So a couple of weeks ago I went to Albuquerque, and before I left I wrote this kick-ass post about how I hated Albuquerque because it looks dusty on TV and is also hard to spell. And that post was hilarious and brilliant and wonderful and I fully expected it to win multiple awards and become THE MOST POPULAR BLOG POST EVER IN THE HISTORY OF THE INTERNET, but hardly anyone read it and it only got 13 comments, and two of those were from the same person, and another one was from my dad.
And that’s when I realized that I don’t know shit about blogging.
But that’s not the point.
The point is, I actually ended up having a very nice time in Albuquerque, so clearly I don’t know shit about Albuquerque, either. Except how to spell it, which I DIDN’T know before, but after looking it up like a thousand times, eventually you just have no choice but to commit that shit to memory, you know? And it turns out, knowing how to SPELL Albuquerque made me HATE Albuquerque a little less. And the fact that I had a good time there made me hate it even LESS… Actually, now I fucking LOVE Albuquerque!! I want to move there and live happily among the dust and the adobe and wear lots of turquoise and play my buffalo-skin drum on a mountaintop while the Native Americans do rain dances and shit!
(Full disclosure: I didn’t actually see any Native Americans while I was in Albuquerque. And I was kind of disappointed by that until I pictured a tribe of naked people on horses hiding behind a big rock in the mountains armed with bows and arrows and scalping tools and shit, just waiting for their chance to seek revenge on the white man. And then I was kind of glad to NOT see them, because (1) I am really white and (B) I happen to like my scalp and (iii) I don’t need an unexpected eyeful of naked “Indian” junk, thankyouverymuch and (4) How could they ride those horses without chafing? I don’t get it.)
(And yes, I realize the above mental image isn’t exactly politically correct, but don’t blame me, blame the racist Hollywood machine. Besides, I get points for calling them Native Americans and not “Indians” – right? Oh, except for that one place where I did call them “Indians” and referenced their junk. Shit. Never mind.)
Anyway, naked (ahem) NATIVE AMERICAN junk aside, what I’m trying to say is, I thought I would HATE Albuquerque, but I loved it, and now tomorrow I’m leaving again, this time for San Diego, which I already know I love because I used to live there and also because it’s spelled exactly how it sounds. But now I’m all freaked out that maybe I’ll HATE San Diego this time, because I’m EXPECTING to love it, and I totally got the LOVE-HATE thing wrong the last time so am I jinxing this trip by assuming that it’ll be fun and fantastic and super-awesome with no danger of scalping or surprise Native American junk-flashing?
And if so, how can I convince myself that San Diego will suck balls so I can be pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t suck balls at all?
It IS my first trip ever without the Bean, so that’s helping a little with the whole I-need-to-believe-this-trip-is-going-to-suck-balls-so-it-doesn’t-suck-balls thing. I’ve never spent a single night away from my Bean in more than two years and now I’m spending FOUR NIGHTS without him and that part really IS freaking my shit out. Four nights is a very long time to be away from the most beautiful child in the whole world, especially when you’re so used to his giggles and kisses and “Ilahhhyuuumaaahh”s (which translates to “I love you, Mom” and is The Single Most Awesome Thing Ever Said by Anyone in the History of the Entire Universe).
Not to mention, I’m 80 percent sure that he will not remember me when I come back. Which I’m thinking is a bad thing. (Except, if he wanted to forget about that time I accidentally let him couch-surf his way to a nearly-broken, definitely jacked up nose, I’d be okay with that.)
BUT.
This is a girls’ trip – just me and the BFF, running away from all our problems and leaving the crazy people we live with to fend for themselves while we sit on the beach and drink many (and I mean MANY) cocktails and take surfing lessons and shop and eat and drink more (and I mean MORE) cocktails and meet new people and be really nice to their faces but then say tacky (and I mean TACKY) things about them when they’re gone because it’s our vacation and we’re drunk and we like being tacky and we’ll never see these people again anyway, so fuck it.
And THAT part is definitely NOT helping with the whole I-need-to-believe-this-trip-is-going-to-suck-balls-so-it-doesn’t-suck-balls thing. Because it’s pretty hard to convince myself that I’m going to hate getting drunk and laying on the beach and doing nothing but being a total bitch and saying tacky shit about other people with my best friend, who’s even better at both of those things than I am (which is SO IMPRESSIVE you don’t even know, because I am SERIOUSLY GOOD at those things. Like, Olympic-gold-medal good).
So anyway. Obviously this all means that I don’t know shit about convincing myself that something is going to suck balls, which is an invaluable skill to have, and I must say, as a career pessimist I’m a little disappointed in myself. Which actually makes me feel a little better. Or worse, depending on how you look at it. Because disappointment is pretty close to pessimism, so maybe I’m back on the right track now. Starting my vacation off disillusioned and upset I think is a good jumping-off point.
Look out, San Diego. Here I come.
Tags: I hope this trip doesn't suck balls, Native Americans are going to kill me after reading this
Okay, so you all know (or maybe you don’t, or maybe you do but don’t care, or maybe you do, and you care, but you were really hoping I’d let it go this time, or maybe you really REALLY don’t care and right now you want to stab my eyes out with a rusty fork because EVERY YEAR I come back to this same bullshit and you’re SO FUCKING OVER IT, would I just shut the hell up, already? and believe me, I wish I could) that I have a kind of love/hate relationship with BlogHer. And by BlogHer, I don’t mean the site, it’s a great site and especially lovely when it features something I’ve written (which has never actually happened but I will continue to kiss their asses until it does) or when another whopping $20 is deposited into my PayPal account because of all you amazinglywonderfultotallyunselfish readers who took the time to click on those ads over there. (All two of you.)
No, by BlogHer, I mean the conference. THE Conference. The Conference that happens every year. The Conference that, this year, is being held in the ONE CITY I’ve always wanted to visit. The Conference that I PROMISED myself I wouldn’t miss this year, because last year I got so weird and high-schooly loser-ish about missing it, which apparently was something a lot of other people were feeling too because I wrote this post and it went global in like five minutes and got more than 100 comments which for me is like, not even a real number.
THAT Conference.
So am I going this year as planned? FUCK NO. It sold out in ten minutes flat or something, and even if it hadn’t, I’m broke. Broke as a joke. Not a funnyhaha joke, but a reallyveryNOTfunnyatall joke. The kind of joke that the asshole at the party tells — you know, that guy with the beer belly and the super unruly eyebrows who’s at least ten years older than everybody else and tries WAY TOO HARD to entertain everyone but just comes off as loud and creepy and douche-baggy instead.
THAT kind of joke.
So between the sold-out thing and the douche-baggy joke of me being fundagely-challenged (ahhhh ha ha ha ha ha!), no, I’m not going.
And now here they all go, all the people who ARE going to The Conference, with their blog posts and Twitter messages and Facebook updates about The Conference, all the What will I wear?s and the Who will I hang out with?s and the What fabulous parties will I get drunk at?s and more What will I wear?s. And if I WAS going, I’d be right there with them, happily tapping out one Twitter tweet and Facebook update after another: “Just need to lose five more pounds before BLOGHER!” “Bought the most fabulous pair of shoes for BLOGHER! (accompanied by picture for review)“ “I want to make out with everyone at BLOGHER!” “Chicago, here I come! Look out, BLOGHER! (throwing pillbox hat into the air and spinning around)“.
DAMN YOU, BlogHer – you and all your fabulous writers and fabulous parties and general Chicago fabulousness. I HATE YOU! But I love you. But I hate you. But I love you. And you’re my sister. And you’re my mother. And you’re my sister. And you’re my mother. (Chinatown reference, people. Don’t make me explain it. See the movie.)
So I’m sitting here feeling all sorry for myself and pimply-teenager-angsty (again) and hating all the bitches who actually GET to go to The Conference (again) and reading about the amazing featured bloggers and wondering what wrong turn I took to NOT be one of them (again) and hating my sad, sorry, broke-ass life (again) when suddenly, it hits me.
AN IDEA.
(Yes, I DO have them occasionally. And sometimes they don’t even suck.)
What I need is a SURROGATE. No, wait — a BlogHerrogate. Someone who IS going to The Conference. Someone who will take my business cards (which I SWEAR I’m going to make someday, I really am) and a cardboard cutout of me (which I’m actually surprised I don’t already own) with them to The Conference. Someone who will say, upon meeting anyone new, “Hi! I’m so-and-so! And (holding up cardboard cutout) this is my friend Beej — She says hi, too! Here’s her card so you can remember her and visit her blog every day and leave her lots of comments!” And my cardboard self will smile and wave and my business card will be pocketed and my blog will be remembered.
My BlogHerrogate will make sure I go to all the seminars, and raise my hand to nervously ask stupid questions, and tweet about how gorgeous everyone is in person, and stalk the bloggers I love to read, and force my famously awkward hugs upon people I don’t know, and get me drunk at the People’s Party, and make a complete ass out of me at the MamaPop thing.
I truly think this is a brilliant idea. And I’m not biased at all. It’s going to catch on like wildfire, too. Everyone there will see how awesome it is and want a BlogHerrogate of their very own. There’ll be BlogHerrogates all OVER this shindig next year. Mark my words. Eventually they’ll start their own union, or something.
So who’s up for it? Come on, people, don’t be shy. You know you want to.
Now where does one get a cardboard cutout replica of oneself? I’m betting at least one of you knows, you sick bastards.
So here’s the deal, folks. The Big Bean and I are packing up ourselves and the Little Bean tonight for a long weekend trip to glorious Albuquerque to see the Big Bean’s grandfather, who’s turning 150 or something. Personally, I’d rather be set on fire than spend a weekend chasing the Bean around Albuquerque, but them’s the breaks.
(And I’m sorry to those of you who just LOVE Albuquerque, if you were offended by that last statement. I know it’s not fair to make judgments about a place I’ve never been, but I HAVE seen it on TV and it looks really dusty. And also, Albuquerque is really hard to spell and that pisses me off. Where did the old settler people get off naming places things that NOBODY can spell? I think they did it just to fuck with our heads, and in my case that strategy has worked very well.)
(And don’t give me that But-It’s-Native-American bullshit. We obviously didn’t give a fuck about the Native Americans or they’d be ruling the country today and we’d all be living in teepees and riding horses and skinning buffalo and shit. And all the places in America would be called something fucked up like Albuquerque. Or Cincinnati. Which I ALSO cannot spell, and which ALSO pisses me off.)
In the meantime, I realize I haven’t posted anything in a while, and my big plan was to write another brilliant, thought-provoking, award-winning post today before beginning the insanity of laundry, packing, about 14 lectures from the Big Bean about how WE NEED TO BE OUT OF THE HOUSE BY SIX. I’M NOT KIDDING, BEEJ. SIX. AS IN SIX A.M. and then facing the realization that all the shit I’ve put off doing this week actually DOES have to be done before we leave and HOLY BITCHBALLS I’m going to be up until 4 in the morning and I have to be up and ready to go by SIX or the Big Bean will either have a heart attack or stab me in the face, and What the Hell Is WRONG With Me, WHY didn’t I do all of this last night instead of lying in bed watching So You Think You Can Dance and eating Little Debbie Nigerian yellow cakes?
Fucking fuckity fuck fuck fuck.
So anyway, what I’m trying to say is, I don’t have jack shit for a blog post.
I started to write one anyway because, let’s face it, not having shit to say has never stopped me before, but the end result was so bad that even I wouldn’t publish it – and if you don’t understand how seriously bad that must be, I would encourage you to take a few minutes perusing the rest of this blog.
Go ahead, I’ll wait.
See?
So what was my point again? Oh yeah, I don’t have jack shit for a blog post. I mean really. I-GOT-NUTHIN. Nothing interesting has happened lately, at least, nothing blog-worthy. No sex toy parties, no sunburn, no lost Loraxes, no rogue bicycle attacks, no embarrassing treadmill injuries, no gross vagina diseases, no mystery desk boogers… it’s not even Free Gift Day at the Clinique counter.
See what I’m saying? Jack. Shit.
I’m not even pissed off at anyone right now, except those old-fart settlers who named Albuquerque Albuquerque. (I mean really, just LOOK at it. I swear it’s mocking me, with all of its stupid q’s and u’s.)
And again, if you need to understand the significance of that statement, take a lap around the rest of this blog. You’ll find that I spend MOST of my time pissed off at someone. Often multiple someones. And sometimes I even have good reason.
Usually at this point I would just fall back on that old tried-and-true strategy of exploiting my child to serve my own selfish needs, and post some awesome pictures of my INCREDIBLY FUCKING GORGEOUS SON, but I don’t even have any of THOSE right now because I haven’t taken any lately because I’ve been so crazy-busy with Little Debbie and So You Think You Can Dance and trying to figure out how to spell Albuquerque.
(Also, I am a terrible mother. But you knew that. Or at least, the bitch who emailed me after my post about Baked Cheetos, accusing me of being a godless heathen, knew it.)
(Quick note to that lady, by the way: You were totally right about that. I am ABSOLUTELY going to hell, and I hate the Christians, especially YOU, and I sacrifice animals and worship the devil at night in between Little Debbie snacks and So You Think You Can Dance. Also? Fuck off.)
So basically the points of this non-post are as follows:
- I don’t have to actually GO to Albuquerque to know I don’t like it.
- If we hadn’t fucked over the Native Americans, there would be no such thing as global warming, which would be awesome, but also nobody would be able to spell the names of any places, which would suck.
- Do you think that if Native Americans ran the government they would carry out the death penalty by scalping people instead of lethal injections? Because part of me thinks that would be fucking AWESOME. (NOT the scalp part of me, though.)
- Nigel Lithgow from So You Think You Can Dance looks like a scary carnival clown. Actually, I’m pretty sure I didn’t say that in this post but I was thinking it.
- I don’t have time to pack, but I somehow found the time to add all of those links up there, so clearly, I am both a procrastinator AND a liar.
- I am going to hell.
- And by hell, I mean Albuquerque.
Tags: Albuquerque is the new hell, native americans could have saved the planet if we hadn't tried to kill them all, shameless blog post promotion
Know what’s awesome?
Running on the treadmill at the gym after you’ve been doing it for a while, and seeing how much you’ve improved, and feeling that out-of-shape lady on the machine next to you (who is now where you were six months ago) looking sideways to get a peek at your treadmill stats, and just KNOWING in your gut that she is SO JEALOUS of your 9-minute mile. Which makes you run a little harder, and bounce a little higher, and feel a little better about yourself while you repeat in your head, “Nanny nanny boo boo ha ha ha ha ha ha” to the beat of the song playing on your iPod.
Know what’s NOT so awesome?
Getting just a *little* too cocky about your athletic prowess and feeling just a *little* too sure of how much better you are than the nice lady next to you, and showing off with a bounce in your step *just* high enough that your arm catches on your headphone cord, which then rips the headphones from your head, yanks the iPod from its rightful place on the treadmill-stuff tray, sends it flying onto the treadmill belt and then hurling to the floor behind you. And trying to catch it, only to ALSO topple your sunglasses, keys, phone, and towel — all of which now follow the same path between your legs that the iPod took just moments before. And run-step-hopping over them as they soar behind you.
Know what’s REALLY NOT awesome?
Pressing the emergency STOP button on the treadmill so you can disembark to recover your stuff but not realizing that it’s still moving *slightly* too fast as you turn around… then feeling your feet treadmill right out from under you, knocking you flat on your ass and sending you a-zoom-a-zing right to the floor, as your arms flail helplessly above you.
Know what’s REALLY, SERIOUSLY, NOT awesome at all?
That weird retching noise you ALWAYS seem to make when you do stupid shit like this, which rings out like a freaking train whistle as you awkwardly grope for your stuff, and maybe a few shreds of your dignity, from the dirty gym floor.
Know what can make you want to stab yourself in the face?
The look you get from the out-of-shape lady on the treadmill next to you (the one you sat in judgment of, mere moments ago) as she asks if you’re all right from her perch above. The look that’s one part genuine concern for your well-being, two parts trying not to laugh, and at least four parts smug satisfaction. The look you know you totally deserve for being such an arrogant, judgmental bitch a few minutes ago while you were still upright.
Know what can make you want to go home and cut yourself like a depressed, pseudo-goth, teenaged Angelina Jolie?
Picking yourself (and your wounded pride) up and climbing back onto the treadmill to resume your workout, determined to regain some semblance of self-respect, pressing the “start” button and upping the speed to something totally unreasonable in an effort to sweat the utter humiliation out of your pores. Then waiting for the belt to really start moving beneath you, wondering why you’re not speeding up (and also, what IS that strange rawrh-rawrh-rawrrrhh noise?), and finally looking down to see that you forgot to pick up your towel, which has somehow become lodged in the belt and wound itself around the revolving mechanism — slowing the treadmill to a barely-moving speed – and also? Breaking the goddamned motherfucking $3,000 machine.
Know what can send you into a tailspin of mortified shame the likes of which you have never known? (Or at least, not since a couple of weeks ago when you walked through the office with your skirt tucked into your underwear)
Having to dismount AGAIN and feeling the out-of-shape lady’s laughing eyes on your back as you limp to the gym’s front desk (did I mention that you also twisted your ankle when you took such graceful flight off the treadmill belt?), where of course (OF COURSE) only the super-hot personal trainer guy is working, and confessing to said super-hot personal trainer guy that you are a fucking idiot and have broken the very-nice-very-expensive machine. Then sheepishly following him back to the treadmill and watching uselessly as he tugs and jerks and finally wrenches your sweaty smelly workout towel from its twisted trap, and pretending not to notice his extremely annoyed look as he tries to get the treadmill to operate again only to announce that it is definitely broken now.
And THEN standing there limply with absolutely no clue what to do while he leaves to make a sign — a sign that might as well have your picture attached with the message BEJEWELL, THE COCKY, JUDGMENTAL BITCH WHO THINKS SHE’S BETTER THAN YOU, BROKE THIS VERY-NICE-VERY-EXPENSIVE MACHINE BECAUSE SHE IS ACTUALLY JUST A FUCKING IDIOT.
And THEN, with no more damage left to be done to either the gym equipment OR your ego, gathering what’s left of your belongings (including the sad remains of your now-shredded workout towel) and pretending (again) not to notice the look from the out-of-shape lady that clearly says “I may be out of shape but at least I’m not a FUCKING MORON,” or the look from the super-hot personal trainer guy that clearly says “You have created more work for me, you FUCKING MORON,” as you do the limpy broken-treadmill-fucking-moron version of the Walk of Shame past them to a world beyond the gym, where plenty more ways in which you are SURE to humiliate yourself await you.
Know what’s the icing on the fucking cake?
Tripping on your way out the door and dropping all of your shit. Again.
Know what the morals of this story are?
(1) Karma and the treadmill are a very dangerous combination.
(2) Anytime you do anything to humiliate yourself, a super-hot guy will ALWAYS be present.
(3) Always keep an eye on your towel at the gym. Or better yet, just use your shirt.
(4) Out-of-shape ladies on treadmills can say more with their eyes than you ever thought possible.
(5) You are NEVER as hot as you think you are.
Tags: karma continues to hate me, the treadmill hates me now too
So I might have mentioned this before, but I sunburn VERY EASILY. Because my skin is naturally the same color as those albino alligators you see sometimes on the Discovery Channel. Or rancid milk just after it hits the chunky stage. Or maybe one of those Twilight vampires but not as pretty or sparkly or vampiry.
Basically, I’m just naturally veryveryveryveryverywhite, like so pale you can almost see through me, like so pale that I was recently accused of actually being light blue by someone who thinks they’re very clever and hilarious, but for some reason I always forget this fact when summer arrives. I know this selective amnesia occurs, because EVERY FUCKING YEAR as soon as it starts getting hot as balls here in Austin, Texas (also known at THE FIERY ARMPIT OF HELL from May through October) I go completely apeshit and scream “SUMMER’S HERE!” and even though I really kind of hate summer (see previous parenthetical statement), still, out I go, running willy-nilly into the dangerous rays of ultraviolet death in my two-piece without any sunscreen or a hat or shame over my cellulite or anything and I stay out there for HOURS and somehow STILL I am shocked and horrified when my skin essentially bursts into flames.
SIDE NOTE: I’m already painfully (painfully painfully) aware (painfully) of the fact that the sun’s rays are really the arms of The Devil and once they embrace me they will cause all my hair to fall out and give me herpes and anal warts and cancer and all kinds of other disgusting, terrible stuff. I do NOT need and will NOT appreciate concerned comments or emails from any of you nifty “helpers” out there warning me about how I’m going to die now because I walked into the Light of Satan without my hazmat suit. I already know that in doing so I signed my own death warrant and also, as a general rule I do not like “nifty helpers” — so shut the fuck up. I’m already dying of sun poisoning and I’m expecting those anal warts to pop up any day now so really, I’ve got nothing to lose and it might just be entertaining to shove a big bottle of sunscreen up your ass.
So AaaaaNYWAY… Now here I am, all pink and painful and splotchy.
Did you catch the “splotchy” part? Yeah. That’s because I DID manage to remember to put sunscreen on the Bean before our outdoor excursions this weekend (Mother of the Year! Mother of the Year!), which is great for HIM, but not so great for ME because after I applied the 1,000,000,000 SPF baby sunscreen to his wee whiteness I apparently rubbed my hands and their residual devil repellant on my stomach and other various random parts of my body, and when Lucifer’s hands reached down from the sky to scorch my innocent, unprotected skin, his fiery fingers were blocked from just those areas and now I literally have hand marks on my body (I think they might have been left by Jesus, now checking for stigmata) in addition to those super-attractive tan lines that make mah-poooor-bewbs look even whiter and droopier and stretch-markier than they did before which, trust me people, is REALLY saying something.
OMG I AM SOOOO HOT.
And THEN I posted something on Facebook about how sunburny I was, and this woman I went to elementary school with like a thousand years ago (who always leaves bible passages on her daily status updates, which, don’t do that) left a comment with some “nifty helper” home remedy for sunburn that involved tablespoons of things like aloe (the “real stuff”) and vitamin E and lavender oil. And I’m all, Oh yeah, let me just break open my fucking homeopathic remedy cabinet because I TOTALLY have one of those, and it’s where I keep all of my aromatherapy candles and acupuncture needles and the other shit I picked up on my last trip to the GNC (insert SARCASTIC SNORT here).
And then I guess she came to her senses and realized not everybody has Vitamin Extract and Oil of Koala in their kitchen cabinet, because she followed up with ANOTHER comment about how I could also use Preparation H on my sunburn and ha ha isn’t that funny ha ha!!
And now I’m thinking, WHAT THE FUCK, lady, I haven’t seen you in like 30 years but you’re perfectly comfortable assuming that I have hemorrhoids? Do I LOOK like I have hemmorhoids? Do my daily status updates somehow SUGGEST that I have hemorrhoids? Because I don’t. Maybe YOU do — maybe all your bible passages just aren’t enough, maybe god thinks you’re stupid because of that shit and gave you hemorrhoids as a joke and now he’s up there laughing at you and your itchy ass – I don’t know. Do any of us really understand the mysteries of the Supreme Being? Fuck no. All I can tell you for sure is that I do NOT have hemorrhoids, so obviously I’m doing something right.
ANOTHER SIDE NOTE: I know you fucking “helpers” are out there right now composing your comments in your head about your own home remedies for sunburn, but let me just stop you now, before you waste your breath telling me to take a lukewarm bath or slather myself with oatmeal. I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP FUCK OFF KTHXBAI.
I’m going to cry myself to sleep now. Good night.
Tags: god gives people hemmorhoids, I am definitely going to hell, sun rays are really the arms of the devil
THEORY:
Baked Cheetos were sent to us by God to make up for all the fucked up shit he’s done to us, like tsunamis and droughts and credit card companies and cowlicks and paper cuts and racists and rush hour traffic and Amway and puppy mills and people who are really really unnecessarily perky and that Sanjaya kid from American Idol a couple of seasons back and those assholes who park in handicap spots even though they are NOT handicapped and anyone who names their kid “Cash” and Daylight Savings Time and fat guys in Speedos and cavities and urinary tract infections and brussel sprouts and guilt trips and guys who don’t trim their nose hair and Nancy Grace and cancer and AIDS and country songs about Americans kicking ass and morning radio personalities and boy bands and people who consistently post bible passages on their Facebook status updates and anyone who says “anyways” and Darfur and people who don’t think we should do anything about Darfur and itches you can’t reach and parents who hit their kids in public and anyone with the last name Kardashian and Windows Vista and hunting for sport and the Victoria’s Secret televised lingerie show and sunburn and writers’ block and close talkers and hangnails and stinky feet and that really repetivite electronica music they play at raves and mosquitos and rodeo enthusiasts and dickheads who don’t tip their waiters and kids with hairlips and man v-necks and ingrown hairs and idiots who don’t know the difference between “their” and “there” and stupid pop-up surveys on my blog and right-wing conservatives and genital warts and people who break their promises.
Not necessarily in that order.
END THEORY.
P.S. I know that’s a lot to lay on a delicious baked snack, but seriously, people. They are Just. That. Good.
Tags: baked cheetos were sent by god, I really hate a lot of things and people
You know what’s funny? When you see a mom carrying her maybe-six-year-old son across the street to school, struggling to hold onto him and his backpack as he throws the BIGGEST FIT EVER THROWN IN THE HISTORY OF THE ENTIRE WORLD. Screaming. Crying. Kicking his little legs. Spitting at her. The Works. And the sweat’s dripping down her temples and she looks tired, SO TIRED, as she plods along as fast as she can (which isn’t very fast with a squirming six-year-old in her arms), dodging spit and just praying she can get this little dickflap to school soon so he can be someone else’s problem for a while, and the look on her face really says it all – FUCK THIS FUCKING FUCKITY FUCK SHIT.
And you laugh, because come on! That is hilarious! Look at that kid, he’s so pissed off! And she looks like she just walked through a car wash and got beaten down by those weird flappy mop things and it’s just really got to suck to be her right now! AAHAHA HA HA HA AHH HA HA!!!!!
But then you hear something and you look behind you but there’s nobody there, it’s just that little voice in your head — you know, the one that sometimes pops up to tell you when you’re being an asshole — and it’s whispering so softly you can barely make it out, so you stop laughing for a second and strain to hear it better, and finally you realize it’s repeating “Your day will come” over and over again, and a shiver of cold, raging FEAR runs down your spine as you suddenly understand that this other woman’s situation isn’t so much FUNNY as FUCKING TERRIFYING.
Because you know that you’ve been lucky, SO LUCKY, to have a very happy, easygoing kid these past two years, with only the occasional tantrum, never lasting longer than a few minutes, and you also know that two is the age at which the wheels often come off, and you ALSO know that you’ve got some truly terrible Karma headed your way, and you do NOT deserve a kid so good as yours, because YOU were never so good to your own parents, in fact you were pretty much an insane, horrifically fucked up NIGHTMARE and just the fact that you survived childhood without your mother squeezing your head until it popped is kind of a miracle. And now you’ve gone and laughed at this poor woman who’s just doing the best she can, it’s almost like you’re just DARING Karma to bend you over the rail and have his wicked way with you.
And you know from experience that Karma, that sneaky prick, has a way of biding his time to lull you into a false sense of security, letting you think that you got away with some truly messed up shit only to grab hold of the rug you’re standing on when you least expect it and YANK THAT BITCH CLEAN OUT from under you, SO fast and SO hard that you actually FLY into the air and kind of flip upside down and fall right on your head so your neck snaps and then you’re in a coma for like SIX weeks and when you finally wake up you’re looking at SIX months of intense physical therapy and your friends and family all abandon you because you’re such an asshole, and who wants to spend every day at the rehab center “being there” for someone who forgot their birthday SIX years in a row?
6-6-6, it’s the Devil at work, people, the Devil has got my fucking number, and I know it.
And this poor woman, dragging her kicking, spitting kid to school while I laugh, is hot and tired and angry and embarrassed but at least it’ll all be over for her in a matter of minutes – she’s just got to sweat it out long enough to get herself and that screaming demon through those big double doors and then she can leave him behind, go home, get on with her day…and chances are, by the time she picks him up he’ll be completely over it and he’ll eat all of his vegetables at dinner and take his bath and brush his teeth and tell her “I love you Mom” before he goes to bed, all with a big, happy smile on his face.
But now MY fate is different. Now I’m looking at days, maybe weeks, maybe months, maybe YEARS with the image of that woman’s FUCKITY FUCK face dancing in my mind, and the sound of my own chuckles ringing in my ears along with that stupid voice’s refrain – your day will come your day will come your day will come – as I sit and wait for Karma to come knocking, bringing with him his best friend The Devil and all of their terror and mayhem and every shred of parental hell that I deserve, right to my fucking doorstep.
And even if they NEVER show up for their evil gangbang — even if my child is the perfect child forever and never throws another tantrum and is always sweet and wonderful and grows up to be rich and famous and nice and respectful of his elders, the torture of EXPECTING the nightmare I have earned, to begin at-any-time-in-any-place, is enough to make my life a hideous mess of sickened apprehension.
And suddenly it just doesn’t seem so funny anymore.
Tags: karma-devil gangbangs
So the Holiday Sweater Lady just came by and I SWEAR TO GOD, YA’LL, she just invited me to a sex toy party. I don’t know what the fuck is going on in this crazy office.
Apparently Holiday Sweater Lady has gotten herself involved with some company that organizes the sex toy version of Tupperware parties, which I find disturbing on many levels but not the least of which is the fact that THIS WOMAN WEARS HOLIDAY THEMED SWEATERS and is easily in her 60s. I’m not saying that either of those things precludes her from having sex or even using toys while she does so – more power to her if that’s her kind of thing, you know? — but it DOES mean that I don’t want to know about it or think about it or have any kind of mental image of it burned into my brain to remain forever like that time I saw that kitten get run over on the highway.
She came over to my desk in her fuzzy yellow sweater, purple capris, clogs with socks, and huge orange ball earrings (and I am NOT making that outfit up) and innocently handed me this invitation:
And I was all, “What the fuck is this?” and she was all, “It’s an invitation to my sex toy party” and I was all, “Please tell me this is a joke” and she got defensive and was all, “You know these parties can be a lot of fun, we all sit around and play games and chat about what *WORKS* and what doesn’t, and a lot of people from work are coming, you could really LEARN A LOT” and I was confused, grossed out and offended all at the same time, then I retched a little and I was all, “The very last thing in the WORLD I want to do is sit around with a bunch of women I work with who are all old enough to be my mother while they discuss their preference in sex toys” and she was all, “I didn’t say it was JUST women” and then I looked around and saw the old pornstache guy standing at the copier and I swear I threw up right there in my mouth.
And now I can’t shake this picture in my head of me sitting on the Holiday Sweater Lady’s couch, looking like a deer in headlights squished between Pornstache and Unusually-Short-White-Headed-Pipe-Smoker-Guy, with the Lunchtime Knitting Ladies passing around dildos and crab cakes, and the hostess (in a sweater designed especially for the occasion) chatting it up with Butch Motorcycle Lady about cats o’nine tails and lubricants. It actually brings tears to my eyes, and I don’t mean the good, happy kind, or even the sad kind but more the MY EYES ARE BURNING THEY ARE ON FIRE OH GOD MY EYES ARE BURNING variety.
And then she said “If this one is a success I’m going to have a guy at the next one who gives lessons on giving the perfect blow job” and that, my friends, is when my head exploded and covered the entire office and the fuzzy yellow sweater in little clumps and bits of bloody brain matter.
I haven’t RSVP’ed yet.
LESSON ONE
1. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I am SO SORRY.
2. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I was absolutely wrong to have done what I did. I’m sorry.
3. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I can’t believe I was so selfish and mean. I’m sorry.
4. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I’m actually embarrassed that you had to call me out for that. I’m really, really sorry.
5. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I will never do anything like this to you again, I promise. I’m so sorry.
6. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I feel awful that I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.
7. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I’m so sorry for being (any of the following:)
(a) an idiot
(b) an asshole
(c) a douche bag
(d) a dick.
8. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
I’m so sorry. I’ll do whatever it takes to make it up to you. Name it.
Extra Credit. THIS IS AN APOLOGY:
Any of the above, followed by actually never doing anything like this again and actually making it up to the injured party.
*****
LESSON TWO
1. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
I’m really sorry you’re overreacting like this.
2. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
Let’s just agree to disagree.
3. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
Why don’t you have another drink?
4. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
Well, maybe I’m wrong in this case, but remember that time when YOU were wrong about that other thing nine years ago?
5. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
What are we having for dinner?
6. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
You’re looking super sexy today. (feeling me up) Let’s have a quickie.
7. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
(anything that includes the word “BUT”)
8. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
Are you about to start your period or something?
Extra Credit. THIS IS NOT AN APOLOGY:
I am really sorry, I will never do that to you again. (followed by doing exactly the same thing again, two days later)
CLASS DISMISSED
Tags: lame ass apologies
