Archive for the 'Go sell crazy somewhere else!' Category

So the other night, Mister calls me at work to run a few porn titles by me because porn titles always make me laugh, even when I’m at work and feeling like death, it warms the cockles of my heart like nothing else can.

And then he came across midget porn. I don’t know why I was so surprised by it. Midgets are people too, right? They get their little freaks on just like everybody else, I imagine, but the very idea of it was funny until he came to the next one–Midget Zombie Porn.

And so of course I HAD TO see it because who wouldn’t want to see Midget Zombie Porn?  Nobody wouldn’t want to see it, that’s who.

He also downloaded the plain old midget porn too, just for shits and giggles, and all of it was awesome in it’s bizarre glory. It had these two escaped prisoner boy midgets dressed in prison uniforms and handcuffs who supposedly broke into a house to hide from the police.  In that house lived a hot Latina woman who was a lettuce farmer.

Right? But wait, it gets better.

There was some sort of silly banter and the prisoner midgets said they haven’t touched a woman in 10 years and so the lettuce farmer starts stripping her clothes off and the midgets (who appear to have normal size dicks, btw) double team her on a bed covered in heads of lettuce. And the farmer was rubbing the lettuce all over her boobs and everyone had smooshed green lettuce streaks all over them.

It was hilarious, but also a little bit gross because of my food and sex issues, and I will never look at a head of iceberg quite the same way again.

But as if that wasn’t bizarre enough, the Midget Zombie Porn was even better.  It starts off with a confused slut ( I dare you find porn that doesn’t have any confused sluts in it.  The gauntlet has been thrown down.  Go forth and seek it, my friends), wandering around what looked like fairgrounds or some sort of antique car show or used car lot or something and she was all alone and stumbly when out of nowhere, a midget zombie starts following her. 

OH NO!!!

Run confused slut! RUUUNNNNN lest you be accosted by a tiny zombie in a size 2T sweatsuit and halloween makeup!

And she runs into some messy office-type building, screaming and kicking at the little zombie dude until he pins her to the couch and what do we have here?

Suddenly she goes from sucky actress to blow job maven and then there was anal and she was all “fuck me with your mini-dick” and it was just about the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen. 

So yes.  Midget Zombie Porn.

Highly recommend it.

I want you guys to tell me about the weirdest porn you’ve ever seen because I’m totally turning this into a TWM post and wouldn’t you like to see your weird porn stories published over there? I would.

Also, I must have more weird porn in my life!

This morning, Mister tried to leave for work wearing his Halloween costume:

You know, sans makeup and accessories, but STILL!  I had to stop him and tell him he cannot leave the house dressed like that and somehow I’m the asshole.

PS: Yesterday, after considerable effort with stroller hauling and packing of food bribes to keep Girlfriend in line,  I attempted to go to the mall, which I loathe doing, to go to The Gap for a new pair of jeans. My favorite ones are so old and worn thin, they’re like one squat away from an Unfortunate Incident.  But to my dismay, they have apparently closed all the Gap stores within a 20 minute radius of my house, and if you know me, you know I don’t leave that 20 minute radius for anything.  Not even for Trader Joe’s (it’s 25 minutes away, fyi).  And so this morning, I go online to The Gap and I measure myself for a new pair of my favorites–The Curvy Jean.

And their sizing chart is fucked.

Somebody needs to explain how in the name of Shit and Asshole I’m supposed to know what size I am when my waist is 34 inches around which is a size 16 (!), my hips are 35 inches, and my thigh is 20 inches around which makes me a size 00(!!!).   I’m a 16/00.  And before anyone tells me I measured wrong, I did not.  I followed their measuring tips (6 times), which are also fucked because according to them, my waist is really my hips, my hips are really my ass, and my thigh is, well, it’s still my thigh.  At least we can all still agree on what a thigh is, but you have to come and see this chart and tell me what I’m doing wrong, or at the very least tell me what fucking size I am, or tell me you’re a disproportionate freak show like me so I feel better.

Do any of you work there?  Can you ask them what kind of  fuckery this is?  I don’t want to have to call bullshit on my beloved Gap, but I will if I don’t get a satisfactory explanation.

The Queen demands it!

OMG, you guys. Remember this bitch from a post I wrote last year?

So yesterday Crissy drops Girlfriend off at The Sandbox Preschool and there’s this bitchmom with a baby in a carrier and Girlfreind goes over, stands on her tippy toes to peek into the carrier and says “Oh your baby is soooo cute!” and the bitchmom whips the carrier away and says “Don’t put your face near her face! She’s had two colds already this year!” And girlfriend sort of just looked like…”huh?” And Crissy was present for the whole exchange and can say with 100% certainty that Girlfriend’s face did not come anywhere near bitchmom’s baby’s face and so WHAT THE FUCK WAS HER FUCKING PROBLEM?

Crissy thinks that would have fixed her wagon quite handily.

Well.

Speaking of wagons, guess what she rolled up in yesterday?
YES.
MY Volvo wagon.
It’s new. And shiny. And i’m jealous.
And she’s about 6 months pregnant with baby #3 (somebody’s been making her husband vewy, vewy, hap-py!) and she’s totally not an EPC.
She’s something else entirely.
She’s a…Mrs. Fancypants.
A Mrs. Fancypants, dear Queefies, is perhaps the antithesis of the EPC because unlike an EPC, Mrs. Fancypants has a J-O-B and no SUV. She drives an Audi or a Volvo or a BMW instead because she’s very refined, you know. She’d never be caught dead in a pair of sweatpants with JUICY written in sparkles across the ass.
She’s always very put together and looking lovely for work in her outfits from Ann Taylor. There are three of them at Girlfriend’s school. There’s this one who is apparently very good at giving Hummers (I should probably ask her how many she had to give to get the Volvo), a TV reporter, and one who makes wedding cakes. Fancy ones.
They teeter through the ice and snow in stiletto bitch boots every morning looking just as perfect as perfect gets, and I’m not sure how I feel about them as a group. But I know how I feel about this particular Mrs. Fancypants.
I don’t think I like her very much and here’s why:

#1. That incident last year with the baby in the car seat really stuck in my craw.

b) I kind of liked her last winter. I told her she looked hot in her boots, and then she was pretty nice to me when I was pregnant. She always asked how I was feeling. That was nice. It’s probably just because she herself wanted to be in my condition (dear lord, WHY?)

#6) And then a couple of weeks ago, I heard her talking about being pregnant and starting to show, and the woman she was talking to (who, btw, is neither an EPC nor a Mrs. Fancypants. She’s a Breeder.), declared that she should be well into her 6th pregnancy(!!!) by now and that there must be something wrong. I threw up a little bit in my mouth when I heard that.

f) Yesterday I walked in behind her. She had a stranger with her, and she introduced this stranger as anyone? anyone?

“THE NEW NANNY”

And she said it super-loud so everyone would hear her. The NEW NANNY looked like she wanted to crawl under a table. I would never introduce someone that way, would you? I’d probably say something like “this is our friend Karen. She’s going to be helping out and taking Girlfriend to school from now on.”

I think that was really bitchy of Mrs. Fancypants.

And that, dear Queefies is why I do not like her. She has my car and now she has my nanny and she doesn’t even respect her. Also, her hair is always perfect and she can walk on ice, 6 months pregnant wearing stiletto boots.

What is there to like about this woman?

Absolutely nothing.

PS: Today is a Toy With Me day! Mister got flashed at the hairdresser a couple of weeks ago! WTF? Sluttery At The Salon
Happy hump day! (I really hate it when people say that.)

Homeslice and I went to our first visit to Monica the Ninjerapist last Friday, and I felt a little disheartened afterwards because I was expecting her to tell me I was doing everything right, and that all I need is a little talk therapy and then I’d be right as rain just as soon as I finished my cookie and found Morpheus.

But nay, nay, my good people. Not so much. Turns out, I have a little of the PPD and a little of the SADS and if you them dump together and shake em’ around, it makes a lovely bag of mixed NUTS.

Freakin’ Sweet! High five!

I should be happy that she didn’t think I was sick enough to suggest a lobotomy or an antidepressant or something because I’m decidedly anti-medication and anti-lobotomy. The three things she suggested I work on, however, pissed me off a little bit.

Check it:

1) I’m supposed to quit drinking any and all wine/akahol full stop. Did you hear that? Let me say it again. She said to QUIT DRINKING! Apparently one 750ml bottle PER WEEK is too much. And believe me, I tried to negotiate with her, I really did:

But she’s a ninja. They don’t negotiate.

f) Stop! eating! chocolates! Have I told you guys that I absolutely loathe working at night?  Well, I do.  I hate it.  I crash around 1:00pm, I stumble and slur my words, and then I go to work for 7 hours.  It’s awesome.  What’s more awesome is that I haven’t been fired for showing up to work drunk because when I land there after taking care of the little children all day, I’m a hot. mess.  Here’s a picture of me at my desk which was taken by Mister this very Tuesday past:

As you can see, I’m looking all kinds of motherfuckin’ enthusiastic right there.  And my boss keeps a big, big super fat ass jar of chocolates on her desk and every time I feel like cutting myself, I eat one. Needless to say, I wind up eating a crapload of fucking candy. Monica says that instead, I’m supposed to do yoga and drink herbal tea.

What kind of fucking bitchery is this? I’d rather cut myself!
Yoga at my desk? Shenanigans!
Herbal Tea? Pssshaw!
What an assbag.

(I just made that up. It’s a delightful combination of Jackass and Douchebag. Assbag. You can use it.)

10) She says I have to break off my lesbian affair with Jillian Michaels!!! This is unimaginable to me that a ninjerapist would suggest I actually not exercise, but that’s because it’s not what she’s saying at all. She just wants me to do more yoga instead. Because it’s therapeutic. Jillian is too punishing and not “loving enough to (my) kid self.” Don’t look at me funny. That’s what she said. And then I punched her in the face and made her do Plank Jacks and Rock Star Jumps until the tears flowed from her eyes and she begged me to let her stop. I’m pretty sure that’s what Jillian would have done had she been there.

No. I didn’t really do that, but I wanted to is what I’m saying.

I don’t think I want to pay her to be my friend anymore.

But I did her suggestions anyway just in case she knows what the fuck she’s talking about, except this past weekend I drank more just on priciple, and I did manage to cut out the chocolates at work and so now it’s just totally joyless instead of mostly joyless because herbal tea is not a replacement for fucking chocolate. Not on this planet, or on Planet Mental Health, or on any other planet in the world.  Even ET thought Reeces Pieces were the shit. 

Amiright? I rest my case. 

And then I found out that she doesn’t take my health insurance and so instead of taking United,  I’m going to ask if she takes Cunnilingus instead because that’s the only way I can pay her.  I think I mentioned to you last week that she’s working the whole “lesbian therapist” vibe and so I might take this chance to answer that question once and for all.

Although, my gay-dar doesn’t go off when I’m around her, but that means nothing because you know, Ninjerapists are crafty.

My friend Rachel says her gay-dar sounds like the disco call–WOOT! WOOT! when it goes off, but I think that only applies to men.  What does a lesbian gay-dar sound like because maybe my gay-dar is going off and I just don’t know.

I’ve been using Facebook as my microblog or whatever the Twats over a Twitter call it.  I fucking hate Twitter.  I really do.  I can’t possibly communicate the depth and sincerity of my most inane thoughts in 140 characters or less.  I’ve tried, but it always comes out sounding totally perverse or weird or, I don’t know.  Retarded?

So, I don’t do much Twatting.

I do Facebook from work though. If you’ve added me as a “friend” and I haven’t confirmed you, it’s because you didn’t have the twenty seconds it would take to introduce yourself.  I find that rude, quite frankly, and so we can’t be “friends.”  I’d like to know who my “friends” are before I let them into my personal Facebook. And if I did let you in, and you didn’t leave me a message, it’s because you caught me in a really “friendly” mood or I liked your name, or I thought you looked like not a murderer. So, I let you be my “friend” because sometimes I like to be totally random like that.

Maybe I should start a Crissy fan club on there, probably. I’m scared nobody will join it though. Like, what happens if I start one and only my mom and like two of my bffs join it? That would be sad. Isn’t it also kind of obnoxious to start your own fan club? I think so. Also, I don’t know how. If anyone wants to do one for me, you know. It wouldn’t suck.

(Ms. Darkstar just started one because she’s very special.  Join it so I don’t feel like a giant durfwad with no friends, please)

Also, I’m going to take my Facebook thing off the header. I’ve been meaning to do that ever since Mister put it there like, years ago. It’s misleading, I guess. It makes me look like a Facebook slut, which I’m not.

Anyhoodle, you know what makes me cry like a little girl? I feel like I should tell you because you haven’t heard enough about my depression yet.

Almost any Disney movie makes me cry so hard I actually feel like shit for the rest of the day.

I know, right?

Why do they always have to make that shit so sad?

Like, the other day Girlfriend wanted to watch Dumbo. (I secretly hate my mother-in-law for buying that trash and bringing it into my house, but she meant well so I can’t hate her.  She’s a frustrating woman.) I tried to talk her out of watching it because Dumbo just devastates me, but she insisted on it. I had some work to do on the laptop, so I let her put it on so she’d shut the hell up have something fun to do. I sat Homeslice down on a blanket with a bucket of toys to rummage through, and it gets to the part where they sing the “baby mine” song or whatever it’s called while Dumbo’s mommy is straining to cuddle her frightened and lonely baby through the bars of her cage, and god dammit. I can’t even blog about it without crying.

Seriously. I’m crying again.

There is something very wrong with me.

Ahem…we get to that part in the movie and I just start bawling. I picked Homeslice up off the floor and held her and cried and SOBBED.

It was really poor.

And Girlfriend looks at me and she’s like “mom! It’s DUMBO! It ends happily and everybody loves him! Jeeze! Get over it!”

And in second grade all the kids called me a “baby” because one time I peed my pants while listening to the Bambi record. It was when Bambi’s mommy was shot and I cried and then I peed my pants.

And in seventh grade, it was reading The Red Pony. My mother called the school and bitched out my English teacher.

Yes, she did.

You know what else makes me cry? When a romance goes terribly wrong and two people who are supposed to be together, can’t be together. Like what happened between me and Vinny from the delicatessen.

That sad story will be up on Toy With Me today. We broke up, you know. I haven’t told you about it yet. I’ll link you to the story as soon as I get one. It’s the Canadians and their time zones. I’m going to email them about changing that.  Does anybody have Canada’s email address?  Specifically, I need the email address of the guy in charge of what time it is.

Here it is: Vinny and the Roast Beef Curtains

I’m really sorry you guys. 

I’m sorry because I’ve only just last night realized that I have no life and I might be coming off as…I don’t know…INSANE? Lately? 

I know, I know you’ve been thinking this for a while now and you’ve been meaning to mention it but you’re polite and kind and I really appreciate your wanting to spare my feelings. Such wonderful Queefs you are. Truly. I’d be nowhere without you.

But last night I was sitting at my desk drooling and mindlessly shoving mini peanut butter cups into my mouth in an effort to stay awake and also to keep from cutting myself just for something to do, it occured to me that I don’t really go anywhere, and I don’t really do anything unless you call going to work or Target “somewhere” and whining because the baby won’t stop crying long enough for me to load the dishwasher “something,” but I don’t. 
I call it being too fucking mom tired to do anything other than survive.

And I feel wicked bad because I don’t get to read your blogs anymore and it takes me a while to reply to emails and I usually try to not suck, but right now? I’m getting my ass kicked.

I have these mood swings where one minute, I’m struggling so hard not to run screaming from my house and then like, literally five minutes later, I’m totally fine and all on top of everything and just like, momming it up and shit.

I’m coo-coo for coco puffs, basically.

But you don’t have to worry because I’m going to see my therapist tomorrow. I’ve been going to her on and off for the past fifteen years because the crazy. It is strong within me.

The last time I saw her was 4 years ago when Girlfriend was a little baby and I was sure I was going to stab everyone. Monica sorted my shit right out in about 4 sessions because she’s a total badass. She’s like…a ninja. And a therapist. She’s a…Ninjerapist. She just goes right into your head and you don’t even know what happened but all of a sudden, you make sense again and you don’t want to stab people anymore.

Ninjerapist.

I will tell her I called her that and she will laugh.

She’s all new-age-y and she does Reiki and she was sporting the leggings with boots thing before it was everywhere and she sort of has that whole lesbian therapist look, you know the one with the hand-made silver and semi precious stone jewelry and the lesbian haircut? But she has long hair. And a kid. So I don’t think she’s a lesbian.
Maybe she is. Long hair and a kid doesn’t make you not a lesbian.

She called me “lovely” once and then said “everyone else is an asshole.”

I knew that already but it was really nice to have it confirmed by a professional.

So yes. Monica.

So the plan for the weekend was to paint the kitchen and the lavette and my friend Rachel told me that nobody says “lavette” anymore and so my first question is what do you call it? A powder room?  A half-bath? The room where you pee and then wash your hands?

…?

And of course, we don’t just paint shit in this house.  It’s more like “since I have my paintbrush out, I should replace the toilet and the sink and the faucet and get all new everything” because we’re not really big fans of keeping things simple around here.  In fact, if there’s a way to make things harder and more complicated, that’s  pretty much what we do.

And so we went to the toilet store.

And Mister is kind of a big fan of the toilet.  As a matter of fact, he’s working on a coffee table or a bathroom reading book or whatever that has all pictures of toilets and men’s rooms in it.  It’s very important to him, the toilet.  And so he SAT ON THE TOILETS IN THE STORE TO TRY THEM OUT.

I was sort of mortified by this.

What?

I get mortified by things!

Why is that so hard for you to believe?

And then he had Girlfriend do it too, and Homeslice and I just sort of stood there, agog.  We didn’t know what to do and so I yelled at Mister to stop sitting on toilets in the toilet store and I said something like “why don’t you just pull your pants down, too!?! You’re not supposed to test them out in the store!”  and then some woman who had spent the past 10 minutes selecting just the right towel rack from a shelf full of IDENTICAL towel racks shouted in her Rhode Island accent “YES YOU AH! YES YOU AH! IT’S VERY IMPAWDINT!  I spent six months of my life making sure people got the right toilet!”

huh.

I have questions.

1) Why did she shout at me?

b) Why would anyone spend 6 months of her life fitting people for toilets?

4) Would you sit on toilets in the store?

f) Do I have poop issues or is it weird to sit on toilets in the store?  I mean, Home Depot keeps them way up high.  I imagine that’s to keep people from using them.

10) Right?

Ho, ho, ho, BITCHES!

You gotta come check me out over at the Toy with Me’s today.  I’m all about Christmas Craft Making for Perverts.

People be makin’ some crazy shit I can tell you.

Why does everyone die at Christmas?  My grandmother died at Christmas two years ago.  And now Olivia is dead too! I can’t say I ever really felt a connection to Olivia,  I was more of a Maria or a Mr. Hooper kind of girl, but she taught millions of us little childrens all kinds of  important stuff.

I’m not talking about this Olivia, btw:

She’s not real and therefore, cannot die.  At least, I don’t think she can die.  Anything is possible, I guess.

I’m talking about this one, for those of you lazy so-and-sos who didn’t click the link:

So yes.  Olivia.  RIP.  Nobody is talking about it because her death isn’t sexy like Brittany Murphy’s.  I hate the fucking media.  I really do.

Dicks.

Olivia contributed way more to the world, I dare say.

Anywho, thank you guys so much for all the wonderful recipes yesterday!  You’re all so helpful, and it took you forever to type all that in! You saved me from having to sit here searching the Internet.  It came to me! YAY!!!

I think I might go with a pot roast for the meat thing as suggested by k8 because it can be done in my crock pot and not take up my oven.  That sounds smart because what usually happens is I wind up with everyone fighting over oven space to heat up/bake the shit they brought and it always turns into a game of who the fuck are you using my daughter’s/son’s/brother’s oven where my mother’s green bean casserole and my mother-in-law’s potatoes volley for space with my sister-in-law’s thing and it’s a big. giant. clusterfuck.

And then I drink some wine and hide in the garage with a smoky treat.

I don’t give a fuck if the casserole is cold from being in the car, goddammit.

Don’t make me kill you.

So I came upstairs from doing yoga yesterday and Mister said to me “I have a stalker.  He wants to kill me.” And I was all “WHAT?…lucky.”

And then he told me the story of how he commented on some nice lady’s blog where she had written that her husband was pissed at her for writing about him and so forbid her from writing anything about him ever again, good or bad, and Mister said:

“If you can’t write about your husband, I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he’s got some insecurity issues he should be dealing with.  Hell, I provide a good portion of my wife’s blog fodder. In return, she poses for pictures which end up as flickr fodder. We have a system.”

WELL.

That was about a month ago, and Mister forgot all about it until he got an email yesterday morning that said this:

“If your gonna post to my wife about me watch what you say. I come from a fighter history and love to play with my fists. So fuck off and follow someone else. People don’t get that on the other end of a computer a person exist. If this was said in my presence it would get bad. Have you heard the song Walk from Pantera? Thats how i prepared for my cage fights and pre football games. If i hear from you again there will be a problem and i will take the next step bitch!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Uh-huh.

The next step being what?  Flying out here so he can play with his fists on Mister’s face? That makes sense. That’s what anybody would do in this situation. Absolutely.

The Internet is very serious business, you know.

And poor Mister was confused and he wasted like, five whole minutes backtracking to figure out what the guy was even talking about.

I’m so jealous!!

This whole thing makes me sad because of all the shit I say and how much I could potentially piss somebody off–Escalade Pajama Cunts, stupid people, circus clowns, republicans, assholes, Jesus freaks, Doocebags, people who suck, sweaty lesbian fitness gurus (I say that with all the love in my heart, Jillian), woodchucks, etc. NOBODY HAS EVER THREATENED TO KICK MY ASS BEFORE!

Sure.  I’ve got hecklers, but all they ever do is come over here and they’re all “meh-meh-meh.  youR abitchhh!!1!!!! meh-meh-meh. You’re blog isnt’ even worth trashing.” ( It has come to my attention that that might actually be true). I mean come! On! Internet!  You can do better than that.  I know you can!

Quite frankly, I’m hurt. All Mister has to do to get awesome death threats is make some random comment on some lady’s blog and all hell breaks loose (eventually…later on.).  And what’s worse is this is the guy’s facebook picture (edit: it is no longer the actual facebook picture):

It’s FUCKING WOLVERINE!

Unbelievable.

All I can say is that if Wolverine decides to catch a plane and brave Holiday Travel Season to come and show Mister his Super Cool Villan Claws I have to warn him.

I don’t care a fig about “cage fighting” or “pre football” and Mister doesn’t only know that song, he can play it on the guitar.

With his dick.

I do TURBO JAM, BITCH.

You may have heard about it, but probably not.  It’s too hard for “cage fighters.”  See those gloves I’m wearing?  They have weights in them for extra POWER.

And don’t forget MY GLADIATOR OUTFIT, SPORTS FAN.

You don’t want me to play with my giant padded stick thingy on you.

No sir.

So, come on you guys.  Don’t any of you want to kick my ass?

Maybe just a little bit?

Anyone?

Please?