray wife to Applebee’s where you can have your four buck glass of Montevideo White Fucking Zin and your $8.95 all you can eat riblets and leave me - and the rest of us - the fuck alone. You cunt.

TWENTY: One simple rule with wine - if you’ve never heard of the vineyard, it doesn’t mean shit. Unless you are an oenophile bar none or are the Senior Editor for “Wine Spectator” magazine, I don’t care what you have heard of and what you haven’t. I’ve been bartending for twenty years and haven’t heard of half of the vineyards out there. And stop asking me questions as if you know anything about what you are talking about. “Is that chardonnay oaky?” “What’s drier, the merlot or the cabernet?” Here’s what you do: “I’d like to try the…” and have a swig. If you like it, fine. If you don’t, try something else. I actually had some old bat once ask me what kind of white zinfandel we carried by the glass. I replied, “pink.” Who gives a fuck? Really? You’re so much of a wine snob that you are picky about your WHITE FUCKING ZINFANDEL? Do us all a favor, go play in traffic.

TWENTY-ONE: If you go to a party, regardless of where it is (restaurant, bar, hotel, double-wide trailer), and it’s is an open bar - meaning drinks are complimentary - it would be nice if you’d tip the fucking bartender. Especially if you are one of these assholes: “Hey, lemme get a Ketel and club, and make sure there’s not too much club.” My recommendation in that case is that you have a dead president in your paw (not the cherry-tree chopping variety). The funny thing about an open bar is that I’m already making a little money off the party. However, I stress “little.” And if you decide to take advantage of the booze flowing like… well… booze, and to avoid unsightly lugees floating in your adult beverage, leave a tip. Here’s what I do: I walk straight up to the bartender, put a twenty down, and inform him that I plan on drinking heavily, and just make sure that there is vodka for me. You’d be surprised how fast and strong my drinks are, while you, Mister No-Tip Cheapfuck, are drinking swill.

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Yoga Mat for Sale. Used Once. $1

Best CL ad I've read in a long time!!

Date: 2011-09-13, 10:32PM PDT
Reply to: sale-cbz7z-2597736393@craigslist.org

Yoga mat for sale. Used once at lunch hour class in December 2009. Usage timeline as follows:

Register for hot yoga class. Infinite wisdom tells me to commit to 5 class package and purchase a yoga mat. I pay $89.74. Money well spent, I smugly confirm to myself.

Open door to yoga room. A gush of hot dry air rushes through and past me. It smells of breath, sweat and hot. Take spot on floor in back of room next to cute blonde. We will date.

I feel the need to be as near to naked as possible. This is a problem because of the hot blonde to my left and our pending courtship. She will not be pleased to learn that I need to lose 30 pounds before I propose to her.

The shirt and sweats have to come off. I throw caution to the wind and decide to rely on my wit and conditioning to overcome any weight issues my fiancée may take issue with. This will take a lot of wit and conditioning.

Begin small talk with my bride to be. She pretends to ignore me but I know how she can be. I allow her to concentrate and stare straight ahead and continue to pretend that I don't exist. As we finish sharing our special moment, I am suddenly aware of a sweat moustache that has formed below my nose. This must be from the all the whispering between us.

Instructor enters the room and ascends her special podium at the front of the room. She is a slight, agitated Chinese woman. She introduces me to the class and everyone turns around to greet me just as I decide to aggressively adjust my penis and testes packed in my Under Armor. My bride is notably unfazed.

Since I do have experience with Hot Yoga (4 sessions just 5 short years ago) I fully consider that I may be so outstanding and skilled that my instructor may call me out and ask me to guide the class. My wife will look on with a sparkle in her eye. We will make love after class.

It is now up to 95 degrees in the room. We have been practicing deep breathing exercises for the last 8 minutes. This would not be a problem if we were all breathing actual, you know, oxygen. Instead, we are breathing each other's body odor, expelled carbon dioxide and other unmentionables. (Don't worry, I'll mention them later.)

It is now 100 degrees and I take notice of the humidity, which is hovering at about 90%. I feel the familiar adorning stare of my bride and decide to look back at her. She appears to be nauseated. I then realize that I forgot to brush my teeth prior to attending this class. We bond.

It is now 110 degrees and 95% humidity. I am now balancing on one leg with the other leg crossed over the other. My arms are intertwined and I am squatting. The last time I was in this position was 44 years ago in the womb, but I'm in this for the long haul. My wife looks slightly weathered dripping sweat and her eyeliner is streaming down her face. Well, "for better or worse" is what we committed to so we press on.

The overweight Hispanic man two spots over has sweat running down his legs. At least I think its sweat. He is holding every position and has not had a sip of water since we walked in. He is making me look bad and I hate him.

I consider that if anyone in this room farted that we would all certainly perish.

It is now 140 degrees and 100% humidity. I am covered from head to toe in sweat. There is not a square millimeter on my body that is not slippery and sweaty. I am so slimy that I feel like a sea lion or a maybe sea eel. Not even a bear trap could hold me. The sweat is stinging my eyeballs and I can no longer see.

This room stinks of asparagus, cloves, tuna and tacos. There is no food in the room. I realize that this is an amalgamation of the body odors of 30 people in a 140 degree room for the last 55 minutes. Seriously, enough with the asparagus, ok?

140 degrees and 130% humidity. Look, bitch, I need my space here so don't get all pissy with me if I accidentally sprayed you with sweat as I flipped over. Seriously, is that where this relationship is going? Get over yourself. We need counseling and she needs to be medicated. Stat!

150 degrees and cloudy. And hot. I can no longer move my limbs on my own. I have given up on attempting any of the commands this Chinese chick is yelling out at us. I will lay sedentary until the aid unit arrives. I will buy this building and then have it destroyed.
I lose consciousness.

I have a headache and my wife is being a selfish bitch. I can't really breathe. All I can think about is holding a cup worth of hot sand in my mouth. I cannot remember what an ice cube is and cannot remember what snow looks like. I consider that my only escape might be a crab walk across 15 bodies and then out of the room. I am paralyzed, and may never walk again so the whole crab walk thing is pretty much out.

I cannot move at all and cannot reach my water. Is breathing voluntary or involuntary? If it's voluntary, I am screwed. I stopped participating in the class 20 minutes ago. Hey, lady! I paid for this frickin class, ok?! You work for me! Stop yelling at everyone and just tell us a story or something. It's like juice and cracker time, ok?

It is now 165 degrees and moisture is dripping from the ceiling. The towel that I am laying on is no longer providing any wicking or drying properties. It is actually placing additional sweat on me as I touch it. My towel reeks. I cannot identify the smell but no way can it be from me. Did someone spray some stank on my towel or something?

Torture session is over. I wish hateful things upon the instructor. She graciously allows us to stay and 'cool down' in the room. It is 175 degrees. Who cools down in 175 degrees? A Komodo Dragon? My wife has left the room. Probably to throw up.

My opportunity to escape has arrived. I roll over to my stomach and press up to my knees. It is warmer as I rise up from ground level - probably by 15 degrees. So let's conservatively say it's 190. I muster my final energy and slowly rise. One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other. Towards the door. Towards the door.

The temperature in the lobby is 72 degrees. Both nipples stiffen to diamond strength and my penis begins to retract into my abdomen from the 100 degree temp swing. I can once again breathe though so I am pleased. I spot my future ex wife in the lobby. We had such a good thing going but I know that no measure of counseling will be able to unravel the day's turmoil and mental scaring.

Arrive at Emerald City Smoothie and proceed to order a 32 oz beverage. 402 calories, 0 fat and 14 grams of protein -- effectively negating any caloric burn or benefit from the last 90 minutes. I finish it in 3 minutes and spend the next 2 hours writing this memoir.

Create Craigslist ad while burning final 2 grams of protein from Smoothie and before the "shakes" consume my body.

Note to self - check car for missing wet yoga towel in am.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

How to Poop at Work

This was too amazing not to share. I found it at http://gawker.com/5839808/

It's a sad inevitability. No matter how hard you try, how accurately you plan, how much you control what you eat, it's going to happen at some point: you will have to poop at work. It's where the biological meets the professional and it's always, pardon the expression, a shit show. Let's try to make it easier, shall we?
As the children's book tells us, everyone poops, and everyone has to work, but while we have to work together it doesn't mean we have to poop together, or at least acknowledge that we are all pooping in the same place. It's the great unspoken occurrence of the workplace (unless your office has some crazy rogue nasty pooper or something). So, here are some easy rules to follow so you can drop the deuce without ruining your professional reputation.

Know the Topography
Every office is different in how the toilets are set up, so you have to know the positives and negatives of each set up. If your office has one-man units that's good in terms of privacy but it's hard to escape any blame for noxious fumes. If your bathroom has multiple stalls it's easy to blame the stink on a coworker, but you have to deal with everyone seeing your business. If you work in a restaurant or somewhere the employees use the same facilities as the customers, you have to go without anyone seeing you entering or exiting and possibly ruining your tip. The more you know about the lay of the land, the easier it will be to plan a thorough strategy.

Know the Shitting Toilet
Every bathroom has one, the one bowl that is reserved for dumps. Whether that's the stall in the corner, the bathroom farthest from the desks or what have you, it is the unspoken shitting toilet. Use it. Always. It's like "goal" in a game of tag. No one can judge you if you're in the right place.

Double Check the Door
Make sure it is locked. Twice! If it's not, you are headed for a career-destroying disaster.

Get Out of Dodge
A few years ago I had the luxury of living only two blocks from my office, so when the need arose I could escape to my apartment. While this is rare, there might be a Starbucks or McDonald's or hotel lobby (always the fanciest toilets around) where you can escape. Sure, the throne is probably totally nasty and filled with a million cooties, but at least you'll have some anonymity. If a third-party toilet is unavailable, perhaps go to another floor of the building or another department and sully their restroom. Crop dust that asshole Bob in accounting on your way. That guy is a dick.

Drop the Book
If someone sees you walking around your workplace carrying a book or a magazine and you don't work at Barnes & Noble, then they know where you're going and your cover is blown, you dirty office shitter. No reading material in the bathroom. And if you're dumb enough to disobey this rule, certainly don't leave your newspaper lying all over the stall. People will just resent having to clean up your mess. And certainly don't leave a half-done crossword lying around. Then people will think you're stupid on top of gross. Everyone these days has a phone, so look at that and put it back in your pocket. Hell, you can even send some emails so if a bomb goes off you have a time-stamped alibi.

Maximize Productivity
I decided to put this in business terms to make it more euphemistic. What I really mean is don't sit your ass in there for like 30 minutes. You may be one of those people who likes to take your sweet time at home chilling your ass over the bowl for as long as you want, but this is work. Not only do you have shit to do (pun definitely intended) but the longer you linger, the longer the chance that you're going to get caught and embarrassed. So get in, get out, and get back to your desk and leave the leisurely loaves for Saturdays.

Know What to Expect
I don't want to be crude, but you have to know when your shit is going to stink. Everyone's does. Fact of life, fact of nature. Get over it. But sometimes it's just vaguely unpleasant and sometimes it's a nose-pinching, face-contorting, hand-waving Stink-O-Rama. Based on your digestive situation and what you've been eating for the past 24 hours (pistachios, amirite), you should know which one it's going to be. If it's the former, go to the usual washroom. If it's one of the latter, maybe you should see about finding somewhere else (see above) to spill that toxic waste.

Bring Matches
They're free just about everywhere, easily slipped into a purse or pocket for emergencies, and completely effective for disguising what smells like an elephant's corpse rotting in the gutter. Sure, people are still going to know you unleashed a turd, but they'd rather smell that vaguely ashy and sulfuric aftersmell than the stench of your Second-Day Curry.

No Talking
If you get into a stall, there is no talking to anyone on the outside, unless you have an Elaine-esque toilet paper emergency. It doesn't matter if you enter the space with a coworker in the midst of conversation, as soon as you cross that threshold you need to shut the fuck up. If it's that important, pause before the bathroom door and finish up before heading in. No talking in the group toilet. Period. And this includes grunting while you take a crap. That's just fucking disgusting.

Time the Traffic
If you're in a communal bathroom, try your best to get some alone time. This might be impossible based on the size of your office and the busyness of your bathroom. Make sure there is no one around for the noisiest and most evident part of your business. That's just common courtesy. That might mean holding it back for a bit if someone else interrupts. That's fine. They may know why you're in there, but proving them right is unsavory at best. If you enter the bathroom and realize someone is mid-turd, head to the sink, wash your hands, and leave. Let them finish in peace. You'd be thankful if someone did that for you.

Destroy the Evidence
With some matches and a bit of subterfuge, you can make it appear like you haven't used the toilet at all. That's what everyone wants, to be able to completely ignore the fact that we all have to shit in a communal space. However, that becomes impossible if you leave things behind that destroy that delusion. That includes a streaky bowl. You know what I'm talking about. In the immortal words of Aunt Sassy on The Comeback, "I don't need to see that!" Flush the toilet a few times and get the water to erase away your mark of Cain before exiting.

Exit Strategy
If you run into someone going into the bathroom while you're leaving it and you just did something foul in there, you have to warn them—especially if it's a one man unit. However, you can not tell the truth. Ever. Use the old, "There's no toilet paper in there," ruse. That's a good one. Or the, "The guy before me clogged it." Everyone knows it's a lie, but that's OK. This is all about keeping up pretenses and maintaining the truth. When it comes to office pooping, conscientious denial is the name of the game.

Wash Your Hands
What are you, a fucking animal?