Self Portrait Day: Snoozing with Spoonleg
This is the time of day when, unlike the rest of you bitches, Spoonleg gets to go to bed. Also, my cat is currently chewing on/playing with a steak knife and I really don't care. That's what my mom gets for buying me steak knives for Christmas when she knows damn well that I don't eat red meat. Anything that can't be used for its intended purpose in this house becomes Oscar's newest plaything or something to give to my boss next Christmas. Oscar gets first dibs. I sure hope my boss will like this little hottie:
Yes, my mother gave this THING to me for Christmas, and my cat rejected it. Any takers? I'm tired of this little hooker's bad attitude, fake pearls and red boa. Hey, wait... I think I might have just found a use for those steak knives! Next time wear some panties, bitch.
Sweet dreams, SUCKERS!
Hi, My Name Is ALISELYN LAURADENE
Here's where you can get a Mormon name:
I'm dating a man named DavidO Chevrollette. Now that's HOT.
Anwar vs. Predator
Kam: I hate you, Anwar. You're like the retarded little brother of Predator.
Anwar's Voice: Hey, Predator, wanna play?
Predator's Voice: No, Anwar, I've told you before, I can't associate with dweebs like you. I have an image to maintain.
Anwar's Voice: Aw, c'mon Predator! I won't bother you, I swear! Can't I help kill someone, just this once? I brought my slingshot!
Predator's Voice: No, Anwar. Go away. Why don't you go hang out with your friend Constantine and have a Partridge Family sing-a-long?
Anwar's Voice: But Pre-da-tooooor! I wanna hang out with you, big bro!
Predator's Voice: God, Anwar, leave me alone! You're a lame ass music teacher with too much time on your hands. I am a trained, viscious, semi-invisible murderous extra-terrestrial. We don't even have the same father!
Anwar's Voice: Aw maaaan, you suck, Predator! I'm telling!
Oscar: (licks his ballsack)
KAM: (singing) "If you don't know me by now, you will never, ever, ever know me. Meow, meowmeowmeowmeow."
Self Portrait Day: Spelunking with Spoonleg
I prefer the high-rise bikini thong for comfort.
Okay, just kidding. Here I am preparing to spelunk. Nurse spoonleg means business:
Next I gather my supplies. If you ever find yourself in a situation requiring poo spelunking, here are the supplies that you will need:
Here is where I considered posting a photo demonstrating the actual spelunking process, however I refrain for three reasons.
1) I must continue to pretend to protect the anonymity of my patients, just in case my boss or a HIPPA representative stumbles across this blog. Heaven forbid I should post a picture of someone's ass and one of my readers recognize its owner. "UNCLE STEVE!"
2) We all know how Home Detention Lady feels about anal pubes, and quite frankly I don't want to be responsible for her having to change her panties at work.
3) My camera is a stool-free piece of electronic equipment, and I'd like to keep it that way for as long as possible.
Suffice it to say that the spelunking procedure is not one you would enjoy seeing displayed here. If you are really that interested, then you have more problems than I can help you with. However, I do offer lessons for $30.00/hour. Anyone who's interested can contact me privately.
In lieu of a photo, I'd like each of you to quietly sing Bachman-Turner Overdrive's "Takin' Care of Business" in it's entirety; not for any specific purpose other than I really like that song and can often be heard humming it while I take care of the business of removing poo from people's asses.
The end results:
Nurse spoonleg ALWAYS delivers operational excellence. Booyah.
The view from a patient's window as the sun rises, my cue to go home:
Another successful day of spelunking- accomplished. SATISFACTION.
Gang Bang Book Tag
2. Have I ever had a crush on a fictional character? Ron Weasley... that prepubescent red-headed firecracker can pocus my hocus ANY DAY.
3. What is the last book I bought? "Choke" by Chuck Palahniuk.
4. What is the last book I read? "Blood Sucking Fiends: A Love Story" by Christopher Moore.
5. What book am I currently reading? "Choke" by Chuck Palahniuk, "Skinny Legs and All" by Tom Robbins, and "Island of the Sequined Love Nun" by Christopher Moore. I can never read just one at a time.
6. What 5 books would I take with me if I were stranded on a desert island?
"A Short History of Nearly Everything" by Bill Bryson; the "Flowers in the Attic" series, which I have ready about a dozen times and could easily read a dozen more before I die; "Les Miserables" by Victor Hugo, "Naked" by David Sedaris; the "Left Behind" series, which I have completely read twice over.
7. What 3 people am I going to tag with these questions and why? KAM, Home Detention Lady, and Mrs. Strizzay, because I want to hump KAM on HDL's pillow top queen with it's IKEA bedding while Mrs. Strizzay takes pictures with her digital camera to show Margi when the time comes for her to learn about S-E-X. THAT'S WHY, BITCHES.
Meet the Family: Part One of A Series
My baby brother Shea was born when I was nearly 6 years old. At the time I couldn’t understand what my parents would want with a stupid, cranky, incontinent baby when they already had ME, so I was a little leery of this new person. My brother’s first word was a botched attempt at my name. He had a serious speech impediment as a child; so severe that for three years, my parent’s actually entertained the idea that he might be deaf or gay. Turns out he was just lazy and a late bloomer. He was so difficult to understand for the first few years of his life that nobody ever knew what he was saying unless I told them. When he used to throw tantrums and my mom didn’t know what he wanted, she would tell him to wait until his Sha-Sha got home, because Sha-Sha was the official family interpreter. Sha-Sha was also no allowed to go outside and play with the other seven-year-old children, in case her baby brother might want to communicate.
For several years my brother and I were very close. When he couldn’t sleep at night, he’d ask to come sleep in MY bed, not my parents’ (probably because they couldn’t understand what he was saying when he asked if he could sleep with them.) Then three years after my brother came, my parents decided to bring ANOTHER bastard kid into this world because child labor wages were becoming quite lucrative, and then everything changed. My brother and sister became inseparable because they were so close in age. They had the same friends, attended the same schools, and liked the same games and TV shows. By then I was old enough to have my own friends; friends who taught me that siblings are only good for throwing scrambled eggs and dead rodents at. The three of us spent most of our time arguing and fighting, except for the times when my brother and I could gang up together on our sister (which surprisingly enough, was and is quite often.)
By the time I was a senior in high school, my brother had developed into a person that I actually enjoyed being around, most of the time. He and I have similar, if not identical, senses of humor, something I never would have imagined happening considering his undiagnosed Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. Anyway, the main difference between Shea and I (or any rational thinking human being, for that matter) is that Shea will do anything for a dollar. ANYTHING. Well, these days it’s more like five dollars, what with inflation and all, but he will seriously make it worth every penny. So when I was in high school and my brother was about 11 or 12, my mom would offer him dollars to do things to embarrass me, and oftentimes himself, in public. Once at a band recital he ran up from the audience, stood right in front of the stage, and started dancing like a amphetamine-addled maniac to Stars and Stripes Forever. Then, just to seal the deal, he started whooping (Arsenio Hall style) and cheering my name at the top of his lungs at the end of the performance. Any hope I had possibly entertained that I could perhaps still deny knowledge of that idiot’s identity was suddenly lost, along with my little brother’s last shred of dignity. He sold his dignity for a dollar and a packet of Lucas.
He did the exact same shit at my theatrical performances, as well. According to Fats, who could oft be found sitting in the audience with my family, forced to endure the torture of listening to my mom’s incessant audio-commentary and my sister’s constant high pitched whining, my brother would sleep throughout the entire play. At the end of my two-hour-long stage debut, he roused from his peaceful slumber long enough to wipe the drool from his shoulder and start bellowing “I LOVE YOU, DEJA!!!!” over the sound of polite applause. Of course, all of my co-actors and their parents recognized him as the kid who always came running into the theatre at the end of rehearsals with his pants pulled up to his ears, cinched in place with a tri-colored braided belt, and a name tag reading, HI, MY NAME IS CORKY. “Come on, Detha!” He’d shout, “Mom’th waitink fow you out-thide!”
Not that I didn’t inflict my share of cruelty and embarrassment. An older sister’s favorite past time is yanking down her brother’s pants; this is a common fact. Especially if your brother, like mine, wears pants that would comfortably shelter a family of five, and doesn’t own a belt. One time my brother had successfully pissed me off while there were some illegal immigrants on our patio fixing the roof, and I found this a most opportune time to pants him in front of the open sliding glass window. Little did I know that Shea had decided to forgo the extra effort involved in putting on underwear that particular day. I’m not certain of exactly what the roof fixers were saying, but I’m pretty sure that it’s rough translation amounted to “Oh my God, look at his little white-boy penis!” in their native tongue.
My brother is now a pot-smoking, gang-banging high school senior, but he still hasn’t lost his sense of humor. A few years back, I had come home from college for Christmas. My family, who has a very devout sense of tradition and religious values, decided that the proper way to celebrate the miraculous virgin birth of the Son of God was to go watch a shirtless Brad Pitt seduce scantily clad young women on the big screen. So we all piled into the mini-van, a past time I recall with much trepidation and disgust, and headed to the movie teater. Shea and I of course occupied the back-back, in order to avoid sitting next to our rejected, adopted brat of a sister, and also so that we could kick the back of her seat periodically just to piss her off. Much to our surprise, we found that the long abandoned back-back is where my mom had taken to hiding her booze stash. JACKPOT! She had like fifty of those little mini liquor bottles back there. Sex on the beach, Long Island iced tea, margarita, white zinfandel; she had them all. Most were empty, except for one lone bottle of gin martini. I opened it and took a sniff, upon which I became light headed, nauseous and legally intoxicated. That shit smelled like straight rubbing alcohol! So I did what any decent member of my extended family would have done; I bet my 14-year-old brother that he couldn’t drink the whole bottle before we got to the movie theater. Within 30 seconds, I was handing over the cash and my brother was fucking wasted. I’ve gotta hand it to him, that kid is a monster. I think that he would probably drink unleaded gasoline if you offered him a Lincoln or two. By the time we arrived at the theater, he was slurring his words and knocking his head against the window every time my mom made a right-hand turn. When we pulled into the parking lot, my mom told Shea to get out of the car and go check which movies were about to start, because my family is so prepared like that. After struggling with the door handle for a good three minutes, he got out and started stumbling up the sidewalk. My sister and I were laughing our asses off, knowing full well the cause of his ambulatory deficits, while my mom yelled out the window, “SHEA! PULL UP YOUR PANTS! YOU LOOK LIKE SOME KIND OF GANGSTER DELINQUENT! YOU CAN’T EVEN WALK STRAIGHT WITHOUT TRIPPING OVER THOSE GOD DAMNED PANTS!” My sister, the little snitchy bitch that she is, then informed my mom that her young son was in fact drunk because his older sister had given him five dollars to drink a 6-oz martini in 30 seconds. “WHAT?!” My mom screamed as I cowered in my seat, fearing the lecture on personal responsibility that was sure to come next, “DEJA! THAT WAS MY EMERGENCY STASH! I WAS GOING TO DRINK THAT!” For the record, if any of you ever wonder why I turned out to be such a functionally incompetent adult, talk to the bipolar drunk who birthed me.
(Two reasons why I am not an only child.)
Now that Shea is 18 and I’m nearly 24, we don’t have to sneak into the kitchen on holidays to steal shots of my dad’s Patron anymore. Well, truth be told, we never really had to “sneak” to begin with. My parents are usually too ripped on holidays to give a shit what illegal substances their unsupervised children are consuming. That’s what the poison control hotline is for. During most family events, my parents get trashed on champagne, my brother and I take shots of tequila in the kitchen and then make our own rockstar music on Garage Band with lyrics mocking our little sister, while said sister pouts in her room listening to Crazy Town or tattles on the shit that my brother and I are doing. Somewhere along the way my dad will forget to turn off the video camera, ensuring that we have hours upon hours of audio commentary to validate the things that go down which my mom will later deny. These are times that I cherish.
When my brother decided to get into theatre himself, I was ecstatic because, do you realize what that meant? The potential for revenge was endless. He attends a pretentious, rich kid, performing arts-oriented high school, one where hundreds of thousands of dollars are spent on each stage production and I think they also put on more plays per year than any other high school in North America. Most of the children cast in the shows have been attending vocal, dance and acting lessons since gestation, unlike my brother. It took him several auditions before he was actually cast in a show (they have enough talent that they don’t have to even consider casting freshmen or sophomores). His very first play was Noises Off, and Shea was cast as the crazy, deaf, drunk wandering old geezer. He was the newcomer to the stage, and it was virtually unheard of for someone so inexperienced to be given a leading role. He did an awesome job, but the defining moment of his acting debut was when my mother and I enlarged some old photos of him as a young boy playing dress-up in ballerina tutus and teddy bear costumes and taped them to the wall outside of the auditorium, where parents post mushy “Break A Leg” messages for their beloved children. Shea said that the cast was sneaking out of the dressing rooms at intermission to see them because there was such a buzz going on about it backstage. He finally had to fess up to his friends that yes, that was him in the photos and yes, he did wear ballerina tutus and if anyone was going to kick his ass, to go ahead and get it over with. I think he narrowly escaped death that night, but it was only the beginning of my plot for revenge. My mom has now filed those images in two folders labeled, "Prom Night", and "Wedding Night".
(In his role as Smike in The Adventures of Nicholas NIckelby; a homeless, orphaned retarded boy. Many audience members believed him to be an actual "Special Needs" child, and I did him the courtesy of confirming that fact for everyone.)
Last month his school put on the biggest and most expensive musical performance they have ever attempted, Beauty and the Beast. Shea played a villager in several scenes and performed this hot little waltz with a dancing napkin who I heard whispering something in his ear about spending the night after the show. Those skanky napkins sure do get around.
(His choice of Friday night hairstyles make me question his sexuality, but then I remember the dancing napkin girl and my fears are put to rest.)
I took this opportunity to brush up on my photoshop skills and create my ultimate masterpiece. This image was blown up, duplicated x10 with the caption “Our little princess!” written underneath, and hung in the foyer for all patrons to view. I think I saw the fork and cheese grater laughing at him after the show. A sister’s work is never done.
(He totally deserved this.)
So this concludes Part One of Meet the Family, all about my baby brother Shea. I have many more stories of our antics together, and more to come because, well, he’ll be starring in another play come May and I’ve got a few tricks up my sisterly sleeve. Stay tuned for Part Two of the series, all about my baby sister.
SPD: BAD HAIR BONANZA!
Splint ends? Who, me?
To see more evidence of spoonie's hair travesties, simply visit this post.
To see other people having good hair days, visit mihow's SPD site.
No, it isn't a family name. It has no particular meaning. And because I know you're thinking it, no my parents weren't hippies (although this is the excuse I quite often give because it is the most logical and least likely to get my ass kicked). It's just a NAME people. Do I ask YOU where your mom came up with the name SAM? No, I don't. Because most of the time the answer is going to be, "Uhh, she just liked that name when she was reading the baby name book." Just to shut people up I'll often say, "My mom was tripping really hard on some intense hallucinogenics the day she found out she was pregnant with me and came up with the far-out psychedelic name DEJA which means DO YOU SEE THAT WINGED FIRE-BREATHING GOAT INSIDE MY TOILET? in Swahili."
But that's just not true.
My mom seriously just liked the name. Yes, it means something in French. Yes, it's a brand of water. Yes, in Texas people pronounce it DEEJAY. These are all things I've heard on a daily basis for the past 24 years and I'm ready to say... SHUT THE FUCK UP, ALREADY!
I know that all kids are teased; whether the bullies choose your glasses or freckles or pull-ups or birth name as the butt of their jokes is irrelevant. My parents tried and tried to convince me that I should be proud of my name, but because my name has no cultural or personal significance, there's really nothing to be proud of.
One day my parents decided to break the news of what my name would have been had I been born of the opposite gender. Eugene Leroy, III. Suddenly Deja didn't seem so bad.
"But," I protested, "Kids can't make fun of the name GENE. It's just normal!" Then my dad told me about how as a child, he was nicknamed Genie the Weenie. "AND YOU WANTED YOUR CHILD TO ENDURE THAT SAME TORTURE?!" I was from that moment convinced: my parents are malicious, demonic beasts whose children will grow up to be spiteful and rebellious teenagers because of their cruelly unorthodox names. I can promise you that I, for one, delivered. The other two are steady on their way to the Teenage Rebel's Hall of Fame, aka You're Grounded Until You Graduate. Now THAT'S something to be proud of.
Growing up, my name was strange and unusual and virtually unheard of. Nobody could pronounce it, nobody had heard of it, nobody in North America had a name with an accent (an accent which was subsequently dropped after the 2nd grade because it just seemed too "ethnic"). Then all of a sudden in the late 90's, it became all the rage to name your kid Jenipher or Thyme; it was like hippies revisited. Different was the new normal. Little did I know, somewhere along the line it also became cool to get pregnant in high school and steal your classmates' names for your unborn child. My sophomore year in high school, a girl in my biology class turned up pregnant shortly after we were strapped to the marble countertops with our eyelids glued open and forced to watch The Miracle of Life at gunpoint (I'm not kidding). She promptly dropped out of school because, let's be realistic here, no one can possibly maintain a pregnancy, a 10th grade academic load, and a 16-year-old's hectic social calendar AT THE SAME TIME. This girl had priorities, let me tell you. Anyway, I didn't particularly give a shit because I didn't know this bitch from Aveda. However, some kind individual in my class informed me that this girl, who had barely spoken three words to me (which were most likely "SHUT UP, GEEK" or "GROW SOME TITS") had decided to name her child Deja. My God, I thought, is that even legal?! You can't just steal people's names like that!
In case you hadn't heard, my name is the Saks Fifth Avenue of all names and these greedy little Winonas can't keep their sticky whoreish fingers off of it. I can't even begin to count how many times I have introduced myself to a person who, instead of greeting me with the traditional, "it's nice to meet you," responds with, "Oooh, I like that name. That's what I'm gonna name my next baby." I shudder to think of the life that baby will be born into, especially if it's a boy. Since my name's newly appropriated status in the Unusual But Incredibly Trendy Baby Name Hall of Fame, quite often I have to listen to strangers ramble on about how their neighbor's mailman's niece or sister-in-law's pastor's grandbaby is named Deja. BIG FUCKING DEAL, I want to scream. Everybody knows a Deja these days. You're nobody until you know a Deja. I find solace in knowing that I am the grandmother of all Dejas, because the rest of them are all under the age of 6. I even met one in a restaurant ladies' room once. She didn't want to stick her hands under the running water and her mom started screaming at her, "DEJA, IF YOU DON'T PUT YOUR HANDS UNDER THIS FAUCET I AM GOING TO TAKE OFF MY BELT AND WHUP YOUR ASS RIGHT HERE IN THIS FANCY RESTAURANT!" Psssh, like I've never heard THAT sentence before. Except, my mom preferred the shoe to the belt. You can achieve a long-distance beating with a shoe, should the little delinquent attempt to make a getaway. Belts limit you to whatever body part is closest to you, and only have a 2 to 3 foot range. When I beat my children in public, I'm definitely opting for the shoe.
Recently at work I was talking to another nurse over the phone, taking report on a patient who would be coming to my unit. She asked my name, which is common practice, and when I told her she said, "Really? Your name's Deja? That's my daughter's name!"
"Wow," I said, not particularly impressed, "How does she spell it?"
NOW WAIT JUST ONE COMPTON MINUTE. Last time I checked, my name didn't have a prefix. Although, that's not to say that my parents are opposed to prefixes, as evidenced by my sister's middle name: McKelle. That's right, get jealous. Wanna know the story behind that one? My mom ran out of ideas, so she combined her middle name (Michelle) and my brother's middle name (Michael). VOILA, a new prefixed middle name for your crackerass daughter. Too bad they spelled it wrong on her birth certificate and her legal middle name is Mickel. My parents' solution? She can change it when she gets married. CLASSY.
In closing, I just want to admonish you all to be cautious of the names you choose for your innocent unborn children. Names are curses that we all must bear for the entirety of our lives, and believe me when I say that hearing Deja Vu jokes everyday for the past 24 years has killed so many active brain cells that I'm now just a little bit retarded. Maybe I'll take a hint from my grandmother, who changed her name from Ruby to Joey when she turned 18. Can you imagine? She just up and DECIDED that people should start calling her Joey. AND THEY DID. Now that's a powerful woman; a woman who said FUCK THE PREFIXES, I'M NAMING MYSELF AFTER A BABY KANGAROO.
Telemundo: Soft Core Porn on Crystal Meth
lalaumen: Hey Fats, I just switched the channel to the Spanish station
lalaumen: and there is a man stripping to the backstreet boys
lalaumen: in front of an audience
lalaumen: now some old woman in a suit is interviewing him
SoilentTangerine: sweet ass
lalaumen: I’m not complaining
lalaumen: he's got a sweet bod!
SoilentTangerine: he must be the william hung of spanish tv
SoilentTangerine: oh wait, that cant be right if he has a hot bod
lalaumen: he has a belly button ring
lalaumen: maybe that's ok in latin culture?
lalaumen: contestant number 2: PETER
SoilentTangerine: ooh peter
lalaumen: he's not as good
lalaumen: though he did do a back flip
SoilentTangerine: is he hot?
lalaumen: he sucks
lalaumen: bad hair—the Kenny G/Michael Bolton look
lalaumen: a man dressed like a woman is interviewing him
lalaumen: this is really bizzare
lalaumen: or is it?
lalaumen: i can’t tell
lalaumen: contestant numero three
lalaumen: wearing BLACK LEATHER
lalaumen: oh, he's good
SoilentTangerine: this show sounds hot
lalaumen: he’s down to his panties
lalaumen: and humping inanimate objects
SoilentTangerine: he must be the winner
SoilentTangerine: panties? humping? leather?
SoilentTangerine: what more could you want?
lalaumen: theres a young man in the audience looking bashfully toward him
lalaumen: perhaps a lover? A victim of molestation?
lalaumen: pretty young and gimpy
lalaumen: now there's one in a satin pirate shirt and long ponytail!
lalaumen: this just gets better and better
lalaumen: RED MANTIES AND KNEE PADS THAT MATCH!
SoilentTangerine: oh my god this is too kinky
lalaumen: i know
lalaumen: he's trying to hump the man/woman, who does not seem a willing victim
lalaumen: ooh they’re all on stage now
lalaumen: i think the audience is voting on the winner
SoilentTangerine: well how can we know unless we see them all hump?
lalaumen: i agree
lalaumen: it's unfortunate
lalaumen: ooh i missed one
lalaumen: he's in military garb
lalaumen: PURPLE TIGER PANTIES
SoilentTangerine: hey I have those!
lalaumen: NOT THESE
lalaumen: and if you do, I'm disowning you
SoilentTangerine: why are they all wearing manties?
lalaumen: perhaps for effect?
SoilentTangerine: are their packages prominent?
SoilentTangerine: and are they thongs?
lalaumen: nothing says I AM A STRAIGHT MALE DANCING ON SPANISH TV FOR MONEY, NO SERIOUSLY, I LIKE WOMEN…like purple tiger manties!
lalaumen: no thongs, though
SoilentTangerine: you know it
lalaumen: perhaps a tad too racy?
SoilentTangerine: damn, I would be even more convinced of their heterosexuality if there were thongs involved
lalaumen: packages somewhat prominent, though
lalaumen: I love you, Telemundo!
Telemundo: Soft Core Porn on Crystal Meth
SPD: Tattoo Thursday
I was seventeen at the time, NOT of legal age to get a tattoo, even in MS where children start using dip before all of their teeth come in and are familiar with the wiles of Boone's Farm before their 11th birthdays. So, I borrowed a friend's ID. An friend who was 5'3'' with blue eyes and braces. A friend I looked nothing like. A friend that stayed in the car, in hopes of our ploy not being discovered. So, I had to go into the tattoo parlor with my bi-racial friend in tow, which set a strike against us right off the bat. As we were perusing the artwork, they kept eyeballing us as if we were going to take off with some of their rusty and antiquated tattoo equipment. Either that, or the fat, sweaty man behind the counter had a seriously lazy eye. We were both really nervous, especially me, because I was quite positive that our little scheme would not work.
Finally, when I'd made my choice, they took me into a room, shaved my back (ACK!) and marked with a pen where they would place the tattoo. All of a sudden, the two men left the room to speak to one another, and came back declaring that they would not be able to perform their services for me. I was so nervous and near tears anyway, that I just jumped up, grabbed my purse, and was about to run out the door. My friend, however, was going to cause a little more trouble. She started asking questions and pointing fingers and accusing them of denying us service without a valid reason. She demanded that they explain why, after prepping me and taking me into the back room, they would not complete the task we were about to pay them for. Finally, the fat sweaty one explained that they could not in good conscience give a tattoo to someone who was intoxicated. They thought I was drunk! We tried to explain that I was just really nervous, not drunk, but he wasn't hearing it. Out the door we went.
We had better luck at the second facility, although because my back had already been shaved and marked, the guys there knew something was up. I told them what the people at the previous parlor had said, and assured them that I was NOT drunk. One guy shrugged his shoulders and said, "As far as I'm concerned, there's a sign on the door explaining our policy on doing work on people who are drunk. If someone decides to ignore that and come in here drunk anyway, that's their choice. I'll take anyone's money, I don't give a shit." Now THAT was the attitude I was looking for!
So I got my little tattoo, after much deliberation and rejection. We left the parlor and went to play pool, not a wise choice considering all of the bending and stretching required. I was able to successfully hide my work of art from my parents until well after my 18th birthday, when my sister happened to walk in on me changing my clothes. I TRIED to convince her that it was temporary, but I think she knew better.
"MOOOOOOOOM, GUESS WHO GOT A TATTOOOOOOO?!?!"
Strizz is too bootylicious
"You totally remind me of LaToya Jackson. I think she's hot so that means that you are smokin' too."
"I guess I can detach that fake hymen I got from Johnson Smith Co."
"I was thinking that maybe you could write a post on anal pubes for us one day. You've got to see your fair share, and let's face it - anal pubes has NOT been touched on enough in the world of blog, entertainment, AND comedy, for that matter."
And that's not to mention all of the "you suck, unlike GEORGE!" and "learn how to spell, you illiterate cunt" emails. You people must really, really love me to hate me enough to comment so frequently on my spelling, grammar and syntax. Oh oh oh oooh, the write stuff.
But I have to say, the best email I've received to date included nothing more than this image, which makes my Liberty Bell puffy with delight:
Keep the mail coming, guys, it's really a thrill to open up my hotmail inbox not knowing who's ass my name is going to be written on that day. (And in case you were wondering, yes that was an open invitation to email me pictures of asses bearing my likeness.)
That is all.
When Poor People Pretend to be Rich
There is also some badass artwork gracing the hallways. Beautiful photos and paintings in huge boxy frames, lit from behind with bright fluorescent bulbs. They're like glowing neon beacons from the heavens, reminding you that the world is full of so much untapped creative potential. Then when you get close enough to inspect the actual image, you realize that it's a photo of the rear end of a morbidly obese plumber bending over to inspect a rusted sewer pipe. Not only do they appreciate good art, but they also enjoy a hearty laugh at the expense of us commoners. Now THAT'S what I call classy.
The rooms are always spectacular and gorgeous, the view being the best part of all. This time we were only only the 6th floor (I imagine floors 1-10 must be for patrons who are not personal friends, relatives or financial contributors to the President), so the view was only so-so. Not to mention that Houston is not the most breathtakingly beautiful city in the world, what with all the construction and underaged, one-legged hookers gracing Westheimer. Nevertheless, the windows in the room are enormous, allowing for a fantastic panoramic view of a 2-mile long construction site and the perpetual traffic jam that is 6-10.
View from the hotel window after dark.
View from the hotel window in the morning.
Right before we ran out on our tab at a nearby restaurant.
Thanks, Hotel Derek, for another wonderful stay at your fine establishment. Thanks, too, for the Rosemary Mint shampoo, sewing kit, shoe shining cloth, bubble bath and shower cap. In case you're wondering, this place has the BEST SHOWER CAPS. They're so plush and the elastic fits snugly without leaving that tell-tale shower cap forehead mark. Awesome. I'm sure our pictures are posted on the DO NOT ADMIT THESE PATRONS wall of shame, because we didn't tip the valet guys or the concierge. White trash in da house!
The DJ didnt even have Vanilla Ice
These kids today, huh? Milli Vanilli could kick their asses.
Extra! Extra! Read All About It! Spoon Gets BENT!
Host: Name a form of transportation?
Host: Oh, Jerry I am so sorry. Blue is not a form of transportation. And that will cost you your orphans. Oh, so close Jerry. So close. Susan, now's your chance to win it all. Name a form of transportation!
Host: Hmm? Can we accept "wooden"? You can make a car out of wood, boats are wood--(ding!) Boats are wooden! Yes! Susan you've doubled your orphans!
Susan: But I mean, that's not fair. I mean, a car could be blue!
Host: Hold the phone...A car could be--(ding!) A car could be blue! Yes! You've both doubled your orphans. You've both won. And you'll both be back tomorrow! Good night, folks!
...Stay tuned to Spelunk in the Trunk for fatass self-portrait Thursday. Spoonie's got a BIG surprise comin' your way...
Most of us are very blessed to be fully functional, non-defective humans. But isn't it our greatest fear to be abnormal, different, inadequate, challenged? Don't we all pray for our children to be perfect, and grow up having every advantage in life? Yet there are so many differently-abled people in this world who make great things of themselves, DESPITE, and perhaps BECAUSE OF their challenges. For God's sake, I don't know any SEEING person who can play the piano like Ray Charles. Beethoven, Roosevelt, Reeve, Hawking, the list goes on and on. These people have accomplished more in their lifetime than I could ever hope to achieve in this or any of my reincarnated lives to come.
The point of this post is for all of us to ponder what our lives would be like should we suddenly have to face the challenges of losing one or many of our functional senses. In jest I can say that losing my sense of smell would, in my case anyway, not be entirely detrimental. In my experience, smells are typically the only thing that can turn a nurse's stomach. Let me tell you guys, assisting in the delivery of a baby was a cool experience, but the smell was enough to cause my eyes to well up with tears while I cowered in the corner of the room dry heaving. SERIOUSLY THE GROSSEST SMELL EVER. That statement, coming from a person who poo spelunks for a living, should carry some clout. My olfactory glands are seizing with displeasure at the mere thought of reliving that experience. I already plan on wearing those little nose-pincher things that swimmers wear during the delivery of my own child. I encourage you all to do the same.
So, let's hear it. What body part or sense (scents) could you live without? How would you cope? Would you still be able to maintain that heroin addiction if you were not able to visualize the vein (how did he DO that)? Spill the beans, people. I gotta go... I need to snort some crank to numb the pain in my nostrils.
You're not going to believe this... but I'm posting more pictures of my cat!
NO, HIS ANAL SACS HAVE NEVER NEEDED TO BE SQUEEZED, THANK YOU SWEET BABY JESUS.