My Epidemic

My nephew never ceases to amaze me. He's 6 and sometimes I think he's smarter than I am.

Today we were putting a puzzle together and watching SpongeBob Square Pants (Yes. This is the 2nd reference to SpongeBob. Keep count people.) when SpongeBob started ranting about Crabby Patties.

(For those of you unaware of what exactly Crabby Patties are, they are the under-the-sea answer to fastfood burgers. SpongeBob himself is the burger flipper and, from what I understand, he lives entirely off of Crabby Patties.)

Me: "What exactly are Crabby Patties made out of?"

Kam: After a few careful moments of consideration, "Meat."

Me: "Well, yeah. But what kind of meat?"

Kam: "Hamburger."

Me: "But how do they get the cows down to the bottom of the sea? And had do they kill it and grind up the meat? I mean, SpongeBob lives in a pineapple. That's pretty small compared to a cow. I don't even think it's possible. How could it be cow?"

Kam: With the most incredulous look on a small persons face that I have ever seen, "I don't know, Jessie. I'm only 6-years-old! I don't have all the answers. That's your job."

Me: "Oh."

Kam: "So?"

Me: "So, what?"

Kam: "How do they get the cows down there?"

Me: I thought for awhile on the topic then nodded sage-like and announced, "I'm not entirely sure it's really cows at all."

Kam: "Then what is it?"

Me: "Crab?"

Kam: "No. The Crabby Patty owner is a crab."

Me: "Soylent Green is people!"

Kam: Silence

Me: Silence

Kam: "It's cow."

Me: "Okay."

I later tried to regain my all-knowing status by giving a lecture on how life is like a puzzle, if you take a moment to study the situation the pieces will just fall into place while if you just start shoving two random pieces together blindly then...shit gets all fucked up. He didn't seem to appreciate this speech much either.

I got stuck at home last night. It was a combo of snow, shitty tires, a sick mother and bored 6-year-old. It sucked. My first night in 3 weeks I had the option to go out and I was sitting at home building a lego-racer and diligently placing the racing stripe stickers were my nephew directed.

When the kid finally drifted off into his peacefull lego dreams, I settled in next to my mom and watched her flick through the channels restlessly. When I say restlessly I mean how a 90-year-old blind woman restlessly rumages the articles of the tv guide by pain-stainkingly reading each page, assessing it's grammar and then moving on to the next.

When my mother's ministrations landed on the HBO channel featuring the nightly titty special, I laughed quietly to myself.
"Busty Cops II."
"Yup," I snickered.
She read the plot information outloud, " 'Voluptous vixens travel back in time to defend and enforce justice'."
"I heard it won a bunch of awards."
"Really?" She sounded interested now. "Well then."

With my nephew on the couch next to me and my dad reading his latest novel on the life of Jesus Christ in the chair between us, my Mom flicked the channels to Busty Cops II and shot off the couch in horror.

I laughed till I was in tears as the dogs began howling in unisons at the moans and grunts coming from the tv. The big screen tv.

Two huge breasted (I mean huge. These things were like pumpkins glued to these women's chests.) bounced up and down on a very happy guy, but not very attractive (Do you ever notice the guys in porn aren't really that attractive?) while some cheesy special effect lights formed a tunnel around them. If I were to venture a guess I'd have to say they were travelling back in time at that point in the scintillating Busy Cop plot line.

My mom struggled with the new universal remote she'd so proudly acquired earlier in the day, while my dad bore a look of absolute disgust. I rolled to the floor and nearly pissed my pants.

When the room was plunged in silence, the only noise the light breathing of the still innocent 6-year-old on the couch, my mom sent a look my way that openly suggested I hide my face in shame. Instead, I rubbed the fat tears from eyes, lurched to my feet still holding my stomach in mirth and announced, "Well, that made my night." And made my way to bed.

Once again the Busty Cops came to the rescue on an otherwise shitty Saturday night. Now I realize why adolescent boys love them so.

Labels: All things Vagina

brrring. brrring. Brring. BRRING!

"Goddamn fucking phone. I hate you. I hate you so hard...What."

"Hey, Babe!"

"Why are you so happy?"

"I just bowled a 220. What are you doin'?"

"Cleaning up dog piss. Fatty had a seizure and peed all over me."

"Cool, cool. Can I come over and pee?"

"Pee?"

"Yeah."

I blinked at the distinctly yellow puddle in the middle of my sofa. "...sure. 'Cause that's how I envisioned my Thursday night going. Full o' pee. No class tomorrow? That's okay, you get pee!"

"Okay! I'll be there in two minutes."

"Whatever."

Click.

2 Minutes Later

"Babe!" Boyfriend burst into my living room with all the flourish of a fat dragqueen with oranges shoved down his bra and his dick taped back. "I ruv you!" Then danced into my bathroom and disappeared.

I murmured incoherently while finishing the clean up of the seizured dog urine/mouthfoam combo all over my sofa.

Boyfriend launched himself back into the living room, bounded over to the sofa and plopped down as I rolled the remains of Fatty's mess into a ball and stared at the new peeing menus on my sofa.

I sniffed. Sniffed harder. Stared at the big dumb grin on Boyfriend's face. "Are you drunk?"

"No!" He grinned harder.

"You are. You're drunk." I threw the soiled towels in a pile in the corner and howled, "Why the hell do you get to get drunk when I'm home cleaning dog pee!"

"Aw." Boyfriend stumbled toward me, grabbed my face and kissed my nose...atleast tried kissing my nose instead I got an eyeful of saliva. " 'Ou had to work." Baby talk. I fucking hate baby talk. That alone should have clued me into how trashed he was.

" 'Ou had to work 'ard and I didn't." He smiled and flopped back on the sofa like a dying carp.

I put the back of my hand to my forehead in resignment. No drinks for me. And after the urine/mouthfoam incident still evident on my jeans, I fucking needed a drink.

A distinct smacking noise snapped my attention back to the drunk sitting on my couch. Boyfriend cocked an eyebrow at me and smacked his lips again.

"What?"

"Do you have any of that lippy chappy stuff?"

"Lippy chappy...chap stick?"

He nodded excitedly. I found myself nearly rubbing behind his ears at the excitement. Chap stick, boy! Is it chap stick? Jimmy needs chap stick in the well? Good boy! Good drunk cop on my fucking pee soaked sofa!

"I don't have any." I did. But I thought it be vastly more entertaining to see what he'd do next.

He pouted. "What about that..." He ran his finger over his lips in mock lipstick application.

"You want lipstick?"

"Nah! That's gay. I want that glossy stuff that tastes so good."

"Lip gloss? You want lip gloss instead of chapstick so you don't feel gay?"

"Yup."

"Okay." I fetched the pinkest lip gloss I owned, completely ignoring the stash of chapstick next to it. "Here ya go."

I watched him apply it with a careful concentration I didn't think possible, and then smack his lips together before turning a plumply glossy drunk grin on me.

"How much did you have to drink?"

"Three."

"Three what?"

"Three beers."

"Bullshit." I studied him again. "Three pitchers more likely."

He laughed, "You're so smart!"

"You drank three pitchers of beer?"

"Each."

"Each? Who was with you? Why wasn't I the one drunk bowling with you?"

" 'Ou had to work."

"Stop it."

"It was just some guy. I was there. He was there. And it just happened."

"Oh God." I put my hand over my eyes again. "Don't ever say that again."

He smacked his lips in answer.

"I swear if you ever show up at my house again drunk," I waved a stern index finger at him. He followed it obediently. "Without inviting me! I'm putting you in a dress."

He studied me carefully while I went to the kitchen but remained silent. I was in the middle of reheating some Mexican food for the drunk Mexican cop on my couch and wondering exactly how he was issued a fucking gun when I heard him announce in a very evident huff, and with an amount of pride in his voice I very rarely heard, "I'd look hot in a dress."

When I turned to stare at him he'd become completely absorbed in the latest episode of Top Chef and was mocking the French guest judge.

Labels: The Boyfriend (duh Duh DUH)

One of the main reasons I'm a Religion major is due to the fact that I brutally lost my own faith during the one time in my life I needed it the most. I don't usually tell the story to strangers, or friends for that matter, but every once in awhile I'll find myself reciting the whole bloody story like I had absolutely no choice but to do so.
A week ago I had my first Senior Seminar class. We were discussing topics for grad papers and all that when the teacher ordered us to jump up, announce our names, main area of interest and what propelled us into our fields. I listened to everyone's half-ass, "Yeah, and then I just sort of ended up here and now I'll graduate blah blah blah," and when it was my turn I found myself sharing the fact that my brother's deaths had more to do with my educational decisions than I'd care to acknowledge most days.
Suprisingly, I almost cried. I don't usually tear up when talking about it. It's been 5 years and I'm able to relive the details of that night and the ones that followed without breaking down or screaming, but the progress was hard won. But through the whole shitty ordeal my faith lingured some how. It hung on my a string until a pastor came to me while I paced the hall outside my brother's hospital room and told me that they were burning in hell. All of them. My brothers, my buddhist grandmother. They were suffering eternally. My faith snapped and so did I. The pastor was lucky I recognized his face was not the one that had stabbed my brother.
Today, in the same class, I noticed a girl obviously waiting for someone at the door as I got up to leave. She was waiting for me. I'd had her in other classes before and thought of her as one of the few that actually knew what the hell she was talking about and therefore was even more curious when she held the door open for me and followed me out.
"Can I ask you a question?"
I smiled at her, "Sure."
"You're the one that lost your brothers, right?"
"Yeah." My smile deflated.
"Can I ask when it stops hurting?"
I stopped. "You lost someone?"
She nodded but wouldn't meet my eyes. "My brother. Two years now."
We started to walk again and now I couldn't meet her eyes either. "It doesn't. They say it does but it really doesn't."
She nodded again as if she already knew that. "I thought so."
"I mean it took me 3-years just to be able to deal with it and still even now I find myself dealing with bouts of depression."
She nodded still but managed to meet my eyes. "I was hoping it just wasn't me."
"No. It's not. It's been 5 years and I sometimes can't get out of bed. If it weren't for my nephew I don't know what'd I do."
She nodded some more. "Thanks. I apologize for what the pastor said to you. My father is a pastor and he's not like that. Some of us aren't like that."
"I know. People are people."
"Good. I just wanted you to know."
"Okay."
"Thanks."
"You too."

Labels: Scholarly Articles of Interest

Boredom will drive you to do some crazy shit. Like shuffle your work media library for no other reason than a email survey.

Let songs decide things about you

So, here's how it works:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, iPod, etc.)
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie about the songs (they can be funny if you just leave them)

1. What's my mood like right now?
i feel good - james brown

2. How's tomorrow going to be for me?
bitch - d12

3. What kind of person am I?
judith - pantera (That song is so hot.)

4. Am I loved?
the last sunrise - aiden

5. How can I achieve my highest potential?
ain't no sunshine - bill withers

6. What should I do with my life?
immortal - evanescence

7. Is everything really going to be alright in the end?
the undertaker - puscifer (Wow. That's fucking depressing.)

8. What is my best quality?
walk away - kelly clarkson (Um...independence?)

9. How does my social life look?
i will survive - cake

10. What's the meaning of life?
back then - mike jones (Um...showing up high school bitches?)

11. What do people think of me?
toxic - britney spears (Ha! That's awesome.)

12. Would I make a good lover?
irreplacable - beyonce (Again. Fabulous.)

13. How crazy am I?
hold me down - tommy lee

14. Will I have a good life in general?
gold lion - yeah yeah yeahs

15. Can (insert name here) ever really love me?
faith - limp bizkit

16. Can me and (insert name here) ever be more than friends?
comin' undone wit it - korn & da franchize boyz

17. What's going to happen to me this week?
liberation - disturbed (From what?)

18. Where will I be a year from now?
love song - 311 (Awesome.)

19. What is my fondest wish?
lil bit - 50 cent (Sex?)

20. What is the love of my life doing at this very moment?
walk it out - unk

21. How did my parents meet?
going under - evanescence (Ew.)

22. How will I die?
pump it - black eyed peas (Yes! I'm dying during sex!)

23. What song will be played at my funeral?
immortal - evanescence (Aw. That's cool.)

24. What will happen after I die?
ms new booty - bubba sparx (I must be donating my ass to science or something.)

25. What will I dream about tonight?
its not the pale moon - norah jones

26. What should I be working on right now?
over - evans blue

27. What's my roommate up to currently?
fell in love with a boy - joss stone

28. What did I do last weekend?
i'm back - james brown (Yes. I felt for the James.)

29. Describe me.
i hate everything about you - three days grace (I knew my computer hated me. It planted the pube.)

30. What does my music player think of me?
crawling - linkin park (See! It hates me.)

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings

I just poured rubbing alcohol on an open wound (read: hangnail) and it burned like a mother fucker, but I did not care. I, infact, couldn't have cared less at that moment because I was in a mad dash to sanitize my desk.
Step back a second with me while I describe the scene to which I came to find at work tonight. A quiet night as far as C-shift is concerned. A hand-full of people including myself, working diligently in Data to the hum of printers and John Tesh. Doing what little data workers do so as not to receive bitchy, pointless, entirely round-about and unclear emails about petty things like the volume of individual radios in each cubicle.
Within moments of entering Data my cellphone was a buzzin' and I listened to my mother babble about something for a few minutes on the work phone (While she dialed my cell), discussed dinner with Sunshine, checked my email, sadly looked over the pictures from James Brown's funeral and then realized...something was tickling my palm.
I lifted my hands lightly from the keyboard, wondering what had me distracted from pictures of the late, great, Godfather of Soul...and then I saw it.
Thinking back now, I should have expected it. B (a pious cowoker) had been telling me for weeks my desk was disgusting. But seeing as I shared it with two other shifts and managed to keep it reasonably organized on my own, I didn't think I should do much more than occasionally shifting a stack of papers from this side to that or perhaps heroically ridding my little space of excess paper clips by launching them at Sunshine.
But lately there had been a used toothpick stashed somewhere about my desk nearly every night I came in. And it was really starting to bother me but not to the point of bitching at the ladies from another shift who would no doubt take it as a grave insult and write a serious letter of disdain to my boss or worse...my mother (the boss' boss' boss). So I lived with the toothpicks, taking great care to wrap them in layers of napkins before throwing them in the trash.
Oh, but the background gets better before we return to the mysterious object tickling my palm. Poor B swears she got herpes from one desk in Data. Not mine. No, thank God, not mine. The desk next to mine has from then on been dubbed "Herpilicious." I refuse to sit there unless it comes down to the Herpes desk or the desk of a man that can't wear any sort of deodorant or cologne due to his wife's allergies. (Bullshit.) And smears dear pee all over himself on a regular basis in hopes of gutting Bambi. (A hole.) No thanks I'll take cautious herpes over callous deer pee. Thanks though.
So back to my palm...it was a pube. I shit you not! A fucking pube wedged between the Alt & Start key of my keyboard. I nearly puked. Right there. Right on my monitor. Nearly let loose and let fly chunks of...what did I have for lunch...soup. Soup! Oh the soup could have flown! Instead I kept my composure, in that I did not puke but instead ran frantically for B's secret stash of orange-scented sanitizer. I ran like the fricking wind (If the wind was wearing jeans and clogs) and poured the alcohol all over my hand (And hangnail) and desk in giant puddles of orange. I was nearly in tears as I flipped my keyboard and hit it frantically against the desktop. Things went flying everywhere! Bits of skin! Nails! More short, dark curly hairs that should never have seen daylight except for perhaps at a retired nudist colony in Florida! Oh! I was nearly in tears as I yanked the collar of my shirt over my nose so as not to inhale the bits of body scraps that had flown in the air and were now circulating stealthily around the room. Crazy Bob laughed as I dropped my keyboard on the desk with a sharp bang and shrieked at the continuous stream of things pouring out from between the 'k' and 'j.' I yelled at him to 'Shut up Bob!' This was no laughing matter.
It took me well over an hour of sanitizing before I would touch my desk again. I cleaned everything from the keyboard to the monitor to the speakers to my phone and chair and even wiped gently over the frames placed on a shelf a foot above my head (Though how someone would get a pube way up there without odd looks from fellow data slaves, I can't even imagine.).
I don't want to know who's pube it was. I never, ever wish to think of it again. I only bring it up here and now because there was no way not to bring it up in my blog. You people are privy to the most embarrassing and humiliating moments of my life.
The story of the pube that had made itself at home between my Alt & Start key will live in infamy till the day I die...or I get bored with blogger. Whatever.

Labels: Workin' Hard or Hardly Workin'?

For Xmas I received the 4th season of Scrubs. This was both good (It kept me busy for 3days straight) and bad (I've begun narrating my life in my head).

At first it was little things. Like standing in the chaos of the Day After Xmas sales and watching my mom wrestle other middle-aged women for snowman wrapping paper or little dangling snowflake ornaments with our names on it, and describing my mother's tenacity with a warm fondness. Or watching Boyfriend booty dance in Walmart with a mixture of irritation and humor, and trying to define love. But then it all came to a head when the other night I was making dinner and watching Ice Age 2: The Meltdown.

As you might of guessed from previous blogs I love cartoons. Love them. And as improbable as they sometimes are (A green boy that can change into animals at will? Fantastico!) I sometimes find myself unreasonably angered by the smallest things. For example in The Meltdown, Manny the Mammoth is in search of others of his kind b/c he fears he's the last giant, hairy elephant thing. But alas! He finds himself a pretty little female mammoth with the voice of Queen Latifah and falls in love. But that's not all. When she becomes caught in a quickly submerging cave o' death (Long story), Manny comes to the rescue. He swims, I repeat swims to her aid while fighting off two giant crocodile-looking things and manages to pull her out of the cave, swim to the surface and tug her to safety.

I glared at the tv in anger, a piece of rotini half-way to my mouth. How the hell was the mammoth swimming with another mammoth securely tucked under one arm? What the hell?! Then I realized not only was I unreasonably upset at the creators of Manny and his motley crew, but I was narrating my anger in my head! I was making arguments against the chances of a mammoth, covered in thick arctic fur, swimming to safety with not only his own fat to carry but also the fat of another. And how was he holding her?

The growing amount of arguments in my head circled and paced in rage. Taking on a life of their own. And a voice of their own as well! Not my voice. No. Not mine. JD's. JD from Scrubs was in my head and bitching relentlessly about the improbability of a mammoth life-guarding another in the impending meltdown that was the end of an iceage.

And so, I've taken a break from Scrubs. Instead investing myself securely in the culinary drama that is, Top Chef.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings

Realized my 3-year-old cousin has this uncanny 6th sense that allows him to know when an adult is falling asleep and the astonishing ability to launch himself at them at full-speed from anywhere in the house.

Made out like a crazy friggin' Christmas bandit. Presents all around! It was crazy.

Listened to my mother's long disturbing discription of how EXACTLY she planned to kill my step-grandmother by stabbing her in the heart (I'm not entirely sure it would do the job.) with a fork we used for turkey instead.

Watched my dad call my 27-year-old cousin a pussy for not wanting to go outside in the cold to grill his own wife's steak. Pussy indeed.

Fell asleep watching Talladega Nights. Twice. That shit was dumb.

Practiced smuggling midgets across the border with my giant new camoflage luggage (My brother's gift to me.) with my dog as a guinea pig.

Built a fort of pillows and throw blankets. Then my cousins found me and tore the thing down.

Received a mass amount of giftcards to my ultimate happy place. Borders. Hooray!

Had my stupid little (Ha!) brother attack me with what I can only describe as the Vulcan Death Grip in the kitchen for my Christmas Pizza Rolls.

Played hide and seek with my 3 & 4-year-old cousins only to realize Mason's achilles' heal. If I said, "Ready or not..." He would answer from where ever he had hidden, "Come and find me!" or "Jessie, we're downstairs! Come and find us!" or "I'm in the bathroom, behind the door, under the towel! Come and find me!"

Watched the annual family fish fry in disgust! Reheated a crispy chicken breast from KFC for my own annual Christmas dinner. Put it on a fancy Christmas plate and created a new tradition. Christmas Chicken!

Took a shot of vodka with my aunt to offset the high-pitched screaming of my step-grandmother and mother in the kitchen.

Watched my aunt sputter uncontrollably after the shot. Spit OJ all over my uncle because I couldn't stop laughing.

Accidentally punched my step-grandmother. Oops. (I say as I punch my fists in the air in absolute victory.)

Sliced bread.

Listened to this exact conversation and almost pissed my pants from laughing:
My Uncle: "Missy got me 'The Kite Runner'."
My Mom: "Oh yeah? I didn't know they'd made it a movie."
My Uncle: "They didn't."
My Mom: "Oh..."
My Uncle: "I can read."
My Mom: "Oh!"

Watched a drunk Santa stumble into my Grandfather's house and deliver presents to the kids only to hear him call my cousin Mason, "Nathan" for a half-hour. Then had to shove my fist in my mouth as my other cousin said, "He smells funny. And not cookie-funny either."

Listened to my uncles and brother chant, "Mom! Meatloaf! Fuck!" Over and over.

Confessed to my family that I had had the "sex talk" with my 13-year-old cousin in the mall a few weeks ago. My dad looked at me with his steely-cop-stare and said, "But it's not like you had anything to tell her." I nodded like a hypnotized bird staring into the eyes of a cobra.

Forked over my Xmas money to my hording little brother because he didn't want anything. Yeah, well. I wanted a gym bag and instead got camo luggage, you little bastard.

Was forced to listen to Rod Stewart tribute songs for 45-minutes with my dad.

Listened to my Mom randomly yell, "I'm all hopped up on Mountain Dew, Grandpa! I'll come at you like a spider monkey!"

Got blamed for my mother's sweater being the wrong size. I had absolutely nothing to do with that sweater.

Struggled for three days, under the guise of Santa and his elves, to get my nephew's Robosapien (A break dancing robot) to work only to have him announce, "But I wanted the robot dog." Little shit.

Listened to my Grandfather tell me, in great detail, all about his diarrhea.

Played a cut-throat game of Scrabble with a winner takes all pot of $30 with my family.

Cackled evilly as my brother called my mom a "dirty cheater" and stomped off when he lost.

Merry Christmas to All! 6AM I'm hittin' the mall!

Labels: Holiday (Cue Madonna)

First things first, I have to apologize for erasing my earlier post about Jane Goodall. I really had no choice. Stupid MySpace wouldn't let me edit the thing so I opted to erase it completely. There were far too many words misspelled for my peace of mind.
The basic gist of the post was to celebrate my new love for "Rob & Big" on MTV. Big Black is a god. Instead of going into some long diatribe (That will just distract from the even longer diatribe below) I'll sum up how incredibly cool he is with a quote from the last episode I caught in which he said,
"I'm just a big silver-back gorilla looking for his Jane Goodall."
Epic.
But back to the point of this post, I've made it pretty well known that I hate prissy men. Give me a manly man fixing my sink over a Metrosexual calling a plumber, anyday. I'll admit, those Queer Eye For A Straight Guy dudes are by the far the funniest gay men on television but they better not ever come near my boyfriend or male relatives. I'd cut them into little itty pieces which I would mix with catfood and donate to the local animal shelter. The only thing left would be their expansive multicolored scarves...which I would steal and regift. Happy Holidays!
So here's a guide for all you poor guys who fell into the Metrosexual wave and now don't know how to resurface into the realistic world of hardcore manly men. Take it from me, I was raised by rednecks and police officers, I know a real man when I see one.

Being A Man: For Dummies

1. Crying is for pussies. I don't care how many times you've seen the Notebook. If you cry (I'm taking into account that there are extenuating circumstances) you're gay.
2. Men don't go to the bathroom in packs. That's strictly a chick thing. We laid claim on it centuries ago. Let it go.
3. While in the bathroom, you must follow a strict Male protocol. No talking. No looking around. Absolutely no touching. If you're spoken to, grunt in response. If you look down, you're gay.
4. Tight pants are for cowboys. Unless you're wearing chaps over those Levi's you're probably wearing them so other men can check out how much time you spent in the gym over summer break.
5. Men don't coordinate their outfits. This must be a completely coincidental thing or the look-a-likes in question will be seen as lovers.
6. Firm handshake. Always.
7. Unless you've been dating for awhile, always offer to drive your girl.
8. Size does matter. If you've got a small penis. Shave. It makes it look bigger.
9. Speaking of tools. Learn to use them. A useful man that can take care of the house, and your girl's friends' houses, are always appreciated and shown off on a regular basis.
10. Don't be a pansy. Learn to open your beer bottles without an opener. Use the side of a table. A tool. You're TEETH.
11. Chicks don't have to drink beer. Men, unless they're James Bond, should almost always drink beer. It's cheap and gets the job done. That should be every man's mantra, "It gets the job done." Think about it.
12. It's okay to shave your balls (Trim regularly atleast! Seriously!), trim your eyebrows and nose hairs, but don't wax your chest. That's just weird. (Unless you've got that whole Teen Wolf thing going on...then trim. Please.)
13. Metrosexuals are fun when you're young and want to show off how pretty your man is, but in the end every girl wants a sexy, rough, handyman she can ride into the sunset.
14. Work out. Seriously. It's not necessary to become some big, bulky muscle man (They usually have small penises anyway) but having a little extra muscle always comes in handy in bed. Always.
15. Don't. Fake. Bake. EVER.
16. You don't necessarily have to like sports, cars or NASCAR (No, it's not a sport. Get over it.) but you should have some hobbies and interests outside of shopping and drinking. Seriously, you don't have a vagina. Yeah. Yeah. Poor you.
17. Don't always wear matching socks. Girls like it when they can do something small like organize your undies and socks for you.
18. Stay away from Man Thongs. Unless you are a male stripper it is never, NEVER appropriate for you to wear these. This goes for speedos also. NEVER.
19. Dancing is actually okay. Do it. Boogey. Shake that toned ass. Men who can shake their hips are usually great in bed.
20. It's a small thing but when you're walking with a girl on the sidewalk, put yourself on the side closest to the street. It's a basic protective gesture.
21. Fancy clothes are great. But you're at home uniform should consist of Hanes and jeans.
22. If you're addicted to nicotine go all out. That chew bullshit is just gross.
23. Don't leave the room to adjust yourself. Just do it. You get to. It's a bonus of having a penis.
24. Don't ever ask your friends what they think of your new haircut. They don't care...unless ofcourse they haven't read this list and converted back to manhood.
25. You really don't need that manpurse. Give it to Goodwill and shove your shit in your wallet like everyone else.
26. A real man gives himself a manicure with the nearest pointy object. You really don't need to have a little asian chick clean your nails. (I'll kill you before I do it for you so don't even ask.)

Labels: Penis

Random Things I've Said To Guys At Bars:

10. "Are you a motorboatin' sonofabitch!"

9. "Sorry. This is a vagina only party. No penises. Bad penis. Bad!"

8. "Oh my God! That girl is such a slut! What? She's still standing behind me? Oh...Fuck her! She's like fucked everybody I know. Slutty Mcslut slut!"

7. "So. Serious question here. Look at me with my serious face when I'm asking serious questions. Seriously. Seriously. How big would you say is your penis? I'm taking a survey. Seriously."

6. "Do you play the bongos?"

5. "Thanks for the drink but I'm thinking of becoming a cop so that means I'd have to be a big lesbian. Sorry."

4. "Is this because I'm black?

3. "Yeah, the red head is my little buddy. Psst. I've heard the drapes match the carpet."

2. "I hate cops. You're a cop, right? Yeah. Cops are sluts!"



Drum roll please...



1. "I'm not drunk enough for you to be hitting on me."

Chris (Who's been living in another city for the past 4 months) told me today that I've been drinking too much and my face "looks different" due to it. She was insinuating that I'm getting fat.
I know what you're thinking, "Nice fucking friend!" But let me insert a little context in here.
You see she's dating some new guy from her current city. When she first started describing him to me I thought she was exagerrating his measurements.
5'3" 117lbs? What?! She's 5'7"! Atleast 15lbs heavier than him! Where the hell did she find him? The Lil Boy's section? Shees!
I'd been hearing tales of Wee Man for a few weeks but when he finally made an appearance at Sam's grad party, I could think of no other word to describe him but...delicate. I feared for Wee Man. He's going to break!
Dear God! How can they have sex?
But then I examined him closer and noticed that his facial hair was reminiscent of Wolverine. He was a travel-size version of furry Hugh Jackman. That made sense. Chris had a serious vagina-hard-on for Wolverine.
Again, I know what you're thinking, "You said these Wee things to her?"
No. Ofcourse not. But I thought them very, VERY loudly. And Chris heard me thinking so hard. (I'm thinking the steam coming out of my ears was a slight indication.)
She confronted me about Wee Man in private. I said nothing demeaning or negative about him but she voiced my silent opinions all the same, which leads me to believe that she is very insecure about her new delicate man stallion. How could she not be? He's mini!
And so today, she told me I'm getting fat. Granted I've gained weight (6 lbs) in the past few (As in 4) months, but telling me I have a fat face is just overdoing it a bit, don't cha think?

PS
I saw the new Bond this weekend. If I ever see that man in the outside world, I plan to rape him. Vigorously.


UPDATE:
I was on my way to the gym tonight when Chris called. This is how the convo went...
C: Whatcha doin?
M: Goin' to the gym.
C: Why?
M: (Without even thinking.) Because someone told me I had a fat face today. (Damn. I was going for that high road bullshit. I think I just blew the road to pieces.)
C: Dude. (Disapproving tone.)
M: Dude. (Condescending tone.)
C: Dude. (Mildly irritated tone.)
M: Yeah?
C: I didn't say that.
M: Yeah you did.
C: It's just cause you've been drinking so much lately.
M: So you told me I'm fat?
C: I don't want you to gain alot of weight b/c you can't go out without having a drink. I haven't seen you in two months and it...just caught me off guard.
M: Dude, I've gained 6 lbs since last year. I'm not fat.
C: I'm not saying your fat.
M: Yes you are.
C: (Panicked tone.) I never said that.
M: Sigh.
C: It's just that--
M: Yeah, I got it. You think I'm a raging alcoholic.
C: I didn't say that!
M: No. You implied it. Very poorly by the way. Just a word--
C: Dude, don't get mad!
M: I'm not. You'd know if I was mad. But for future reference if you're going to call me an alcoholic. Just call me an alcoholic. Telling me I have a fat face is kind of dumb since I'm, you know, asian and my whole family has little round faces.
C: Dude, don't be mad!
M: Riiiight...I've got to go. Walking into the gym. Gonna do some crunches. Run for an hour. Try and workout those face rolls. You know. Gym things. Later.
C: DUDE!
M: Click.

Labels: Completely Unrelated Rantings

Today was officially my last Women of Islam class. Hooray! No more Vagina Monger!
Here's basically how it all went:

Prof: "Jess, what did you take from the class?"
Me: "This is my first women's studies class...(yadayadayada) I've learned that the path to feminine sovereignty isn't always linear...(blahblahblah insert something ruthlessly intelligent) and we can't color global struggles for feminism with our own experiences of bias." Tadah!
Prof: "Very, very good point. What about you, Vagina Monger? What have you learned?"
Vagina Monger: "Well, I've learned that Islam is pretty."
Crickets.
Vagina Monger: "Just so...pretty."
Crickets slit their own wrists.
Professor clears his throat. "Well! I'd just like to say that I have enjoyed you all." (By which I'm sure he meant, "I hate you Vagina Monger. Hate you like the plague.")
The End.

Labels: Scholarly Articles of Interest

Yes. I'm taking a quick break from typing up notes for my crazy huge final tomorrow, to bitch.

I just checked my school email account and found that a teacher from a class I'm registered for next semester just sent out our reading list. Yes. Our reading list for fucking January in the middle of fucking finals. I hate her already. What a crazy, psycho bitch! Urgh!

AND (Yes. There's more.) she has chosen to break from the recent literary tradition and assign less than 13 books. Practically a saint! (Though technically she's not dead in keeping with the Catholic faith...hmmm) I have only to buy 12 books this semester for my 1 English class. 12 to 1. (Never good odds...unless of course we're talking twelve muscle-bound kilted men dancing in an erotic fashion around me. The 1 chick. With 1 pretty paper umbrella in my 1 fruity drink. Yeah. See how that works out. Now those are some good odds. But unfortunetly has absolutely nothing to do with my 20th century english novel class....but I can dream...yeah....anyway) Fucking bitch!

School blows. Hard.

Labels: Scholarly Articles of Interest

In the...2 1/2 years I've worked for the Police Department, I have embarrassed myself in some very colorful ways.
Take for example the time I was headbanging and dancing violently in my chair when some young officer came walking up behind me. The little shit didn't make a sound for a fool minute of Slipknot, letting me sing my heart out (Which in this case was alot of grunting) and gyrating until he finally coughed one of those "Hey, I'm standing right behind you" coughs and I laughed so hard I was in tears.
Or perhaps the time I was taking a call and swinging my feet so hard under my chair I caught the adjuster knob and sent myself flying, landing in a pile of jeans & telephone cord a few feet away.
Or what about when THE BOSS lined a coworker and I up like a buffet for a pair of young officers. All the time saying, "So, which one do you like? Are you married?"

Tonight, I had one of my infamous adventures while running an errand to the vending machines. I'd been asked to get a bag of chips. That's all. Just a bag of chips. Simple? Hell no.
I stared at the vending machine in horror as the damned thing caught the edge of my foily baggie on the hook of another slot. They hung suspended. Teasing me with their delicate illusiveness.
The way I saw it there were a few options:
1) I retreated back downstairs, defeated, to scrounge up 70 more cents.
2) I attacked the machine in futility, fully knowing I don’t weigh enough to rock the machine properly.
3) I called for backup.
In deference to my surroundings…I called for backup before attacking the machine like some wild thing.
I jammed my feet in the push-slot, climbing up until I could grip the top edges of the machine, clinging to the front like a spider stretched to its max. And then I tried rolling my weight from one side to the other. Nothing. I tried bouncing up and down. Nothing.
I sighed one of the most put-upon sighs of my life, looked around to see if any young officers were sneaking up on me (As they’re prone to do) and then humped the living shit out of that machine.
After two solid minutes of the most vigorous humping of my life…I got my chips!
I jumped down from the machine howling, slightly out of breath (Vigorous humping will do that to you) and pumping my fists in the air in victory! And then I turned in mid-dance to find…
Sunshine frozen in place. Her eyes wide. Her hand over her mouth in the perfect expression of shock as the elevator doors repeatedly tried to shut on her.
We both burst into uncontrollable peels of laughter until I thought I’d piss myself.

Just another night working for the police.

Labels: Workin' Hard or Hardly Workin'?