Tasteless Humor Tuesday

Dad: "I'm so tired of those Southeast Asians** that live next to me. They let their kids run all around on MY side of the balcony, and they leave their shoes outside on a shoe rack! So I have to sit here and smell the odor of nasty shoe funk mixed with curried dog all day, while their hooligan offspring run around in front of MY front door!"

Me: "Dad, you are a pathetic, grumpy old man."

Dad: "I am not! I TRIED to be nice. On Halloween, I put a bowl of candy outside my front door, and waited for those brats to come snatch some. The second they stuck their grimy little hands in my candy bowl I opened the door and LUNGED at them, screaming AAAAAAH, GET AWAY FROM HERE!"

Me: "Oh my GOD. How is that trying to be NICE?"

Dad: "Well, they got some candy, didn't they? Then I tried to show them NICELY that I don't care for their dirty ass shoe rack. When the hurricane came and everyone had evacuated, I went over there and tossed that nasty shit over the edge of the balcony. When they came back, I told them the wind must have carried it away. But I'll be god damned if they didn't go out into the field, FIND THE FUCKING SHOE RACK, and put it back out there for me to smell!"

After this conversation, my dad promptly marched his drunk ass outside, stood right in front of their door, and bellowed "SEE? IT'S A FUCKING SHOE RACK, WITH ACTUAL SHOES ON IT! CAN YOU BELIEVE THAT SHIT? THE NERVE OF SOME PEOPLE!"

**It's only fair to note that this is the first, and probably last, time that a politically correct term such as "Southeast Asians" has ever passed my dad's lips. I didn't even know it was part of his vocabularly. When my siblings and I expressed our awe at his use of socially acceptable terminology, he matter-of-factly replied, "Yeah, I know. It even surprised ME when I said it. I just opened my mouth, and out it came. I'll try to catch myself next time."


Thinking Thankful Thoughts.

Tonight I'm working with a nurse who emanates a smell uncannily similar to mentholated vaginal lube mixed with musty cat urine.
Tonight I've emptied no less than 6 full liters of bright green bile being suctioned out of my patient's stomach.
Tonight I've had to wake up two doctors who were, shall we say, less than pleased that I would dare disturb their precious slumber.
Tonight I've called the pharmacists, pharmacy techs and all of their collective mothers many bad names in my head, because saying them out loud would be highly unprofessional (although it would feel OH SO RIGHT).
Tonight I've disposed of two full 8oz cups of expectorated chewing tobacco which, except for the color, was in no other way significantly different from the aforementioned bile.
Tonight I learned that the very affectionate and attentive husband of my favorite patient is also ill. He has pancreatic cancer and is enduring double doses of weekly chemotherapy. They traveled from Alabama for him to be treated at a very highly esteemed cancer clinic down the road. Median survival time for this devastating form of cancer is 4-17 months. He told me that his wife is his "angel", describing himself as her "official feet warmer for the past 40 years". Since her surgery, he has been here to care for her every need, day and night. He massages her neck and spoon feeds her ice chips. He sleeps in a tiny chair next to her bed, but I use the term "sleep" very loosely because he actually remains awake most of the time, just in case his wife might need something in the middle of the night.
Tonight I watched them pray together, and I watched them genuinely smile and laugh with one another. I watched the exchange between two people who truly need one another while simultaneously giving all of themselves to the other. Perfect symbiosis.
Tonight I have a better understanding of the meaning of the word H O P E and I've realized, maybe for the first time, just how much I have to be thankful for.

Here's to learning important life lessons at the most unsuspecting moments, from the most spectacular persons, in the most unusual ways. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!


Give My Regards to Broadway!

One thing about me that everyone who has spent any amount of time with me knows is that I am clinically obsessed with Broadway musicals. I can't help it, it's in my blood. The first musical I ever saw was The King and I, which was forced upon me at the age of four by my grandparents. I can't say that I really complained because the alternative was watching Gloria Estefan live in concert, and believe me when I say that my grandfather has no less than 68 hours of Gloria footage on 16 VHS tapes, I AM SO NOT KIDDING. So after watching Misses Ana cut the fuck up on the dance floor with those enormous petticoats on, I was instantly hooked. I even made my grandma sew me a Misses Anna gown for Halloween one year! Okay, you can stop laughing now.

But the turning point which I really consider my transition into thespianism was when I was around the age of 7. While at the video store I saw the cover photo for A Chorus Line, and due to my highly irrational vallerina aspirations, I begged my mom to rent it. She finally relented, and I don't think we EVER returned that movie to the video store. I watched it over and over, and if you know anything at all about that movie, you know that its explicit acts of sexual ehibitionism are not appropriate for youngsters (especially that part when Cassie is in front of the wall of mirrors and Michael Douglas is bumping and grinding her from behind). But seriously, my mom could not pry that movie from my dead and lifeless hands, I was so in love. To this day, it is still my favorite Broadway show.

Taking a close second to A Chorus Line is Little Shop of Horrors. By far my favorite musical-turned-movie. Rick Moranis is UNDENIABLE. Then you've got Steve Martin, Jim Belushi, John Candy, Bill Murray AND Pam and Gina from Mar'in? Talk about an all star cast. Not only do I know every word of the dialogue, all of the song lyrics AND the choreography, I can even recreate their physical gestures, accents and facial expressions to a tee. In the event that Audrey suddenly and unexpectedly falls ill on opening night, let the record show that I am ready and available to fly to London and take her place on stage for the World Premier. Just thought I'd put that out there.

In high school, I took my obsession a step further and became involved in our school's stage productions. I have so many fond memories of that time in my life, it was nonstop fun. Especially that time I played the young, virginal, blushing beauty and Kam played my old, fat, belching pervert of a dad. We are living proof that typecasting is nothing more than theatrical folklore.

Since then, I have been a huge supporter of the arts, especially musical theatre. I love to attend shows put on by local companies, but the honest truth is that I wait with baited breath for the Broadway tours to come through town. I've seen way too many to remember, but some of my all time favorites include West Side Story, Les Miserables, Little Shop of Horrors, 42nd Street, Victor/Victoria and My Fair Lady. I can hardly remember seeing a musical that I didn't thoroughly enjoy.


I saw Wicked last weekend, and was sorely disappointed. I don't want to ruin the show for anyone, because it obviously can't be all THAT bad considering the rave reviews and popularity it's achieved, but it just wasn't for me. I guess my expectations were too high. I mean, I bought my tickets during the pre-sale in JUNE, that's how fucking hyped I was for this show. I finished reading the book last week (HIGHLY RECOMMENDED- READ IT!), which just fueled the fire of anticipation. I couldn't wait to see how the play would portray some of the more intense situations and dynamic interpersonal relationships!

Then I saw it, and I could have just SCREAAAAAAMED! I mean, I've heard of creative license but HOLY FUCKING SHIT, this play took every subject explored in the book and either reversed it, ignored it, grossly simplified it, or twisted it into some unrecognizable horror. The more I think about it, the more furious I become. And the ENDING! Oh my god, I almost hurled all over my playbill. Anyone who's seen it know what I'm talking about it, but I won't ruin it for the rest of you.

On the other hand, the music was superb and the songs were catchy and fun. Because I am an old marching band nerd, a musical wins me over with its good music (vocals are another story entirely, as Elphaba could have used a lesson or two IMHO.) I have a special appreciation for musical scores, whether it be in movies, plays or soundtracks. This one was, in every way, fantastic. I really did enjoy that aspect. The acting and singing, especially by Glinda, was also spot-on.

All in all, I WOULD recommend that you see this play, but FOR THE LOVE OF GOD PLEASE, PLEASE DO NOT READ THE BOOK FIRST. Unless you like crying yourself to sleep at night because of the cruel injustice these overmedicated playwrights inflicted on this wonderfully dark, poignant, sensual and probing storyline.



So, I got my hair highlighted/lowlighted for Fall, and I am so excited about it!

This is only the third time I've attempted to get a little adventurous with the hair color; the first being that time in high school when I thought cherry Kool Aid would make a really awesome hair dye, and the second time being my sophomore year of college when I thought that I would make a really awesome blonde. Both ocassions were so disastrous that I had to apply for FEMA just to be able to get my shit fixed. Since then, my mug shot has been posted in every drug store, beauty supply store and salon across the country with the caption, "DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME." Whatever, the only reason I even did it in the first place was so that I could help warn the others.

It has taken this long for my hair to recover, and once I finally got it to stop glowing in the dark I decided to try once more, but chose to leave the scalp-altering chemicals in the hands of a trained professional this time. Her name is Christine, and she promised to make my mane dazzle so that I could light up all of the holiday parties this season with beautiful hues of golden bronze, deep chocolate, and velvety red! She had me at "dazzle".

So what do you think? Does it dazzle you? She's been my stylist for about two years now, and crossing the threshold from stylist to colorist was a huge risk. But I took that leap of faith and am pleased with my transformation. I went from a pale girl with mousy brown hair to a pale girl with mousy brown hair WITH GOLDEN BRONZE HIGHLIGHTS, BLENDED WITH A TOUCH OF DEEP CHOCOLATE AND VELVETY RED. Top that, Extreme Makeover!


That's Burt's Bees HONEY LIP BALM, PEOPLE. Even though I am no longer a TRUE lip balm "addict", I follow the latest trends on the lipbalm market like a hawk and pride myself on being the first to discover and try the newest, most cutting edge products of the industry. This one is awesome. It's like making out with a delicious honeycomb, except for the whole being attacked by a gang of angry bees and subsequent anaphylactic shock thing.


Tasteless Humor Tuesday

Faithful blog readers, please kick my ass if I ever become one of those anonymous fatties whose candidly captured rotund midsections are shown on national news programming as a repugnant depiction of the American obesity epidemic.

Use the comments section to discuss situations in which you asking me to kick YOUR ass would be not only appropriate, but encouraged.


Ode to Burt's

I have a confession to make, Internet: I am a lip balm addict. Unfortunate, but true. Sometimes even the best of us fall victim to the alluring snares of dependency. Dare not pass judgment, haters, lest ye be untainted of heart and lips.

See, it all started many years ago when I began my unfortunate relationship with Carmex (heretoforth known as Satan's Spawn). I was so addicted to that crap that I would have sold my first-born child for just one tube of its smooth, minty deliciousness. For 5 years I battled with this addiction, many times venturing to the local 7-11 in the wee morning hours when I awoke to find that I had misplaced my blessed balm. My conundrum pinnacled during my early college years when I became so deluged with my own dependency that it actually began to interfere with my scholastic binge drinking. I couldn't leave my dorm room without first locating no less than three vials of the heavenly elixir and adhering them in some permanent fashion to my person (in case I became too inebriated at a later point in time to remember where I had stashed them). I began showing up late to class and would often snap at my poor roommates without reason. I became socially withdrawn and despondent. I fell into financial turmoil; I couldn't afford to maintain my luxurious lip balm lifestyle and still pay the bills on time. I eventually resorted to stealing goods from my friends to satisfy my heightening hunger for the deadly nectar, but it still wasn't enough. I got to the point where I was putting the lube to my lips as often as Lindsay Lohan puts the straw to her nose, which is to say WAY TO FUCKING MUCH, DEAR LORD STOP THE INSANITY. (Honestly Lindsay, you're much too young. You must be at least THIS TALL to ride the snake.)

My life was quickly spiraling down the drain, and I wasn't so far gone that I didn't know the reason. DEVIL, THY NAME BE CARMEX. I decided to take my fate into my own hands and rid myself of its evil clutches once and for all. I would not be a slave to the 'Mex, SO HELP ME GOD. Should I be damned to a lifetime of pain, suffering, and lips of shredded wheat, then so be it. I decided to wean myself off of Lucifer's lube by switching to a product WITHOUT the addictive power of menthol. I tried every stick, pot, tube and wand on the market to no avail; Chapstick brand and all of its schwaggy counterparts were not sufficient to meet my elevated standards. Handing me a stick of regular lip balm was like handing Whitney Houston a pipe full of your garden-variety bathtub manufactured crank. I needed the real deal, bitches! How Sinead's words haunted me then. Nothing compares to you, indeed.

For weeks I lay in bed, trembling, sweating, hallucinating. I remember thinking to myself, if this is what life is like without Carmex, THEN I DON'T WANT TO LIVE. Not even drunken frat parties could assuage my grief over the loss of my beloved. My life was empty, meaningless, without any joy or pleasure.

Then finally, an angel appeared before me one night and delivered a miraculous cure from the heavens: BURT'S BEESWAX! Oh, heavenly Burt, why did I not know your velvety, mint-flavored goodness before now? I promptly kicked every Carmex product I'd ever owned to the curb and purchased hella stock in Burt's Beeswax. I can honestly say that most of their other products are pretty crappy. I've bought and tried them all, but I DON'T REGRET IT, because their lip balm literally saved my life. Eventually, my lips healed thanks to the all-natural ingredients in Burt's. They stopped stinging, burning, itching for their next fix. They can wear lipstick for hours at a time without shriveling up and drying out like two 50-year-old prunes. If I leave my Burt's at home, I don't panic. And the heavens rejoiced, for I had reclaimed my life!

Still, every day is a constant struggle. Some days I lie in bed in a puddle of my own drool, slathering an entire econo-pack of Burt's all over my face, rocking back and forth and humming the Perfect Strangers theme song to myself. And sometimes I have bad days, too.

Once, about four years after coming clean, I noticed a new product in the grocery store. MINT FLAVORED CARMEX. I couldn't resist its fiendish temptations. I bought a tube and, much to my own horror, tried it. Amazingly, I found that I didn't much care for it. After becoming accustomed to the glorious salvation that is Burt's, I was not as keen on the dull, heavy waxiness of Carmex as I once was. SWEET FREEDOM, AT LAST! I was released from the oppressive chains of that demonic addiction!

Two years later, I still have that same tube of mint Carmex, and will proudly tell you that I am able to use it in MODERATION when no Burt's is available. I share this tale with you now with the hope that perhaps I can save just one other person from the deadly clutches of lip balm dependency. If any of my devoted readers suffer from this dangerous affliction, heed my words: YOU TOO CAN PERSEVERE! I am a living witness to the salvation that is Burt's Beeswax. With strength of character, unfaltering determination and a pocketful of God's golden favor, your recovery will be swift and relatively painless. START LIVING AGAIN.


Many, Many Years of Therapy Will Not Rectify This.

Words I never, ever want to hear from a fellow nurse whom I know only as a passing hallway acquaintance: "Tell your sexy father I said hello."

My ears, they're bleeding. No matter, the pain is a welcome distraction from the incessant violent heaving of intestinal bile.


Except My Magic Bullet is WAY Different Than the One Underneath Sherri's Bed

On Friday I drove all the way to the other side of town to join my mother for lunch, since we hadn't seen one another for awhile and since I can only tolerate my family in short doses and one at a time because the Surgeon General has issued a warning that to do otherwise would be adverse to my mental health.

During our lunchtime chatter, my mom proceeded to tell me about how everyone in her office is now hooked on taking illegally acquired B-12 injections. Apparently, there's a so-called "Doctor" near her office that just hands the shit out, no prescription needed. You just walk up to the window, tell the attendant how many syringes you need, hand over the cash and then go about your merry way. Sounds alarmingly like a common drug deal on the streets of Compton if you ask me. I asked my mom about this physician's credentials, of which she hadn't the foggiest idea because SHE HAS NEVER SEEN THE MAN IN PERSON. (Suddenly, a running commentary starts rambling through my mind. "You know what I want! I wanna talk to Samson!") Because my mom picks up the goods for her entire office, she pops in quite frequently and the staff at this "clinic" now know her by name. When she walks through the door they cheerfully greet her by asking, "How many syringes today, Denise?" They never even question the fact that she comes in three times per week to buy ten times the recommended weekly dosage of this stuff. They never inquire as to her qualifications to administer intramuscular injections into her own ass, or how she intends to dispose of a dozen used biohazardous syringes when she's finished shooting up. They don't even ask her why the hell she thinks she NEEDS this medication in the first place. Apparently, they don't care. If you have ten bucks, they have a syringe and a cotton swab with your name all over it. So she and her colleagues use the company restroom to shoot up on their lunch breaks, taking the personal liberty of upping the once-a-week recommended dosage to once every three days. My mom proceeded to tell me over our delicious sashimi lunch about how one of her co-workers came running out of the restroom the other day, a bloodied wad of toilet paper stuck to her ass cheek, frantically yapping about how IT WON'T STOP BLEEDING! SOMEONE, PLEASE HELP! My mom, never phased by the sight of a little blood, calmly guided her back into the restroom, assuming that the woman was theatrically over-exaggerating. She slowly swung open the bathroom door, horrified at what she saw. The theme music from psycho softly playing in the background, my mom looked around in abject horror. Blood- it was everywhere! Splattered on the wall, the mirror, the toilet, the floor, the light switch, the sink, the sanitary waste disposal unit(well okay, the origins of THAT specimen are debatable), EVEN THE CEILING! They had to cordon off the restroom with yellow CAUTION/CUIDADO crime scene tape and launch a full-scale homicide investigation, THERE WAS THAT MUCH BLOOD. Seriously, you are NOT supposed to bleed when given an IM injection, provided it is correctly administered. And quite frankly, I can hardly imagine the mechanics of contorting one's body into an appropriate position conducive to accurately injecting oneself in the ass. The lady must have hit a blood vessel (because, come to find out, none of them had the common sense to ASPIRATE before injecting), which caused the excessive gushing of blood. Still, I've never heard of anything like it and I was quite shocked at the story. Lest you think that such an alarming incident should sway my mother and her fellow employees to cease such dangerous activities, have no fear. They are still regular customers of Dr. Samson and are quite happy with him as their B-12 dealer.

Then my mother and I left the restaurant to do a little post-prandial shopping, which is always a nice bonus because mommy is usually good for an unnecessary purchase or two. I got a Magic Bullet out of this rendezvous, a fine specimen of high-quality infomercial craftsmanship if I ever saw one. After making several large purchases with our illegally-acquired coupons (do you detect a trend when it comes to my family and a blatant disregard for societal norms and rules?), my mom grabbed the cart and headed for the parking lot. Immediately to our left was the sliding glass exit door, its neon red EXIT sign flashing more brazenly than a drunken sorostitute at Mardi Gras. But did my mommy dearest head in that direction? No, no, that would be too easy. She instead opted to point her cart in the direction of a SOLID GLASS WALL which quite obviously does not, has not and will not ever serve as a door. She slammed her cart into that glass wall so hard I heard her teeth chatter from six feet away. The floor began to quake beneath us and several pyrimid shaped store displays came crashing to the ground. I immediately rushed over to ensure that my precious Magic Bullet was unscathed, after which I proceeded to laugh hysterically at my mom's expense. I whispered an apology to the gawking checkout clerks, alerting them to the fact that my mom must have had way more sake than I thought at lunch, and we departed. I could hear their laughter echoing behind us all the way to the car.

If any of you ever wonder why I am the way I am, LOOK AT THE HEATHENS WHO RAISED ME.


How to be a White Trash Texan: Volume One

Whil eating post-Halloween Nerds, accidentally drop one into your bra and, without skipping a beat, immediately start digging all up in your junk until you find it. Then, eat it.

No Nerd Left Behind; it's my personal mantra.

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