Monday, April 20, 2009

You Sir Are No Wombat

I was wandering through the grocery store parking lot searching for “Hilda” (The miracle of German engineering that is my car), praying that I would find her before it started to rain and ruin the four bags of peanut butter cups I had just purchased, when a man dressed as a wombat pulled up next to me on his motorcycle. He offered me his card and asked if I had ever considered cosmetic dentistry. I told him that I had thought about laser teeth whitening.

“Are you a dentist, because it says here that you sell cars?” I inquired after reading his card.
“No” he replied “But I am currently enrolled in a correspondence course, and it is cosmetic dentistry we are talking about here lady, not root canals.”
Being slightly put off by his condescending tone, I told him to show me his teeth; I reasoned that if he were in fact a student, his own bicuspids should be some indication of his proficiency in the art of mail order dentistry.

After some hesitation, he curled his upper lip exposing a row of little tiny rodent teeth replete with pointy incisors.

“You are not a dentist, or a wombat for that matter! You Sir are a WEASEL!”

I dropped the bags of peanut butter cups and ran…

Don’t you hate it when people tell you about their dreams?
I KNOW! Me too!

I think the lesson here is Do Not Eat Four Bags of Peanut Butter Cups before Bed.


Saturday, April 11, 2009

The whole bunny/egg thing makes total sense to me now.

Happy Easter.



“Dude, seriously, if you don’t roll your ass to the cafeteria in the next sixty seconds I will push you in the janitor’s closet and leave you there while I eat your Manwhich. I mean it. I am going to fucking lose it if we have to eat with the retards again. Don’t you want to sit with the cool kids, the ones that can walk and don’t drool on themselves? How are you ever going to find a chick if we don’t go where the action is?”

“Oh man, listen to this: page 62…”

Dear Annie,
I have exceptionally small breasts, but my boyfriend said size doesn’t matter. Is that true?

Dear Confused
Of course not. He said that only to get you into bed. I bet he’s sleeping with another girl now.

“Who writes this crap? Annie is obviously a fossil. Size does matter Todd! Believe me. It matters! Have you ever seen boobs?
No, probably not.
We need to show you some ta-ta’s Mr. T.
Guys love big boobs. Get your ass to the cafeteria and I will arrange a private viewing of Playboy, it’s a magazine full of boobs. It is all about the boobs Toddster.”

“Listen Todd, we need to talk. It’s your hair. Do they have the lawn guys style that shit for you? It is bad, but don’t worry I can fix it. I have gel, we can mess it up like you meant for it to look like that. It will be cool. I brought some Musk Oil too, it sort of smells like a girl, but it is better than the institutional funk you have going on now. You reek dude.”

“Guys suck Todd; all they care about is their stupid cars.
Who would miss a keg party to change their carburetor? It makes no sense.
Why are you smiling?
I get it. You like cars too. I thought you were different. Figures.
Hey, since you won’t be driving anytime soon, I think we should pimp your chair. We could trick it out with some chrome or something.
Would you like that?”

“Look man, you don’t have any reason to be pissed off at me. It was Spring Break; I wasn’t even supposed to be here last week. I didn’t ditch you if that’s what you’re thinking. What was I supposed to do? Call you? You can’t even talk.
I am the one that should be pissed. We’ve been doing this for how long and you decide that you will make it all the way down the hall to the lunchroom while I was gone? Not cool.
Listen, I’m sorry. I am just happy we don’t have to hang out with the fruits and nuts anymore. How do you live with all that grossness? I would freak out.”

“No one eats peas Todd. No one. If they put that shit on your plate again, just ignore it. You’re not a kid. They can’t make you eat your vegetables. Don’t let the man keep you down Todd. When I’m gone, you will have to fight for yourself. Fuck peas! Got it?”

“Look, about the party tomorrow. I can’t make it. I want you to have fun though, OK? Tell them you want one of the corners of the cake. That is where all the icing is. When they throw a shit fit because I am not at my own party, you will get it. You understand right? Who celebrates when they break up? It’s stupid. And Todd? I will miss you. I’m sorry I called your friends retards.”

Todd was my "interim project” in high school. While my classmates were spending a semester at the newspaper office, or interning at the capitol, I was stuck at The Kansas Neurological Institute, a residential treatment facility for severely handicapped children. It was not a plum assignment. Nobody wanted the job. Sometimes there are consequences to being a fifteen-year-old asshole.

I spent the Spring of my sophomore year coaching a severely brain damaged boy to maneuver his wheelchair one hundred yards up the hall to the school cafeteria so he could get a plate of pseudo prison slop and feed it to himself in less than thirty minutes. Just like a normal kid. If normal kids were partially blind, deaf, paralyzed and couldn’t speak that is. It took all semester, but he made it.

Todd and I were the same age. The only difference between us was that when he was about the size of a football, one of his parents threw him against a wall. Mine didn’t.

Spring makes me think of Todd, and yeah, I should have gone to the party, but that’s not the worst part, I should have never called his friends retards.
Sometimes there are consequences to being an asshole.

Thursday, April 9, 2009

Ovaries and a Nice Chianti

Someone is going to get it.

I am not even kidding. Any day now, you will read about the (Almost) elderly, (Slightly) overweight, (Somewhat) promiscuous, crazy lady (With bad hair), that lost her mind and beat her co-workers to death with last season's Michael Kors gladiator sandal.

The sad part is any chance I may have had for an acquittal will be lost, because all the evidence needed to convict me will be right here on this blog.
I am screwed.

The days of me vs. the dumb boys at Fussy & Bitchy Inc. are over. Now I find myself in the middle of a hen party at work, only these hens have stilettos, over processed hair and little tiny brains filled with hate and nonsense. Send. Help.

After a week and a half of tolerating the mean girls and their bitch assedness, I have composed a warning letter. I think it is only fair, this way it will not be a surprise when I bludgeon them to death with last years foot wear.

Dear Future Victims Of My Wrath,

I am sick to death of mindless women who believe that they are endowed with superpowers that allow them to be the exception to every rule, because really? Seriously? If you think for one minute that you are the only one who has had to endure the pitfalls and pratfalls of motherhood you are fucking delusional. Your husband is not a bigger asshole than mine was and for the record, we all had crappy childhoods. The difference is some of us grew up.

How can you “Hate” so many things? Fat people, ugly people, non-English speaking people, Wal-Mart, cats, pine nuts. You hate them? I do not have the energy to consider them, let alone hate them. Hating is hard work. Save it for things that matter, or better yet just stop it.

I will admit that I am a bit mystified by your ability to raise the pitch of your voice to such a frequency that only dogs can hear you and your fixation with marking your territory is fascinating, but if you push me, I will pee on your desk blotter. I swear. I will.

Here is a tip: Without exception, every interesting woman I know has struggled to harness the power of the bitch. You see, we all have it. You are not special.

Being a superficial bitch, an ignorant bitch, a selfish bitch? That is the easy stuff and frankly, it wears thin.
There is a huge difference between sarcastic wit and mean spirited bullshit.

It takes practice to control the force. Over time, if you are diligent, hopefully the result will be wisdom. Some women even achieve “Nice”. Unfortunately for you, I am not there yet. Worse, I can revert to the insane bitch of my past with little provocation (As I said it is a struggle).

So Stop It. Please, or I will eat your ovaries with some pine nuts and a nice Chianti.

All the best,


Saturday, April 4, 2009

Maybe Next Time

Guess where I was NOT last night.

Oh Leonard, did you miss me?