Smell My Feet!

Halloween is like my favorite holiday of all time. It always has been. Because when I was growing up my mother was the self-proclaimed candy Nazi, I was always a complete fiend come October 31st. A FUCKING BUCKETFUL OF FREE CANDY? Sign me up, bitches. I remember my first Halloween costume in kindergarten. I was five years old and my mother dressed me up as a pregnant lady. I didn't care that I had to wear an itchy pillow stuffed up my old lady blouse all day- PEOPLE WERE GIVING ME FREE CANDY AND WHAT, PRAYTELL, COULD BE BETTER THAN THAT? I remember wanting to be pregnant everyday, because I thought it meant getting free candy. I came home that evening, showing off my bulging plastic pumpkin to my mother who promptly took it away from me, brandishing the excuse that she needed to "check for poison," which is what responsible parents are supposed to do. But apparently, our neighbors only wanted to poison the king sized Snickers bars and Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, because those were the ones my mom always had to "check", and by check I mean eat the entire fucking thing. Nevermind the homemade, unwrapped peanut brittle with suspiciously large shards of glass embedded amongst the tasty nuts and toffee; nevermind the single, individual candy corn that tasted as if it came off the clearance rack at Big Lots circa 1972; nevermind the caramel apples with large hypodermic syringes jutting from the top, replacing the traditional and outdated popsicle stick. Those items were of no concern to my mother. Our yearly ritual was that we'd come home from trick-or-treating, dump our stash before the candy Nazi so that she might have her pick of the poisoned booty, and then we were allowed to eat only THREE TINY PIECES of candy before bedtime. THREE. Do you know what kind of torture that is for a kid? To have spent the entire night drooling over the sugar-filled delicacies making their way into your plastic pumpkin head, after all that grueling work walking door to door, shouting at strangers, and DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW HARD IT IS FOR A CHILD TO SAY "THANK YOU" THAT MANY TIMES IN ONE NIGHT?! All that sacrifice for only THREE PIECES OF CANDY. What a fucking gyp.

We lived in a very "ethnic" neighborhood growing up, and despite the pleas of my siblings and I to take us to the rich neighborhood across town, my mom never obliged. She like to delude herself into believing that she did not raise her children to be the type of white trash that trick-or-treat a) without costumes, b) with a pillow case, or c) in neighborhoods where we quite obviously did not reside. Acceptable white trash Halloween etiquette dictates that you should dress your five-year-old like a pregnant housewife and let her jump in the back of the neighbor's pickup as they drive a slew of unruly children from house to house, briefly slowing near the houses well reputed to distribute the good shit so the kids can hop out and collect. Because our neighborhood was quite diverse, it was behoovy to know which houses gave out crap and which houses your parents would later be forwarding your dental bills. There was this one family that always gave out the craziest shit. We'd go there just to SEE what that had each year, even though we inevitably would turn around and hurl it at their obese cat or their fake-gold plated life sized Vishnu statue. For several years in a row, they gave out those disgusting lemon custard pie things that come pre-packaged from the grocery store in wax paper for 10 cents apiece. Each year after trick-or-treating, the neighborhood kids would gather together all of our lemon custards and make a pile right on their front porch. Then we'd stomp them to smithereens, leaving their stoop a sticky, squishy, artificially lemon-flavored mess. Eventually they finally wisened up and decided to pass out McDonald's apple pies instead. Thank God my mom deemed McCrapple pies poison-worthy, because otherwise mine would have been found matted into the coat of their orange tabby the next morning.

Then there was the really tall, dweeby white man with the really short, dweeby white son who dressed like identical dweeby skeletons EVERY FUCKING YEAR. The only thing scarier than a lame father-son matching Halloween motif is having a grown man greet you at the door wearing package-hugging black lycra and more makeup than RuPaul. Skelton man did not let his children partake in nor consume the festivities of Halloween, therefore they handed out the ever-fabled PENNY to each and every trick-or-treater who braved their threshold. I don't know what we honestly expected from these people... they put up a black Santa AND black Jesus in their front yard each Christmas. Although Jesus' ethnicity is and was of little importance to me, I remember being disturbed at the thought of a black Jolly Old Saint Nick and asked my mom if Santa was really black. In another brilliant parenting moment which would make Dr. Phil beam with pride, my mom replied, "No, honey. Santa just has a tan." Many years later, my drunken high school friends stole the black baby Jesus from their Christmas lawn decor despite my adamant protests. The white virgin Mary and the rest of their Caucasian nativity scene characters were never quite the same after that.

Then there was the Asian family who always got their holidays confused. They routinely and without fail had their Christmas lights strung each October 31st. They had the good sense to set out the bowl of candy for all of the neighborhood kids, however their version was a little TV tray set on the porch with tiny (UNWRAPPED) Hershey's kisses and red and white peppermints, complete with a sign which read: TAKE ONE. Talk about shiesty. We retaliated by throwing mudpies at their ugly Chihuahuas.

Yesterday Kam and I went to a costume party hosted by one of my college nursing buddies- you might remember her as the #1 Cocksucker . Good times were had by all, and what Halloween party is complete without anonymous references to Hitler's cock? Not any party I'd care to attend, I'll tell you what.


All Night Long.

There is a lot of silence, but then you'll hear my patient. He does this all night. Every night. Cracks my shit up.
this is an audio post - click to play


All in the Family.

Dad: I was on my bike for 13 straight hours last weekend. I got blisters on my ass!

Mom: How is that possible? Like WHERE on your ass?

Dad: Right in the crack. And they hurt like a son of a bitch!

Little Sister: Dad, those are called hemorrhoids.

Mom: So which one of us is the crazy one, and which one is the mean one?

Me: You're the crazy one, dad's the mean one.

Little Sister: Mom, you're the crazy one AND the mean one.

Mom: I can't be BOTH. You can only label me with ONE derrogatory name.

Dad: Okay, then you're the bitch.

Mom: I used to spank Deja so much, my hand would be bruised. She was so stubborn that she would refuse to cry!

Little Sister: That's because she wanted you to leave bruises on her ass so that she could report you to CPS.

Me: That's true.

Mom: Good thing I stopped leaving marks by the time you learned how to use the telephone.

Me: Oh my god, dad! Is that pure vodka you're drinking? I thought it was water!

Dad: There's water in there. Frozen water.

Me: Ice cubes don't count, you lush.

Mom: I left my cell phone at the flower shop, and the guy thought it was a child's cell phone because he saw a number for "Mommy" programmed in it. So he called my mom and got stuck on the phone with her for an hour.

Dad: She probably thought she was talking to me.

Mom: No, she thought the flower guy had abducted me because he had a Middle Eastern accent.

Dad: That's because she's completely fucking insane.

Me: Geez, poor guy. That's probably the last time he'll try to be a good samaritan.

Little Sister: Does this mean we don't have to talk to Grandma on Thanksgiving now?


A Pointless Post, But Have You Honestly Come To Expect Anything More From Me?

Just a little updateroonie, since I know you all have been waiting with baited breath for my next blog entry. Or not. Whatever, you assholes.

So after grueling tirelessly at my midterm essays which, by the way, took me longer than the FORTY HOURS our professor told us it would take, my mind is now more at ease. I spent four long days with my stomach tied in knots, wondering am I answering this right? Is it in-depth enough for graduate level writing? Will I have enough time to finish it all? Is it humanly possible to shit as many times as I've shit today because I know I'm anxious and all but GOD DAMN? So Wednesday afternoon I leapt from my bed, printed out my midterm, hauled ass in the MINI and breezed into the classroom (miraculously, only five minutes late), slammed that shit down on the counter and told my professor that I hoped the thrill he got out of torturing fresh, innocent grad students was worth the eternity he'll spend burning in the firey depths of hell for what he's done. Due to my sleep-deprived state, I believe that I also started seizing uncontrollably as my eyes rolled into the back of my skull and I started reciting an ancient wikkan curse in tongues. I'm not really sure about that last part, I think I blacked out for a while so I might have dreamt it. At any rate, it was kind of hard to tell why everyone was staring at me so strangely for the duration of the class. It could have been the smell emanating from my body in Charlie Brown-like waves due to my lack of showering for the better part of a week, or it could have been my horrendously mismatched outfit (read: pajamas) which included lime green AND blue with white stripes, or it could have been the fact that I forgot to put on a bra before sprinting out of the house which, really people, should not ever be done when you have boobs that bounce six feet away from your body in all different directions every time you take a step.

As if there aren't enough times in one day that I get reminded of what an enormously spectacular BITCH I am, after placing my wikkan curse and invoking the wrath of Satan on my poor pot-bellied professor, he went on to tell us a little story about how he spent 6 hours that afternoon in the ER of the hospital where I work. He asked if anyone worked in the ER at this hospital, and everyone went silent. He then asked if anyone worked in this hospital in general, but because I was unconscious I didn't bother raising my hand. Out of the 60 or so people in the room, only a couple folks admitted to working here (which, I don't care if I WAS conscious, I probably wouldn't admit to working here anyway). He then went on to tell us what happened and why he was in the ER in the first place. Turns out he and his wife run an animal rescue (on top of doing frequent medical missions to India and Brazil... GOD, WHY AM I SUCH AN ASSHOLE?) and they have this one particular 120 lb. dog who is rather aggressive. Well, there had been some folks doing some foundation work at their house that day and as soon as my professor let his dog out, the beast headed straight for one of the buckets that was left in the yard by the workers and started digging his schnozz all in it. My professor ran out there to see what all the hulabaloo was about, only to find the bucket filled with HUMAN FECES. He quickly snatched the bucket away from dog who promptly bit him on the hand WITH HIS SHIT-COVERED FANGS. Awesome. That mutt must have really been enjoying that shit stew he was chowing down on. On top of that, my professor has a history of infectious endocarditis (a bacterial/viral infection of the lining of the heart, possibly the chambers and valves as well), so having fecal matter flowing freely through his blood stream really was not an ideal situation. Now how much of a bitch did I feel like for having WISHED THAT VERY FATE UPON HIM just hours before. BIG. FUCKING. BITCH. (In my defense, I really didn't think that having a gaping, fecal-contaminated flesh wound was so much of a distinct possibility, otherwise I wouldn't have bothered to use the wikkan curse.)

He proceeded to tell us how, back in the '70s, he was a genetic advisor with the team of doctors who treated the Bubble Boy. HE KNEW THE FUCKING BUBBLE BOY, PEOPLE. Man, is this guy like Jesus or what? Oh well, it's not as if my eternal salvation is in any way jeapordized. I blew any chances I had of being Jesus' BFF way back in college.

So now that that hellacious assignment is over and done with, I have another paper due this coming Wednesday in my other class. Whooo boy, I have some stories to tell yall about the turkeys in that class! Holy crap, talk about Tommy Lee goes to college and shit. But that's for later.

Tonight I am, quite literally, busting butt at work, cleaning more shit than I care to admit (and not my own this time, thank God). I don't know what's going on, but I just had two patients shitting their intestines out AT THE SAME TIME, IN THE SAME ROOM. It was a disaster. My breath-holding skills have not been tested to such extremes in many years. I wish I could say that I am spending the weekend in an alcohol-induced coma, partying myself in a K-hole after the bitch of a week I've been through. But unfortunately that's not the case, and I'll just have to settle for the toxic fumes emanating from my patient's uber-dumps to get me high. Ahhh, the good life.


Working Girl

As some of you may or may not know, I have not always been so certain that nursing was the profession for me. In fact, I think the only reason I ended up in this field is because a) I got accepted to a college with a great nursing program which offered me a sizeable scholarship, and b) my mom had a childhood friend who went on to be a nurse and would tell us stories of seeing babies born in elevators or in the hallway while they attempted to wheel the mother into the delivery room, and I'm sorry but what young person WOULDN'T find the concept of a newborn rolling across the tile floor with a tiny placenta trailing behind it humorous? If nothing else, it makes for good blog fodder.

At any rate, sometimes I like to think of what I would be doing with my life right now if I were not a Registered Ass Spelunker, and the most obvious answer is, ROCKSTAR. But not just any rockstar, oh no. A fucking drunken nudist pagan hippie rockstar, with lots of body piercings and my own private "herb garden" growing in the backyard. That's right, if I'm going to make my grandparents' worst fears a reality, I might as well shoot for the stars. I'd send them DVD's of my live performances in Amsterdam and Columbia along with autographed nude portraits of myself frolicking in a field of poppies while all of my drunken nudist pagan hippie groupies serve me organic grapes laced with copious amounts of LSD. I'd be just like Alanis Morisette.

Another viable option for occupational alternatives would be Professional Horse Whisperer. Besides the fact that my boyfriend has an unhealthy (not to mention unheterosexual) obsession with Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron, I think that I might have quite a knack for secretive equine communication. For instance, in my youth I spent a lot of time watching Mr. Ed and trying to figure out how they got his lips to move in sync with the dialogue. Someone finally told me that they used peanut butter, and I was all, wow that's kinda cool, and then added that nugget of info to my already abundant wealth of knowledge about horses. Also, I used to cry during that part in Half Baked when Kenny killed the diabetic police horse, Buttercup. He totally deserved to have his cocktail fruit eaten by Nasty Nate for that.

If it turns out that I'm not exactly qualified for horse whispering, I might pursue a career as an entrepreneur of some sort. I haven't exactly made up my mind on this one, but I've narrowed it down to one of three potential get-rich-quick schemes. I'll share them with you, under the strictest of confidence and the implied understanding that if you steal my ideas, I will vandalize your car by flipping up the windshield wipers and repositioning your side view mirrors. That's right, I will fuck your shit up. My ideas are as follows:

a) Guys Gone Wild home video series. Go ahead and admit it, ladies- you'd pay for penis. (*addendum*- As it turns out, some scallywag has already stolen my brilliant idea. Bastards! On second thought, $14.99 ain't a bad price...)

b) As previously discussed, I'd like to invent a self-draining tuna can opener. I think this would be a huge hit on QVC, and I could make millions off of HDL's mom alone.

c) Place a lot of expensive shit for auction on eBay. Incite a bidding war and accept payment to a bogus paypal account. Wire money to an illegal Caribbean bank account. Flee the U.S. and live comfortably as a wealthy Duchess in some far off third world country. Mail the winning bidders a slip of paper that says, "You've been Spelunk'd!"

Should none of these brilliant schemes be realized, other alternatives include: Underwater Basket Weaver, Tina Turner Backup Dancer, Venomous Snake Milker, Crossing Guard, Anime Cartoon Voiceover and Crazy Smelly Hobo. I now invite my readers to share with everyone what YOU would be doing with your life right now if you weren't stuck at the shitty job you most likely hate.


Weekend Update: I Learned Many A Lesson

Saturday afternoon, Astros game
Lessons learned:
-Much to my surprise, the mullet paired with a sleeveless undershirt is still considered appropriate apparel by some, despite the fact that, to my knowledge, we were not at a monster truck arena nor was this a Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!

-Cubs fans are all douche-bags.
-Young couples wearing matching baseball t-shirts in a hue of orange offensive enough to cause seizure activity in sensitive epileptics will surely annoy you with their constant yet feeble attempts to start the wave (more sensibly renamed "the ripple") while chanting pitifully lame cheers of their own invention. They will then follow you to a sushi restaurant 20 miles away to further wage their assault upon your brain stem as if you have not already been annoyed enough for an entire fucking year.
-Dare not shout out the phrase "HOLY SHIT, THE FUCKING LINES WERE SOOO FUCKING LONG!" at the top of your lungs in the middle of the $10 per ticket view deck in which all frugal families choose to sit with their ill-behaved school aged children, lest you have a burning desire to be castrated by a throng of angry, undermedicated, pre-menopausal bitchtastic moms. That's right, your children have a raging case of head lice and a Diet Coke addiction that rivals Britney Spears', but heaven forbid they hear a curse word at a PROFESSIONAL SPORTING EVENT. Next time I'll plan on bringing my collection of hypodermic needles and dildos because if you're going to accuse us of corrupting your young child's innocent mind then I might as well go all the way.

Saturday evening, Sushi restaurant
Lessons learned:
-Apparently, being a completely inappropriate horn-dog in public is NOT a sex-linked genetic disorder previously thought to solely afflict members of the species owning a 46, XY chromosomal karyotype. New scientific data collected by yours truly proves that lesbians are also capable of nauseating an entire restaurant full of patrons by playing grab-ass and performing partial tonsillectomies with their tongues.
-They now make custom prosthetic arms which eerily resemble the tanned, plastic appendages on a barbie, only cooler because these arms are adorned with BRIGHT RED AND ORANGE FLAME GRAPHICS. I'm pretty sure they glow in the dark, too. My real arms can't do that. I think it's time to upgrade.

Saturday night, Drinks with Fats and her man-servant
Lessons learned:
-The proportion of young adult females living in midtown who don pink hair, septum piercings and short skirts and the incidence of obesity among young adult females in said area seem to closely coincide. There were at least 4 women who met the above description within the tiny bar we were visiting.
-In midtown you can buy a hand-blown meth pipe, a high quality dildo, a pair of infant sized fuzzy handcuffs, and a Virginia Wolff finger puppet/magnet duo ALL AT THE SAME STORE.
-Employees at the above mentioned store will point and laugh if you are unable to correctly identify the name and proper usage for each of the individual components of a bong.

Sunday afternoon, Babysitting for strangers as a favor to Fats
Lessons learned:
-Babies put everything in their mouths, and I mean EVERYTHING. This includes but is in no way limited to the fingers, hair, nose, jewelry and nipple of the nearest living human, aka ME.
-When you are shot and killed by a 3-year-old, you are expected to immediately rise from the dead and continue to engage in hand-to-hand (or, in some cases, hand-to-tit) combat until you are once again instructed to die. Repeat until 3-year-old is distracted by the contents of your purse long enough for you to run away and lock yourself in the bathroom. Do not emerge, even when you hear him clicking away at the dial of your birth control pack, threatening to eat all of your "candy". It is merely a ploy to get you out of the bathroom so that he can once again sucker punch you in the tit.
-When a child forces you to participate in the use of both his harmonica AND kazoo before informing you, "Oops, I'm sick", it would be highly inappropriate to slug said child square in his fucking jaw.

Sunday evening, Birthday dinner for my little bro
Lessons learned:
-Even when you tell the teenager behind the counter that your brother's name is SHEA and even WRITE IT DOWN FOR HER ON PAPER, she's too stoned to see clearly and instead inscribes HAPPY BIRTHDAY SEAN onto your brother's cake.

-Instead of spending money replacing the old tires or fixing the check engine light on a recently acquired 10 year old car, a 19-year-old is going to spend his birthday cash on a rather expensive stereo system and speakers that will likely be stolen tomorrow because the car is so old that it's easier to break into than my little sister's diary.
-Only in my family is a combination of sushi and Pakistani cuisine considered an acceptable, nay relished, birthday feast.

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