Infomercials

Crissy wants anything she sees on the infomercials because when she wakes up at the vag crack of dawn every day, that’s all that’s on. And you tend to be gullible at 5am. At least Crissy does.

And now Crissy has a hanerking, a desire, a yearnin’ for the following products which are certain to improve her life in ways she never imagined possible.

First up are these little beauties:

Because Crissy does not think her fiber cereal is doing enough to help her clean her colon so it’s either this stuff or a pipe cleaner. Mister has already generously volunteered the use of his-oh forget it! Let’s just say that Crissy would rather use the Dual Action Colon Cleansing System than take it in the pooper. She only does that on Very Special Nights.

Oh! And I want this!

If this shit can make me look as awesome as Jane Seymore does after having eleventy billion kids and an acting career that spans like, centuries, then sign me up bitch! I’ll take two!

And how can I live without this for another second?

It takes baby powder off the floor in a Jiffy! And look how happy she is! She’s just all “I’m a cleanin’, uh-huh, with my shark-y, oh ye-ah, and you don’t have one, na-uh, cuz you su-uck.” I don’t want to suck. I want to STEAM! Because I never roll around on the floor like I should and it’s only cuz it isn’t Shark Steam Mop clean!

And I don’t know when I’ll find the time to watch this, but I still want it.

Does it not look fucking hilarious? I think it even comes with a Martini and a Lucky Strike. How can you go wrong Queefs?

You can’t.

You cannot go wrong with the Dean Martin Celebrity Roasts.

And just in case I ever get The Acne I’ll have to have a supply of this on hand:

It’s glamorous because all the slightly crazy celebrities like Jennifer Love Hewitt and Jessica Simpson and I think Britney Spears use it. Not that Britney Spears is only slightly crazy. She’s a fucking giant Super Size bag of crazy, but you know. Her skin is okay.

Ugh. So many things that I want, you guys.

This is exactly why Crissy does not watch QVC. No matter how tempting it is to shop from her bed, she will not allow herself to do it because once Crissy has tasted paradise you will never hear from her again and she will become one of those pathetic trailer park ladies sitting in her brown and gold plaid Barcalounger with a Misty hanging out of her mouth and a can of Natural Light in her hand at 5am.

She’s not that far from it now…

It’s the new blond.

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I’m very serious about my new hair. Tell me you love it or I’ll cut you. SAY IT!

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I color it with mostly natural Tresstisse with just a little bit of methamphetamine mixed in.

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There’s no fan blowing my hair to make it all light and flowy like this. That’s what the meth is for!

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Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!

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Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!

I could do this all day…

Eat your fucking heart out Carrot Top.

UGH.

Mister was very sweet to fill in for me on Friday wasn’t he? Sometimes Crissy gets tired because being the QOFE is exhausting, really and she needs someone to help out around this place. I make it look easy, but swinging jokes around like Holyfield swings punches is hard work.

See? That’s us together this summer.

As it turns out though, it wasn’t the jokes that made Crissy tired. She was coming down with a tumor.

And also her superpower.

Okay, well maybe it’s not a tumor, but it’s definitely Typhoid Fever Bird Flu Monkey Plague Superpower though.

Girlfriend must have brought some germs home from the dirty little mutants at preschool and it made Crissy die to death all weekend.

And she’s still dying to death.

Everything hurts.
Even my hair.

Oy.

I think I’m gaining weight because I’ve plateaued with my yoga. Even though I work out plenty, it’s not really doing any good anymore and I am not yet ready to face the truth about the correlation between my boozing and the increasing size of my ass.

So on Sunday, out of desperation, I did this tape:

Remember this bad boy?

Back in the 80’s it was like totally radical!

It’s the only one of my old tapes that I kept because it’s just too awesome to throw away. My mom and I worshiped at the altar of big hair and shiny leotards every morning.

But to be honest with you Internet, the tape just didn’t do it for me because

#1 It’s really fucking stupid
#2 I can’t understand why Jane’s hair doesn’t move even as she’s grapevineing and chicken turning like a motherfucker. I find it distracting.
#3 I think this would be more challenging:

After I finished the tape I felt really blue balled and so I did the yoga. That makes 100 minutes spent working out.

Woot! Woot!

See my halo?

So I typed my exercise total for the day into Weight Watchers and it was only worth a measly 3 points. THAT’S IT! If you don’t do weight watchers you don’t know this but 3 points ain’t shit.

And then yesterday I decided I would become A Person Who Runs. I would like to tell you that your Crissy ran like the wind! But if I did it would be a mistruth and “lie just a little bit, but not too much” is my motto.

I ran for 10 minutes because you have to start somewhere and it was only like a mile and change because I thought I might throw up and die. I set small goals for myself along the way like “don’t collapse before you reach the stop sign up ahead” or “wait till you get to that BMW and you can throw up in the window” or “catch up to the teenage girl doing the walk of shame home in some dude’s boxer shorts and gasp tramp! at her as you run by.”

The goal setting was a complete success as it got me home without quitting like a big pussy. But you know something Internet? Running sucked.

I am Not A Person Who Runs.

So I ordered some videos from the library and they haven’t come in yet, but I think what we’re going to do is I’m going to show you how I’m doing and you are going to tell me if you think it’s working for me or not.

This is the first workout I think I’ll try:

That’s right Internet. It’s sexy time.

Wait for it…

I went to the dermatologist’s yesterday for my quadri-annual lasering and acid burning.

Is quadri-annual a word?

I don’t care.

And my dermatologist looks like he’s about 10 years old, so I know he must be really, really, good. Who the hell wants an old wrinkly dude helping you give Father Time and Mother Nature the finger?

Not me, Internet.

I’ll take the ten year old, please.

And he’s sooo pleasant too. I sort of just want to piss in his cheerios a little bit because shit. It’s 8am and here I am waiting for him to bring on the burning and the itching and the peeling and the flaking and the redness. I’m not having a lot of what people would call fun.

But I have to go because they have to burn off the sun damage, because I’m such a fair and delicate flower, before it turns to cancer and I look like this:

It sucks.

And every time he comes into the room he says “hey-ho! How we doin’? Still smilin’?” He says it just like that every single time and I can picture him at his graduation from face doctor school thinking that that would be his thing. He may have even practiced it in the mirror while testing out new face cream. And I want to just say something like, “well, to tell you the truth there Shane, that’s his name, Shane, I’d like to burn your face with some acid and see if you’re still smilin’.”

But I don’t try to upset the man because he’s nice, really and also because he’s holding a laser in one hand and a jar of acid in the other and he’s about to go to town on my face.

And so I’m polite and pleasant and hap, hap, happy as can be because “Always be polite to men holding jars of acid” is my motto.

Crissy is not a stupid woman.

Shut up.

I’m not.

And so I look like this right now:

And when the pain and the redness and the flaking and the burning go away I’ll look seconds younger and I’ll be saved from skin cancer and you’ll all be so jealous you could spit!