Spoonleg's House

Two Years Later, I'm Still Explaining to My Friends and Family Why My Best Friend is a Stranger From the Interweb.

2007-01-05T07:32:00.000-08:00

New Year's Eve was officially my two year Blogiversary. Wow. To be honest, it feels like I've been blogging for a LOT longer than that. And to be brutally honest, nothing creatively brilliant has appeared on this blog at ALL this year. I've been a shitty blogger, I know. I'm not proud of that fact. But I'd like to recap a little about what this blog means to me, even though I tend to neglect it like the unwanted step-child it is. Before you know it, I'll be forgetting to pick it up after soccer practice or forbidding it to go to the junior prom. It's practice for real life. You know, in case I'm ever crazy or drunk enough to have a kid.

I can say with absolute certainty that although you can't tell by my shitty and infrequent writing here, this blog is one of the best things that could have ever happened to me. I've learned so much, I've laughed even more, and I've met some incredibly fantastic friends along the way. It's you guys that make blogging worthwhile. I love you all like family and I can't imagine my life without you. As incredibly mushy and unlike myself as I sound right now, I'm being completely fucking honest when I say that I've met some of my greatest friends through blogging. And I'm finally at a point in my life that I'm not afraid to admit it, regardless of the jokes and explanations and incessant, irritating questions. Oh yeah, and did I mention the constant accusations of my little sister calling me a dyke? There's that, too.

But as my big California move approaches, I've come to realize that I like spending REAL time with my friends and family just a little bit more than I like laying in my bed, staring at the screen of my iBook. Not only am I neglectful when it comes to my own blog, but I've neglected reading others' blogs as well, and frankly I feel like I've fallen out of the loop. I can't imagine ever NOT being a blogger, but for now this thing just isn't something that I can fit in on my top ten priority list, especially because binge drinking takes up slots 1 through 9.

This blog has never been a place where I just log on and start typing away about my day, or the events going on in my life. It started out as a place for me to share my funny stories and crazy sense of humor with other like-minded internet freaks, and for awhile that's exactly what it was. And although there is definitely no shortage of hilarious stories and crazy happenings in my life, I've found myself too consumed with LIVING those moments to be bothered with documenting them. Maybe one day I'll regret it, but for now, I have to say goodbye to this dirty, dirty jew diary (I love you, Jeri Blank). I will keep this spot around, just to make the ocassional updates and keep in touch with those of you whom I've come to know and love as family, and also those of you who like living vicariously through a single, twenty-something, sexually adventurous social miscreant such as myself. Know that you always have a place to find me if you need me, and vice versa.

There are many times that I miss this place and all the fun times I've had related to blogging, dating back to late 2003 when I found my very first blog and started a comment war with many of the same folks whom I now consider colleagues and friends. I remember sitting down to write my first post on this blog. I remember reading my first comment. These are things I'll never forget, but unlike the cast of Friends, I'd prefer to step down before my 7th season; before I become universally loathed and disrespected. Maybe one day I'll be back. But chances are, I'll be too drunk to remember my own url.

See you bitches on the flip side! Happy 2007!

PS, for those of you who are in the know, you can still hit Snaps and I up at the co-blog, or COB as we fondly refer to it.

On the Holidays

2006-12-24T06:59:00.000-08:00

This holiday season has been nothing short of hectic for me, and while I have an abundance of feel-good tales to share, I've had very little time to pound them out on the keyboard. I'm hoping all of the alcohol I've been consuming doesn't cause enough permanent damage to force me to forget these shining memories, if anything maybe it will just convolute them enough to allow me to embellish the details for comedic value. Wait, I do that anyway.

I've got friends and ex-boyfriends alike in town for the holidays, not to mention party invites and photography gigs and blind dates to tend to. Many times I've been forced to change plans or blow off loved ones because of my insane schedule, and for those of you "loved ones" who have been officially blown off (you know who you are), I sincerely apologize. I can honestly say I don't remember the holidays ever being this crazy for me before.

In addition to spending time with my favorite people, I've been frantically making my plans for the big move to California. I can't WAIT to get out there, but the process is seriously KILLING me. My anxiety is at an all-time high.

My roommate has recently vacated the premesis, leaving me with the undue stress of additional bills and rent and all that financial liability. I've been putting in overtime like a madwoman to try to stabilize myself, but it seems like a neverending battle; and I have to admit that I think I'm losing this war.

So, with all of these sad excuses for my lack of social or blogging ettiquite aside, I want to wish everyone a Merry Christmas. It's raining cats and dogs here in Houston, and I haven't felt the Christmas spirit move me even ONCE yet this season. I'm tired of Christmas carols and am ready to strangle the next stranger to wish me Happy Holidays. I've considered packing a taser gun in my purse when shopping at major department store chains and weilding it against all of the cranky, crying, whining, ugly children throwing chocolate ice cream-covered tantrums in each and every fucking isle I need to walk down. I'm sick of red, I'm sick of green, I'm tired of parties and presents and food and drinks and buying and wrapping and giving and hugging. I wish I could Scrooge it out in my apartment alone this Christmas, but alas, that's just not possible. Instead I'll grin and bear it all. In actuality, I'm somewhat looking forward to my niece's first Christmas. Introducing her to presents and trees and ornaments and Jesus and my parents' drinking problem should be exciting and fun. She's been a complete joy to be around lately, always wanting to be held and tickled and cuddled and kissed, and although her favorite words are "stop!" and "help!", I know she doesn't really mean them. She loves her cheek-pinching Auntie. So, SHE'S the reason for MY season, and I'll be snuggling with her adorable baby fat in a few short hours. I can't deny that I'm actually looking forward to it. Just a little.

The German Grandma

2006-12-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

I tried creating a post about my trip to the Dakotas, including vivid decriptions of the cast of characters, but have since realized that it would become such a lengthy and potentially boring blog post that I should just chop it up into sections.

The first person I would like to discuss is the one that had me in stitches the entire week- Snaps' German Grandma. First of all, the way this little lady speaks is in and of itself totally hilarious. I suppose I've never heard a real German accent, and especially not on such a cute little white haired lady in floral knit sweaters. The German Grandma is literally the cutest thing you've ever seen; she is El Capitan of the Pirate Ship Cute, and her swashbuckling first mate is a kitten playing with a ball of yarn. Their flag is adorned with flop-eared rabbits their crew is a bunch of men who cry at sensitive moments, because really, is there anything cuter than THAT?

The Grandma was constantly trying to give us food; she literally would ask us if we were hungry mere minutes after we had eaten. She tried force-feeding us candy bars, turkey, bread, pickles, olives, cookies, eggs and worst of all, PICKLED WATERMELON. I tried the stuff at 'Leen's urging and OH. MY. GOD. If I ever swallowed an entire bottle of cayenne pepper and then ate my own regurgitated vomit, IT WOULD TASTE LIKE PICKLED WATERMELON. AFTER witnessing my violent reaction to tasting the stuff, the Grandma then felt the need to belatedly warn me that she had fermented it in scalding hot spices scraped from the asshole of Satan. So what does she do next? She goes down to the basement to get ANOTHER jar of pickled death and tells me to try THAT. As if she were offering me something COMPLETELY DIFFERENT than what had mere seconds ago given my esophagus third degree burns and left my tongue charred and numb. I hate to say it, but even the supreme cuteness of Brad Pitt crying as his blind brother becomes ensnared in a barbed wire trap in Legends of the Fall could not compell me to eat another slice of pickled watermelon.

In many respects, the Grandma was like any other grandma you'll meet. She's doting and chatty and sometimes confused and loves to feed people. But the best part about the Grandma is the little slips and mistakes she'd make, always with the most oblivious sincerity.

First of all- and Snaps had prewarned me about this- Grandma has a tendency to confuse the names of Snaps' little brother and their much older, much retardeder cousin. Their names are nothing alike, they look nothing alike, and there is, of course, the obvious difference of one being mentally handicapped and the other just being... stoned. (Okay so maybe there's not much of a difference there). I have to admit that I was super psyched to witness this event, because apparently it enrages poor SnapBro each and every time. Sure enough, the mistake was made within 24 hours of our arrival to the house, and Snap and I exploded into laughter, to the bewilderment of Grandma. Once she realized her mistake, she corrected herself and then stated, "Ach, I don't know why I always do that!" I'm pretty sure I continued the trend by calling SnapBro by the wrong name on many drunken occasions over the next few days. Snaps exacerbated it on Thanksgiving by calling her brother by their cousin's name and then asking, "Do you know where the pop is?" And when SnapBro got up to find some pop for his darling big sister, she called after him, "No, not POT. POP. I need some POP."

On the first day we arrived at the Grandma's house, one of the first things she mentioned was Snaps' new beau. She asked if I had met him, and I responded yes, that I found him quite acceptable. The Grandma expressed her pleasure at the budding romance with the following statement: "Yah, in the past every time she had a new boyfriend, we would have to ask, 'Is he a black one, or a white one?' and I was soooo happy when she finally said, 'white'. I think it's so good she finally came back to the white. That's the way it should be." The funniest part about this is that the Grandma said this with the utmost sincerity. She literally had NO IDEA that what she had just said was so completely offensive that a less tolerant person than myself would have totally body slammed her cracker ass into a brick wall.

One of the most comedic traits of the Grandma was her refusal to acknowledge Snaps' dog as a female. No matter what we said, or how many times we mentioned that Jessa is in fact a GIRL DOG with a GIRL'S NAME, Grandma insisted on referring to the dog as merely "him".

(Upon Snaps and I preparing to leave for the evening): "Me and him are gonna stay home and I'm gonna feed him some bread and we are gonna watch that show about the hospital on the T.V."
(Upon presenting Jessa with a hand-knit PINK AND PURPLE afghan): "Look, I made this for him!"
(Upon realizing Jessa's doggy butthole was directly in her face): "Ach, he's taking my picture!"
(Upon stepping on Jessa's foot while washing dishes): "Did I make him a boo-boo?"

The hilarity of most of the Grandma's statements came from their complete and utter randomness. Oftentimes, the things she said were in no way related to the discussion at hand, which simply made them that much more comical. When Snaps, 'Leen and I were discussing our impending trip to the Hutterite colony, Grandma pondered aloud, "I sometimes think those women don't wear panties under those long skirts. No one would ever know if they didn't! There used to be one that lived across the street and I'd peep out the window while she was working in the yard and I would wait for the wind to blow her skirt up so I could see if she was wearing any panties!"

When the Grandma and 'Leen were discussing recent divorces in the community, the Grandma noted, "Well, she used to go to these meetings during the week, and at these meetings she met that man, and she and him were having their own meetings, and she snuggled up to him and that's why the husband divorced her."

And when we were discussing couples that maintain separate beds and separate bedrooms, the Grandma enlightened us with her eternal wisdom, "I knew a couple that did that once. They had separate beds but sometimes they would still visit eachother in the middle of the night."

Upon viewing Snaps' raunchy Christmas card photo she gasped, lamenting, "You're not wearing any panties!"
Snaps replied, "Yes I am, grandma!"
"Ach, well, you must be wearing those little stringy ones. I saw some of them in the laundry and I tried to fold them for you, but there wasn't any material to fold! Only string!"

When it was all said and done, I realized that I LOVE this Grandma. She had us laughing hysterically for hours on end, and she didn't even know it. Not to mention, she gave me some kick ass hand knitted doilies that I fully intend on using to wrap and store my pickled watermelon.

Heard

2006-11-28T11:37:00.000-08:00

Alas, I'm home, I'm sober, I'm alive. This past week was incredibly exhausting, not to mention the most fun EVER. Snap's entire extended family was in attendance, and believe me when I say those people are just as crazy as she is. An accurate representation of my weekend with the Snapfam can be summarized by this single, concise quote:

"Your fucking faggot father is my faggot brother, you mother fucker! And that makes YOU my faggot niece!"

More quotes to come, and more stories and photos and jokes and videos to boot. Most of it is X-rated (hell, who am I kidding? ALL OF IT IS), so hide your children. Except for the SnapChildren, especially the male ones, all of them over the age of 21. Because, you know, you guys are fucking HOT.

I'm the Anti-Blogger

2006-11-19T07:32:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, I haven't blogged in like YEARS, and the natives are getting restless. I feel like I'm constantly making excuses for my lack of blogging, but honestly people, I just don't have time anymore. I'm either at work where I have officially been banned from internet usage, or at home tending to my needy, co-dependent roommate while she suckles on the teat of my existence. It's a lose/lose situation as far as the blog is concerned, and for that I am truly sorry.

As many of you know, I will be headed to North Dakota in a few short days to visit my dear friend and fellow blogger, Snap. Despite the fact that there will be no snow, I am still hella excited about the visit- and not only because there's a slim to infinitesimal chance that I might get laid.

About a month ago I decided to break the dreadful news to Mama Spoon about my plans to spend the Thanksgiving holiday in an altogether different hemisphere. Papa Spoon had already been told during our weekly gossip sesh, and he informed me at that time that my mom would be none too pleased about my departure. Whatever, I thought. She'll hardly care!

So last month during one of the usual Spoonfam Sunday dinners, I just blurted it out. "I'm going to North Dakota for Thanksgiving." Without waiting for an explanation or asking for any additional details, my mother simply burst into tears. I quickly tried explaining to her that this is the only time that works for both Snap and I to get simultaneous time off from our jobs, that her Iraqi lover just returned and I was hard pressed to meet him, that this would be a better opportunity to meet her friends and family as they would all be gathered together for the holiday. She merely sobbed harder.

Finally she asked, "Who are you going to spend Thanksgiving with?"

"Snap and her family," I replied.

Mom began to bawl, shouting, "YOU'D RATHER SPEND THANKSGIVING WITH STRANGERS THAN YOUR OWN GOD DAMN FAMILY?"

"They're not strangers, I talk to her mom on the phone all the time."

"You wish she was YOUR mom, don't you?" My mom asked, in her typical passive aggressive, woe-is-me, victimized way.

"Yes, actually, I kind of do," was my honest answer.

After our brief conversation, we all excused ourselves from the dinner table except for mom, who sat there morosely, shedding silent tears into her mashed potatoes for a good 40 minutes after the rest of us had left. This is how she copes. We're used to ignoring it.

Fast forward to last week. I was leaving the house after another Sunday dinner event, and as I'm about to walk out mom asks, "Honey, are you working on Thanksgiving? Are you gonna come over?"

We all stare in disbelief. Spoon Bro shouts, "OH MY GOD, ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?"

My mom looks around, totally clueless.

I looked her dead in the eye and spoke slowly. "MOM. I will not BE here for Thanksgiving. I will be in NORTH DAKOTA. How many times do I have to tell you?!"

Then the water works started up- AGAIN.

"Oh no, HELL NO, you are NOT allowed to cry about this. You've cried about this once already, you don't get to cry about it again just because you forgot. Stop it. STOP. IT."

"She never remembers anything. Write it on a piece of paper and stick it to the fridge," my sister offered.

"Why, so she can burst into tears every time she goes to pour herself a glass of milk? I think NOT," I replied.

Fast forward to yesterday. Mom calls to ask if I will be coming to this Sunday's dinner, at which point I was forced to shatter her heart into a thousand tiny pieces and stomp on them repeatedly with my size 8 clog because I am a fucking evil and ungrateful daughter who God forbid actually has to WORK for a living, which sometimes requires the occasional Sunday obligation, which SWEET BABY JESUS WHY DIDN'T SHE PUT ME UP FOR ADOPTION 25 YEARS AGO BECAUSE SHE WOULD HAVE SAVED HERSELF A LIFETIME OF HEARTACHE AND PAIN, IF ONLY SHE HAD KNOWN THAT SHE HAD BIRTHED A CHILD WHO WOULD DARE TO WORK ON A SUNDAY.

As I'm trying to explain to my mother that the only reason I'm working on the sacred Spoonfamily Sabbath is because I have to take the rest of the week off, she innocently asks me, "Why? Where are you going?"

"Are you serious?" I asked, "Are you totally fucking serious? You're not SERIOUSLY asking me that question, are you? Because there is no fucking way you're being serious right now."

"Oh that's right, you're going on your trip to... to... um... where are you going again?"

"NORTH. DAKOTA."

"And who do you know out there?"

"SNAP."

"And how do you know her again?"

*Silence*

I don't think she's ever bothered to ask me that before. With as much as I've talked about Snap in the past, with as many pictures of the two of us as she's seen, with as many crazy stories as I've told, she's never, ever asked me how I met Snap. In nearly two years, I have never, ever had to mention to my mother that I have a blog. But there really isn't a reason to lie to her about it now.

"We met online. Through our blogs."

"You met someone through BLOGGING? And you're going to FLY TO ANOTHER STATE TO MEET THEM?" My mother screeched.

"Yes," I answered.

"Have you ever met her in person?" She asked. I'm beginning to wonder how many times mom was dropped on her head as a baby.

"Yes mom. Remember when I went to Austin in April? And when I went to Chicago in June? Those trips were to meet bloggers. And she was one of them."

"You've met her TWICE? Well then she's PRACTICALLY a stranger! You don't even KNOW this person, and you're spending Thanksgiving with her?!" Sadly, I began to fear she was dropped on her head one too many times because somehow, my mother has mistaken me for A TWELVE YEAR OLD WHO GIVES A SHIT WHAT SHE THINKS AND WHOSE LIFE SHE CAN STILL CONTROL.

"We talk practically every day, mom. She is NOT a stranger to me, she's one of my best friends," I explained.

After much more discussion, including a complete interrogation into Snap's background, social history, sexual preferences, and employment experience, we hung up the phone. Several hours later, I called her again to tell her something I had forgotten to mention, at which time she asked me, YET AGAIN, what Snap does for a living. I'm abandoning her at an assisted living facility tomorrow, and I'm hoping that she'll simply forget that she ever had a family, or a house, or a dog, or a car, or a life. Seems possible.

Shake it like a salt shaker...

2006-11-01T13:14:00.000-08:00

Nessa here again to post this killer video of dude giving shout-outs to the crowd as he dances his little jig to the bongo band at the Huntington Beach pier...enjoy! P.S. Dropshots kicks YouTube's ass any day of the week!

Photo Sharing - Upload Video - Video Sharing - Share Photos

Blognapping by Nessa

2006-10-31T13:26:00.000-08:00

What's up peeps - Nessa's in the hizzy fo' shizzy! Yeah, I have no earthly idea what I just said...I'm about as white as they come, folks! I am here because I am blogless and I must pimp my pictures and stories.

The Leg o'Spoon and I had a blast in Hell-Ay and although we slept a mere 20 hours over the course of 5 days and ate approximately 2 actual meals over the course of 5 days, we survived and lived to tell the tales. The tales will be coming soon, once we've had enough sleep to make our brains function in a normal capacity and once our bodies have been sufficiently rehydrated...this could take WEEKS, people!

In the meantime, please enjoy these pictures on my Flickr (Spoonie takes longer to edit than I do because she's talented and shit)...although I took about 500 pictures, most of them were crap and/or were part of our foray into pornographic photography and are not suitable for the general viewing public...enjoy the salvageable ones...

Feel free to also enjoy this video of a darling gentleman on the corner of Crenshaw or Compton or Hawthorne or Long Beach Boulevard, or maybe he was in the VALLEY - this will all make sense soon! The best part of the video is the sound...I didn't know if I was recording or not...

Why did YouTube make the video big & grainy? Oh well...The link, in case the video doesn't load...(P.S. does anyone know where I can upload or how I can shrink a video over 100 megs?? Leave a comment because that one is fucking awesome!)

More to come - I'll let the ol' Leg tell the good parts and I'll fill in the stuff she missed...which means I'll be writing most of it - HAH!

Another Filler Post.

2006-10-23T08:59:00.000-07:00

I know that my blogging of late has been sporadic and, let's face it, shitty at best, but there has been mondo business going on in the Casa de Spoon and the blogging just ain't getting done like it used to. I think this could possibly be a good sign and might even indicate that, hey, I actually have a LIFE now, but I have to admit that I'm missing the blog circuit immensely. I just can't hang like I used to!

This past weekend I planned and hosted a pirate party at my house, which was simultaenously incredibly fun and the biggest mistake I've ever made. There was lots of cleaning, lots of decorating, lots of baking, lots of mixing and prepping and arranging... and then there was lots of drinking. Lots and LOTS of drinking. By my estimates we had about 40 pirates tromping in and out of our apartment at any given time. Most of the attendees were old high school friends, some of them college friends, and a few of them total fucking strangers. There was lots of laughter and dancing and fun, and by the time all the jello shots were gone, the volume of my voice had risen about 3 octaves and I was actually threatening to call the police on MYSELF. Whatever, I suffer from voice intoxication immodulation. I'm unable to control the pitch or volume of my voice when drunk.

On Thursday I'm headed to L.A. with fellow (former) blogger Nessa, whom I have recently come to know has been harrassed by some of my very own readers, to which I say HOW DARE YOU? Quit being such assholes, seriously people. Good lawd. Anyway, Nessa and I will be painting the town red (with our cosmopolitan-colored vomit) and partying like two sorority sisters on bid night. You know you're jealous. Go ahead and admit it. I can't WAIT to have a nice, relaxing vacay. You'll hear all about it upon my return, I'm sure, as well as find many incriminating photos on my flickr stream. I'm hoping the weather there is pleasant, because this morning it was 48 degrees FAHRENHEIT in Houston, Texas. I think my fingertips might fall off.

Going to Brazil, Gonna Eat Me a Lot of Peaches.

2006-10-16T07:02:00.000-07:00

Before departing for my journey to the Big D last week, I had a momentary lapse of intelligence and decided to get my muffin waxed. Nay, not waxed- SHREDDED (and not the type of shredded that Scotty and Marit like to refer to; this particular shredding did not involve guttural moans of pleasure). At the ASSVICE of one Snaps McSnapalot, I sought out the services of a pleasant, elderly Hispanic woman with a speech impediment whose name I don't recall but who might as well have called herself Leatherface because the carnage she left behind south of my equator was fairly comparable to that of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.

As I entered the salon, I was met at the door by Satan. My first thought was that she definitely chose the right profession, because this woman's height placed her face directly in my crotchal region. Now, I know I'm somewhat of an Amazon yeti when it comes to height, but seriously? This lady was a quasi-dwarf, and frankly her stubby little arms freaked me out just a bit. She asked me if it was my first wax, and when I answered yes, she gave me this devilish smile and replied, "Don't worry. I'll be gentle for your first time." I was suddenly reminded of one of my early highschool boyfriends who honestly believed that those same words would convince me to drop my panties in the backseat of his mom's station wagon. I seriously considered sprinting for the door at that point, but reconsidered because I wasn't wearing the right shoes and the likelihood of me tripping, falling, injuring myself and then being held against my will while hot wax was drizzled on my genitals far outweighed the possibility of me actually escaping. So I stifled the urge and followed her into the torture chamber.

Once in the "massage room" (HA!) I got nekkid and laid down on a table while the lisper senselessly rambled on about shit I could have cared less about because HELLO, I'M ABOUT TO GET SOME HAIR RIPPED OFF OF MY COOCH. At one point, she asked me where I work, and when I named the nearby hospital at which I'm employed, she asked, "Did someone you work with suggest that you come here?"

"Um, no." I replied. "I don't exactly share my feminine hygiene issues with my coworkers. Only strangers on the internet."

"I see," she said. "I was only asking because I did a Brazilian on a nurse from your hospital a few days ago and was wondering if you knew her."

Please don't tell me her name, please don't tell me her name. I silently begged.

Thankfully, she quickly changed the subject once I informed her that finding out which one of my fellow nurses is bare below the belt was not on the top my list of priorities. Instead, she returned her focus to my nether regions and began inspecting my fully grown Chia Pet as if she were the judge at the International Dog Show and my poodle was a contender for best in show. Then she took a popsicle stick and started slopping gobs of scalding hot wax onto my Death Valley and then- now this nearly gave me a full-blown panic attack- she started blowing on it. ON ME. I just about fell off that table right then and there.

As she started ripping the top layer of skin from my best friend, I had to make a very conscious effort to calm myself both physically and mentally. I tried to think of happy things- kittens playing with balls of yarn and bratty children sinking into vats of quicksand- but all the while my vagina was screaming, "NOOOOOOOO!" at the top of it's little vagina lungs.

Once she started working her way into the inner crevices of my Grand Canyon, I started praying to every higher power that may or may not exist to PLEASE, MAKE IT STOP, because this type of punishment should be reserved for the likes of deplorable, beastly human beings such as Saddam Hussein and Martha Stewart. I nearly stopped her and walked right out of there with a vag-hawk, but managed to keep my composure and remain on the table. Still, it seemed that the more tender the area she was working on, the hotter the wax and slower the rip. Then I heard her say something that I can't imagine ever wanting to hear, under ANY circumstance, "a little bit of bleeding is normal after your first time." I may or may not have blacked out for a few minutes after hearing those words, because I really don't remember much more after that.

When she finished mutilating the front of my love nugget, she told me to flip over and spread my legs. Thinking that way too many moments of this experience closely mirrored times I have spent in the back of a station wagon, I obliged and then closed my eyes tightly to prepare for the worst. She spread my cheeks and proclaimed, "Well you don't have much hair back here!" To which the only response I could think of making was, "Thanks."

When she was finally finished, I walked out of there looking and feeling like a stripper with a pole shoved up my ass, but DAMN was my snatch smooth. I think I might just do it again!

Happy Friday the 13th!

2006-10-13T13:33:00.000-07:00

Sorry I haven't been able to blog much lately, but the stolen internet that I hijack from the coffee shop across the street isn't working, which, I mean, I'm really glad I don't pay for that shit because otherwise I'd be totally pissed right now. In the meantime, I'm deciding whether I should be a responsible citizen and start paying for the 'net rather than continuing down the felonious path I've been traveling on for the past 3 years.

In the meantime, enjoy your Friday, and don't get too spooked!

Blogjacking

2006-10-02T19:02:00.000-07:00

I can't NOT share this with the blog world. The humiliation is priceless. She thanked me by pissing on my bed again. Fucking awesome.

Because Nobody Believes That the Gulf Coast is Really a Coast.

2006-10-01T15:40:00.000-07:00

I think it's time I share with you, my readers, the fact that in a few short months, I will no longer be blogging to you from the (not so) great state of Texas. I'm ditching this shit-hole like Brad ditched Jen and I'm not looking back. Calfornia is my Angelina, and if that makes me a lesbian then so be it. I'd munch Calfornia's carpet until kingdom come, and then I'd brag about it to my friends and make sure Texas hears all about our love affair so it can become bitter and jealous and settle for some lesser attractive state like Tennessee because everyone knows Tennessee has a great personality, but let's face it, Tennessee is no California, although I'd totally make out with Tennessee behind California's back because even though it's aging and balding and slightly overweight, Tennessee's still got it going on. You follow?

I'm making my first trip to the west coast at the end of the month to evaluate the scenery and pin point an area in which I want to reside. Then the official move will happen around February of next year.

I just need a CHANGE. I need to get out of Texas. I need to take advantage of my opportunities while I'm still (relatively) young and able-bodied. I want to play on the beach. I want to stalk celebrities. I want beautiful weather. I want to see and do things that are only real in movies. I want to snort coke off the top of a urinal in a night club with the LA Lakers' assistant towel boy. I want to sleep with the entire road crew of a famous rock band. I want to run over homeless people with my MINI. I want to be stuck in hellacious traffic at all hours of the day and night. I want to stand in line for 8 hours only to be denied entrance to Britney Spears' newest dance club. I want to meet Mickey Avalon.

As a nurse, I have the opportunity to travel wherever I want, throughout the country or the world, and get compensated quite well for it. My travel expenses are paid, my rent and utilities are paid, my apartment comes fully furnished, health benefits are included, sign-on and completion bonuses are offered, and I am able to dictate the time, place and field in which I want to work, as well as how long I want to work there. So basically, I'm outta here so fast I'll be lucky if I remember to pack a toothbrush.

Expect to be hearing more about this impending move as the time nears, because for now everything is just in the planning stages. I'll be flying into LA later this month to survey the area (thanks, Haf!), and if anyone wants to show me around then holla atcha girl. I could definitely use some guidance!

Ms. W.A.S., on location...

2006-09-29T16:21:00.000-07:00

This is Megan, aka Ms. W.A.S. My boss discovered my blog, after being tipped off by some OTHER co-workers out at another location, who were probably tipped off as a result of an employee out there mentioning my site. Said employee is from my hometown, and I told him about my site while I still lived in Minneapolis. Looks like everything spiraled out of control, and who knows how many of my co-workers now know that my vag gets waxed. Awesome, right?

My boss read everything I've posted dating back to July of this year, and amazingly, I wasn't disciplined in any way. She loved what she read, and laughed a lot she said, but seeing as how I play God with the lives of teenagers, having my character called into question because of a website wouldn't play out so well. So, no more blogging for me. I might pop in here and there in the Hizzouse of Spoonleg, just to let ya'll know I'm alive. Oh, and eventually getting laid. But, other than that, the blog is dead to me. See ya around.

Self-Portrait Day Montage and More Drunken Tales From the Crypt.

2006-09-28T06:43:00.000-07:00

For many of the readers that have been with me for the now nearly TWO YEARS that I've been blogging, you'll remember a little segment on the Spoonleg Show wherein Thursdays were always officially Self Portrait Day, featuring me posing while doing retardedly senseless activities such as imitating Elvis or getting drunk at 8:00 am. Okay, so maybe I never shared those "wake and shake" self-portraits with ya'll, but the knowledge that I actually took them makes me pathetic enough that I really don't see a reason to embarrass myself further on this matter.

Recently I began participating in Flickr's 365 day self-portrait challenge, and have found that my photography has come a long way in such a short time. This experience also serves to promote my already pompously gargantuan ego, because when a guy who is obsessed with Dolly Parton's mole AND a guy who's online moniker is "Make-u-Squirt" BOTH leave creepy, offensive comments on your photos, then you know you've truly made it. I'm a Flickr pseudo-celeb among all of the perverts on house arrest that have formed some kind of fabricated delusional bond with me via the radiating glow of their computer screen, and the only explanation that I can think of for their inappropriate behavior is that they must wank off so much that they have run out of semen and have started ejaculating brain cells.

In other news, I've come to the startling realization that I can no longer tolerate tequila like my younger, 21-year-old self used to be able to. What the fuck has happened to me? Am I really getting OLD? I mean, I've always heard people say that as they age, they are less able to handle a long night of heavy binge drinking. Case in point, Nessa's drunk ass. Now, don't get me wrong- Nessa is a good five years older than me (and I can guarantee that I won't live to see that age because I just exposed her!), but the girl can seriously drink me under the table any day of the week. That is until the other weekend when I risked introducing her to some of my friends whom she HADN'T yet embarrassed herself in front of, and believe me when I say there aren't many left. She arrived at my house with a 40 ounce of malt liquor in hand (typical Nessa) and we headed over to the bar down the street where she ordered several beers to chase down several shots (also typical Nessa). After a few minutes spent observing dozens of lonely, middle aged, balding, desperate singles awkwardly bump into one another while trying to initiate awkward conversations before taking one another home to engage in some awkward penetration, we decided to leave before the dismal atmosphere rubbed off on us and we ended up in the public restroom, slitting our wrists with a nail file and sobbing into the commode.

Our next destination was a fantastically filthy little dive bar called the Marquee, an establishment to which I have been only once before, with my good friend Fats and some of her college buds. The Marquee is famous for their Long Island Iced Teas, which taste a lot like Liquid Plumber and will render you unconscious almost as quickly, but with significantly less esophageal corrosion. On my first encounter at the Marquee, I shared one of these 24 ounce big 'uns with Fats and one other girl, and I can honestly say that we were all FAR BEYOND WASTED before the cup was even half empty.

So when Nessa and I arrived at the Marquee, my natural assumption was that we would be sharing a Long (Island Iced) Tit, however Nessa had other plans. She bought each of us our own, and in true Nessa form, she shocked the hell out of me by sucking that bad boy down like a Mexican hooker at a donkey show. Within 2.5 seconds, she was so utterly inebriated that she may or may not have quite LOUDLY outed a very PRIVATE secret of someone who was not present at the time RIGHT IN FRONT of said person's significant other. And I may or may not have laughed my ass off and called all my friends to tell them about it. WHAT? Don't pretend you didn't already know that I'm a terrible person.

After spending an extensive amount of time in the restroom, from which she SOMEHOW returned with ANOTHER $10 iced tea, Nessa announced that she was, indeed, wasted. She asked to be taken home, and I informed her that although I would not be driving her the hour it would take to get all the way to her house in BFE, I would take her to my apartment and allow her to pass out on my bathroom floor, because that's just the type of friend I am. A bad one.

Once she was safely in the car and buckled in, I wasted no time in calling Megan and giving her a play-by-play description of the night's events. Meanwhile, Nessa had her head hanging out the side of my vehicle, puking her guts out for about a five mile stretch of road. "LEAN OUT FARTHER!" I comforted her, "GET VOMIT INSIDE MY CAR AND YOU'RE DEAD!" What can I say? I'm a nurturer. As we pulled into my apartment complex, two of my neighbors were walking past my vehicle as I approached the gate. I'm pretty sure based on the looks on their faces that their shoes must have been vomited on.

Once I got her inside, Nessa informed me that she needed to take a shower. Then she stood there, with her arms outstretched, like a toddler waiting to be undressed. I did my best to remove what clothing I could access without touching any human waste, and then threw her in the shower. Five minutes later she was comatose on my bed after a brief bout of crying, I love you's, and I'm so sorry's.

Eight hours later she woke up still drunk, and was completely baffled at how she went from being the totally in control buzzed fun girl, to that shithouse wasted loud mouthed annoying girl. It took two car washes and a lot of elbow grease to get the vomit off of the passenger's side of my car, and to this day my friends refuse to ride in my car with me because they claim it STILL smells like spew. It has since been dubbed Regurgitation Station.

So back to the original point of this post (which, really I don't think there was one, and if there was then it most certainly wouldn't be about cleaning puke, because I get PAID GOOD MONEY to do that every day and frankly there are no freebies in my book, so I will be billing Nessa for my services). My realization about my own inability to handle liquor- particularly TEQUILA- occurred this week when my roommate and I decided to grab a quick bite at the Mexican restaurant across the street. Because it was happy hour, we eagerly ordered our grossly oversized frozen margaritas and slurped down one each with our meal.

Fast forward two hours... we're at a neighborhood tavern for dollar pint night, during which I spent an entire DOLLAR only to find that I was cut off by my friends because I began singing along to Avril Lavigne and doing a rather unconvincing job at "dancing" to some house/trance music, which frankly seemed more like corporal punishment than music. If I'm not mistaken, I believe that I was told that my dance was not only ensuring that I would never be laid again, but was in fact placing a curse on those around me so that the genitals of anyone who made eye contact with me would shrivel up and perish. I danced my way out of the bar at around 10:00 pm, slept for six hours, and woke up thinking that Derek Jeeter had somehow snuck into my room and repeatedly slammed me upside the head with a Louisville Slugger while I slept. I was extremely hungover after ONE MARGARITA AND ONE WEAK ASS BEER. Now that's the definition of PATHETIC.

Funny thing is, this wasn't the first time that it's happened. Last time my roommate and I went to that same restaurant and had margaritas, we woke up feeling the exact same way, except that time I actually VOMITED the next morning, which is something I rarely do. I dismissed it as a fluke, but this time I can't deny the facts- I'M GETTING OLD. I just can't get drunk like I used to, which is a fact that is so depressing I am tempted to drown my sorrow in a stiff drink.

So without further ado, here's a small sampling of my recent self portraits. Happy Thursday!

On Being a Kid.

2006-09-24T06:44:00.000-07:00

My mom called me last night to inform me that her car has been repossessed.

Now, I don't know how OTHER peoples' families function, but in my immediate family, I'M the only one with any fucking common sense. If THAT'S not enough to convince the state of Texas that the other four members of the Spoon family ought to be donning straight jackets in a padded cell, then I don't know what is.

My mom is capable of doing some ridiculously stupid shit, like not renewing her driver's license, state inspection or vehicle registration, because she doesn't know how to go about obtaining said items. Then she operates her car with the headlight busted out and gets pulled over and ticketed for all FOUR offenses. Then she neglects to tend to ANY of these issues (which would have subsequently dismissed her citations) and refuses to show up to court. She continues operating her illegal vehicle, and warrants are issued for her arrest. Her solution to this problem is to take back roads everywhere, and to never drive after dark so as not to call attention to her broken headlight. She coasted by on luck and avoidance for about two years, until she got the bright idea to not only operate that felony-on-wheels at night, but to do so while under the influence of alcohol. She passed her breathalyzer, thank God, but ended up in jail for the outstanding tickets and warrants. And guess who she called to post her bail? That would be her eldest child, yours truly.

After my mom got out of jail, she was a wreck. You would think by her reaction to spending 12 hours in the county slammer that she'd just spent 40 years at San Quentin making license plates and getting ass raped. "I'll NEVER go back to that place as long as I live!" She claimed, promising to not only pay me back (HA!), but to also show up to court and update her vehicle. My dad got her car all fixed up for her, my brother drove her to court, and everything was solved.

Fast forward almost exactly one year later. Mom hasn't renewed her registration. Mom hasn't renewed her inspection. Mom hasn't kept up with her insurance. Mom gets another set of tickets. Mom doesn't pay tickets, mom doesn't fix problems, mom doesn't show up to court. I'm quite positive that mom has more warrants out for her arrest. And I'm again waiting for that 2:00am call from mom.

Then let's talk about the time last week when my brother called me, asking for our mother's work phone number, because apparently she had neglected to pay the electricity bill and my brother, sister and niece were sitting in the sweltering house in 100+ degree Texas summer heat, with no way to contact her because- oh, yeah- she hadn't paid the phone bill, either. Thank God my brother has the meager iota of common sense required to own and operate a cell phone, which I tend to think is more for the sake of making drug deals than actual emergencies.

Oh, and should we talk about the time when my above mentioned GENIUS of a brother spent an entire summer pilfering THOUSANDS of dollars out of my mom's checking account, and because she is such an avid check book balancer she NEVER EVEN NOTICED? She just kept bouncing check after check, not knowing why and not bothering to find out. She finally called to ask ME what was going on, as if I had a fucking clue where her money had gone. Once I introduced her to miracle of online banking, or better yet, OPENING YOUR BANK STATEMENTS WHEN THEY ARE MAILED TO YOU, we figured out what was going on. However at this point, she was three months behind on the mortgage and they were threatening to foreclose. Guess who paid THAT bill for her, and guess who's still waiting to be paid back?

This time around, mom hadn't paid her car note in God knows how long. She knew the repo man was after her, but she didn't do shit about it. Finally the police came to her PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT and took possession of her car, in front of all of her clients and staff. And instead of calling the company THEN and making arrangements to keep the car that she was almost finished paying off anyway, what did she do? She went out and financed a Mustang (which will probably also get repo'ed). But wait, it gets BETTER. She's cashing in her 401-K (FOR THE SECOND TIME) to help pay for this new car.

It's not that my mom doesn't have the money. She makes plenty of money to support herself and the three kids living under her roof. Her problem is that she spends money carelessly, she doesn't budget or plan, she doesn't check her mail, and she claims to not have the TIME to handle such petty nuisances as BILLS. So while she might have several grand sitting in her checking account, her electricity is still constantly being shut off. This INFURIATES me.

And on top of it all, my mom has now cashed in TWO of her retirement funds, and trust me when I say she is no spring chicken. She probably has about another fifteen years before she reaches retirement age, and at that point I anticipate both of my younger siblings and a slew of illegitimate children to still be congregating under her roof. I've asked my mom, what does she think is going to happen when she's retired? How is she going to pay the electricity bill when she has NO money, since she can't even seem to pay it when she DOES have money? And just which one of her kids does she think is going to be in any position to support both her AND my dad, who is no better at saving and planning ahead than she is?

"Don't worry about things that are twenty years down the road from now," my mom tells me. YEAH, THAT'S WHAT YOU SAID ABOUT MY COLLEGE FUND WHEN I WAS BORN, AND LOOK HOW WELL THAT TURNED OUT. I didn't expect anything from my parents; in fact, I was happy to put myself through college. But the fact that I had to do so is a testament to their inability to plan ahead and see the bigger picture, to think about the future and stop living so selfishly in the present.

I know I sound bitter and ungrateful, but if all you had to look forward to in life was caring for the two most spiteful, grumpy, sardonic, clinically insane persons on the face of the planet (and let's just throw in some incontinence for good measure), then you would be just a little despondent, too.

My mom's response to all of this? "Well wherever you travel in life, you're going to have to come back to Houston to take care of me when I'm old, because I'm not leaving. You can just drop me off under a bridge somewhere if you hate living in the same city as your family so much."

Who knew that raising parents would be so tough?

The Reason Why My Parents Don't Know About the Blog.

2006-09-20T08:11:00.000-07:00

I recently had the pleasure of hanging out with an old friend, who for all intents and purposes we will refer to as John-Who-Sells-Porn, because his name may or may not be John, and he may or may not sell porn for a living.

My history with John-Who-Sells-Porn extends way back to high school, back in the days before he ever considered becoming a porn wholesaler. In those days, he was known as John-Who-Sells-Pot, which may or may not be accurate because if you ask him about that today, he'll tell you, "I wasn't a drug dealer. Those were FAVORS!" I don't know about y'all, but I wish my friends would hand me wads cash every time I did them a "favor".

Back then, our school district only had two high schools, and they were connected. John-Who-Sells-Porn went to school H and I went to school E, and although there were over 10,000 students between the two schools, we still somehow knew eachother. This was NOT because he was my "favor" dealer, because the only pot this fucking band nerd was familiar with was the kind in which I boiled my Virtue soup. However, John-Who-Sells-Porn and I ran in the same circle of friends, mostly because we were both involved in theatre and were both- YES, GO AHEAD AND LAUGH- Thespians. That is, until John-Who-Sells-Porn got caught doing a really, REALLY big "favor" for the stage manager of a professional production and instead of calling his parents, they called his theatre director, who cried and then promptly evicted him from the program. Anyway, back then I wouldn't exactly say that John-Who-Sells-Porn and I were really all that friendly. Practically the only time I saw him was at parties, because whenever there is a gathering of horny, unsupervised teenagers (especially THESPIANS), there is somehow always an unfathomable demand for "favors". And somehow, John-Who-Sells-Porn was always available, equipped with the finest "favors" this side of Amsterdam.

My next encounter with John-Who-Sells-Porn was several years later. I happened to be visiting my boyfriend at the time in College Station, and I'll be damned if John-Who-Sells-Porn wasn't his roommate! He actually wasn't selling porn yet at this point, either. During this phase in our lives, he was known as John-Who-Sells-Parliaments-and-Prophylactics at the local convenience store. And from what I could tell, he also still sold "favors", too. During my frequent visits to College Station, John-Who-Sells-Porn and I used to sit around the living room together, discussing obscure biblical underpinnings in The Big Lebowski, taking shots of whiskey out of hairspray caps, and watching episode after episode of Girls Gone Wild. Don't ask me why, it just seemed like a good idea at the time. Now I shudder to think that those early, pre-porn Girls Gone Wild days simply set the stage for his current career.

It's been at least five years since John-Who-Sells-Porn and I spent our late teenage years locked in a house with the windows blocked out by tinfoil, waiting for my boyfriend to get out of class, watching otherwise hetero women lick eachother's titties just because Snoop Doggy Dogg asked them to. Although those days will forever be etched into my mind as the biggest waste of time in the history of wasted time, John-Who-Sells-Porn was taken aback when I reminded him of our shared bond.

Me: "Dude, you used to make me listen to TOOL with you! How could you forget that?!"

JWSP: "Look, that was a very dark time in my life; most of it has been traumatically erased from my memory. I worked at a convenience store, for Chrissake! Wait a minute... you dated [insert ex-boyfriend's name here]?!"

Me: "Yeah, for like nine months."

JWSP: "I totally had no idea."

After recently rekindling our friendship, I found out about John-Who-Sells-Porn's newest profession- duh, porn selling. And as if it's not disgusting enough that he sells niche porn (ie: midgets, fat girls, granny trannies), the icing on the perv cake is the fact that he drives this creepy child molester van with the wire mesh partition used to keep your pre-teen victims enclosed in the back while you drive them to a dark alley of your choosing.

When some friends and I drove up to John-Who-Sells-Porn's SexOffenderMobile to drop him off, I loudly (and drunkenly) announced, "YOU DRIVE A CREEPY CHILD MOLESTER VAN! JESUS CHRIST, WHY DON'T YOU JUST GROW A MOUSTACHE AND GET A MYSPACE ACCOUNT?!"

As my roommate's boyfriend got out of the car to rifle through the porn stash in the back of the Heavy Petting Wagon, she and I began discussing the differences between women and men when it comes to sexuality.

Me (instigating): "Why does [your boyfriend] need porn?"

Roommate: "Yeah, good question. Why DOES he need porn when he has ME?"

Me (instigating): "You should ask him that."

*potential porn-viewer in question enters car, empty handed*

Me: "Where's your porn?"

Boyfriend: "Aw, I couldn't make a decision. I felt rushed. I like variety, and I like to be able to browse through the selections at my leisure. John only has fat girl and tranny porn. I'd rather look at hot Eurobabes on the internet."

Roommate: "Are the Eurobabes hotter than me?"

Boyfriend (flustered): "Uhhh, no. I mean, I just use that to, like... you know... I mean... okay, let's just be frank here. What do you ladies use when you're taking care of business?"

Me: "ONE HAND AND A HEALTHY IMAGINATION."

Roommate: "This is the difference between men and women. We like to imagine being intimate with the person we most want to be close to, and you guys are always looking for the biggest set of tits."

Me: "Why don't you just look at Playboy?"

Boyfriend: "Because I need the visual AND auditory stimulation."

Me: "Well that's why I have a vibrator. Visually, it LOOKS like a penis, but frankly I could do without the auditory stimulation. Unlike a man, my vibe doesn't fart, snore or belch. That's all the stimulation I need!"

Suddenly, I look down in my lap and realize that my cell phone is lit up. Is someone calling me, I wonder? I look at the screen and realize that my phone had accidentally dialed someone in my phone book, as it sometimes does, without my permission. The person it chose to call? MY DAD.

MY DAD HEARD ME TALKING ABOUT VIBRATORS. MASTURBATION. PENISES. PORNOGRAPHY.

It was one of those "kill me now" moments. Seriously.

Yet Another Excuse To Create a Discussion About My Stellar Tits.

2006-09-16T12:07:00.000-07:00

I saw my gynecologist walking through the hallway of the hospital this morning, and she didn't recognize me, despite the fact that she swabbed my throat via my vagina a mere two weeks ago. It took me a minute to figure out why my feelings were a little bit hurt by this slight snub. Then I realized that this fairly young, fairly attractive woman has shoved foreign metal objects in my jelly doughnut, not to mention the fact that she has fondled my areolas with her bare, ungloved hands and even commented on the smoothness of my breast tissue. We were intimate; we had a RELATIONSHIP. A really unorthodox, borderline lesbian relationship, but a relationship nonetheless. How could she not remember me?! I felt like shouting at her, "HEY! IT'S ME! YOU KNOW, THE ONE WITH THE SMOOTH BREAST TISSUE? YOU GAVE ME FREE BIRTH CONTROL SAMPLES BECAUSE WE SHARED A MOMENT!"

Instead, I just kept walking. But know that in my heart of hearts I was plotting my next gyno appointment, and all the asparagus I'm going to eat for lunch beforehand.

Drunken Weekend Conversation

2006-09-15T08:44:00.000-07:00

John: "It's a fact! Retards love sex. That's why they fix them at birth!"

Me: "What? That can't possibly be true. Do they take one look at someone's newborn baby and say, 'Mr. and Mrs. Smith, your child is retarded. We're going to cut out its reproductive organs so it can't pass on it's retard DNA to future generations.'"

Bob: "Yeah, haven't you heard Bob Barker's Public Service Announcement? 'Help control the retard population. Get your retard spayed or neutered!'"

Me: "Wow, you guys are going to hell."

John: "Let's talk about Plinko."

I'm Too Lazy To Give You a Real Post

2006-09-13T07:33:00.000-07:00

But in other news, I'm going to try to get all of my archives back up. So entertain yourselves there.

Also, you may laugh heartily at the fact that NATALIE FUCKING PORTMAN is one of my physical matches. What bullshit.

Because My Maturity Level Dictates That It's Okay for Grown Women to Say, "YOU'RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!"

2006-09-03T08:48:00.000-07:00

At the risk of seeming like a full blown, card carrying member of the guild of openly self-destructive alcoholics, I have yet another story to tell. And color me shocked-- it's about me getting drunk. Yeah, fuck off. I can sense your condescension from across this computer screen. If you were a 25-and-a-half year old single, miserly, bitter, stone-hearted old woman, you'd drink a lot, too. You might even consider growing out your sideburns and forgetting to ever wear a bra or deodorant again. But then you might reconsider, because, well, if being 25, unmarried, childless and self-sufficient isn't enough of a shameful disappointment to your family, then becoming a straight up lesbian would certainly get your ass written out of the will with a quickness. And I don't know about yall, but I want my dad's Corvette when that geezer kicks the bucket.

Thursday night after getting off work, I stopped on my way home and bought two bottles of convenient store wine. This should have been my first clue that the night was going to be very, very messy. Then again, if I paid any attention to CLUES, I would have had to stage an intervention on myself six years ago. As far as I'm concerned, interventions are for quitters, while drinking in the shower is for gifted individuals such as yours truly. You just can't deny that kind of talent.

Shortly after emerging from the shower, four friends came by to watch Garden State, a movie that I think is beautifully shot but heinously acted. Anyone who has ever met me knows that I am not shy about voicing my professionally esteemed critical opinion on all things theatrical whether drunk OR sober (although, let's face facts, anyone who has ever met me, or read my blog, ALSO knows that I'm very rarely sober.) By the time the movie started I was so intoxicated that the muscles in my neck seemed to have gone on strike and were refusing to hold my head up unless I met their demands of minimum wage pay and two extra vacation days a year. And I heard myself, as if through some type of out-of-body experience, repeating the same words over and over in this sort of half slur/half shout (and here is the part in the post where I make up a new word and hope that it will be initiated into the street slang of today's youth, because SLOUTING is the new black. Used in a sentence: "You know you make me wanna SLOUT!")

"PETER SAAAAAARSGAAAAAAARD!" was all I could say, in my best Pirate's slout. My friends were all laughing hysterically, having never seen me so sloshed, and kept egging me on by continuously asking my opinion of Natalie Portman just so they could hear me say, "Man, fuck that stupid cunt. She couldn't act her way out of a paper bag!" Then I did something I've never done before: I turned into that mean, stingy drunk girl that shows up at keg parties and ruins everyone's good time by either crying, fighting, puking, passing out, or spilling red wine cooler on her white Keds (in fact, THAT annoying drunk girl was my college roommate and role model). As I began chugging glass after glass of the SECOND bottle of wine, my friends changed their tune from, "CHUG IT! HURRY UP AND WE'LL POUR YOU ANOTHER," to "Um, I don't think you need that eighth glass of wine. Here, let me hold it for you..." This made me highly irate and I began flailing my fists in protest and insisting, "I'M NOT DRUNK! GIVE ME BACK MY WINE! I PAID FOR IT YOU MOTHER FUCKERS!" I think it was shortly after this point in the evening that I actually PASSED OUT and didn't wake up until the end of the movie, at which time I attempted to pour myself even MORE wine. I was immediately intercepted by one of my friends, whom I threatened with a swift kick to the balls if he refused to allow me access to my own god damn wine. He took me rather seriously (and why shouldn't he? I have the hand-eye coordination of a 2-year-old with underdeveloped depth perception, and that's when I'm SOBER) and backed off, claiming that I was a terrible person for even SPEAKING such profanity.

"Look," I explained, "I haven't kicked anyone in the balls since the last time I did it to my brother. And the world should be THANKING me for that one, because Lord knows that our family lineage needs to stop with him. And anyway, even if he did have any undamaged sperm remaining after I played hackey with his sack, those little fuckers are all too stoned and unmotivated to swim across the Panama Canal to find a new home."

"Once a ball kicker, always a ball kicker!" My friend shouted accusatorily. He was actually VISIBLY upset that I just revealed my childhood tendency to Grand Plie on top of my brother's BALLerinas, and I suddenly started to feel very guilty.

"After that one time I knocked the wind out of him for two solid minutes and he started turning blue, I never did it again," I insisted in my own defense. My guy friend marched away from me in disgust. OH MY GOD, I thought to myself. I'VE RUINED MY BROTHER'S LIFE, WHAT KIND OF A PERSON AM I?! I suddenly became overwhelmed with grief and immediately called my brother. His cell phone went straight to voice mail, and I slouted the following message: "SHEA, THIS IS YOUR FAVORITE SISTER. I'M SORRY THAT I KICKED YOU IN THE BALLS WHEN WE WERE KIDS, ALTHOUGH I WON'T BE SORRY IF IT TURNS OUT YOU'RE SHOOTING BLANKS. I HOPE YOU CAN FIND IT IN YOUR HEART TO FORGIVE ME. I LOVE YOU!"

Then I sent Megsie a text message, which really isn't the ideal means of communication for ANYONE to use whilst intoxicated, especially me, because my fingers become giant kielbasa sausages and my dexterity de-evolutionizes to a prehistoric time when humans had tails and no opposable thumbs. This is, quite literally, the text message I sent to my poor, frightened friend (who is a true friend indeed, for she endures at least two drunken phone calls from me per week), "Tha ja for the retcle n ox to USA lucker." I know for a fact that those last two words were supposed to read "ass licker," but as for the rest of it... your guess is as good as mine.

We finally made it to bed around 3:00 am, and I set my alarm to go off at 6:20 in order to help my roommate wake up for work. I got up at 6:20 without a problem, walked through the bathroom and into her room to spit on her face and tell her to wake the fuck up, when I had a sudden epiphany. I realized that yes, not only was I hung over (as was to be expected), but I was also STILL DRUNK. That's right people, I was simultaneously DRUNK AND HUNG OVER. As far as I was concerned, it was like a Christmas miracle, because how fucking awesome is it to be hung over, but drunk enough not to care? It dawned on me then that I should get this drunk EVERY TIME. But then I realized that doing so would make me my mother, and it's way too early for me to be THAT completely psycho. She would be proud to know, however, that I woke up headache free at 11:00, and started drinking again by 5:00 pm. What can I say? I lead an empty life.

Update

2006-08-31T06:56:00.000-07:00

Okay, okay, so I'm not dead, but it's possible that my employers have put a hit out on me. I've entered the witness protection program and from here on out I will ask that you all refrain from calling me by my given name (which, really? I'd like to GIVE IT BACK if I could), and simply refer to me as spoonleg. At least for the time being, I've taken down most of my archived posts, because even though I don't talk about work often, and have not violated company policy or patient confidentiality in the slightest, I still fear the wrath of my employer. Thinking about it rationally, if you were someone's boss and found a website discussing such crass topics while freely using such filthy, disgusting language, you would probably want to fire them, too. And then take them out for drinks. In the meantime, I'm keeping my application on file at McDonald's.

The other bummer is that I can no longer check blogs, email, or any other type of non-authorized websites from work anymore, which really, I might as well just grab a dull razor blade and start cutting on myself because MY GOD, that means I actually have to start WORKING. That's not to say that I don't sneak a peak here and there, but for the most part I've got to keep my fingers off the keyboard and in someone's ass where they belong. Which is fine with me because, let's be frank here, it took me four long years to become licensed and certified in ass-digging, so I might as well use my skills to pay the bills.

That's all for now, folks! Pray for me and my curved finger, that we're not left destitute on the streets of Houston, offering spelunk-jobs for two bucks a pop. Whatever, don't judge me. Every hobo has a gimmick. Yours might be windshield squeegeeing, mine is digital stimulation.

Oh God, I think I'm gonna cry.

The new blog

2006-08-29T15:41:00.000-07:00

My old blog was discovered by the enemy (aka my employers), so I'm relocating over here. Tell all your friends! Casa de Spoon has moved.

You Don't Have to Go Home, But You Gotta Get the Heck Outta Here

2006-08-25T11:07:00.000-07:00

Spelunk in the Trunk is CLOSED. No way am I getting dooced over this mofo.

Conversation with Colleen Gill

2006-08-21T11:43:00.000-07:00

Scene: It's 10:00 am on Sunday, and I'm busy trying to sleep off a hangover. My body is convulsing and I feel like Lindsey Lohan after a night out on the straw, because I drank enough Redbull to fill a regulation sized Olympic swimming pool along with enough Jagermeister to euthanize a full grown Tyrannosaurus Rex. The morning-after caffeine high is making me as jittery as Bobby Brown at a police station, and I'm naked but not sure when I took my clothes off or where they are now. My cell phone rings with a number and area code I don't recognize, and because I'm half dead and incapable of making rational decisions (a residual effect that haunts me even when sober, as evidenced by this very scenario), I answer it.

Colleen: DEEEEEEEEEJA!
Me: Yes?
Colleen: Hiiiii, Deeeeeja!
Me: What do you want, Colleen Gill?
Colleen: Haha! How did you know it was me?
Me: Because I don't know any other raspy-voiced, middle aged women with Midwestern accents who can, with the mere two vowels present in my name, mar it so horrendously that it's completely unrecognizable.
Colleen: What are you doing, Deeeeeja?
Me: SLEEPING! I have a hangover.
Colleen: Deeeeja, I have a question for you.
Me: WHAT.
Colleen: Why do you drink so much?
Me: Because I am secretly trying to fill an empty void in my soul and alcohol seems like the best substitute.
Colleen: Yaaah, you really need to get laid.
Me: Thanks, Mrs. Gill.

And what you've all been waiting for, visual evidence of The Mullet.

Don't you dare say it's not that bad, because I spend at least an hour trying to make it look as non-mullety as possible.

I'm Not a Pedophile, I Just Crush A Lot.

2006-08-17T05:06:00.000-07:00

So I've had the last seven days off from work, and decided to use that week to also take a break from every aspect of my pathetic life (blogging being the most pathetic aspect of said life) to reject reality and live like a rock star, spend money I don't have, travel, get drunk, sleep, read, get my hair cut and colored in a fashion that closely resembles a mullet, sing karaoke, and pierce unmentionable body parts. Today is my first day back at work and I can't help but feel like the man is keeping me down. Jobs are so overrated. I totally want to subscribe to the hobo lifestyle, but there are those little pesky expenses that prevent me from being a bum, like my $200 mullet which requires frequent upkeep. Mullet maintenance might not be cheap, but the looks of shock and disgust it garners (especially from myself, whilst looking in the mirror) is priceless.

During the past week I finished a novel I'd been attempting to read for a good 6 weeks now, and even started a new one. I visited friends in Dallas and was reminded of how inexcusably Caucasian my college campus really is. I went to a birthday party and sang karaoke(Milli Vanilli, if you must know). I made some new friends, hung out with old ones, and ran into some that I really could have lived another year or ten without seeing. I took naps on the sofa in the middle of the day, I washed my car, I played with my camera, I watched Lifetime television for women, I ate ice cream and I took bubble baths. And I totally avoided the internet and my blog (save for a few late night drunken comments which many of you have come to expect from me) because it has been a constant source of stress for me lately, and my seven days off were totally NOT about being stressed. Unless, of course, you count the stress that was associated with the season finale of So You Think You Can Dance. GOD DAMN YOU, TRAVIS, the sooner you realize that we're soul mates and destined to be together, the fewer restraining orders you'll have to file. I might not be able to ballroom dance, but I can bedroom dance in ways your 18-year-old mind can't even comprehend. Think it over. I'll be over here, tongue-kissing my own hand with your face drawn on it. And Benji. Benji, Benji, Benji... you're OBVIOUSLY in love with Donyelle, and I for one think it's adorable. But you and I are both reasonable human beings. Let's be honest with one another: she's having Dimitri's baby, isn't she? I wouldn't be surprised. But at least you have $100,000 and a contract with Celine Dion to comfort you. Well, at least you have $100,000. [end SYTYCD rant]

So today I'm back in the saddle again, embracing the real world, responsibility, my job, my debt, my hangover, my blog. It's sad and pathetic and more than a little fucked up, but hey- it's MY reality, you don't have to live with it and no one ever said you had to like it. I wish I had something more exciting to report back to you after my extended time off, but alas my life has been rather dull and uneventful, especially in comparison to my last post about the bachelorette party, which apparently earned me the reputation of being "Skanky". Ironically enough, that happens to be my lesbian stripper stage name.

Keep on keepin' on, my babies.

Spoonleg's Top Ten Tips: How to Behave at a Bachelorette Party.

2006-08-05T10:13:00.000-07:00

I'm thinking of starting a regular segment here at Spelunk in the Trunk wherein I pass on my highly sought after professional advice in the form of a top ten list. I am currently taking submissions for any topics you'd like to see presented here. This week's topic: How to behave at a bachelorette party.

1. In the event you are invited to a lingerie shower/bachelorette party by someone OTHER than the bride-to-be (and, in fact, have only met the future bride on ONE other occasion, during which you proceeded to become so brain-damagingly drunk in her backyard that you began making incestuous jokes about the groom-to-be and his own sister), it is appropriate-- nay, NECESSARY-- to bring crotchless panties with a rape whistle attached as a gift.

2. In the event that you get called into work and are unable to show up until well after all of the gift giving, party games, eating, drinking and other festivities are nearly over, then it is definitely acceptable to waltz into the home where the party is being held, simultaneously shove a fajita and penis cookie in your salivating mouth, strip down to your skivvies, partially wash your hair in the bathroom sink (as to minimize the evidence that you haven't REALLY washed it in over 36 hours), pop open a bottle of champagne and take turns chugging right out of the bottle with the pregnant Designated Driver, and never bother introducing yourself to any of the complete strangers (read: bridesmaids) who at this point consider you some sort of starving indigant who wandered in off the streets.

3. In the event that you are nominated to procure a lap dance for the bride-to-be, you are totally encouraged to run up to the nearest person with a name tag and shout, "I NEED A STRIPPER, STAT!" Never, under any circumstances, should you refer to adult nightclub entertainers as "dancers", because I don't know about you, but I don't go to said establishments to see dancing. I GO TO SEE STRIPPING.

4. In the event that your quest for a stripper is successful (because, seriously? You'd be surprised how hard it is to find a stripper at a strip club), make a point of positioning yourself as close as is legally possible to the bride-to-be and her new BFF. Bellow at the top of your lungs, "TOUCH HER TITS!" And when the bride-to-be does not immediately comply, grab her arms like a couple of marionette strings and force her to make lewd gestures and cop several immoral feels all over said stripper's body. Be sure to coordinate some hand-to-tit contact. Then laugh hysterically at inappropriately high decibels.

5. In the event that the bride-to-be forgets to finish her rum and coke and leaves it sitting on the table as the group is about to leave an establishment, it is expected that you, a complete freak who should in no way consider yourself an actual "guest" at this party, should grab the glass and slurp down its contents as if these were the last drops of refreshing liquid to be found in this barren desert we call a bar. Don't bother asking the future bride if she's finished with her drink, and don't bother tipping the waitress. If she really wanted the money, she'd be stripping like every other hardworking individual in the joint.

(That's not a rum and coke, but it IS Bud Light in a champagne glass. Just to prove that some Texans DO have class.)

6. In the event that someone says to you, "Deja, why are your legs so dark?" The appropriate response would be to shout, mere inches from the ears of the black limo driver, "BECAUSE I'M AFRICAN, BITCH," in your best ghetto accent. Even more appropriate would be to belt out the lyrics to Prince's "Pussy Control" at the top of your vocal cords with reckless accuracy.

7. In the event you find yourself in a strip club full of scantily clad men, it is strongly encouraged that you grab the ass of every dude who dares saunter in your general direction, whether he be a stripper, bartender, shot guy, cop, manager, bus boy, valet parking attendant, or woman with a really short haircut. Continue this trend as you exit the club, out on the sidewalk and into the parking lot.

8. In the event that the hostess and bridesmaids chip in to purchase the bride-to-be a blow up doll, be sure to create some sort of exotic name and identity for him (I chose Stephano, the Italian horse trainer; you can chose from Gustav the Russian lumberjack or Michele the French poet) and then proceed to carry him with you the entire night, introducing him as your boyfriend. Grasp onto that doll with all of your strength and never, ever let his pasty white plastic flesh out of your grip because for all you know, it might be the last time you're able touch the (albeit fake) chest hair of a man wearing nothing but plastic underwear, until the dreadful day comes when you're forced to change your own father's diapers.

9. In the event that you enter a grossly overcrowded nightclub brimming with individuals that can only be described as illegal immigrants, you should indeed spread the legs of the above mentioned "boyfriend" and allow him to straddle your shoulders as you and your posse of drunken women attempt to fumble your way through the crowds. As several random, sweaty men try to grab various body parts of either you or your inflatable man and ask, in their broken yet still creepy English, if they can trade places with the doll, repeat this phrase slowly enough for them to understand: "Fuck off, cocksore!" If that doesn't work, tell them your mom is picking you up out front because you have school in the morning. If THAT doesn't work, call the police.

10. In the event that you and the crew of drunken ladies (only two of whom you can identify by name at this point, while all 9 of whom you can identify by panty color) head back to the hostess' house to continue the celebration with more drinking and/or unconsciousness, you should always attempt to offend the one woman who you finally bothered to introduce yourself to by incorporating "anorexia" into her first name. Keep the insult train rolling by incorrectly calling another party-goer a cheerleader. The icing on the cake would be to write "FUCK ME" in green eyeliner on the cheerleader's back and then pray that she doesn't smother you with a pillow in your sleep. Oh, and by the way, finishing off the night by chugging a SECOND bottle of champagne (not unlike your mom on every major holiday) is not only a responsible decision, but one that will leave you feeling FANTASTIC the next morning.

Have fun, kids!

Something's Fishy!

2006-07-31T11:02:00.000-07:00

Since I brought another cat into my household a few fateful months ago, my life has been turned upside down. Not only did I sprout fungal growths all over my body, but I had to cash in my 401k to pay for Percy's medical bills and was forced to give BJ's in order to procure his medication. In the five months that this little shit has been a part of the family, I have spent more money on cat food and clitty litter than any one person should in their lifetime. I'm considering going on WIC (Women, Infants and CATS) to subsidise my cats' extravagant lifestyle.

So since becoming a two cat household, I've found myself running out of cat food on an increasingly regular basis. Back in the olden days when Oscar was my only fur child, I would simply substitute his usual Iams dry food for a can or two of Fancy Feast pate, a handful of cotton candy and a plate of ketchup. And before you judge me, you should know that Oscar would sooner eat arsenic laced cotton candy than he would Fancy Feast salmon pate served in a crystal goblet. He loves cotton candy THAT MUCH. But now that Oscar shares the food supply with his new little brother, the rations seem to be in short supply all the time. I have one of those giant troughs which holds at least 5 pounds of food in its tank, yet somehow I'm refilling it nearly every day. It's like the two of them have a cat food eating contest every day, and from the looks of it, Percy is the defending champion. It seems that every time I come home, the food tray is empty and the cats have knocked it to the ground, clawed it to shreds and pissed all over it in their extreme anger and insufferable starvation.

A couple of weeks ago, I was doing a little "spring cleaning" and decided to change the water in which our two Betta fish, Silly and Billy, reside. Because I accidentally dropped one of the plastic wall hanging half-bowls that they lived in, I had to transfer them to two tall glass vases, for which I have no better use since being sent flowers is a romantic notion that is actually laughable at this point in my life. So, I took Silly and his vase down from the mantle and went through the process of taking him out, cleaning the vase and rocks, prepping the new water and replacing the fish. During this process I realized that I needed to hastily run a few errands before the stores closed, so I dashed out the door, leaving Silly and his vase resting on the kitchen counter. I know that Oscar is quite familiar with fish and is less than amused by them; while Percy, on the other hand, wants to kill anything that has a face. Knowing this, I placed the vase at the back of the counter, away from the edge, and assumed that since the mouth of the vase is rather narrow, there would be no way Percy could get his fat head or his fat paw inside to pester my fish.

Fast forward an hour or two. My roommate arrives home from work and calls me from the house, panic in her voice.

"Did you leave all of this glass and water all over the kitchen floor?"

"Holy shit. You're kidding me."

"I think the cats just had some sushi."

I raced home to a monumental disaster. Shards of glass, rocks and water were strewn about the kitchen. And there was no sign of my fish. Not a single fin, gill, scale or eyelash was left behind. I have no doubt who the guilty party is; Percy that fat bastard was seeking revenge for not getting fed his requisite $240 worth of cat food for the day. So he pushed my vase off of the counter and ATE MY FUCKING FISH.

Owning two cats is way more work than I anticipated. I got Oscar a friend in hopes of keeping him entertained and active. The reality is, the only place those fucking lard asses run to is their freshly filled food bowl. Next feline medical expense: gastric bypass surgery.

These Are the Days of Our Lives...

2006-07-27T10:21:00.000-07:00

Roommate: So I saw this homeless dude begging for change on Voss yesterday, and he was fucking HOT! A hot homeless guy!

Me: HA! You should have written your phone number on a dollar bill.

Roommate: Yeah, so he could give me a call from his tin can telephone? Anyway, I was afraid he wouldn't know how to read.

Me: Seriously, you have enough trouble trying to find a boyfriend who doesn't still live at home and work at the mall; dating a homeless guy would be a step in the wrong direction. Plus, if you're worried about the dude you're dating NOW being skinnier than you are, then hungry and homeless probably isn't going to be much of an improvement.

Roommate: Yeah, and he'd always have a better tan than me, too.

Start Spreading the News, Nessa's Friends are All Gay.

2006-07-24T10:23:00.000-07:00

So this weekend I allowed fellow blogger Nessa to coerce me into joining her at a (and I use this term loosely) "concert", upon the promise of sushi, booze and hot, single men. One of her colleagues in the business world happens to be a professional musician of Broadway acclaim, and was hosting a (and I can't really say this without bursting into peals of laughter) "concert" at a local jazz venue in a happenin' area for young professionals such as ourselves.

"He's cute, he's successful, he's single, he's nice, and he's an incredible singer," I seem to recall Nessa boasting, in her attempt to convince me that going out on a worknight was a good idea. "C'mon, you LOVE Broadway," she implored.

"I also love hot, single men," I reminded her.

"Well, tonight might just be your lucky night," she lied.

After getting off work, I literally had five minutes to primp and prepare myself for all of the sulky, beatnik jazz daddies I planned on meeting at this swanky nightclub located in one of the trendiest parts of town. Nessa showed up as I was stepping out of the shower, and within 30 seconds we were walking out the door; me with rollers falling out of my hair, wrinkled pants, mismatched shoes, and indentations on my legs from the granny support socks I wear to work, and Nessa with flawless makeup, shiny hair, and and a brand new sequined strapless dress. We were short on time, but we decided to stop at the sushi place across the street from my house for a quick bite, where Nessa proceeded to discuss breast feeding, loose skin, vaginal birth and urinary incontinence. Shortly after hearing her describe the difference between pre-pregnancy boobs and post-pregnancy boobs, I flung my body on top of the sushi bar and begged the chefs to use their ginsu knives to sever my fallopian tubes and tie them in a double fisherman's knot, because NO FUCKING WAY AM I GOING TO PISS MY OWN PANTS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE BECAUSE OF A GOD DAMN FETUS.

Once they had me sewn back up, I returned to the table to enjoy our dinner of wine and raw fish (okay, so it was mostly wine.) As we were finishing our food, I noticed Nessa jabbing and prodding at the inside of one of her sushi rolls, forcibly removing its innards with her FINGERS. Then I watched in horror as she lifted her plate to her face and, in a $200 Ann Taylor sequined dress, SLURPED THE CONTENTS OF HER PLATE INTO HER MOUTH. Thus began our evening.

After Nessa hoovered up the rest of her sushi with her industrial strength vacuum lips, we left for the (and what I'm about to say should really be illegal) "concert". We stopped at a gas station along the way, and when I went inside, Nessa honked at me from the car, where she was miming some kind of urgent, wordless communique. She was repeatedly throwing her head back and holding her hand up to her mouth, and it took me no more than a second to realize that that hand was holding an imaginary 40 oz. bottle of malt liquor. So I bought a 40, wrapped it in a paper bag, hopped in the car, and we continued on our way.

15 minutes and 40 ounces later, we arrived at our destination. Not knowing the exact location of this particular night club, Nessa parked somewhere in the general vicinity and we had to hoof it the rest of the way. Scrambling to keep up with Nessa's retarded giraffe legs, I encountered great difficulty traversing the broken, pot-hole riddled street due to both my inebriation and my poor judgement in footwear. The result was me, sprawled out on the concrete, bleeding from the leg, while Nessa looked on and laughed. Hey, that's okay though, because about ten of us have seen the intricate workings of Nessa's female anatomy, and it would take a mere phone call to produce the pictures that prove it. I have a lifetime of blackmail material on you, sister. LOOK WHO'S LAUGHING NOW!

After the bleeding slowed to a steady drip, I managed to hobble into the club, dragging my mangled leg behind me like so much useless flesh. Looking around, I realized the "stage" was a cheap piece of square particle board, and the "stadium seating" consisted of a couple of folding card tables and a few chairs filled with somber looking elderly couples. Upstairs was a balcony where the bar was located, which Nessa's alcoholic instincts hastily guided us towards. As we approached, I noticed the bartender, who was borderline cute in that unkempt, shaggy, potentially homeless kind of way. After mentioning this to Nessa, she proceeded to try to identify who the dude reminded her of.

"Um, he kind of looks like Quasimodo... you know, the Disney version? No, no, wait. Maybe the Phantom of the Opera. No, I know who he looks like! The elephant man! You know, the guy with the bone disorder?" Thus ended any romantic fantasies I had previously entertained about myself and young Joseph.

Looking around, I realized that not only were the pickings slim, but that the Hobo of Notre Dame was the only straight, single, and relatively cute male under the age of 65 in the building. The nearby retirement home must have bussed in their finest residents exclusively for this (and this word could be more appropriately used to describe Meatloaf singing karaoke at an outdoor barbecue) "concert". The audience was chock full of blue haired, depends wearing, hot toddy drinking, shuffle board playing, certifiably senile GEEZERS. And, just to make things that much more interesting, most of them were gay.

But wait, there's more! Nessa's colleague- you know, the cute, successful, single one?- HE'S GAY TOO. What tipped me off, you ask? I'm pretty sure it was his mildly disturbing rendition of "Stand by Your Man". And if his jazz hands and glass-shattering falsetto weren't enough, then I'm pretty sure his impressive montage of the complete musical repertoire of Judy Garland and Dionne Warwick pretty much eradicated whatever stray heterosexual genes might have escaped the genocidal ambush of the gay genes. The zodiac symbol tuxedo vest? Just icing on the gay cake. And the cherries on top of the icing on the gay cake was his (and may God strike me dead for my inappropriate use of this word) "band"- otherwise known as Old White Dude playing the piano with his FEET, on which he wore boldly colored, striped TOE SOCKS. I could go on and on here, but I think I'll let the toe socks speak for themselves.

As it turns out, dude's a pretty good singer. His musical renditions of the best of the "oldies, standards, and Broadway" were rather impressive. Actually, it's quite possible that I was drunk enough that William Hung belting out the hit classics from 42nd Street would sound good to me. Either way, the night was full of so many humorous moments that I intensely regret walking out of the house without my camera. I assure you that I will not make the same mistake NEXT weekend, which is guaranteed to involve lingerie, booze, phallic-shaped pastries, strippers, blow-up dolls and a limo. Stay tuned.

A Murder of One (I'm Talking About You, Danny.)

2006-07-21T10:59:00.001-07:00

So, my blogging idol, Dad Gone Mad, tagged me with a fucking meme. Anyone else would have woken up with a scythe in their frontal lobe for expecting me to participate in what quite honestly amounts to nothing more than a blog-based chain letter, but because it's DGM, and because reposting this meme guarantees that I'll meet, fall in love with, and mount the love of my life within the next eight minutes, I'll go ahead and comply.

My highly addictive personality, paired with a few well-known psychological acronyms such as ADD and OCD, has left me prone to a lifetime of fleeting and unrealistic infatuations. These obsessions define who I am; they are what make my parents proud of the only remaining child for whom a flickering light of hope still remains. If that doesn't scare the ever-loving shit out of you, then maybe my top ten list will.

1. Michael Jackson. The King of Pop is my all time #1 obsession. My parents actually met him on their honeymoon, and since, true to our white trash heritage, my mom was already knocked up at the time, I can honestly say that I was present for that encounter. The memory's a little fuzzy, but I'm pretty sure I recall doing the moonwalk in my amniotic fluid.

2. Smartees. I think my roommates and I once tried to calculate how many pounds of Smartees I ate during finals week my junior year of college, and the number was well into the double digits.

3. Strangers with Candy, the greatest show ever aired on television. Jerri Blank is what I think I could possibly be like had I allowed my addictive personality to guide me towards crack-cocaine, prostitution and a really bad hairdresser. What the hell, it's never too late to live your dream, right? "CLEARLY, she's retarded!"

4. Todd Anderson. I don't care if he had a nose job at 16, I used to skip band practice to walk by his locker every fucking day. Once my elbow brushed up against his sleeve and I haven't washed it since.

5. "I Miss You" by Incubus. My college anthem. I've listened to this song so many times that I think the band should start paying ME royalties.

6. Jakob Dylan of The Wallflowers. The reason why I could never be a lesbian. That, and the fact that I like penis.

7. eBay. I'm currently seeking outpatient rehabilitation for this particular addiction.

8. Scooby Doo. I've had this unhealthy infatuation with Scooby Doo since I was very young. I'm not sure what it is that continually draws me to this juvenile cartoon. Maybe it's the familial connection! Shaggy is my brother, Daphne is my sister, Velma is myself, and Fred is every guy I've ever dated. My Scooby Doo memorabilia include pajamas, slippers, panties, shirts, cups, magnets, bathing suits, and jewelry. If they make Scooby Doo bongs, it's quite possible that at one point in my life I would have paid good money to own one. It's also quite possible that if I did own one, my brother would have stolen it by now.

9. Listening to, writing down, memorizing and reciting angsty song lyrics as a teen. This was a daily activity for Fats and myself as youngsters. Whereas most kids were locking themselves in their rooms after school to experiment with sex, drugs, self-mutilation or heavy eye makeup, Fats and I were intently listening to the lyrics of Live, Smashing Pumpkins, No Doubt, Nirvana, Alanis Morisette, The Offspring and Celine Dion, arguing over whether Kurt was saying "Hello" or "Hell no." Sadly, our parents never questioned this unhealthy, antisocial behavior, which is why I now blame them for everything that's gone wrong in my life.

10. Danny Evans in a dress. The hottest shit since Kevin Bacon did that nudie scene in Wild Things.

Tell me your top ten obsessions in the comments. Or you can post it to your blog if you're so inclined. Danny has promised to show his tits to everyone who participates.

Slighty Inebriated Phone Conversation with My Brother.

2006-07-21T07:43:00.000-07:00

"Shea, did you drink all of my vodka while we were in Mississippi?"

"What? NO! What are you talking about?"

"I had a full bottle of vodka in the fridge and now there's only backwash left in there."

"Deja, I don't like vodka, you should know that. I had a bad experience two years back."

"YOU'RE NINETEEN, HOW CAN YOU HAVE HAD A BAD EXPERIENCE WITH HARD LIQUOR AT SEVENTEEN?"

"Honestly, I didn't even know you had vodka in the fridge, otherwise I probably would have drank some."

"Oh, just like you didn't know that somehow, a mysterious cannabis plant sprouted itself on mom's balcony? I hear they're indiginous to this area and the locals use the leaves for baking brownies. 'Honestly mom, I don't even like marijuana! But since it was right there on your balcony, I went ahead and smoked some...'"

"Whatever, shut up."

Did you have sex in [my roommate]'s bed?"

"Deja, you're drunk."

"That means yes! Just clean up after yourself next time, freak. Do you have your car payment?"

"No, I still don't have a job."

"Stop smoking so much moonshine pot and go get a job, you lazy fuck. Call me when you have some money."

"

Operation: Get Megan the Mental Help She Needs, Quickly Before She Kills Someone. Namely Me.

2006-07-17T07:55:00.000-07:00

Via text message:

Megan: Road trip suicide is on the horizon.

Me: Take pictures and post them to flickr before you go!

Megan: You cunt. You didn't even try to talk me down.

Me: Because I look good in black.
____

Via email:

"Did you choke on a chicken bone last night, or what? I waited until 3:00 am
for you to sign on to yahoo. I didn't even get out of my chair to use the
bathroom, I just soiled myself at my desk. I didn't want to miss you. Now
I'm calling in sick to work, because I'm exhausted from stalking you. I've
been paying [your roommate] a monthly stipend this entire time. The reason she's your 'wife' is because I've been putting a little spending money in an account of
hers over in Germany. She keeps tabs on you, and I put franks in her
pocket. Now that I've told you this, I guess that one of us is going to
have to kill you. Enjoy your LAST DAY AT WORK MY FRIEND.

I love you. I've always loved you. Why did you make me do it?
WHY???????????????

Signed,
THE BEST FRIEND YOU EVER HAD
____

via text message:

Megan: Still at work?

Me: Waiting for the bus to take me to my sauna- I mean, car.

Megan: God forbid you suffocate.

Me: Why, so you can claim my corpse and burn it in some sort of pagan lesbian love ceremony? I think not.

Megan: No, I just want to kiss you all over.

Me: That's fucking sick you necrophiliac. Your place or mine?

Megan: Mine. [Your roommate] won't be there.

Me: She might be. She'll probably cuff herself to my lifeless cadaver in her extreme grief. You'll have to work around her.

Megan: I'll wait for her to pass out and cut you loose and then we'll ride off into the sunset, ok, Louise?

Me: I'm not committing a double suicide with you until you get me a promise ring, or at least a convertible.

Megan: How's a promise pod sound? It's either that or a hickey.

Me: I'll take the hickey.

Megan: HALLELUJAH!

____

NOW TAKING SUGGESTIONS FOR WITNESS PROTECTION NAME CHANGE.

Future Baby Daddy

2006-07-09T11:12:00.000-07:00

Dear Dr. J,

I want to marry you and have 16 of your hot Brazilian chirrens, each of whom will be conceived during wild nights of hot, drunken sex on the nude beaches of Rio. You can teach me how to roll my R's, wear a thong bikini with style and gracefully dance the Brazilian Samba. I want to teach you how to say ya'll, wear plaid golf shorts and brown loafers with dress socks, and make the Electric Slide look like an amputee mime being chased by a swarm of yellowjackets. You'll wax my car, and I'll wax your back. I'll eat your frijoles negros and you'll eat my shepherd's pie. We'll be like peas and carrots, Forrest and Jenny. Except I'll never give you the HIV.

After a few years, the married life will start to wear you down. You'll get tired of my nagging, and I'll get tired of being the rich, pampered wife of a doctor. I'll have "headaches" every night; you'll be "on call" every weekend. Even the most raucous of swingers' clubs won't be able to mend the rift that will eventually sever our once indelible adulation. You'll leave me for a young Katie Holmes look alike, and do a stint in a local penitentiary because of your unfamiliarity with state law regarding consentual sex. After all, 17 is practically geriatric in Brazil. Because Kanye West never quite enjoyed the same level of critical acclaim in Brazil as he does in America, you'll be unschooled about the necessity of a prenup, and as a result I'll milk you for whatever savings you have left after that statutory rape conviction. I'll attempt to exercise further revenge by sleeping with your best friend and sending your church pastor incriminating photographic evidence of your propensity for heroin and young Latin boys. You'll never see your children again, and they'll eventually grow to hate you. You will die a lonely and resentful old man, while I will remain forever young thanks to the botox and lipo that your alimony payments afford me.

If any of the above sounds appealing to you, you know where to find me. If not, we can always keep it simple by playing a little one-on-one in the physician's lounge, Brazil vs. US. You can practice aiming your balls at my goal post. Never fear though, I have a really good goalie. He goes by the name of Ortho-tricyclen.

Love, Nurse Spoonleg

They Call Her Flipa.

2006-06-28T19:02:00.000-07:00

Ladies and gentlemen, we gather here today to say farewell to our dear friend and Sister under the Lord, Flipa. Allow me to take this opportunity to say a few words about Flipa. Flipa is the type of woman who never says no. Despite her seemingly tough and street-wise exterior, she's truly a softie on the inside; she will bend over backwards to please those she cares about. She might be a strong soul sista, but Flipa quite obviously wears her vagina on her sleeve.

Growing up in the hood, Flipa had it hard. Her life has been one long, rough ride. She's been used, abused and mistreated. But Flipa is the kind of person to take what is dished out to her, and then turn the other cheek to ask for more. She truly touches and inspires all who know her well.

Flipa is a gorgeous specimen. She's tight, sculpted and silky smooth with curves in all the right places. But Flipa's true allure is her single, penetrating brown eye. Men often find themselves drawn into that eye for hours on end. Flipa is also well known for her succulent, plump lips. Anyone who has experienced those two glorious lips knows how they can leave you wet, raw and ready for more. But beware... she won't hesitate to blow the rape whistle on anyone who gets out of line.

I remember the good times I've had with Flipa. Not the same type of good times she'll have in her next life, but good nonetheless. Flipa was an avid shopper. Some of her favorite stores are Crate and Barrel and Victoria's Secret.

Flipa enjoyed shopping for panties with us in Chicago, though she later told me that full coverage briefs aren't exactly her style. She ended up buying a few pair of crotchless G-strings, and wrote them off as an occupational expense.

Keeping her girlish figure in its original shape is never an easy task for Flipa. So when all the gals all got together for dinner at the local Mexican-Syrian cantina, Flipa didn't order any food, claiming she was saving room for a creamy dessert.

She did, however, put a sizable dent in our mango-flavored margarita supply. After all, you know what they say... when Flipa's around, the juices will always flow!

In honor of Flipa's departure from the free world, I would like to bestow some words of wisdom unto her newest friend on the other side of the globe. First, you should know that Flipa enjoys long walks on the beach. I understand that beaches, like condoms and wet wipes, are in short supply in Iraq, therefore let me offer this helpful suggestion. Dig a hole in the sand. Lay down some newspaper. Fill it with piss. Strategically place some umbrellas and lawn chairs in the vicinity. Complete the deception by costuming yourself in hawaiian print board shorts and a pair of flipa flops. Tell her you're at Middle East Beach. Her bikini bottoms will drop faster than you can say, "easy". Flipa also enjoys riding bareback through the countryside. She will, however, settle for riding bareback on your cousin's futon. Flipa loves to wrap her two lips around a nice, stiff beverage. Tell her that she's beautiful, and she'll be sipping your stiffie ALL NIGHT LONG. Romantic fireside chats while curled up in a sheepskin blanket are one of Flipa's favorite pasttimes. So the next time the two of you pass a hobo trashcan fire, start whispering in her ear all of the naughty things you want to do to her. Assuming that no sheepskin blankets are available, be sure to at least cover yourself with a sheepskin condom. Lord knows that sister's been flipped all over town, and the last thing any of us needs is a FTD (Flipa Transmitted Disease). If you can't decide on which of the above mentioned activities to participate in first, just flipa coin. Here's a hint: always choose tails.

Bottom line, I know Flipa will be happier in her new life. I have no doubt she will be constantly filled with joy. Overflowing, even. What can I say, everywhere Flipa goes, she gets a lot of love. Indeed, friends, Flipa is the new black. Actually, Flipa is the USED black. And used is the new new.

Godspeed, Flipa. God. Speed.

Here is a musical tribute to Flipa, set to the tune of Flipper. Feel free to add your contributions in the comments.

They call her Flipa, Flipa, she'll have him sighing
No one you see is harder than he!
Her name is Flipa, with two sides he can plunder
Lying there under, under the sheets!

Everyone loves the Queen Bee
One hole where she poos and one where she pees!
Tricks she will turn when long dicks appear
Oh, how they rise when she's near!

Ode to the Thong.

2006-06-25T12:02:00.000-07:00

Last Tuesday after a particularly grueling night of off-pitch karaoke and lukewarm beers, my roommate and I were driving home from the local drinking establishment when she decided that the perfect addition to a queasy beer-filled stomach at 2:00am would be some deep fried cow vagina from the house of that creepy clown with the red afro. As we're waiting in line for our atherosclerosis to-go, my roommate suddenly shouts, "DEJA! Am I seeing things, or is that person wearing a thong?!"

Based on the fact that she had chosen to sing "Because I Got High" earlier that night at karaoke, I arrived at the preconceived judgement that she was indeed seeing things, and hesitated to even look in the direction towards which she indicated. However, because she was hyperventilating and there were no paper bags on hand, I indulged her by begrudgingly looking towards the gas station to our right. Sure enough, right there in the parking lot beside us was a man wearing a thong. This person had gotten out of his truck to- get this- WASH THE WINDSHIELD, donning nothing more than a cut-off white tank top and women's underwear. It actually took my beer-logged brain a couple of seconds to realize that the individual I was looking at was indeed A MAN. To make matters worse, this person was not wearing just any thong. It was a woman's thong; a G-STRING. This is the type of thong that even
I wouldn't wear, for fear of a yeast infection or worse, anal chaffing. This particular item was nothing more than a pirate's eyepatch on two elastic strings, the kind of underwear that are most frequently seen on strippers or Britney Spears. To make matters worse, the man in question was not the youngest or most attractive of gents, as evidenced by the fact that mother nature had obviously had her way with his flabby, translucent buttcheeks. This dude had quite literally been repeatedly ass raped by gravity. I could see the rippling waves of flesh adorned with silvery stretch marks glistening in the moonlight. I could see dimples and cottage cheese. I could see anal pubes.

I tried to take a picture, but in my state of inebriation, my sausage fingers could not activate the camera in time. I have come to realize that contrary to popular belief, heavy machinery and electronic devices are not intoxication-friendly. My roommate began honking and wildly indicating for the drive-thru attendant to come validate the situation as a tangible circumstance instead of a drunken hallucination. By the time he arrived, the thong bearer had retreated to his vehicle and pulled into traffic, his fellow motorists oblivious to his semi-nudity.

My question for you all is this: what was this man doing washing his windshield in a thong at 2:00am? Was he receiving some sexual favors from an underaged prostitute in the front seat when he suddenly noticed that the windshield required his immediate attention? Was he perhaps using his pants to tend to the needs of his windshield, caring not that his ass was exposed to oncoming traffic on one of the busiest streets in the city? Does he simply like the feeling of silk between his ass crack, gender roles be damned? Do I possess enough foresight to conjure images from the future of Jessie's son at the age of 50? Had he just returned from a raging swingers' club which enforces a strict dress code requiring a lack of both moral ideology and clothing below the waist? Does he get some kind of kinky thrill out of scaring intoxicated McDonald's patrons in the wee hours of the morning by flashing his bare chassis? Was this a form of punishment from God for eating deep-fried hypertension with a side of early onset obesity at 2:00am? Life is full of so many unanswered questions. I guess this is one mystery that will remain unsolved.

Guess Who? (Chicago Edition)

2006-06-24T13:23:00.000-07:00

Each of the following statements were made by one of the following persons:

Megan

Sherri

Dima

Marit

Me

TR Youngblood (seen in the background)

Ray, the cabbie (not pictured)

1. "Sherri has dick rash."

2. "Is that a burp or a mouse?"

3. "If she doesn't stand when she pees then she's not for mes."

4. "You suck the rectum!"

5. "I gotta get this hotdog in my mouth."

6. "Sisterhood of the travelling internet."

7. "This doesn't taste like tea. It tastes like boo-tea."

8. "Love is like nervous gas."

9. "You live. You learn. You shave your balls. You grow up."

10. "You can't have date rape without the date."

11. "Did you get your outfit from the local clothier? You look good in it."

12. "Only two more blocks. But I'm not counting all the little blocks in between."

13. "I gotta take a Dima."

14. "Jesus Christ. I have 5 brothers and I've never been around this much flatulence."

15. "Hang on to your skirts, once."

16. Re: Megan taking her shirt off in the back of the cab... "I know it's exciting, but keep driving."

17. "I gotta take my dildo out of my bag."

18. Re: dildos... "When I'm talking to it and it's taking me out to dinner, I want it to look REAL."

19. "Do not put that on my labia!"

20. Q: "What team do you all bat for?"
A: "Oh, we like the corn cobs."

21. "I piss like a pregnant diabetic."

Party Time, Excellent.

2006-06-21T05:32:00.000-07:00

Chicago was a blast. We saw some amazing sights and did some crazy things. My old lady hips are hurting because I think we walked to Canada, which conveniently enough is only 2 blocks from Dima's apartment. My purse still has egg on it. My voice still sounds like Cher on anabolic steroids. My asshole is on fire because of all the hot dogs and kibbeh that were consumed. The only thing this weekend was missing was a nine-toed stripper, but we got to kick it with a dual-ended sista instead, and I think I might just prefer her company to TJ's.

As Wayne would say, "You're partied out, man!" I need about 16 straight hours of sleep and a detox program. I'm thinking a healthy dose of Rami's pimp juice might also do the trick.

Shocking the Midwest.

2006-06-13T07:21:00.000-07:00

I leave for SHOCKago today, and I have to admit that I'm just a little bit nervous. Don't get me wrong, I LOVE flying. I get such a thrill out of what most people consider to be pretty mundane. For one, I immediately develop a girl-crush on every single flight attendant on the aircraft. As I sit in my little window seat next to some sweaty mouth breather in coach, I weave all of these soap opera-esqe tales in my mind of whirlwind romances in France, drunken orgies in Greece, and sloppy donkey shows in Mexico. To every gay man of the 80's and every single, power-hungry and self sufficient woman of today, flight attendants represent the epitome of sexual liberation. They are the physical embodiment of random, anonymous and committment-free international sex. Plus they get free peanuts. Does life get any better than that? I should think not.

I also LOVE airplane turbulence. When the pilot hits a rocky spot in the skies, my anatomical reaction is that which I can only describe as the female equivalent of a boner. Fuck a boyfriend; turbulence is like having a 150 foot vibrator between your legs. I can join the Mile High Club from RIGHT THERE IN MY SEAT, and the sweaty mouth breather will be none the wiser. Pummelling to my death after flying through some type of horrid weather anomaly would not be so bad, in my opinion. I know I would die the happiest woman on earth, and really, isn't that what's important?

So maybe I shouldn't be so nervous afterall. Although this is my first time flying solo, I think I'll probably just grab a blanket, tune the iPod in to some Marvin Gaye, and enjoy the ride.

See you bitches Tuesday!

That's What Friends are For.

2006-06-11T12:54:00.000-07:00

**UPDATE** Monday's Insult:

"You're just jealous because your virginity grew back and you couldn't fuck your way out of a paper bag."
___________________________
Each of the following statements were made to me TODAY. Sometimes I wonder where my low self esteem stems from, but my greatest friends are always there to remind me.

"I never wanted to be your friend in the first place."

"Get a knife....then get in the tub."

"Being a nurse means you're going to get varicose veins and coffee breath."

"You want to be a fucking swinger, don't you?"

"Say yes to getting a sponser."

"You need to buy Downy Wrinkle Release. FOR YOUR FACE!"

"Are you going to shut the fuck up?"

"Don't be afraid of good hygiene."

"I hope the HPV infiltrates your vaginal area."

I love you too, Megsie.

Loose Lips and Raging Boners... All in a Deja's Work.

2006-06-04T08:25:00.000-07:00

Me: "Hi Dr. B., this is Deja from the 8th floor. I need you to come sign this medical release form for your patient's lab work."

Dr. B.: "What's your name?"

Me: "Deja. I'm Mrs. Z's nurse."

Dr. B.: "No, what's your REAL name?"

Me: "DEJA."

Dr. B.: "That sounds like a stage name."

Me: "Are you calling me a stripper?"

Dr. B.: "No, but perhaps you chose the wrong profession."

My name has always been a source of turmoil in my life. In college I won the award for "Name Most Likely to Appear in a Porno," to which I replied in my impromptu victory speech, "I want to thank my mom and dad, who always told me that without college I would amount to nothing. HEY MA, LOOK AT ME NOW! I'M A PORN STAR!"

Apparently, every loose lipped and loose moraled individual feels the need to point out the fact that indeed, my name is identical to many strippers, porn stars and mail order brides; not to mention a handful of African American school children whose parents harbor a special fondness for apostrophes and prefixes. YES PEOPLE, I KNOW ALL OF THIS.

Actually, I probably wouldn't mind enduring all of the jokes if my name wrangled me even half of the income as that of porn stars and strippers with the same moniker. Hell, I probably wouldn't even mind if I could just get LAID half as often as those bitches. I should consider contacting the Guiness Book of World Records, because I'm pretty sure that I'm the only Deja in American history to be both poor AND celibate. Now that's something mom can be proud of.

In fact, I'm reminded of a story...

My freshman year of college, my roommate and I decided to attend a party thrown by some soccer buddies of her older brother. Basically what that translates into is that we had no friends, no booze and no boyfriends, so we were trying to mooch these commodities off of big brother. For the most part, this tactic worked- I think we had collectively hooked up with nearly every member of the soccer team by our sophomore year (my scholastic achievements leave you in awe, don't they?) At this particular party, my roommate introduced me to one individual who couldn't resist the lure of another lame Deja Vu joke.

"That's not funny," my roommate retorted. "She hears that every day."

"Oh yeah?" the dude asked, "Well I have a small penis. Have you heard that yet today?"

The fact that I went home wit him anyway is a testament to my discriminating tastes and elevated standards.

The Florida Vacay- Part 1

2006-05-25T17:54:00.000-07:00

Well, I'm back from Florida and I had a BLAST! I enjoyed spending some time with two of my oldest friends, Nighty and Fats.

Our trip began when Fats and I hopped in the MINI bright at early at 7:30 am. Poor Sona was packed to the gills with skimpy bikinis (of which Fats had at least 13), beach towels, sunscreen, $100 worth of econo-sized gallons of booze (procured at Sam's because of their DEEP DISCOUNTS!) and plenty of Capri Suns, known as TRACKS around these here parts because of their highly addictive properties.

During our five state, 1400 mile cross country tour, we saw numerous things that alarmed us. Do you people have any idea how many southern rednecks in monster trucks place decals on their rear windows of the American flag? I'm not talking a little four inch sticker, folks. I'm talking a life sized rendition of a bald eagle grasping the stars and stripes (or, in one instance, the Confederate flag) in its large talons whilst glaring menacingly at passers by. I'm sorry, but I just don't believe that anyone can love America, let alone bald eagles, THAT MUCH. It's just not possible. I personally would have chosen a life sized decal of Brad Pitt or Michael Jackson, but that's just me. Fats and I entertained ourselves by bantering back and forth on many a topic, the most notable of which includes transvestites, children with mullets ("preschool in the front, playground in the back"), and getting into your boyfriend's roommate's bed at 3am- NAKED.

The highlight of our roadtrip was the tunnel we got to drive through! Shut up, we're from Texas, there ARE NO TUNNELS HERE.

As Fats and I made the 9 hour journey together, it became quite obvious that neither one of us has matured one iota during our 12 long years of friendship. We still think and act like 13-year-olds, and we still amuse the hell out of ourselves. The purpose of our trip was to visit our fellow lesbian, Nightie, whom I have known for a whopping FIFTEEN YEARS. Nightie recently obtained her Masters degree in NERD and moved to Fort Walton Beach- our final destination. We spent the week visiting her and her P-I-M-P boyfriend, whom we will refer to as Michael Buble Lover, or MBL for short. After our initial meet 'n greet, Fats and I had to take time out to teach MBL and Nightie all about the Shocker. Shockingly enough, MBL needed little instruction.

Once we settled in, we hit the beach and never looked back. I don't think I wore a single pair of underwear ALL WEEK (now if that doesn't get Scotty hot in the pants, then I don't know what will). We LIVED in our bikinis, and I was even persuaded to procure an additional slutsuit, of the more scandalous variety, which, according to Megan's mom, merely made my tits look long. That was $80.00 well spent if you ask me.

Unfortunately for me and my expensive slutsuit (which obviously was NOT QUITE SLUTTY ENOUGH), there was a considerable LACK of sand-in-places-that-sand-should-never-go beach activities. That's right, there was no schlong surfing or snatch snorkling to speak of. This, I fear, is nothing less than a tragedy. How is it possible for a fairly attractive, witty, scantily clad, semi-intoxicated young woman to NOT find someone to make out with on the beaches of sunny Florida? Well, to borrow a quote from myself as stated in Austin a month ago, "I couldn't get laid in this city if I stood in the street naked." There are far too many skinny, tan, barely legal blondes in Florida for me to even stand a chance. That is, of course, except with MIKE. Mike, some random dude from Arkansas who approached me at a local bar, seemed nice enough. Sure, he was somewhat, shall we say, DENSE. Hell, who am I kidding, the guy was borderline retarded but at least he was INTO ME. Well he WAS, until he re-approached us for the second time, only to be met with Fats rolling here eyes into the back of her head and Nightie heavily sighing, "Oh, LORD!" Suffice it to say, Mike left, never to return, along with my last remaining hope of ever getting laid again. THANKS, LADIES. In any event, MBL and Mike got friendly while us three ladies were bonding in the restroom, and MBL procured his digits. FANFUCKINGTASTIC- the only one among us to score a guy's phone number all week was THE GUY.

(Shocking Fort Walton Beach)

The most action I saw all weekend was that one time when Fats and I were galavanting in the pocean (short for pussy-ocean, duly named because of the pansy ass waves it was tossing our way) and a low flying, doorless military helicopter-type aircraft passed by overhead. Fats and I began enthusiastically flashing the shocker in the direction of the young men who standing in the doorway of said aircraft, and we became unnecessarily giddy when they began to wave back. It was at this precise moment that the pocean decided to throw a doozy in our general direction, thus knocking us over, forcing us to inhale mass quantities of salt water and algae, and- yes, you guessed it- exposing Fats' left nipple to the entire Gulf coast. We took it as a compliment that the aircraft immediately turned around and flew back over us in hopes of getting a better glimpse of the two stupid Texans who got bitch slapped by the ocean while practicing their moves for the next Girls Gone Wild auditions.

To be continued...

The Date

2006-05-16T12:55:00.000-07:00

Okay, so many of you have been asking- nay, DEMANDING- to hear about the date.

The fact that I have yet to announce my impending engagement should have been your first clue that the date went less-than-ideally. I suppose that if I'm being totally honest, I have to admit that the date COULD have gone worse. But I think it's safe to say that my first AND LAST blind date experience was pretty much a total disaster.

Let's count the ways in which this date was a complete catastrophe.

1) Dude looked nothing like how he was described to me. Then again, if I were balding, overweight, jobless and socially inept, I might consider portraying myself as someone else, too.

2) Dude takes me to a lounge in the Montrose area for drinks. Not having been to this particular establishment, there was no way that I would have known that "lounge" is Montrosian for "dimly lit two story house with a lot of strategically placed cushy furniture hidden away in dark corners while loud music blares from the speakers in order to drown out the moans of passion emitting from the depths of the nearest sofa." This place is the wet dream of every child predator and date rapist in the city.

3) When I asked for a beer, dude returns with a long island iced tea. I'm not really sure what part of the word SHINER sounds like VODKA, TEQUILA, RUM and/or GIN, but it became quite apparent to me later why getting me completely fucking inebriated was part of dude's master plan.

4) Dude's in love with Christina Aguilera. CHRISTINA. FUCKING. AGUILERA.

5) After about two hours of polite conversation, dude propositions me to go with him to a swinger's club. A CLUB WHERE PEOPLE EXCHANGE SEXUAL PARTNERS, JUST AS THE EARLY AMERICAN SETTLERS EXCHANGED FUR PELLETS FOR MAIZE. Sorry, but my kernels aren't for sale, nor do I want to touch a stranger's fur pellet, unless said stranger is a stripper named TJ with a cock sock that hangs down to his knees. Then, and only then, will I barter away my kernels along with my last shred of dignity. (And don't get all judgemental and pretend that YOU wouldn't, you fucking prudes.)

In short, I hightailed it outta there faster than a dope fiend who spots a rock of crack in the snow. FUCK BLIND DATES!

Caption This, Bitches!

2006-05-15T13:35:00.000-07:00

Because I am a hopeless procrastinator, and because I have YET to upload all of the Florida pics or finish writing the post, and because I hate my life, hate my job, and hate all members of the opposite sex, THIS is what you get for today.

I found this photo through a Google image search of "spelunk". My fingers are twitching in anticipation...

Briefly...

2006-05-12T13:17:00.000-07:00

1. I'm back. I'm tan. I'm sober. Detailed post is forthcoming.

2. I have a date tonight for the first time in... oh, let's see... like 5 years.

3.I just shaved parts of my body that I didn't even know had hair.

4. I'm really fucking nervous.

5. So nervous, in fact, that I just ate an entire tub of cotton candy.

6. It's called FLAVA PUFF, but I like to refer to it as FLAVA FLAAAAAAAAAAAAV!

7. Wish me luck.

8. That is all.

Inshoxicated!

2006-05-08T19:03:00.000-07:00

The three lesbians reunite... and it feels so gooooooooood.

Shocking the East Coast!

2006-05-03T05:20:00.000-07:00

Now that finals FINALLY are over, you're probably thinking, "Thank God! Maybe now she'll update once in awhile!"
Well, you'd probably be WRONG.

Tomorrow I'm leaving for sunny Florida to hang out with two of my bestest high school friends. We were so inseparable throughout high school that people used to call us the Three Lesbians. Oh, who am I kidding? People still call us that. Too bad THOSE people won't be spending five days surrounded by beach, booze, bikinis and BOYS. Bitches.

If you're lucky, I might find time to update while I'm there. If you're REALLY lucky, I might not. And if the Gods of Luck are shining their favor down upon you, I might never return. Okay, that has nothing to do with the Gods of Luck, but everything to do with whether they have any nude beaches in Florida. I'm just sayin'.

You can rest assured that I will represent the Dirty Souf and the Shocker while I'm gone. Hell, I did a pretty fair job of shockin' the homies while at a wedding in Fort Worth this past weekend.

Yes, that's my hand in the background. Yes, I was ducking and hiding my face because I have no idea who any of the fags in this picture are, other than the two bridesmaids up front whom I vaguely knew in college. Yes, I am purposely shocking right next to that blonde bitch's face because she was the maid of honor and talked on her cell phone ALL. NIGHT. LONG. And also because her Paris Hilton hair extensions were really getting on my last fucking nerve. Oh, and yes, I stalked her myspace page for pictures of the wedding, hoping one would arise with the Shock Sign, and I was not let down. The caption on this photo read, "Apparently you throw up the shocker at weddings these days". MISSION SHOCKCOMPLISHED.

Now hang up the god damn phone.

Shocking statements from Austin (and these are just a few!)

2006-04-23T13:49:00.000-07:00

Anessa said... "I'd marry my brother if it wasn't so creepy!"

Megan asked... "Have you ever sweat so much in your pajamas that you wondered if you pissed your own pants?"

Anessa said... "It's better to love pubes than to love boobs!"

Megan asked Carol... "Are you a registered sex offender? Does your P.O. know you've left the state?"

Sherri said... "I don't have a dick that I can fold back."

Megan said... "Carol, you showed us your tree rings- now we know how old you are!"

Anessa said to Jessie... "You don't call panties panties unless you're a fucking pervert!"

Megan and Sherri said... "I ride in the cockpit of Cuntinental Airlines."

Garrett asked Anessa... "Why is your ass leaking?"
Anessa replied... "Because you don't have any napkins!"

Carol asked Megan... "What do your tattoos say?"
Megan replied... "This one says, 'I fucked Carol's husband,' this one says, 'I blew his fucking mind,' this one says, 'Now he's my baby daddy,' this one says, 'Bye bye, Carol,' and this one says, 'BOOYAH!'"

Carol said... "I'm a fucking armpit motherfucker!" (she was on the phone with her kids at the time)

Anessa said... "Garrett's got the biggest piece of meat I've ever seen, and he's rubbing it hard!"

Sherri said to Garrett... "You drive like someone who fucks his sister!"

Megan said... "Piss is the new black."

Sherri said... "I think smoking crack is a good idea."
Jessie replied... "I smoke pole!"

Garrett said... "I didn't fart. If I farted I would shit my pants!"

Megan said... "Emo? How about GAYmo!"

Anessa asked... "Do they make thong shaped depends?"

The stripper said... "It's not a party until someone gets teabagged."

Anessa said to me... "I fucked your pussytits while you were sleeping!"

Carol said... "Ya'll don't tell me what I don't know! YA'LL don't know. I'm from the fucking ATL!"

Megan said... "I'm June Carter Cash Money!"

Carol said... "I made him shave his own god damn back hair!"

Megan said to Carol... "Do you ever wear clothes by that designer Polio Ralph Lauren?"

Dagny said to Carol and Megan... "Gimp fight! Gimp fight!"

Sherri said... "I can't aim my urethra in a water bottle!"

Anonymous #1 said... "I'd fucking fuck Jon Armstrong."

Anonymous #2 said... "My husband calls it the Little General. It stands at attention."

There is oh-so-much more that I can't repeat... not even HERE, on the dirtiest blog in blogland. Seriously, you all have no idea how fucking outrageous these women are. I saw more areolas, anal pubes and pussytits than I care to admit. I heard enough horror stories to make me swear off having children or participate in any activities that lead up to the process of having children forever. I saw a stripper with a severed toe. I attempted to follow suit by severing a toe myself. I got a tattoo. I shocked strangers and gay men alike. I walked barefoot through 6th street. I watched women squat and piss in the grass and seriously considered doing it myself. I saw Megan hump a street sign. I saw Dima spank that ass. I watched Marit get down and boogie. I watched Megan scream at cyclists and imitate the mentally challenged. I got pooka'd by Amanda B. I saw Anessa piss her pants (and took pictures, too!) My arm got stuck in Carol's mom thong. I laughed til I cried, and then laughed some more.

It was, in short, the best weekend of my life.

Mush.

2006-04-20T09:00:00.000-07:00

I never would have guessed that I could love another human being as much as I love this kid. She is the epitome of perfection. Her hair, her smile, her farts, her double chin, her spit bubbles, her sausage fingers, her eyelashes, her smell... especially her smell. The Universe revolves around that smell.

She is God's most perfect creation, and I feel eternally blessed because He gave her to US. My heart starts and stops for her. My breath catches in my throat every time I look at her. My knees get weak each time she smiles. She completes me in a way I never thought possible. She makes me a better person. She makes me an Aunt.

Guess Which Blogger Said... (Sex Edition)

2006-04-16T08:10:00.000-07:00

Each of the following were said by either Nessa, Megan, Sherri or Carol.

1. "Clitty litter is female smegma."

2. "The balls beat the dick's ass!"

3. "I don't have a hermaphrodite penis-clit."

4. "Panties are for people who wear vaginas."

5. "Can I shock you in your calico kitty?"

6. "I had a little black in me. Okay, I had a LOT of black in me!"

7. "That guy looks like someone choked on his neck. That's not a regular hickey!"

8. "V is for my vagina grew shut."

9. "Once you go black, you need a wheelchair."

10. "The stripper blew on Carol's coochie and now she's pregnant."

I Miss My Girls!

2006-04-14T10:34:00.000-07:00

I wish I could put into words what an amazing time I had in Austin. I wish I could describe just how much I miss each and every one of those wonderful women. I wish I could convey just how lucky I feel to have been able to spend time getting to know them.

Lucky for me, I don't need to waste time trying to find the appropriate words- that's why I took notes all weekend! But before I divulge everyone's deepest, darkest secrets which were so brazenly disclosed in a careless act of drunken stupidity (*cough*NESSA*cough*), I want to take this one last opportunity to be sentimental and show the internet just what cool chicks I had the pleasure of getting to know (and grope). These are just a FEW of my less incriminating photos.

Meet the Shockers!

2006-04-11T17:23:00.000-07:00

Carol

Dima

Melanie

Sherri

Megan

Amanda

Jessie

Garrett

Marit

Dagny

Anessa

There's No Place Like Home.

2006-04-11T10:27:00.000-07:00

I'm back from Austin in one piece, however I'm tired, hungover, hoarse, smelly, and can't stop saying the word "FUCK". Okay, so basically nothing's changed.

Some of you may have heard that I was the official secretary for the Bloggers Gone Wild trip this past week, and let me tell you people that I have so much DIRT on those girls that I think there might be a few pending lawsuits and divorces as a result. I will shock you with all of the shocking details later, but right now I have to "study" for an exam I have in a few hours.

I had a fucking fantastic time in Austin with a group of amazing women. There is no doubt in my mind that some life long friendships were formed, and I was pretty SHOCKED that no one stabbed me in my fucking jugular for being so loud, obnoxious and god damn annoying.

I can't thank you ladies enough for this weekend. The fun, the laughter, the eating, the drinking, the dancing, the shocking, the pictures, the memories and best of all, the stripper. It was truly incredible.

Austin is the new Black

2006-04-08T16:12:00.000-07:00

We're having so much fucking fun right now, despite (or maybe because of) all the up close and personal encounters with snatches I've had. Here's a quick update: Megan might be pregnant, and her babydaddy is a stripper. Carol has an ingrown pubic hair. Anessa loves her fucking tits. Melanie's got a Chuck Norris bush. Jessie loves giving blow jobs. Sherri's crotch is on fire (and it's not because of Syphillis). Marit likes teabags. Dima's hips don't lie. Dagny can drop down on the dance floor and get her eagle on. Amanda likes to SHOCK!

See you bitches on the flipside. Shock out with your cocks out!

Lack of Hetero Sex Doesn't Make Her a Dyke... or DOES it?

2006-04-03T06:51:00.000-07:00

Me: "I have a friend coming in from Minnesota next week, and I was thinking I'd bring her by to meet the baby."

Sister: "Why do you have a friend that lives in Minnesota?"

Me: "Why wouldn't I? I have friends that live in places other than Texas, you know."

Sister: "Where'd you meet her? On the internet?"

Me: "Ummmm, yes."

Sister: "LOSERS."

Me: "She's actually a really cool person and we have a lot in common!"

Sister: "I don't want your dyke internet friends breathing all over my baby with their retarded Minesoooooooootan accents."

Internet, meet my family.

The Birthday Post

2006-03-29T10:10:00.000-08:00

I have to apologize for being MIA these past few days. I've been extremely busy studying for tests, working my patootie off, finding a roommate, and planning an Awesome Austin Adventure with some of my favoritest blogger friends. I also got a pedicure and a haircut, because I couldn't very well expose my cloven hooves and frizzed out Caucfro to a bunch of gossip-mongering strangers with cameras and blogs and wireless internet access, now could I? Well, if I get drunk enough I might just show them my "Caucfro", but it ain't gonna be free, I can tell ya that much.

I am now reporting to you all as a grown ass 25-year-old, and let me tell you that 25 is SO TOTALLY DIFFERENT than 24. I traded in the MINI Cooper for a Hoveround last week and honestly folks, I've never felt a smoother ride in my life. Then again, perhaps the extra padding that my Depends protective undergarments provide have something to do with that.

After a delicious breakfast of stewed prunes and Ensure, I spent the better part of my birthday morning advising my guud friend's 91-year-old grandma on the best way to break down the levies of her bowels and unleash a much anticipated flood of poo. Of course, being that I am the resident spelunker in town, this is not the first poo plea I have received (nor, dare I suggest, shall it be the last). In fact, I successfully frightened several elevator patrons when I was heard inquiring, "Does it hurt when she tries to go, or is she just uncomfortable because she WANTS to go? Well tell her that she doesn't NEED to go everyday. What is she, Old Faithful?" You'll all be pleased to know that the poo predicament has since been resolved and all systems are go. Please, please, hold your applause til the end of the post.

I then ventured over to my mom's where I was handed an infant who immediately proceeded to squirt runny green diarrhea all over me and my birthday outfit, in all it's splendid Dress Barn glory. She then regurgitated a slew of projectile spit-up onto the areas which remained unsoiled. My mom claims she was getting her revenge for all of the bright camera flashes I so cruelly inflicted on her undeveloped little eyes on HER birthday two months ago. Silently holding a grudge and spitefully seeking vengeance many moons after some random and unintentional infraction? Yeah, she's definitely a member of the Spoon family.

My mom cooked me up a fabulous birthday dinner which consisted of Hooter's frozen hot wings, breadsticks, and a Betty Crocker easy bake single serving cake. You know, the kind where you just add water and heat for two minutes? THAT WAS MY FUCKING BIRTHDAY CAKE, PEOPLE. She got seriously offended when I stuck my spoon into the undercooked bowl of goo and ate a bite before she was able to sing happy birthday, which she proceeded to do on her own, whilst holding a lighter in the air like she was at some kind of fucking rock concert because she didn't have birthday candles. Everyone else refused to sing along, and my sister actually snatched the cake from mom's hands while she was still singing because a) she wanted a bite, b) she wanted her to stop singing, and c) she is a member of the Spoon family, after all, and being an unmitigated bitch is a prerequisite for acceptance.

After assaulting my niece with more kisses and cheek pinches and raspberries than any fat, smelly, hairy-chinned old Aunt could ever dream of managing, I went home to watch some Murder, She Wrote, rub on the Bengay, and talk to my plethora of cats as if they were real children. When the neighborhood hooligans dared to tread upon my beloved begonias, I fiestily waved my broomstick in their general direction and threatened to come after them on my Hoveround if they so much as laid another toe on my lawn. I might be old, but I'm so old that I can't still scare some bitches. Word.

Silver Lining

2006-03-23T14:46:00.000-08:00

Sometimes when I start feeling shitty about the fact that I clean shit for a living, or the fact that I have oozing fungal sores all over my arms, or the fact that I can't swing back when my psychotic pregnant patient tries to claw my eyeballs out, I find comfort in the fact that at least I'm not the person whose job it is to shine the tile floors with a polishing implement fashioned out of a tennis ball speared on a stick.

Fuck yeah.

Pussy Control

2006-03-21T16:18:00.000-08:00

So I adopted a new kitty a few weeks ago to keep my precious Oscar-poo company. Since the move to the new place, Oscar has been especially noisy and lonesome. I also feel really sorry for him because he spends his days perched on the window ledge obsessing over the squirrels and birds that feed on the neighbor's porch, taunting him with their abundance of freedom, friends and social interaction. I can sometimes see a tiny tear streak down his furry little cheek while he meows along to the chorus of that song from Team America, "I'm Ronrey".

So instead of being a responsible pet owner and spending more time with my angst-filled, socially isolated cat, I did what most lazy ass pet owners do and went out and got another cat to subject to the inhumane torture of living with me. I adopted the most adorable, snuggly, gorgeous black kitty from the local shelter named Percy. I now have a $300 dent in my wallet and a raging case of ringworm. Karma is such a cocksucking bitch.

After Percy came home, he developed one helluva respiratory infection. I took him to the vet to get it treated, but the antibiotics they gave me didn't work. So I kind of freaked out and took him to ANOTHER vet who gave him IV fluids, many different shots, prescription cat food which based on the price I have surmised must contain Alaskan King crab and Beluga caviar, and some bubble gum flavored antibiotics which cost more than my fucking car payment. Oh yes, and let me not forget... $6.00 for a fucking SYRINGE to force feed him with. DO YOU PEOPLE HONESTLY THINK THAT I AM GOING TO PAY $6.00 F0R A FUCKING SYRINGE when a) stealing from my employer is FREE, and b) the production cost for one of those bitches is all of like four cents. BULLSHIT!

So after about a week, Percy started feeling better and eating on his own which, THANK GOD, because I was really starting to consider letting him starve to death as a viable alternative to squirting smelly, slimey, disgusting cat food into his mouth with a $6.00 syringe every 4 hours. I was still keeping him separate from Oscar because the last thing I need right now is TWO sick cats, although Oscar could probably stand to stop eating for a few days because his gut has recently been making close personal acquaintance with the ground when he walks. My plan to keep them separate was successful until one fine day when I came home to find Oscar in his usual position at the front door, awaiting my arrival so that he could lament about the abuse I inflict on him by leaving him alone for two whole hours. The look on his face was one of, "Hey mom, hey, hi, what's up, how's it goin'? I've just been right here, the whole time you were gone, minding my own business, waiting for you patiently. What's that? Oh, don't go upstairs. No, no, wait- whatever you do, don't go up there! Look at me! Look at me! DON'T GO UP THERE!"

As I climbed the stairs, I heard Percy's meek little whine and found him cowering in a corner, shivvering and crying and wishing he were back in that shithole of a shelter because even euthanasia is better than the wrath of a sumo-sized Tonkinese. Exactly how my perfect, precious, loving, well-behaved, fur child MacGyvered his way into my CLOSED AND LATCHED bedroom in order to launch his full-scale attack upon the sickly, skinny, naive and innocent little Percy is a total mystery to me, but he seriously knew he did something wrong and was trying to hide it from me.

A few days ago, after Percy fully recovered from his snot-fest, I allowed the two to spend supervised visits together. They seem to be getting along well, mostly playing and snuggling with one another, but sometimes stalking and pouncing on eachother (I really think they're playing because they don't seem to hurt one another). All was well and good in the tri-pussy community until Percy started getting these funky scaly lesions on his head. ONE MORE vet visit revealed that it was just a bacterial infection under the skin- easily treated, not contageous and nothing to be concerned about. WROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONG!

FUCKING RINGWORM, PEOPLE.

ALL. OVER. ME. And now Oscar has been exposed, too.

For those of you who I will see in Austin, let it be known that I am buying a pink polka dotted bikini and touting my ringworm as a fashion accessory. Unfortunately for all of us, I won't be participating in the nude jello wrestling competition because I don't think any of you want a fungal outbreak on your coochie (except for Megan who hasn't gotten laid in so long, her cooch already has a fungal colony that puts my pussy's to shame).

I HAVE to do This.

2006-03-08T18:00:00.000-08:00

I know, I know; you're all ready to lynch me for leaving up those same grotesquely cute baby pictures that DO NOT constitute a real "post" for the past week. As it turns out, I've been busy these past weeks producing Fox's newest reality drama, Prison Spring Break. Ok, that's not entirely true. However, this week IS Spring Break, and I HAVE been temporarily released from prison (aka grad school). Too bad they left the shackles (aka student loans) clamped tightly enough to prevent me from running too far. In fact, they've probably got those sumbitches clamped tight enough to cut off most of the circulation to my brain stem, rendering me clinically retarded (if I don't already qualify).

At any rate, I still have enough brain cells left to share a funny little tale with you all. I wasn't going to blog about this, and Nessa I'm terribly, terribly sorry, but I simply must.

Several months ago while at Nessa's house engaging in one drunken soiree or another, Miss B. jumped up from the dinner table and shouted, "MOM, CAN I HAVE A WEINER?!"

Being the most mature and sophisticated person that I am, I began laughing hysterically and asked, "So Miss B... you like weiners, do you?"
"Yeah, especially the ones with cheese in the center!" she enthusiastically replied.
"NESSA!" I howled, "WHAT KIND OF PARENT ARE YOU? YOUR CHILD IS ASKING FOR CHEESE-FILLED WEINERS!" Miss B. seemed oblivious to our jokes, but I do believe that the remainder of the night was filled with more weiner-speak than the autobiography of Boy George.

It turns out that Nessa was just as shocked as I was at her daughter's liberal use of the word weiner, and we began quizzing Miss B. on where she learned the term and why, despite its many inappropriate connotations, she still insisted on using it as a synonym for hot dog. Miss B. looked at us like we were a couple of inbreds right off the retard bus and replied matter-of-factly, "HOT DOGS have buns. WEINERS do not. There's a difference, duh."

So it turns out Nessa's daughter doesn't like buns with her weiners.

Last week during yet another Spoonleg invasion of the Silly household, Miss B. and I were discussing her unnatural obsession with spaghetti-O's when she informed me that her favorite part is the franks.

"FRANKS?!" I exclaimed in abject horror. "Did you just say FRANKS? What happened to WEINERS, Miss B? I thought you liked WEINERS!"
She giggled and replied, "But saying weiners just sounds bad!"
"You didn't have a problem proclaiming your love for weiners last time we discussed them! What changed your mind? Why hath thou forsaken the weiner?"
Miss B. gave a melodramatic sigh and said, "Weiners have cheese in the middle. Hot dogs have buns. Franks are bite sized pieces in Spaghetti-O's. Geez."

At that point, I threw my hands up in defeat. For the love of WEINERS, I can't keep up with a 9-year-old's extensive pork product vocabulary! How did I even get INTO grad school, I wonder? It's a good thing my "clinical" familiarity with weiners is pretty ample, anatomically speaking. I don't know if I should be proud or embarrassed to admit that I haven't actually partaken in the consumption of a weiner many, many years. Or possibly EVER, if we're strictly speaking cheese-filled. Somehow though, I don't find it totally unbelievable that NESSA'S child is more weiner savvy than myself. I still have a lot to learn in life, and I have the distinct feeling that Miss B. is going to be the one to teach it to me.

Resident-Speak

2006-02-27T07:22:00.000-08:00

I overheard the following conversation between two young male doctors in the hallway this morning.

Resident #1: "You know what's weird? Today I've had this strong urge to reproduce."

Resident #2: "Oh, really? It's biological."

The scariest part of it is, this was said in complete seriousness. I hastened my pace and got the hell away from those two with a quickness, for fear that one of them might start fervently humping the legs of passers-by. I guess it's true what they say... doctors are a species all their own.

Weekend Update

2006-02-23T13:43:00.000-08:00

I know, I know, I'm four days late. Not THAT kind of "late", thank Christ on a crutch. Late with the weekend update. Late with the pics. Late with regaining my sanity from moving because I STILL DON'T HAVE CABLE OR INTERNET. Honestly though, I never had cable or internet at my old crib either; I commandeered my neighbor's wireless network in order to run my internet porn webring, and the only TV I really watched was scrambled porn which, HELLO, why is that still free? When I grow up I'm gonna start my own Pay Per View channel featuring all scrambled porn, all day. OOOH SPANK ME, DADDY!

[See you might have thought I was rambling senselessly- and I was- but check out this smoooooooth transition]

Speaking of spanking.... there happened to be a lot of that going on last weekend. Now before you get your panties all moist over nothing, rest assured that there wasn't any boudoir butt-smacking going on; we're strictly talking public paddling here. There was more spanking going on last weekend than the first five years of my life, which is saying a lot considering the fact that I still shield my own ass with my hands and cower in fear every time I see my mom reach for a shoe, belt, stick, kitchen utensil or sharp fragment of rusty metal. I won't share too many details for the sake of salvaging what's left of my personal dignity, but suffice it to say that I have a large teeth-shaped bruise on my thigh, a large money-shaped hole in my wallet, and a large chasm-shaped void in my soul. The weekend also involved a lot of pizza, brownies, fudge, beer, and highly inappropriate drinking games. But wait, did I mention the spanking? The spanking was definitely the best part, second only to my fudge which is pretty much so fucking good that if I could intravenously inject it with a syringe and needle, I totally would.

All in all, I'd say it was a winning weekend. I have pics to prove it, but they're only accessible if you're over 18 and have a valid credit card.

V-Day Celebration

2006-02-15T09:35:00.000-08:00

Because I am newly single**, my good blogger friend Anessa decided to do me the “favor” of calling into our local radio station's Valentine's Day MILE OF MEAT extravaganza, wherein ladies drive by a row of random, single men standing on the side of the road and pick out the one they want to meet. As kind and generous as my good friend is, she chose one such gent for me and called into the radio station, giving them my specs and naming what celebrity my looks compare with (I told her to say post-Sonny Cher, but I don't think she follows instructions well). This little stunt of hers effectively thwarted my plans to sit at home all night watching American Idol and sobbing into a glass of red wine while wearing the very new, very expensive Marc Jacobs dress I bought in anticipation of spending a nice, romantic Valentine's Day with my now former boyfriend. I suppose one thing I CAN thank her for is saving me money on dry cleaning bills, because I can't imagine that getting red wine stains out of gold chiffon is all that cheap.

We had lots of drinks and lots of fun, although I must say that the fun scale escalated once we were able to successfully rid ourselves of midget who was supposed to be my meat. He must "accidentally" add an extra 1 when he tells people he's 5'11''. I especially enjoyed being able to pretend to be Mrs. Anessa when her hubby’s psycho ex-girlfriend showed up at the bar. In no uncertain terms (and under the guise of being sappy-sweet, you know how girls are) I told the bitch to stay away from my husband and quit calling him because- DID YOU GET THE MEMO?- he’s married. She vehemently assured me that there was nothing going on between my (Anessa’s) husband and herself, repeatedly told me how beautiful, cool, pretty, wonderful, and nice I am (all true), and then proceeded to call Anessa’s husband and rat me out. If we hadn’t already left the bar I would have stalked that bitch down and spiked her in her fucking forehead with my stiletto, SWF style.

The highlight of the night was when a group of 6 Mile of Meat refugee women escaped to another bar to commiserate on the overall LACK of grade A meat at the aforementioned gathering, we happened upon a lonely financial analyst from Idaho. After asking whether he was Mormon, one of the ladies shouted across the bar, "WE'RE NOT ALL GOING TO BE YOUR WIVES, OKAY BUDDY?" I laughed so hard I crapped my pants and ruined my special VD undies. That's the beauty of being single, folks- you can leave shit stains on your brand new lacy thong and not worry about it because AIN'T NO ONE GONNA SEE 'EM NOWAYS.

Bottom line: I was wicked hungover this morning, and if I ever have to see another wooden handled toilet plunger again in my life, I might just go on a homicidal rampage.

**Don't even ask because it's nunya GD business.

It's All About the Meme!

2006-02-11T09:24:00.000-08:00

Four jobs I’ve had

1. Birthday Party Coordinator at a kid's gym
2. Sales Associate at The Gap
3. Hostess/Waitress at too many restaurants to name
4. Registered Ass-Spelunker

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over

1. Empire Records

2. Can't Hardly Wait

3. The Big Lebowski

4. Pee Wee's Big Adventure

Four places I have lived

1. Phoenix, AZ

2. Denver, CO

3. Fort Worth, TX

4. Houston, TX

Four TV shows I love

1. Strangers With Candy

2. Six Feet Under

3. The Office (UK)

4. Judge Mathis (he's my DOG!)

Four places I’ve vacationed

1. South Padre, TX

2. San Diego, CA

3. Las Vegas, NV

4. Cozumel, Mexico!

Four of My Favorite Foods

1. Brussels Sprouts

2. Sweet Potatoes

3. Sushi

4. Lard

Four sites I visit daily

1. Hotmail- to check for porn solicitations.

2. Dooce- duh.

3. HomeDetentionLady- that's my bitch!

4. Strange Dolls- I fanatically check her site for new stuff!

Four places I would rather be right now

1. In my warm and cozy bed.

2. Brazil.

3. New Zealand.

4. Fiji.

Four people I am tagging

1. Your

2. Fat

3. Ass

4. Mama

Steal it if you want, bitches.

Bootylicious

2006-02-10T11:04:00.000-08:00

Today I was informed by another nurse that my patient enjoys ogling my attractive gluteus.

Or, in his words, "HER ASS IS FINE!"

I suggested that he write to the Board of Nurse Examiners and inform them of how highly qualified my juicy buns are as health care providers. Maybe I can shake-shake-shake my way into a higher tax bracket.

Does This Ever Happen to You?

2006-02-07T12:49:00.000-08:00

Everywhere I've gone today, I've periodically experienced these pungent whiffs of musky cologne, and it's driving me CRAZY! It's not another person, because there's no way that one person could have followed me everywhere I've gone today. And it can't possibly be my detergent, shampoo, deoderant or B.O. (I DID take a shower today!) I've been maniacally sniffing everything on, near, or around me for the past few hours and CAN'T FIGURE IT OUT. I'll catch a little sniff of it from time to time and I immediately stick my nose up in the air and inhale deeply, hoping to track down the offending source. I probably look like Tara Reid on a Saturday night.

Before I get migraines, I usually smell citrus, or sometimes burnt popcorn. I know these are common olfactory hallucinations associated with migraines, but I'm beginning to wonder if this cologne scent is a new one on me? Dear God, I hope not. I have a test in an hour and another one tomorrow morning- no room for migraines in my life right now!

THERE IT IS AGAIN! This is driving me NUTS. It's totally distracting. I should be studying. Anybody have a clothespin?

I'm Gonna Sit at the Welcome Table One of These Days, HALLELUJAH!

2006-01-23T05:57:00.000-08:00

Recently while wasting time that could have been better spent spelunking in people's asses, I was contemplating the various periods in my life that I consider to be the utmost wastes of time in the history of wated time. The first would of course be the four long years I spent obtaining my baccalaureate education, or as it has been more aptly referred to, my beer-guzzling and STD-dodging education. All I got outta that lousy deal was a four-year hangover, a $50,000 student loan debt and this really gay sweatshirt.

I like to pretend that the sweatshirt is woven from the hairs of unicorns and the eyelashes of angels, because that's the only way I can justify it's $50,000 price tag.

Next to college, the runner up for biggest waste of my fucking time would have to be that one entire summer I spent at church camp, where my precious time was wasted learning Aggie jokes and pretending to love Jesus. My parents duped me into going by selling me on the fact that there would be rock wall climbing and ice cream socials. In reality, they were merely plotting a way to get me out of the house for three long months so they could invite all their friends over to listen to John Denver and smoke some fat spliffies. That's right mom, I've got your number.

Because I thought I stood a pretty fair chance of losing my virginity at the camp of Christ, I agreed to go. Phew, was I ever let down. That camp amounted to nothing more than three long months of Sunday school with the unwelcomed addition of Monday school, Tuesday school, Wednesday school, Thursday school, Friday school and Saturday school. To this day, whenever I hear "Our God is an Awesome God" I start clawing at my eye sockets and searching for the nearest cliff to fling myself off of. What's more, their sorry excuse for a rock wall was just a few empty Campbell's soup cans glued to a 6'x6' plank of particle board. Their idea of an ice cream social was a teaspoon of melted vanilla with your choice of trail mix or beef jerky toppings.

My mom was none too thrilled to find out that at the end of the summer when the parents came to pick up their filthy, sunburned, lice-infested but newly Saved children, there was to be a "Parents Day". Let me tell you people something- my mom? She doesn't do Parents Days. Place my mom in any awkward social situation involving well groomed strangers with mild mannered and respectful children, and she fucking panics. I think the most torturous part for her was having to actually acknowledge me as her child (as opposed to making me stand at least 6 feet away at all times while avoiding eye contact so as to convince passers by that I was just some malnourished, scraggly haired, ill behaved runaway). Much to my mom's outrage, this church camp's Parents Day required her not only to acknowledge my existence and pretend to be interested in ny newfound Salvation, but she was also expected to PARTICIPATE in some of the activities that her child had spent the better part of the past three months engaging in with all the grace and aplomb of a kid who can't even brush her teeth without tripping and falling. It was in that moment that I wished so desperately that I hadn't wasted the last picture on my Kodak Funsaver on the four foot long turd I'd laid in the forest the previous morning; the look on her face was just that priceless.

The kids were permitted to sign up for their top three choices of parent/child activities, and I chose the three that I thought would most effectively muss my mom's three-hours-a-day-with-the-curling-iron coif. Kayaking? Check. Bike race (helmet required)? Check. Trampoline jumping with thirty hyperactive children who hadn't showered in at least as many days? Double check.

Needless to say, my mom was fucking thrilled. What can I say, it was my revenge for sending me to that bastard camp where they brainwashed me into believing that all I had to do to curry God's favor was to make a glitter macaroni plate in his Son's likeness. What bullshit.

What was your biggest waste of time?

There's a Very Good Reason Why I Haven't Posted in So Long

2006-01-19T06:51:00.000-08:00

Get out your pacemakers and defibrillators folks, because the cuteness you are about to witness has been known to be heart stopping.

Appreciating the cuteness of infants is an art form that has been lost on me over the years. When my brother and sister were born, I was too intent on wishing a torturous death to befall them to really appreciate how cute they were. Okay, well maybe not death, but I was definitely hoping for some sort of painfully grotesque physical deformity. My dreams have not of yet come to fruition, but I'm still holding out hope. Like my grandma once told me, never say never.

Since then, my contact with newborns has been less than extensive. No one seems to be very keen on letting a person who cannot effectively utilize a fork, pencil or wine glass handle their new baby. The phrase that every new parent dreads, "oops, it slipped," is something that I say on a pretty much daily basis.

But despite my limited knowledge on the cuteness of infants, I happen to know that this one, THIS ONE, is cuter than any other. She is breath takingly, heart meltingly, better-put-on-your-depends-because-you're-about-to-lose-control-of-your-bladder cute. Her cuteness is intergalactically unprecedented. Just yesterday, we started receiving short wave radio transmissions from Mars, which NASA experts have loosely translated into, " DAMN , that baby's cute!" Earlier I think I saw an old lady pass out when she entered into close vicinity of the orb of cuteness.

Her cuteness permeates my every waking and would-be sleeping moment. DO YOU HEAR THAT INTERNET? Me, the Queen of Sleep, losing sleep over the cuteness of a baby. HOW CAN ANYONE SLEEP WHEN SUCH UNBELIEVABLE CUTENESS EXISTS IN THE UNIVERSE? Her cuteness makes me want to gnaw my own arm off and offer it at the throne of the Gods of Cute because, holy crap, what have we mere mortals done to deserve such cuteness in our lives?!

If you had told me six months ago that being the first person to hold her bloody, squirming, screaming little body would be one of the proudest moments in my life, I would have called you a fucking liar. Funny how life's little miracles can change our perspectives in the blink of one tiny eye. I think I'm going to like being an aunt.

It Might Be Too Little, But it's Never Too Late.

2006-01-07T22:22:00.000-08:00

Finally, the cookie post.

So the other weekend I had lots of fun with Nessa dabbling in the art of erotic cookie making, and I'm pretty convinced that I must have missed my calling in life. Apparently I have an exceptional talent for gingerbread dough boob molding. Of course, I wouldn't have been able to discover this talent before now because, as you probably don't know, I was a neglected child whose mother never taught her to cook. As if I ever needed a reason to question my status as LEAST LOVED CHILD in the family, my fate was pretty much sealed when my mom flat out REFUSED to teach me how to cook, because she was too busy showing my brother the infant how to delicately froth foam to top his cappuccino with. I kid you not- when he was but a wee toddler, my parents bought him a special COOKING STOOL for him to help prepare tastebud-tingling confections while I stood by, patiently waiting for my mom to toast my Leggos for me because I wasn't allowed to operate the toaster by myself until I was 16. Even at 16, I still wasn't allowed to prepare any food requiring gas, heat, electricity or pouring from a gallon jug unless an adult or my 11-year-old brother was around to supervise me. As if it wasn't bad enough that my mom scoffed at my requests to learn to prepare my own Easy Mac, she would go so far as to mock me and my culinary inadequacies. She actually told me that I'd be lucky to ever find a husband who would love me despite my lack of cooking skills! WHY MOTHER, WHY DID YOU INTENTIONALLY SOCIALLY CRIPPLE ME, AND WHY DO YOU INSIST ON BELIEVING THAT THE ONLY WAY A GIRL CAN LAND A DECENT MAN IS BY COOKING A PERFECT LONDON BROIL? WELCOME TO THE 21st CENTURY- HAVEN'T YOU EVER HEARD OF RIMJOBS?

Moving on from my dysfunctional childhood (I have to save SOMETHING for therapy), Nessa and I had a grand ole time TRYING to decorate our cookies SherriStyle. Little did we know that HOLY FUCKING HELL it might help for one of us to have a degree in pastry cheffing before attempting such a gargantuan feat as ICING A COOKIE because it was no easy task. After conference calling with Sherri, it became clear to us that Nessa had not prepared the icing correctly and it was TOO THICK. According to Sherri, the icing should have been the consistency of mustard, but I have to admit that ours was more like the consistency of a 200 year old brick of lard. Or, to put it in terms that only a professional spelunker could appreciate, the icing SHOULD have been the consistency of runny butt pee, but was actually more like 4 weeks worth of rock hard feces which are so impacted that it requires digital removal by a pack of lube and my own two fingers. Now... who wants cookies?

So once we identified the problem, Nessa successfully whipped up a fluffy egg white (SOMEONE had a mom who didn't spend an entire decade too inebriated to teach her daughter how to fucking COOK) and we added it to the icing dispenser. From then on, the icing just GUSHED forth like semen from a prepubescent boy with a Cosmo mag and an overactive libido. Which I think might be why Nessa stopped me from squirting icing straight from the applicator tip into Baby D's open and eager mouth. Don't worry Nessa, it doesn't mean he's gay. Although, if I were you, I'd be just a little worried about his alarming little foot fetish. I have to give the boy credit; I've never seen a child whose motor skills aren't even developed enough to walk without running into the doorjamb somehow manage to fit so many toes into his mouth on the first try. Someone remind me to always wear socks AND shoes while in the Silly household from here on out. I mean, just in case there's a video camera around somewhere... I really don't want to go to jail.

But it turns out I didn't even have to squirt the icing into Baby D's mouth, because Nessa's new icing concoction was so liquidy that once it was squirted onto its victim, I mean cookie, it would just slide right off, down the edge of the table, and onto the floor where Baby D was hoovering up any stray icing, crumbs, or dog hair that happened to get close enough to be sucked into the vacuous black hole that is his mouth. We baked damn near 5 dozen cookies, but a good 2/3 of them ended up "accidentally" falling right into Baby D's mouth, with the help of his hand and the gravity-defying super sucking action of his mouth.

(Five minutes after this photo was taken, only crumbs remained)

When I admonished Nessa that her child was going to be awake for the next 12 hours on a sugar rush from hell, she casually replied, "Oh don't worry about it. I'm about to spike his milk with some benadryl."

"Jesus H," I replied, "Why don't you just pour a shot of whiskey in his bottle while you're at it?"

"Ooooh, I HAVE some whiskey..." she said, actually contemplating my suggestion. HOLY CRAP, I WAS ONLY JOKING. QUICK, SOMEONE CALL CPS. Don't bother giving them directions; they already know the way from the last time I called when her eldest child found one of Mommy's sex toys in the kitchen cupboard.

So, after some pretty fucking disastrous attempts at decorating the basic Christmas-themed cookie shapes (candy canes, Christmas trees and Boone's Farm bottles), we decided to embark on the task of gingerbread man making. FINALLY, the moment I had been waiting for. You see, even before I had arrived that day, I had already decided that I would somehow find a way to corrupt these little gingerbread cookies. I had been mulling it over in eager anticipation all day. All week, if I'm being honest. I just had to find a way to give them penises. And boobies. And- gasp!- even vaginas. I can't take credit for the tranny though, that one was all Nessa.

Good thing my co-navigator in this cookie expedition was none other than the Dildo Queen herself, because if it were anyone else I think they might have called the police when I started gently rolling balls of dough in between the legs of the gingerbread men. Fortunately for me, Nessa's pretty seasoned in the art of fake penis-like objects, so she took over dong duty. I fulfilled the roles of both captain cleavage and sergeant snatch. Nessa was also the hermaphrodite handler (I hate to be the nit-picky nurse here, but the cookie was actually a hermaphrodite and not a transsexual. Common misconception.)

(Professional at work)

Keep in mind that our entire fun-filled afternoon was peppered with some lively conversations with fellow bloggers, whom Nessa was incessantly harassing to the point that I think Marit might have sought a restraining order against us because HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, IF SHE DIDN'T ANSWER AFTER THE FIRST 35 PHONE CALLS I THINK IT'S SAFE TO SAY THAT SHE DOESN'T WANT TO TALK TO YOU. Fortunately for us (and our criminal records), the other bloggers we attempted to contact generally picked up the phone after the 5th or 6th attempt because their ears were tired of being assaulted by the incessant ringing of their phones and, even worse, the cryptic and anonymous messages Nessa kept leaving. We had some dazzling conversation with the likes of HDL, Sherri and Berry Girl, who were interrupted from their respective nap, baking and hangover. All I know is that I'm not eating any potentially poisoned baked goods Sherri sends my way after we informed her that her gingerbread likeness was engaging in some compromising sexual positions with Hermy and Afro Man. She was the gingerbread whore, and all of the other gingerbreads totally knew it. She'd been around the gingerblock a time or twelve, and don't quote me on this but I'm pretty sure I saw her letting Afro Man hit it from behind. I hope she charged for that shit. I'm just sayin'...

(Sherri and her man)

Of course, Marit's gingerperson was pretty jealous of Sherri's blatant promiscuity; but that's just because Marit's gingerboobs were smaller than even Hermy's. And I mean, seriously, what self-respecting woman wants to be trumped by man-tits? But Marit need not fret, for gingerNessa arrived at the party with her trusty gingervibe and two D-cell gingerbatteries, which was a good thing because Marit was getting very gingerhorny and desperately needed to rub one out.

(Nessa, The Vibe, and Marit)

Apparently, we were too drunk or laughing too hard during this time to take any significant photos, which I am very disappointed about because after a little decorating magic, I had successfully turned Marit's cooch an alarming shade of Herpes-breakout-red, and I used the little edible pearls as nipples. Nessa's gingerpeople were all messy and had no mouths. She tried to disguise her icing spillage as cum, but I know the truth. The truth is, she's really a shitty cookie decorator. But we don't want to hurt gingerSherri's feelings, so we'll just pretend, for her sake, that it's cum and not merely nozzle spillage. Same thing really, now that I think about it.

(My finished products)

(Nessa's finished products)

New Year's Eve 2005, aka I Haven't Partied That Hard Since My 21st Birthday When the Streets of Downtown Fort Worth Were Flowing With My Vomit.

2006-01-01T22:58:00.000-08:00

After a delicious and overpriced dinner at a fancy steakhouse that employs middle aged, balding, acne-riddled waitstaff with busted ass grills and TONGUE PIERCINGS (ew), Kam and I headed over to a suite at a nearby hotel to party with his big sister, little brother and their respective significant others. The party lasted until 7:30 in the morning; mostly because we were drinking Red Bull with vodka, and quite frankly my body metabolizes Red Bull like it's liquid crack which results in UNCONTROLLABLE, NON-STOP RAMBLINGS spewing from my mouth at 100 mph for 12 straight hours. It's pretty much awesome for me, and not so awesome for everyone around me.

The success of the night can be gauged by the fact that Kam's little brother spent a lot of time puking his guts out in the bathroom, a past-time reminscent of our Vegas vacation. The entire experience can be summed up by the first thing Kam's sister said upon waking in the morning, "I have a huge, empty void where my soul should be. Someone pass me that beer."

To see the annotated photos, click here. Make sure you read the notes so you get a better idea of just how retarded we really are.

A Christmas Tale, Part 2

2006-01-01T21:06:00.000-08:00

After the raucous events of Christmas Eve, Christmas day was pretty laid back and smooth, much to everyone's surprise. Kam and I woke up and exchanged our gifties, and although I've been forbidden to post pictures I am still going to tell you people that my AMAZING, WONDERFUL, and MAJORLY TALENTED boyfriend painted me a GORGEOUS picture that I absolutely adore. I have been begging this man for no less than 3 years to "paint me something", and although he has started many a project, he is one of those people who never, ever finishes a task once started. I recently asked him how he manages to do anything productive at work, because when we're at home I can ask him a simple question or to assist me with a simple task (ie, reset the wireless router, or what time does the game start?) and I kid you not, he will stare into space for about 20 minutes, get up and pace the room 50 times, turn on the iron, change his shirt 13 times, take a swig of beer, check his email, and then look at me and say, "What did you ask me?" The guy is physiologically incapable of sitting still and focusing his attention on doing ONE THING, and in addition to his perfectionist persona, this has resulted in him never finishing a painting despite his incredible talent. So how special do I feel that the first painting he actually finished was for ME? I am so proud of him, it was absolutely the best Christmas present I could have ever asked for. BUT WAIT, THAT'S NOT ALL! He also gave me a spa package which involves such naughty things as a seaweed bath, seaweed wrap, exfoliating body polish, Swedish massage, and, MOST IMPORTANTLY, champagne. WOWEE! I just feel sorry for whatever poor soul is going to be charged with the task of not only seeing me naked but wrapping my soft, pasty white body with slimy green seaweed, especially if I've already had the free champagne because that's just a recipe for disaster.

After our early morning gift exchange and a delicious breakfast of fudge and craisins, I headed over to my mom's house for the family celebration, and Kam settled into the couch for an entire day of watching football in his undies, belching loudly, and shameless scratching his junk. That's what REAL men do on the day of our Lord's birth, you know.

I had told my mom to expect me around 10:00 am, but because I still had two ENORMOUS presents to wrap and a buttload of shit to haul out to my car, I didn't end up leaving Kam's house until about 10:00. My fucking psychotic family proceeded to call my cell phone no less than FIFTEEN TIMES in the same amount of minutes, making me rethink my desire to actually spend the day with them. What I don't understand about my family is why EACH of them has to call me to ask where I am, EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE ALL SITTING RIGHT NEXT TO EACHOTHER ON THE FUCKING SOFA. First the sister calls, asks me when I'll be there. I reply that I am about to be on my way and will arrive in about 15 minutes. APPARENTLY, that wasn't a satisfactory answer, because two minutes later my mom calls. Maybe in your family, the first thing your mom might say to you bright an early on a beautiful Christmas morn is, "Merry Christmas darling, light of my life, eldest child whom I love with all my heart!" but not in mine. The first words out of my mom's mouth were, "YOU HAVEN'T FUCKING LEFT YET, WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?" I can't really hold this against her though, because apparently she started drinking vodka at 8:00 am, and when mom starts drinking THAT early, she's pretty much belligerent and/or incoherent by about the time the rest of us are finishing our second cup of coffee. Five minutes after I assured my mother that I was ON THE WAY, my dad called. "Where are you?" he asked. "I'M ON MY WAY, DAD. CHILL THE FUCK OUT." He then asked, "Well, are you in your CAR?" "Uhhh, no dad," I replied, "I'm in my private jet." "I just want to make sure you're really on your way!" he bellowed.

HOLY MARY MOTHER OF GOD, IS THERE ANY ONE FAMILY ON THIS UNIVERSE THAT IS MORE ANNOYING?! I didn't think so. Once I arrived (at 10:20), my sister heaved this exasperated sigh and said, "FINALLY. We've been waiting for you ALL DAY to open our presents!" Everyone then ripped into their shit like a pack of rabid dogs on a deer carcass, and after about half an hour my brother threw his usual hissy fit about the fact that WE HARDLY HAVE ANY MORE PRESENTS LEFT, WE NEED TO TAKE AN "INTERMISSION", which is really just an excuse for him to secretly count all of the presents and arrange them so that he ends up with a stockpile at the end because he ALWAYS HAS TO OPEN THE LAST PRESENT. The kid is fucking nineteen years old and STILL does this. When we were children, Christmas was always a really tense and stressful time of year because my brother just couldn't handle the anticipation. He couldn't handle the lack of control. He couldn't handle the fact that he had 13 presents and I had 14. He wouldn't sleep at night for WEEKS before Christmas, resulting in a really, really cranky child come Christmas morning. Remember how I told you someone always ends up crying hysterically on every holiday? Yeah, well before my mom became the raging alcoholic that she is today, the designated crier was usually my brother. This year he came close (when he realized that dad had more presents left than the rest of us at "intermission"), but his mood quickly improved once he made my dad open six presents at once, putting my brother in the lead of the LAST PRESENT STANDING race.

There was not much drunken debauchery as the day progressed, mostly because my mom was the only one boozin' it up. We ate a HUUUUUUGE dinner (#2) consisting of turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, cranberry sauce, green beans, glazed carrots, corn, biscuits, pasta with scallops, sweet potatoes and salad. We all stuffed ourselves silly, and then vegged out on the sofa to watch the feel-good holiday movie of the season, The Exorcism of Emily Rose. At one point, my mom got up and was in the restroom for a really long time, and when she emerged my brother asked her, "Were you just taking a dump?" (I TOLD YOU MY FAMILY IS FUCKING INSANE, DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.) "No," my mom replied walking to the kitchen and pouring herself a fresh glass of vodka. "Well what were you doing then?" he persisted. "I was throwing up," she retorted. I looked at her in amazement, "Why are you pouring more booze if you just finished puking?!" Mom's classic reply? "Because I have to replace the booze I just lost!"

Shortly after, I took myself a little tryptophan-induced nappy and then began to get ready for work. I put on my scrubs, gathered my loot, grabbed my keys, and began looking around for my glasses. I couldn't find them anywhere! I knew I couldn't have lost them, I only ever set them down in one or two places. I even checked under the dining room table, where the dogs take the expensive shit they want to rip to shreds. My mom's Boston has the same propensity as Pete to slobber and gnaw on anything BUT his designated slobbery gnawable toys. But no, my glasses were not amidst the pile of half-eaten leather handbags and dirty thongs with the crotch gnawed out. After about 10 minutes of frantic searching, my mom finally suggested that perhaps my dad accidentally grabbed my glasses when he left shortly before. You see, my dad has HORRIBLE vision, but due to his staunch unwillingness to walk into any type of doctor's office for fear of a forced prostate exam, he refuses to see an optometrist for corrective lenses (BECAUSE EYE DOCTORS GIVE PROSTATE EXAMS ALL THE TIME). Instead, he self-corrects his vision by walking into Walgreen's, trying on every pair of old geezer magnifying lens glasses on the $7.99 rack, and purchasing the pair that he thinks he can see best out of. Apparently this technique is not exactly effective, because he STILL can't see for shit. Thinking that my dad would definitely know the difference between my little tortoise-shell girly glasses and his giant, Eugene Levy old man spectacles, I called anyway just to cover my bases. Turns out, my dad HAD taken my glasses, but by this time was nearly 40 miles away and could not have brought them back in time for me to get to work. He seemed to find this HIGHLY hilarious. "DAD!" I screamed, "I CAN'T FUCKING DRIVE WITHOUT MY GLASSES!" He responded, "Aww, that's bullshit. You can see just fine without 'em." As if he would know! Luckily, my sister gave me a pair of her contacts, and although her prescription is only half the strength of mine, it was better than nothing. I still don't have my glasses back.

That night at work, they fed us our free employee Christmas meal (#3) of prime rib whose consistency closely resembled that of jello, baked potato, veggies and chocolate covered strawberries. I didn't touch the prime rib (and not only because I don't eat red meat), but everything else was actually pretty tasty for hospital grub. However, once I found out what Kam was eating over at his grandmother's house, I became extremely jealous! His aunt is a chef and professional caterer, and I kid you not, when I eat her food I feel like I've found religion for the first time in my life. Lucky for me, his family felt sorry for poor ole Spoonie, stuck at work on Christmas night, and they sent Kam home LOADED UP with leftovers. When I got off work that morning, I chowed down on the most delicious breakfast I've ever had in my 24 years on this earth (meal #4). We had turducken with an amazing cajun rice and crawfish stuffing, fresh asparagus, sweet potato casserole, and some spicy succotash that was so good I had to change my panties after eating it. We finished the meal with a Vietnamese chocolate tart AND some whipped pumpkin pie. I can only hope that when I get sent to death row and the warden offers me one last meal of my choice, that Kam's lovely aunt will fix THIS EXACT SHIT. Trust me when I say that after eating a meal like that, you really wouldn't give a damn when they stuck that syringe full of Drano into your vein. That's just what succotash does to you, folks.

We spent our Monday being complete lazy asses, and then went to dinner to celebrate Kam's father's birthday on Tuesday (meal #5). One reason I was somewhat relieved to have missed out on the family Christmas activities this year is that Kam's uncle (the one married to the cream-in-your-pants chef) is a complete and total perv. I'm talking like, stand-alone moustache, undress you with his eyes, hug you ten seconds too long, totally creepy kinda perv. He always goes OUT OF HIS WAY to seek me out at family functions and ask me the SAME FUCKING QUESTIONS over and over again while he feigns interest in what I'm saying but really just stares at my hoots. Thankfully, this year Kam's little brother brought his 17-year-old girlfriend, who is much more to the liking of Uncle Creep; not only because she's younger and hotter, but also because she hasn't yet learned NOT to wear short skirts to any family functions that Uncle Creep might possibly attend. Whatever, at least he found a new victim to add to his mental spank bank, and he pretty much left me alone. All I can say is that I feel really, REALLY sorry for his teenage daughter and her friends.

So, as you can see, the rest of my Christmas festivities were pretty mild and uneventful, compared to the Christmas Eve celebration. I wish I could say the same for New Year's Eve, which should more aptly be renamed Drunken Partyholic Eve, since that's pretty much what it consisted of. More on that later, I'm too hungover to begin rehashing the night's events in my thick and foggy brain at this point. Plus, I have to give you a reason to want to come back for more.

Happy New Year, bitches.

Happy Spelunkiversary to Me!

2005-12-31T11:21:00.000-08:00

That's right, it's been a year! I can't believe the Secret Service hasn't shut this bitch down yet.

Happy New Year, peeps.

A Christmas Tale, Part 1

2005-12-30T06:15:00.000-08:00

Phew, the holidays are OVER, what a fucking relief. Thankfully, the past few weeks went by without any major incidents or dismemberments, and for that I am grateful. That is not to say that my holiday experience was by any means "normal".

Most of my life revolves around food, and this past week was no different. In fact, I ate five, count 'em FIVE, holiday meals. On Christmas Eve, Kam and I met with his father's side of the family for the annual Christmas Eve Chinese food extravaganza, aka MEAL 1. Whilst getting dressed for the night's festivities, Kam had a metrosexual moment (or two or seven), in which he could not decide what to wear. He settled upon this charming number, which I think quite subtly and tastefully screams, WHITE TRASH IN THE HOUSE.

Although I was very much looking forward to enjoying the experience of chowing down some delicious and nutritious deep-fried MSG, my plans were abruptly thwarted by the family's annoying tradition of bringing DART GUNS to the fucking restaurant and impaling anyone who is even thinking of taking a bite of mu shu with a suction dart right in the jugular. This year, Kam's uncle not only handed out the offending weapons, but gave us each an entire CRIME FIGHTING KIT, complete with handcuffs, sheriff's badges, and NIGHT STICKS (or, as the old fogies were wont to call them, "billy clubs"). FUCKING NIGHT STICKS, ARE YOU KIDDING ME?! I was stoked. Until I found out that the night sticks were made by such shoddy craftmanship that the plastic collapsed inward if brought within 30 feet of a heavy mouth breather. So I switched my attention to the handcuffs- I could totally do some serious damage with a pair of plastic handcuffs, no doubt! Until I realized that these handcuffs were the diameter of my fucking pinky finger and would only be useful in the event that a delinquent infant should attempt to snatch one too many fortune cookies from the bowl explicitly labeled TAKE ONE. So that left me armed with only my dart gun, which I was not very efficient at firing because I had difficulty cocking it [insert lewd and inappropriate joke here] and FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, SINCE WHEN DID THEY START PUTTING SAFETIES ON PLASTIC DART GUNS? By the time I'd figured out how to work the damn thing, all of Kam's reprobate cousins had stolen my darts and I was left defenseless against their guerrilla tactics. Apparently no one in that family likes me, because it seemed that all of them were simultaneously aiming directly at my FACE. Particularly Kam's two appallingly hyper cousins, named Major and Trial. But wait, THAT'S not the funny part. The funny part is that their father is a very well known lawyer, recognized for his success with many MAJOR TRIALS. Go ahead, you can vomit. I know I did. That is, after I finally figured out that the kid's name was TRIAL and not TROU; which just goes to show ya that even Texans sometimes can't understand what other Texans are saying because they are THAT FUCKING COUNTRY, YA'LL.

The only member of the dinner party considered "off limits" to any and all dart gun antics was the grandmother of those two heathens, Huge and Lawsuit. This lady was like older than Barbara Bush, and she looked like the impact of a neon rubber dart might just knock whatever wind was left in her feeble lungs right out of them. After a few beers however, Kam's little brother, who was seated right next to me, took aim with his gun and shot old Meemaw right in her old lady mug. Upon doing so, he immediately started looking around- LOOKING AT ME- as if I were the offending shooter. He then ducked below the table, under the guise of looking for wayward darts, and proceeded to laugh his ass off. Ducking under there with him, I asked, "Did you just shoot the GRANDMA?" Between gasps of laughter, all I could hear him say was, "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," over and over. The granny looked completely bewildered for the rest of the evening and I'm pretty sure that if she wasn't brain damaged before, she probably is now.

And what dinner could be complete without one of Kam's uncles busting out his REAL shotgun, conveniently kept in the back of his truck. But this wasn't just ANY shotgun, people. Oh, no. This shotgun was adorned with an airbrushed Texas flag. I've never seen anything more AWESOME in my entire life, including that one time I saw a dead body lying on the sidewalk of Westheimer.

Afterwards, Kam, his siblings and I made our way over to their parents' house, where their mother was just STARTING to decorate the tree, at 10:00 pm on Christmas Eve. If you knew his mother at all, you would so NOT be surprised by that. Nor would you be surprised by the fact that the theme she chose for decorating this years' tree was "Pagan Barbie". That's right, this was the mother of all Christmas trees. You only WISH that your Christmas tree was this awesome, or that your family was this drunk.

He's no angel.

Not finding any infants in need of restraint, we found another use for the pedi-cuffs.

After the wine was all gone, Kam's mom decided to open the bottle of expensive champagne she was saving for Christmas day. She gave the bottle to her strapping eldest son (that would be Kam) and asked that he open it without shooting the cork through her kitchen window. After giving us all a lengthy lecture on how only AMATEURS shoot the cork because it not only results in the loss of carbonation but flavor as well, he proceeded to pop the cork eight feet in the air and spray champagne ALL OVER his mom's art table, soaking all of the tiny little flowers she had painstakingly cut from hundreds of magazines in order to decoupage onto a lamp. Watch out, expert sparkling wine connoisseur coming through!

He's always displayed a striking resemblance to Corky from Life Goes On. Coincidence? I think not...

This concludes part one of Christmas 2005. I'm afraid if I combine the entire weekend's events, you'll stop reading before we even get to Christmas morning. Or perhaps you've already stopped reading, in which case, go fuck your mother.

As for the rest of you, stay tuned; part two coming soon!

MERRY CHRISTMAS, EVERYONE!

2005-12-25T18:11:00.000-08:00

From Spoonleg and Oscar (who says, "Somebody please call PETA.")

Holidays With The Spoons: Booze, Blood and Bonding.

2005-12-22T16:09:00.000-08:00

Okay, since Nessa OBVIOUSLY isn't going to give me the cookie photos anytime soon, and because what good is blogging about gingerbread trannies without visual evidence to back it up, I guess I have to suck it up and do some actual blogging of my own volition. I know, I know, please hold your gasps of awe and surprise until the end of the post.

Ever since I was a child, Christmas has been my absolute favorite time of the year. The sights, the smells, the weather, the food, the fun, the presents and, as I've aged a bit, the booze. It all comes together to create this very magical milieu that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. I wander around for weeks in this sugar-induced mental fog (which, as I've aged a bit, has evolved into a booze-induced mental fog), requiring me to hum along to tunes which have been sung by the likes of Clay Aiken, Mariah Carey, Harry Connick Jr. and 98 Degrees, the prospect of which would otherwise cause me to promptly kill myself. But not during Christmas time, oh no. This time of year it is completely appropriate to drink so much hot chocolate that the roof of my mouth is permanently scarred, despite the fact that Houston weather is holding pretty steady in the mid-70's right about now. I also have to confess that I am a total sucker for those cheesy holiday made-for-TV movies, you know the ones. There's an adult, and they don't believe in Santa because once when they were very young they didn't receive the Palomino pony they had asked for, so at the age of 37 they still hold a serious grudge against the old guy, and some poor, orphaned, toothless child charmingly restores that adult's belief in Jolly Old Saint Nick and everyone lives happily ever after. Or how about the one where the single, middle-aged mom who hasn't believed in Santa since she was 7 years old falls in love with and gets engaged to the heir to the Santa Claus throne, and when she finds out her future in-laws are the one and only Clauses, she's torn between the man she loves and his psycho, present-wielding, elf-enslaving father. I totally wanted to see that one, and when I saw the commercial I almost ordered cable JUST SO I COULD WATCH IT, OH MY GOD I WONDER WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN? I'm so not kidding, people. Anything starring Tim Allen or Arnold Schwarzenegger is quality Christmas programming in my book.

But my enchantment with the season is often mediated by the fact that my family is totally deranged. I know, you're saying, "PLEASE, what family isn't?" Well let me tell you, after you hear a few of my stories, you'll be checking your mom out of that state mental institution because, compared to my mom, she's probably pretty fucking lucid.

I have a very small family, it's just the five of us who live in Texas. My mom's parents and sibling live in Arizona, and my dad's mom and siblings reside in Pennsylvania. We haven't seen my mom's family in probably about 10 years, and we met our paternal grandmother for the first time in our lives two Christmases ago. We don't know even one of our Aunts, Uncles or cousins. This might seem strange to you, but it's just the way our family dynamics work. Both of my parents have a rocky history with their own parents and siblings, so it was not unusual for us to go many, many years without even speaking their names out loud. Since we moved to Texas in the early 90's, it has been just the five of us, and we tend to like it that way. However, I think one of the drawbacks of having a small, close-knit family is that you can't really escape the craziness of one another when gathered together for the holidays.

A typical holiday with my family involves lots of alcohol, obscenities, fighting, and blood. Hell, that's a typical Sunday evening with my family, if I'm being honest. It starts with the alcohol, usually around 10 am, so the parents are already nice and toasty by the time I arrive. My brother and I usually seek immediate refuge with one another, driven into the kitchen by our shared desire to both escape the lunacy and also to start drinking heavily in order to numb the pain that will inevitably follow. Typically, my dad stocks up on an econo-sized gallon jug of Patron; the kind of tequila smooth enough to slide down the throat of a 15-year-old with nary a gag or wince. Hey, I didn't START him drinking, but once I realized he was already doing it anyway, I figured I might as well get a drinking buddy out of the deal. I also think it's highly hilarious that after two or three shots, my little brother seems to have difficulty (well, more difficulty than usual) keeping his britches up and his opinions to himself. After we've sufficiently clouded the reality of an entire day spent with our family to a tolerable haze, we join the rest of the crew for food and fun. Some people have Christmas traditions such as saying grace before dinner, or holding hands and swaying together to the tune of some sanctified biblical hymn. In my family, it's a tradition that we can never get through a holiday meal without someone crying. And I don't mean shedding a tear or two; I mean uncontrollably sobbing into their green bean casserole while the rest of us sit nearby in uncomfortable silence. Sometimes we laugh at them, but usually, 9 times out of 10, we go with the uncomfortable silence. The offending crier, 9 times out of 10, is usually SpoonMom, although SpoonBro, SpoonSis and Yours Truly have also been known to make a cameo as the featured crier. Come on now, don't laugh. I don't make fun of your lame Christmas traditions.

Inevitably, my mom will get to the stage in her drunkenness when she laughs for hours on end at everything. It is during this phase that we take every opportunity available to make fun of her and what a crazy old coot she really is. This is the only time we are able to do so because, should anyone accidentally speak a contemptuous word against my mother either directly before or after this phase, the results will be catastrophic. But during this magical phase of drunkenness, she will laugh at anything and everything we say, so plenty of name-calling ensues at her expense. She never remembers it the next day, anyway.

Then comes the phase when, out of the blue and entirely unprovoked, my mom repeatedly asks each of us, "Why do you think I'm such a bad mother?" Despite our constant reassurance that NO ONE SAID YOU'RE A BAD MOTHER, she always dissolves into a puddle of tears. Then she starts asking entirely insane questions like, "Who is crazier, me or dad?" "Who is meaner, me or dad?" "Who will you take care of when we're old and crippled, me or dad?" and our all time favorite, "Who's a better mom, me or dad?" Unfortunately for her, the answers to these questions are never to her liking and always result in more tears. We are all highly entertained.

Then my dad's brain and liver start metabolizing the alcohol, and suddenly all of his hateful, bigoted, redneck, cranky old man personality traits come to life. We like baiting our dad by asking him about his opinions on things that he vehemently hates such as illegal immigrants, fat people, the president, children who make too much noise when they breathe or walk and Japanese cars. Mentioning any of the above will trigger a string of expletives and socially inappropriate verbiage to spew from his mouth, leaving us all in stitches. Some our best holiday video footage comes from this phase of our Christmas celebration.

Inevitably, things will eventually turn violent. I remember a few years back when my brother and I were play fighting in the kitchen, throwing and blocking little punches and kicks without the actual intent of hurting one another. When our parents saw what was going on, my dad shouted from the living room, "SHEA, QUIT BEING SUCH A GOD DAMNED PUSSY AND HIT HER BACK! ARE YOU JUST GONNA LET HER KICK YOUR ASS LIKE THAT?" My brother replied, "Dad, we're only playing. Besides, mom taught me not to hit girls!" (Funny how this had never stopped him before). My highly intoxicated mother then came staggering into the kitchen and slurred, "Here boy, let me teach you how to fight like a man. You put up your dukes like THIS, and then you swing your fist like THIS!" As my mom swung her wavering fist in his general direction, my brother moved his face ever-so-slightly and ended up getting clocked right in the pie hole. They both stood there in shocked silence for awhile, his lip slowly trickling blood, and then my mom burst into laughter. My brother of course became highly upset that his own mother had just given him a bloodied, fat lip and was LAUGHING about it, so he ran to the bathroom to survey the damage and probably to cry a little bit. My sister then began assaulting my mom with the one phrase that's a sure fire way to have her crying for hours, "WHY ARE YOU SUCH A HORRIBLE MOTHER? YOU HIT YOUR OWN SON IN THE MOUTH AND THEN LAUGH ABOUT IT? GOD, I SHOULD CALL CPS ON YOU, YOU'RE SO ABUSIVE AND CRUEL!" My mom spent the next twenty minutes laughing and crying at the same time, unsure of which emotion should predominate, until she threw up and passed out on the sofa.

As you can see, Christmas with the Spoonfamily is a delightfully magical time of year, filled with lots of love, bonding and affection. I mean, I really can't figure out why the rest of our extended family doesn't want to travel to Texas to share the Christmas spirit with us, can you? Hopefully this Christmas will be violence- and blood-free, as we have already had our fair share for the year. Witness the scene at our Thanksgiving dinner table:

When my dad stood up to leave the table, the rest of the family suddenly lost their appetite. We never did find the tip of his finger...

So Much Lube, So Little Time.

2005-12-16T00:25:00.000-08:00

Dear Patients,

Go to sleep. You're really starting to get on my nerves. I already spelunked through the cavernous depths of your ass and cleaned up the subsequent mess, what more do you want from me? I can't handle much more. I'm one diaper away from losing my fucking mind. Have you no mercy? Just do me this one favor... if your ass explodes again before my shift is over, please don't fingerpaint with it. That's all I ask.

Love,
Nurse Spoonleg

Top Ten Signs that Winter has Officially Arrived in Houston

2005-12-08T15:44:00.000-08:00

10. Today was the first time since last winter I could see my own breath in the air. Shut up, it was exciting.
9. My car scared the shit out of me today by emitting a loud *DING* when it started up, which is MINI-speak for, "HOLY SHIT, THE TEMPERATURE HAS DROPPED BELOW FREEZING, EVERYBODY PANIC!" I like this little feature of my car, but have only experienced it TWICE before.
8. Fat, ugly white people wearing FUBU track suits. 'Nuff said.
7. Today's top local news story was about a dude who was seen jogging in a t-shirt and shorts early this morning. I kid you not, they showed no less than 15 minutes of video footage of this poor soul, the camera men chasing after him as he was jogging along, minding his own fucking business. This segment was peppered with such keen journalistic observations as, "That guy is crazy!" and "He must really be serious about his jogging!" and "I'll bet he's cold!"
6. This holiday season, it's not enough to decorate your vehicle with a mere wreath or strand of tinsel. In Texas, you must have actual blinking, colored, singing, animated holiday accessories which are distracting enough to take attention away from the fact that you can't drive for shit.
5. Even non-homeless people can be seen trudging down the sidewalk wearing king sized comforters draped over their shoulders.
4. Despite the fact that I've been drinking hot chocolate almost daily for an entire month now, today was the first day I was able to do so without breaking a sweat.
3. The cloud of dust and smell of burning hair emanating from my vents is a pretty good indication that my heater hasn't seen much use in the past decade. In fact, I think this is the first time I've had to turn it on... ever.
2. My cat has taken up permanent residence under the covers on my bed. If I happen to need that particular space on the bed for my own purposes, he will begrudgingly shove over to make room, but not before pressing his cold, wet nose against every square inch of exposed skin that he can find.
1. I left the house today donning a week's worth of unwashed hair and no bra... and no one was the wiser. Thank God for hats and sweatshirts is all I'm sayin'.

Tasteless Humor Tuesday

2005-11-29T14:30:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-11-24T03:27:00.000-08:00

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!

2005-11-21T20:19:00.000-08:00

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.

Until...

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.

SPD: NEW FALL 'DO

2005-11-16T20:40:00.000-08:00

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!

Also, LOOKIE WHAT I FOUND.

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

2005-11-15T06:26:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-11T06:07:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-11-09T11:45:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-06T20:41:00.000-08:00

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

2005-11-02T19:22:00.000-08:00

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.

Smell My Feet!

2005-10-30T11:23:00.000-08:00

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.

2005-10-28T20:18:00.000-07:00

There is a lot of silence, but then you'll hear my patient. He does this all night. Every night. Cracks my shit up.

All in the Family.

2005-10-26T12:58:00.000-07:00

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?

2005-10-21T23:04:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-10T02:06:00.000-07:00

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

2005-10-06T03:31:00.001-07:00

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.

Interactive Internet: Make My Anti-war Signage

2005-09-30T01:26:00.000-07:00

Kam's grandma is this big Houston socialite who is very well known in the area. She is also a compulsive gambler and contributes about a gazillion dollars to the Las Vegas economy each month. She can pretty much stay at any Vegas hotel for free due to her status as High Roller, which according to her stories can be traced back to the early 1950's when she regarded the likes of Bugsy Siegel and Frank Sinatra to be among her close-knit group of personal acquaintances. Grandma's famous quote: "Nobody knew how to treat a customer like the mob. Las Vegas has gone to shit since they ran the mob outta town!"

All outward appearances would indicate that Kam's grandma is a total southern belle. She's got her nails perfectly manicured and polished, her hair primped just-so into a poufy little bob, her accessories paired perfectly with her outfits. She drives a Cadillac and prides herself on running with the wealthiest of Houston crowds and was often featured in the local newspapers for being the bitchenest hostess in town, back in the day. But turn your back for two seconds on dear granny, and she suddenly turns into a vicious, blood-sucking gossip. She will effortlessly berate you, your appearance, your job, your car, your intelligence, your dog and your entire family, and she'll not stop until she's traced your lineage back to the founding fathers and THEN she'll talk shit about Thomas Jefferson, too. As you can imagine, spending any amount of time around her is rather intimidating, seeing as how I know she will be picking up her cell phone within minutes of my departure to inform everyone this side of the Mason-Dixon line just how saggy my ass is.

Most of the family shrugs it off, that's just life with grandma. Especially her sons, who allow her to rule every aspect of their lives. There is no doubt in anyone's mind that Mama runs the show. She STILL tells her grown ass children where to go and what to do. She runs the family business from her bedroom. If she says the office door needs to be painted red, then by golly that door WILL be red by the next morning (and in fact, their front door IS red). Without sticking my nose where it ought not be, let me just say that granny is not, nor was she ever, too fond of Kam's mom. Because Kam's dad went ahead and married her DESPITE HIS MOTHER'S STAUNCH PROTESTS (gasp!), she has always held a grudge. She makes no secrets about her feelings towards Kam's mom. In fact, she blurts them out openly in front of anyone and everyone, in hopes that eventually the gossip will get back to Kam's mom. I'm pretty sure the feelings are mutual. She has even involved me in her crazy gossip games. She'll tell me things about Kam's mom (some of which were so completely outlandish and petty and I have to stifle laughter) knowing full well that I am going to run to Kam, slack-jawed and mortified, to tell him OH MY GOD, GUESS WHAT YOUR GRANDMA JUST TOLD ME...

So basically, when granny jumps, everyone asks how high. That's how it's always been and that's how she likes it. The exceptions to the rules are her grandchildren. I kid you not, she has some of the most fucked up grandchildren on the face of the planet (the kids on Brat Camp are angels in comparison), and I'm not just speaking of Kam and his siblings. But to grandma, those kids are fucking golden. They are the apple of her eye, which is truly how a grandparent-grandchild relationship ought to be. It just frightens me a little, because I am dreading the day when I will be batting for the same team as Kam's mom, because that team has no fans. In the battle between wife and mother, a good man always chooses his mother. This family takes that social standard to the EXTREME.

This week, grandma has been phoning the office, harassing her children, grandchildren and all of the ex-cons and strippers who also happen to be employed there about attending the anti-war protest this Saturday. If nothing else, this woman is vocal and dammit, she WILL be heard. I guarantee that you will never meet a bigger Bush hater in all your life. I encourage all airport security personnel to check her shoes thoroughly before allowing her to board an aircraft. Consider yourselves warned.

So it would appear that she might have conned her favorite grandson into driving Miss Daisy to the anti-war protest downtown. She even has a sign. Any among you who could say no to a politically impassioned 80-year-old WITH A SIGN need to hurry up and call ahead to make your reservations in Hell. Spaces fill quickly, act now.

I asked Kam what his grandma's sign says, exactly, but he is not sure. I think he was afraid to ask. I said that I want to make a sign that just has one long string of expletives, something like FUCKBITCHASSCOCKSHITCUNTLICKER. That way when I get on the news they will have to blur out my entire sign, and the people watching will say, "Wow, she is really fervent about her disdain for the war! I wonder what her sign says?" This idea was quickly thwarted by Kam, who informed me that more likely than not, a sign like that won't even make it on the air, so what's the point in even making it? Kam's brilliant idea is to have a sign that says HOW DID OUR OIL GET UNDER THEIR SAND? I tend to think this is not the best idea for a sign, because after all, we ARE in Texas and the sarcasm will no doubt be lost on many a redneck.

How about you guys? What do you think our signs should say? And make it good; I'm busting out the glitter for this baby.

PS- This post might come off as being more negative than intended. Bottom line is, how fucking cool is it that Kam has a grandma he can go to an anti-war protest with? I'd consider myself lucky if my grandma even knew there was a war going on. She still thinks OJ is a newscaster and Dennis Rodman is an NBA superstar (and to this day proudly displays his autobiography in her guest room). Kam's grams is actually a pretty hip lady, all things considered. Actually, I often end up having a good time while hanging out with her, as long as I don't let myself think about the shit talking that's going to commence once I'm out of ear shot. Bring it, grandma. May our mutual hatred of the Bush strengthen our womanly bond.

"Everything Will Be Alright"

2005-09-27T16:12:00.000-07:00

As I sit here and listen to The Killers' song of the above title, I find myself pondering if those words are even true. Sometimes I think this country is doomed, in more ways than one.

These are some photos I captured the morning after the storm. They are all from inside my neighborhood.

Directly under where it says, "Rory Bledsoe sucks at life" they had spraypainted, "Gretta, I'm going to be a doctor!" That's reassuring.

These two trees fell across the entrance to my apartment complex.

Sleep-deprived doctor poses with tree

I had my choice of front row parking spaces. Normally this area is packed, with cars even parking along the curbs.

My neighbors put these sandbags out on Friday right before the storm. The sand is still there today. I'm beginning to think they're trapped inside and can't get out because they put 1,000 lbs of sand in front of their door. Brilliant.

My apartment is directly to the left of this photo

Good News/Bad News

2005-09-24T21:31:00.000-07:00

BAD NEWS:
I've been reduced to sniffing Expo dry erase board markers for energy.
I worked 17 straight hours Friday night.
I was sent home in the morning because they had no bed for me.
I had no electricity upon arriving at said home.
I slept in the buff with the windows open, which no doubt proved quite unfortunate for the corneas of those who dared glance in the general direction of my apartment. Not unlike Medusa's reptilian mane, a mere glimpse at my cellulite-filled ass is enough to leave even the bravest of men frozen in terror with an expression of repugnance etched onto their stone cold faces.

GOOD NEWS:
I've been reduced to sniffing Expo dry erase board markers for energy.
My electricity is finally back up.
I got lots of cool pictures.
I actually saw a man outside, holding down his combover against hurricane-force winds. Unfortunately, I was unable to get a picture of the combover tragedy. (File under BAD NEWS).

Blessings to all those who found themselves in Rita's path. What a hussy!

Thar She Blows!

2005-09-23T21:10:00.000-07:00

We're waiting for the worst of it, she's almost here. Our winds in Houston are around 50mph but they are expecting up to 80mph soon. We still have power at the hospital but who knows how long that will last.

This place is a freaking disaster. My unit which typically has 15-18 patients has 33. Every bed is full. There is no place for the staff to sleep (contrary to what we were promised). There was no parking anywhere. By the time I arrived to work around 5pm, the wind was whipping around and it was already raining. I had to walk close to a mile with my suitcase and big bag just to get to the hospital. The wind was picking up all the sand from the zoo/park and it was like walking through a sandstorm in the desert. I am the only regular night staff person that showed up. Everyone else didn't call, didn't show. Kinda like the president did; he was supposed to come to Texas this morning to discuss the state's disaster plans. He, also, was a no call no show. I ask you, America, what was the last job YOU had that you could no show for and still expect to be employed the next day? I can pretty much say that most if not all of the staff members (who are REGISTERED NURSES and have LEGAL AND ETHICAL OBLIGATIONS to their patients) who no showed will likely not be employed come Monday. I wish I could say the same for the president.

When I left my apartment for work, my car was one of three in the parking lot. There were people outside, observing the abandoned buildings, and they pointed and gawked at my car as I drove by with an expression that said, "where the hell does THAT idiot think she's going?" on their faces. There were only a few other cars out on the streets.

Right now on the radio they are describing some major fires blazing in Galveston. Some people were injured pretty severely. Yesterday during the mass exodus, a bus full of elderly folks from an assisted living center caught fire, and 20-some odd residents were killed. Only a couple escaped, with major burns. They say an oxygen tank was positioned too close to the fuel tank and caused an explosion. I would like to think that whatever staff members were aboard should have known better. What a tragedy.

There were several other deaths on the road, as well. Because folks were running out of gas before they even got outside of Houston, many chose to sit in stand-still traffic without their A/C on. As you can imagine, this was quite dangerous for some elderly folks as well as some youngsters. I stopped watching the news yesterday, so I don't know many details on how many fatalities there were. I do know that when the local PD's received 911 calls, they were unable to make it to those in need because of the wall to wall traffic. No one would let the G-D ambulances through. People can be such complete assholes.

Most of the extra patients we have here on my unit are elderly people who were abandoned. They don't need to be hospitalized. They're not sick. They were just burdensome to their families who likely evacuated after dumping their "loved ones" on our front porch. I suppose it's better that they brought them here rather than leaving them home alone. There are also people who think that hospitals are shelters. I even think that one local news station BROADCASTED that this hospital was operating as a shelter (WHOEVER YOU WERE- FUCK YOU!). Many people just showed up here with some cockamaimie story about how their oxygen tank was low, or they were feeling weak, or whatEVER- normally things we would remedy quickly in the ER and send them on their way. But today, they couldn't do that. All of those "patients" had to be admitted, along with their entire extended family that they brought with them. Essentially, this IS a shelter. One such patient's wife complained to me that their bed was squeaky and how were they supposed to sleep tonight with a squeaky bed and what was I going to do to fix their squeaky bed??? Uh, sorry. Be grateful you HAVE a bed, because when I get off in the morning I will be welcomed by the floor, like the rest of the nurses here. I don't mean to be bitter, not at all. It just seems that with nearly a WEEK'S warning, people would have made other arrangements to be safe during this time rather than relying on the tax payers' dollars to put them up in a (squeaky) hospital bed that costs thousands of dollars per night. There were busses and planes that took people with lesser means out of this city. Why people wait until the last second to try to find safety is beyond me.

Otherwise, there are lots of down power lines I'm hearing about, not much flooding so far (thank god) and just a lot of heavy winds. I hope the folks in Cameron are safe- looks like they're gonna get it bad.

Keep praying people! Thanks for your concern. Let's all do what we can to help those who are going to be really affected by this storm.

Here We Go...

2005-09-23T08:55:00.000-07:00

In the final hours before Rita is projected to hit, this city is completely abandoned. The roads are completely empty, even the freeways which, less than 24 hours ago, were lined with 2.5 million cars trying to evacuate. They told folks that if you weren't out by 9am today, then you'd better stay put.

I stopped watching the news and listening to the radio. The media is way too dramatic even for me, a self-professed drama queen. I instead calmed myself by watching a few episodes of Reno 911. Lt. Dangle has a tendency to make me feel as if all that is wrong in the world can be righted with the power of his daisy dukes. So hot.

I'm all packed up to go to work and expect to be there for a few days. Although the storm has shifted significantly since Monday and Tuesday, when they first started urging people to evacuate, there's still gonna be a lot of chaos around here. The worst they are anticipating is a 6-12 foot storm surge in Galveston (compared to 20+ feet they were forecasting just Wednesday), and 75-100mph winds throughout the city. Unless the storm stalls out on top of us, there won't be much rain. We are now officially on the "clean" side of the storm. Unfortunately, that means that Louisianna is on the "dirty" side. The thought of those people experiencing yet another giant storm causes me more anxiety than if it were headed right here. Especially since until just yesterday, they weren't really forecasting the storm to be headed in that direction. I hope and pray that everyone in Rita's path has gotten the hell out of Dodge. At any rate, I suspect I'll be stuck at the hospital for quite awhile, not because of the storm so much as the fact that there will be no employees showing up to work. Everyone has left, and considering the fact that it took people 12+ hours to get from just inside the coast to just inside the city of Houston (even with the contraflow lanes open!), it is going to be no easy task getting them all back home. The process will likely take days, and until then, those of us who stayed behind have to keep things going.

I do feel a huge sense of relief, though, that Galveston is not going to be hit as hard as expected if only because my idiot dad is still at home, the only person in the entire area who did not evacuate. He is in evacuation Zone B- as in, there is ONE ZONE who is asked to evacuate BEFORE HIM, that zone being the people who have sand for front yards. My dad is like a giant kid in that he thinks rules just don't apply to him. He thinks bad things just won't happen to him. This is also why he has never seen a doctor, not once in his entire life. Don't get me started.

When my mom talked to my dad yesterday and asked him just what the hell he thinks he's going to do once that storm hits and rips apart his roof and blows out his windows, his reply was that he is going to ride his bike down to the jewelry store down the street and start looting. That's my dad. (PS dad, I like diamonds.)

Anyway, all in all I'm sick of all of the drama already and wish that we could just go ahead and get it all over with. In fact, I'm almost looking forward to the electricity going out so that these TV news morons can shut the hell up already. WE'RE TIRED OF HEARING YOUR WORST-CASE SCENARIOS. Take a break, go change your tie, SOMETHING. I'm tired of seeing your face. Holy hell, they even EAT on the air.

Bottom line, I hope everyone is safe. That seems to be the case as most establishments- including my apartment's leasing office- have been boarded up and abandoned (gee thanks, no we tenants don't need boards, but I appreciate the offer.) My car is one of TWO in the entire complex. There is just no one left behind, which is a good thing. I hope that everyone is safe and more than anything, I hope that Rita keeps losing strength. She has slowed down significantly since she started her approach from Florida. They at first anticipated her landfall for tonight, now they're saying it will be tomorrow morning.

In other news, I miss Oscar. I've never had to sleep at home without him. It's very eerie. I keep thinking I see him follow me into every room as he usually does, but as it turns out I'm just crazy. I even caught myself as I was about to call out to him last night at bedtime. I hope he's enjoying his little vacation with Nessa and her family. He is probably clawing them into submission as I speak.

So that's the word, folks. I'm getting ready to head in to work here pretty soon. Time for one last nap before the real fun begins. Good luck to everyone!

Get Up, Get On Out

2005-09-21T19:30:00.000-07:00

Rita, I have two words for you: SUCK IT.

I just dropped Oscar off at Nessa's house- THANKS, GIRL- where he will hopefully be safe and sound. A drive that normally takes 25 minutes took me three hours. The most daunting part of it is, headed back into town I was the ONLY CAR for a 30 mile stretch of highway. I must have looked like a total fucking fool.

People are panicked. Hopeless. Frantic. No one expects to return to find their home intact. Rita is now the third most intense storm ever, in the history of storms since the beginning of storms period. There is no gas. There is no water. The CVS pharmacy near Nessa's house had "RITA GO HOME" displayed on their electronic billboard. They have now started calling mandatory evacuations all over the city, my area of residence included. I can't leave, though, because I've got to work. I was told to bring changes of clothes, toiletries, food, sleeping bag, and water when I come in. We will be there for quite awhile. They are telling us there will be no power for 2-4 weeks. They are telling us Galveston will be gone.

On my way to Nessa's with Oscar, I was tuned into AM news radio. There was a woman who called in, begging for help. She was in tears. She owns a kennel on the West End of Galveston (where there is no sea wall and where the storm is expected to cause the most damage). She has 30 cats and 20 dogs and has no where to take them. Emergency Management wouldn't help her. SPCA wouldn't help her. Animal rescue organizations wouldn't help her. She doesn't have carriers or transportation. In fact, I tried to buy a cat carrier for Oscar today and there is not one single one left in this entire city. The freeway headed into Galveston had already shut down to incoming traffic, so there was no way anyone could get there to help her. In tears, she explained that she had her husband go out and buy a can of orange spray paint to mark their roof with, so that after the storm passes the rescue crews would know there were animals trapped inside. I highly doubt she'll even have a roof after this storm hits. My heart, it's officially broken.

The mayor of Galveston announced around 6pm tonight that if there is anyone left in the county, they are on their own. There are no more busses. There will be no more convoys headed out. If you're still there, they are leaving you to fend for yourself against a Category 5 hurricane.

Maybe everyone IS overreacting and behaving very emotionally due to Katrina. But so fucking what? Why would anyone expect us to act any differently? This storm is already stronger than Katrina. Although we are above sea level, there are areas of Houston that are very, VERY prone to flooding, which is why a tropical storm a few years back caused such significant damage. It's not a joke, this could be bad.

Cell phone services are touch and go at best. I talked to my dad earlier, when the storm was upgraded to Category 5, and he still insisted on not leaving. At that time, the drive from his area to Houston was over 5 hours (normally a 30 minute trek). There are no hotels in Dallas, Austin, San Antonio, Oklahoma City, Baton Rouge, El Paso. There is no where for these people to go. They are estimating that it will take more than 24 hours for them to get to Dallas, but even then there is nowhere to stay, so they will be forced to keep going. Regardless, I think everyone is wise to be safe and evacuate.

So... that's the latest. I've got nothing else. I'm gonna go pack up everything dear to me in a suitcase and take it with me to work. We'll all just be hoping for the best. I feel better knowing that my precious kitty is safe (hopefully!) out at Nessa's house. Her son was freaking ECSTATIC to see a small, friendly animal that he could kiss (open mouthed- so cute!), poke and slap. Oscar will take it and ask for another, he just loves being around people. Although, I think Baby D's squeals of delight actually frightened him a little. Damn, that baby is THE definition of the word squeal.

More later, electricity permitting.

Rita Wants to Squab

2005-09-20T17:56:00.000-07:00

Meet my dad just once, and he'll undoubtedly tell you exactly why, over fifteen years ago, he relocated his family to Texas. He cites one and only one reason for wanting to move to the Lone Star State, a place he had never before given two shits about: hurricanes.

My dad has an unhealthy obsession with hurricanes. All natural disasters, really. He's an equal opportunity storm lover. When we moved to Houston my dad was all, "Okay, we have arrived. Bring on the hurricanes!" But none came. He was livid. As he's aged, my dad's sanity has declined at an exponential rate. Each year as hurricane season approaches, my dad gets out the little storm tracking guide that is included in the local newspaper and attaches it to his fridge as his beacon of hope for the coming season. He vigilantly charts each and every storm that might, by some far-fetched warp of the imagination, reach the gulf coast. At the age of 45, my dad moved from the suburbs of Houston to Clear Lake, a developing city about 20 miles outside of Galveston. He said he was moving so that he could be closer to the storms when they came for him. He is completely fucking delusional. I think, given the opportunity, my dad would start a religion similar to Scientology; better known as Stormotology. He is anxiously anticipating The Big Storm, and when It arrives my dad will be outside waiting, ready to be delivered to the mother land, better known as Oz.

Any time there is a storm prediction, whether it be a tropical storm or a tornado or a simple thunderstorm, my dad rides his bike out to Galveston and waits for it. That is, of course, after he tracks it on his tracking guide and listens to about 16 straight hours of commentary on CNN. When Tropical Storm Allison hit a few years back, my dad was at work. He tried desperately to get out and see the storm, but being that he's the boss man and next to none of his employees showed up to work, he was stuck. As was his Corvette, which accumulated a good foot of water inside. But my dad didn't care, oh no! He was just happy that a storm of note- one with an official name- came through his city.

Don't get me wrong, my dad doesn't wish for the death and destruction associated with natural disasters. He is just fascinated with them beyond what could be considered normal for a reasonably well socialized male over the age of 8. When Katrina hit, my dad spent days locked inside his house, glued to CNN, sobbing his eyes out. In the past five years, the only thing capable of turning my dad's proud Republican heart against his beloved President was his utter incompetence during Katrina. My dad, who makes no secrets about his stone-encased, blackened and shriveled soul, actually cooked up tons of food at his restaurant and drove out to the Astrodome to feed to evacuees as they arrived on their convoy of busses. If that didn't buy my dad a ticket to Heaven, then there just ain't no way he's gonna get there. This is the man who, when told as a young 3rd grader about JFK's tragic assassination, shrugged his shoulders and proclaimed, "Sweet, we get the day off from school. Let's go steal some cars!"

With Rita fast approaching and Katrina fresh on everyone's minds, this city is a fucking loony bin. Better safe than sorry, I certainly agree, but I have never seen so much chaos in all my life. My dad said that he got into an actual PHYSICAL CONFRONTATION when attempting to purchase two cases of water. He got in a fight with a man who already had TEN PLUS cases of water in his cart, but wanted the final two to add to his collection. My dad shanked the guy and got the fucking water, but I don't know how much good it's gonna do him. When I called to find out his evacuation plan, he curtly informed me that he would be staying put. He has water, a flashlight, plenty of vodka, and is currently charging the batteries to his video camera. He is ready for that bitch Rita. I wouldn't be surprised if he has cemented the tripod to his patio, ready to catch the world-famous video footage of the worst storm to hit the Texas coast in nearly a century.

Deeper inside the city of Houston, where I live, there is also no more water. There are no carts available at the grocery stores. The checkout lines stretch far into the aisles. There was no more fucking canned tuna. NO. MORE. TUNA. This is gonna be a doozie. Meanwhile, I've taken a cue from my dad and am charging my laptop, cell phone, camera, and ipod. My mom, who lives waaaaaaay on the other side of town, far from the areas being evacuated and really no where near the storm's projected path, is already hunkered down in her bathtub, with three matresses piled on top. She is using her acutely honed meteorological psychic storm tracking skills to predict that a Category 5 hurricane is going to position itself directly over Tully Street, more specifically right on top of HER HOUSE, and rip everything to shreds. When I asked her if she could watch Oscar for me over the weekend just in case, she told me to bring a cat carrier because they would likely be fleeing on foot during the eye of the hurricane after it rips through her home with unparalleled ferocity, destroying everything which such malice that her entire neighborhood will be nothing more than floating atoms unidentifiable by the human eye. Oscar is SO not going over there.

So keep us all in your thoughts, folks. I'll be at work where I guess I'll be the safest, all things considered, but will also be working my ass off for an ungodly amount of time if this thing is actually as bad as they're predicting. And make sure you watch CNN and pay special attention to any aerial copter shots of the coast. The guy standing out on his patio with a Marlboro Red and a tumbler of vodka screaming, "FUCK YOU, RITAAAAAAA!" into the 150 mph wind would be my dad.

Are You Ready for Some SUCK?

2005-09-15T07:48:00.000-07:00

Is that not the cutest freaking thing you've ever seen? Check out www.stuffonmycat.com for more fun and adventures.

In other news, I want to apologize for being an asshole blogger of late. Things have been unbefreakinglievably busy and I just haven't made much time for posting/reading/commenting. Not that you people care; it most likely means more time for you to get out of the house and use your sexually perverse wiles on more innocent young topless hopscotch victims.

Now that football season has made it's long awaited debut, my boyfriend has officially lost his fucking mind. For the next five months, he will eat, breathe, sleep and shit football. I don't stand a chance. The only way I can even hope to get his attention in the bedroom is by dressing up like a Texans cheerleader, and that's just a disaster waiting to happen because everyone knows that they only design cheerleading costumes to fit infants and anorexics.

I suppose my predicament is no one's fault but my own. After all, I do live in Texas; state motto: FUCK THE WNBA, GIVE US MORE FOOTBALL. I challenge you to walk into any bar in this city after a Houston Texans game and NOT find at least a dozen grown men sobbing uncontrollably. I ask you, my logical-minded peers, WHY DO THEY KEEP GOING BACK FOR MORE? The Texans fucking suck! They're not the Oilers! The Oilers are LONG GONE!

DO YOU HEAR ME, KAM?!? Your beloved Oilers... they're gone! They left you and this shit-hole of a city behind at the first prospect of more money and a better stadium, and I've got news for you- THE TEXANS WILL, TOO. Why don't you try investing your dedication into something that will stick around no matter what, through thick and thin? Like syntax, gravity, Republicans or Michael Jackson (damn, that guy just won't go away, will he)? On second thought, I'm not sure I'd prefer you spend five months of the year pining over Michael Jackson. So I'll hang my head in shame, resigned to the fact that... yes, America, I am the girlfriend of a Texans fan.

If you need me, I'll be looking at pictures of cats on the internet until, oh about next January.

Therapy For The Masses: Brought To You By Spoonleg, RN

2005-09-09T23:59:00.000-07:00

I just want to take this opportunity to respond to some of my readers out there since, according to gostats.com, it appears that most if not all of you are seriously fucked up. What are you people thinking? Do you honestly believe that I won't find out what terms you googled to find my site? Because I KNOW. And now, so does your mom because I just emailed her about all the enema porn you've been downloading onto her PC. That's right, you're SO busted.

I seriously sit here in shock and awe, pondering what these people are really expecting to find when they search the internet for this shit. Whatever it is they're lusting after, I can only assume that my blog isn't it. Good God, I hope my blog isn't it. I used to be proud of my 56,000 hits; now I just cry myself to sleep at night knowing that 50,000 of them were from registered sex offenders and the other 6,000 hits were from me, checking to see how many registered sex offenders had left me comments. You people make me sick.

Examples and commentary are as follows:

Topless karaoke- Not a bad idea, actually, although I don't recall ever discussing this particular topic. I think there might be a niche for this sort of activity, kinda like last weekend when Kam mentioned to the token gay couple that there should be a Chip 'N Dales car wash offered at the end of the MINI rally. They spent the rest of the day winking at him and "accidentally" rubbing their palms all over his banana hammock.

Hopscotch topless- Now this, on the other hand, is a VERY bad idea. Ouch. Like seriously. And get real, dude... everyone knows that after the 2nd grade, hopscotch is no longer cool. I can say with much authority that in the 2nd grade, there was no part of my body that jiggled, wiggled, bounced or flapped enough to make this concept even remotely exciting.

Boobs of a nurse while examining her patient- That's just creepy and only happens in B-list pornos. Okay, there was that one time I was wearing a button-down scrub top and the sleeve got caught on the door handle and every single snap popped open just as I was asking my patient, "Are you ready for your sponge bath?" But that was only ONE TIME.

Yeti urine yoga nurse- I know exactly which post this query linked to, and I can only hope that whomever was searching this VERY SPECIFIC TOPIC was merely trying to locate my blog. Because let's face it, there can't be a lot of websites out there dedicated to ALL FOUR AT ONCE. Urinating yetis? Sure. Nurses who practice yoga? Definitely. Nurses who collect yeti urine? It's possible. But nurses who urinate on yetis doing yoga? Well let's just say you'll only find that discussion RIGHT HERE, at Casa de Spoon.

The ponytail hump hairstyle for prom- For some reason, I am the #1 search result for this. WHAT THE FUCK ARE THE KIDS DOING THESE DAYS AT PROM, I WANT TO KNOW. This is quite disturbing. Do you people have any idea how much it costs to get a stylish updo for prom? WAY TOO MUCH TO LET SOME HORNY REPROBATE HUMP THE SHIT OUT OF IT, THAT'S HOW MUCH.

Venereal monkey spelunking- Amanda B., if this was you, just fess up now and save yourself some embarrassment.

Can valtrex make you feel drunk or depressed- No, that was just the elephant tranquilizer I slipped in your drink last night. Wait, you have herpes?!

Fuck me if you love jesus- Good thing I don't.

Spanking Hermoine- Kam, how many times have I told you to leave that poor girl alone? Just because restraining orders don't apply to the internet doesn't give you the right to continually harrass innocent tween movie stars. God, I thought it was over after Lindsay Lohan hit puberty.

Anal anorexia- WHAT.THE.FUCK. How is that even POSSIBLE? "Man, my anus is starving! It's only had one stick of sugar-free gum in the past three days! Be honest, does my anus look fat?"

Sensual enema- For a small fee, I can make this happen. I'll even clean up afterwards, for an extra charge.

Foley catheter torture- See above.

Shit-slave- Do not see above, do not pass go, do not collect $200.00. Unless you buy me like, LOTS of drinks.

Penis restraints- Where I'm from, we call those wives.

Daddy molest my panties- Is this a request? A demand? An accusation? Daddies who have nothing better to molest than a pair of panties really need to work on their social skills. If I ever caught my dad groping around in my thong drawer, I'm pretty sure I have to promptly regurgitate my last 3 meals into his briefcase.

Mommy come wipe me I feel so durty- Wow, get help. STAT.

Pimpstress Mocha- Uh oh, someone from the club tracked me down by my stage name.

She amputee on her legless butt- I think I just blacked out for a few minutes. Holy fucking grossness, Batman. HEY, DUDE, YOU FORGOT TO MENTION THE COLOSTOMY BAG. Because the only thing sexier than two stumps and an ass is two stumps, an ass and a colostomy bag. Oooh, we could call her, "Stumpstress Mocha".

Ben Affleck's SAT score- Might I suggest... GETTING A LIFE. (addendum: this was one of only two of these phrases that I actually took the time to google myself. Upon deeper reflection, I realized that I really DO wanna know Ben Affleck's SAT scores. Only because I'm ultra-competitive like that, and really want bragging rights to say that I creamed Ben Affleck on the SAT's. NOW who needs a life??)

I got a 970 on my SAT- Wow. If this is the same person who did the previous search, I have to admit that I think even Ben has your ass beat. In the club of "People Who Did Better Than You On The SAT's", everyone IN THE GOD DAMN UNIVERSE is a member.

If you don't know me by now you will never ever ever know me song lyrics- This is my personal favorite. In the name of posterity I will answer this query now, to make sure than any future readers seeking this information will find their every desire satiated.

If you don’t know me by now
You will never never never know me (ooh)

All the things that we’ve been through
You should understand me like I understand you
Now girl I know the difference between right and wrong
I ain’t gonna do nothing to break up our happy home
Oh don’t get so excited when I come home a little late at night
'Cause we only act like children when we argue fuss and fight

If you don’t know me by now (if you don’t know me)
You will never never never know me (no you won’t)
If you don’t know me by now
You will never never never know me (ooh)

We’ve all got our own funny moods
I’ve got mine, woman you’ve got yours too
Just trust in me like I trust in you
As long as we’ve been together it should be so easy to do
Just get yourself together or we might as well say goodbye
What good is a love affair when you can’t see eye to eye, oh

If you don’t know me by now (if you don’t know me)
You will never never never know me (no you won’t)
If you don’t know me by now (you will never never never know me)
You will never never never know me (ooh)

If you will excuse me, it is now time for me to schedule a lobotomy to rid myself of all of these disturbing mental images. You people disgust me.

George George of the Jungle.

2005-08-29T00:46:00.000-07:00

Growing up, we had these neighbors, the George's, who owned a very large Rottweiler named Buster. The George's lived on Jubilee Dr. and we lived on Bolington Dr., and our two backyards shared a fence. Let me just start by saying that the kids on Bolington Dr. and the kids on Jubilee Dr. did not intermingle. In fact, we Bolington kids considered the Jubilee kids to be our arch nemeses. We avoided eye contact while at the neighborhood pool and sat on opposite sides of the school bus, to avoid any physical confrontations or riots. Yeah, that's life in the 'burbs for ya. I'm just keepin' it real, yall.

Anyway, the George's had three kids, Jodie, Sam, and Ashook. WHY IN GOD'S NAME they gave one of their children the dreadfully ethnic name ASHOOK while the other ones got completely normal, Americanized names is totally beyond me, but I can say that we exploited poor Ashook and his culturally diverse moniker to the best of our childlike abilities. Ashook was my brother's age, possibly a little younger, and he made no secrets about the fact that he perceived my brother to be his "best friend". I think his reasoning for this was that our family was one of only two in the entire neighborhood with a large trampoline in our backyard, and ours was the only one without the enclosed mesh walls used to prevent a brave juvenile from backflipping head first into the cement driveway or flinging their frail body from the rooftop onto the trampoline in an effort to bounce high enough to land on a tree branch six feet above (sure my family valued safety, but not enough to pay the extra $50 for that snazzy feature). In fact, because of our trampoline MANY kids wanted to be our friends; and what other reason could there be, really? Shea was most mortified by Ashook's friendly advances, though, and rightfully so. Often times, we would come home from a family outing and open the driveway gate, only to find Ashook, playing contentedly alone in our backyard. One time, he even managed to get into our house. We came home and found him sitting in front of the TV, with a juicebox and a pile of barbies at his feet. Ashook called our house so often that we had to open a second phone line and hire an answering service just to accommodate his calls. For this reason, plus the fact that Ashook alerted the entire neighborhood to their BFF status, Shea truly despised Ashook and tried at all costs to avoid him.

In general, the George's were not a social family. Not that we minded; since they lived on Jubilee, we would not have invited them to our Fourth of July Bar-b-que's anyway. We used to spy on the George's from our vantage point on the trampoline, but because they usually kept their blinds shut and rarely let their children out to play, the only glimpses we ever really caught was of their enormous Rottweiler, Buster. Poor Buster was a giant of a soul, and they kept that dog caged in a tiny, chain-link chicken coop. Because we felt sorry for dear Buster, my siblings and I made every effort to try and provide him with some sort of entertainment and stimulus. In other words, we spent our summer afternoons jumping on the trampoline and flinging useless items at Buster's cage in an attempt to get him to bark and/or attack. These items typically included broken toys, action figures, trash, our sister's most prized possessions, and on more than one occasion, my brother's skidmarked tidy whities that he didn't want our mother to discover. Most times, we would find these items returned the next morning, strewn across our backyard like so many decrepit lawn ornaments. Needless to say, Buster's father did not enjoy our antics.

One day Buster actually ESCAPED from his chain-link prison. Of course, first item on his list of "Things To Do When I Bust Out of This Joint" was to violently attack our family, which he did with much gusto. My mom was in the backyard, innocently sweeping the porch of my brother's pet animal carcasses and venomous bayou marine life, when Buster lunged at the fence, causing it to splinter and break, and immediately bounded towards my mother's delicate 5'2'' frame at roughly 100 miles per hour. Within seconds, he had her pinned to the ground and was viciously licking her face with his deadly canine tongue. After a violent struggle, my mom escaped from Buster's Clutch of Death and ran into the house, slamming the sliding door behind her. Buster then began flinging his 100+ pound physique against the glass door, which immediately became covered from top to bottom with dirt and saliva. It was like Cujo relived. We were prisoners in our own home, waiting for our neighbor's insane dog to tire of his assault upon our patio door. Meanwhile, my mom was frantically trying to call the George's to inform them of their pooch's escape, but their line was busy. Suddenly I got this visual of Ashook sitting in his room, drawing hearts around Shea's photo in the yearbook and repeatedly pressing redial on the family phone.

"Mom," I said, "Just hang up and wait for Ashook to call."

Sure enough, about five minutes later the call came. "Hello, this is Ashook, can Shea play?"

"No, Ashook, Shea isn't home, but..."

"Oh, okay, goodbye."

"WAIT! ASHO-"

Click.

"DAMMIT, MOM!" I yelled, "You should have told him Shea is waiting for him in the backyard with matching Batman and Robin costumes, that way he'd come running and the dog could attack HIM, and then we could kick the two of them over to the other side of the fence and then they'd both be on the George's property and therefore not our problem."

Just as the foundation of our house began to crumble, the seismic activity caused by the earth rattling under Buster's enormous girth must have drawn the attention of Mr. George, who emerged from his house with... wait for it... A SLICE OF CHEESE.

That's right, Mr. George was standing in his own back yard, looking directly into ours through a hole in the fence shaped like Buster's mammoth torso, donning nothing more than a pair of shrunken boxers and a Kraft American single.

"Buster, Buster!" He timidly cooed as the beast's hot, acrid breath began to melt our metal door frame and the pavement began to crack and bow beneath his massive cloven paws.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" My mother screamed from behind the glass door. "HE TRIED TO GNAW OFF MY APPENDAGES, I SERIOUSLY DOUBT A SLICE OF FUCKING CHEESE IS GOING TO SATIATE HIM!"

But Mr. George persisted, dangling his limp processed cheese-flavored square from 100 yards away. Eventually, his ploy was a success and Buster went galloping towards his owner, who propmptly grabbed him by the collar and was subsequently dragged around the back yard in circles until his legs were nothing more than mangled and bloodied stumps. Meanwhile, he beckoned my mom to emerge from the house so that he could discuss the situation with her. My mom was hesitant of course, but agreed to risk further exposure to bodily injury because she wanted to make sure she told Mr. George in no uncertain terms that he'd be responsible for any repairs necessary, and to also find out what type of steak Buster would prefer with his lye.

I stayed indoors since it was my duty to use the broom handle to drag my mother's mangled corpse back inside in the event of a casualty, but according to my mom, Mr. George took that opportunity to HIT ON HER. That's right, he told her all about his marital problems and asked her questions about her job, her hobbies, her education and her cup size. ALL WHILE THE MONSTROUS BEAST FROM HELL WAS TRYING DESPERATELY TO GET CLOSE ENOUGH TO SNAP HER THIGH IN HALF AND GRIND ITS BONES INTO SAND WITH HIS COLOSSAL FANGS. Eventually, my mom excused herself after informing Mr. George that he'd be receiving a bill for the fence repairs in the morning.

"Oh, call me George, please," Buster's father protested.

"George?" My mother asked, slightly confused.

"Of course, we are neighbors, we should be friendly enough to call one another by our first names."

"Your name is... George George?" My mother was stifling her laughter at this point, so she just ran inside and left the two low down dirty dogs in the yard together, wallowing in pity over their dually unsuccessful attempts to mount my mom. Meanwhile, my family spent a pleasant evening sitting around the fire and bonding over our love for judging others, especially persons unfortunate enough to be named George George.

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