Archive for January, 2006

Flicked a lit cigarette in the forest and inadvertently ignited Smurf Village. Gargamel heard about it and sent me a fruit basket. I called to thank him for the delicious citrus and tried to explain that it was an accident, but now he thinks we’re like, best friends and calls me all the time. It’s really annoying.

Fill in this simple equation and find out!

Time on phoneVolume of voice=Thickness of head

This morning I woke up and fed my cat. I gave her the canned fish that makes her purr and rub against my legs. I love my cat Fluffy. In this mixed-up world of unexplained dreams and rollercoaster emotions, I often think she is the only one who truly understands me.

After eating a breakfast of steak and eggs, I took a long shit and went out to the porch where I like to drink Strawberry Hill and contemplate the meaning of life. Sometimes I wish there were more people like me, people who think about deep and meaningful things like relationships, bodily fluids, and video games. I think that’s why my best friend Shaniqua and I are always fighting. She’s a nice girl and I totally respect her and love her and stuff, but when it’s all said and done, she just isn’t deep like me. Sometimes I really feel alone in this world, and I know that I just have to accept that everyone can’t be as unique and analytical as I am.

I also think that’s why I should break up with my long-term boyfriend, Ricardo. Ricky’s really cool and I get along with all of his friends, but that’s just the thing–I’ve been hanging out with all these guys for like three years, and while I am able to milk them for as much attention as I can possibly get, I’m afraid that it will wane if I don’t have sex with some of them soon. I mean, what’s the point of having a relationship with one cool guy when I can be whoring myself out to as many as seven guys and still be stringing along the aforementioned cool guy? Just like you need to diversify your stock portfolio to get ahead on Wall Street, I need to make sure I have enough men on deck to feed my rampant insecurities, should my flavor of the month not pay attention to me for three seconds.

So, on that note, Jim-Bob called me today and we drove around in his 1965 Pinto. He shared his 40 with me while clunked along the interstate. For awhile, it was very romantic in the kind of mellow, down-to-earth way that I like. I really love old cars, but I was a little taken aback when the car broke down and Jim-Bob made me get out and push. Still, it was a totally crazy experience that helped shape my life in a myriad of interesting ways.

After I pushed the car home, Lil Mookey came over and we philosophized about love and life. He and his girlfriend, Gabrizelle, are having problems, so I offered him my counsel as best I could. It felt nice to step up and do something so noble and selfless when my own life is a disasterous trainwreck. And I really feel like Lil Mookey and I got to know each other better last night with no ulterior motives or underlying tension at all.

I’ve been blogging for several years now and it has been a true growing experience for me. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, and I think it’s time for me to publish a personal memoir. I mean, my life is this totally huge collection of completely wacky experiences that could only happen to me. Even though I’m quite an accomplished customer service representative at Pier 1 Imports, I still think there are more gifts I can offer this world. I obviously have tons of fans, as you can see from the wild amounts of feedback I have pouring in regarding my captivating and controversial style.

Okay, so I don’t get that many comments, but people tell me they read my blog and some other people said they told their friends about it and they read it too. That’s like 100 people! Also, I know Shaniqua reads my blog because there was that time I slept with her boyfriend and just needed to write about it. I had all these creative ideas flowing through me and all these emotions that I had to sort out. The honest truth is, I write for myself because I’m an artistic person with a lot of poignant events that must be evaluated. If Shaniqua wants to read my blog and find out that I slept with her boyfriend last night in a flurry of celebration after he finished the last mission in Grand Theft Auto Vice City, she’s doing so at her own risk. Whoops, there I go again… Hi, Shaniqua!

Well, it’s settled. I can’t just sit around and let all of these stories of joy and pain, laughter and tears, season premieres and summer reruns stay cooped up in this little corner of the web universe. I’m going to step forward and sign that book deal today. I wish everyone could be as lucky as me, living for today and following their dreams. Well, ta-ta, loyal and numerous readers. I hope to meet all of you during my whirlwind book signing tour!

By the way, that was all a lie. However, if you took anything in this post personally, it could be because your blog sucks and I am making fun of it.

I was driving home yesterday when I got thinking about the word, “Beef” and how people used to use it as a verb synonymous with busting ass. For example, “Who beefed?” and “Don’t beef in the car, asshole.” I guess I’m actually looking for a way to be even less mature than writing FART with solemn determination on the Canary Roost chalkboard everytime I drink there. So please join me in the Bring Back Beef campaign, a serious effort that shall be generously backed by my wealthier donors who are reading about this campaign for the first time right now.

As with most campaigns, this one will have some underlying, special interest issues that will not be made public. In the eleventh hour, we should also bring back the old-school http://www.hampsterdance.com. They’ve totally sold out and tried to make an organized website with a “design” instead of just one long page with a bunch of obnoxious animated gifs on it.



I learned two things this morning:

1. Extra does not last an extra-long time. But it lasted through my two-hour meeting, just like the commercial from the 80s shows. I even smiled when I put it in my mouth. The commercial would be more descriptive if they showed the person smiling when they spit out the gum. That would mean the person really liked the gum, and was satisfied with his/her chewing experience.

2. It costs 39 cents to send a letter now. Thirty-nine! When did this happen? I sent a big stack of mail last week. I guess I should be ready for it all to come back to me…

This afternoon, as I lay in bed wondering what to do with myself, Gus entered the room, sat next to me, and told me of his plans to go to the mall so he could check out a sale at Foot Locker.

Did he wake up on the east side of the bed this morning? The MALL?

Gus and I hate the mall. We also hate everyone in it. And it’s Sunday. That’s the worst mall-day ever. Stupid families bring their stupid kids to look at stupid stuff so they can all impress their stupid friends and keep up with the stupid Joneses.

But I needed (and still need) some clothes. When you never go to the mall, and have a general distaste for shopping, you end up with a lot of clothes that are either old or free. My wardrobe is in constant need of updating and has been that way for awhile. I have no style at all. Some people assume I’m “goth” because I wear black all the time, but I really do that because I can’t match my clothes.

Normally, I don’t care about what people assume, but sometimes a girl wants to look presentable. In fact, sometimes a girl wants to look like she knew what she was doing when she picked out an outfit. But alas, any attempts I make to understand fashion and buy accordingly are futile.

Every time I go shopping, especially somewhere like the mall, I see garment after garmet, and it’s always ugly, unnecessary, or worst of all, really cute but something I can’t pull off. I’m overly afraid of wearing something trendy and looking like a total moron walking around in it because I don’t have the proper clothes and accessories to go with it. The fear doesn’t come so much from what other people will think, but more that I spent time, money, and effort just to wear an item that makes me look silly.

I think I need a “fashion tutor” of sorts. None of my friends are real “fashion people.” Fashion people don’t like having friends like me because I don’t care about how I look. Fashion people not only care about how they look, they care about how everyone around them looks too.

Whenever I’m downtown, I always see groups of them. They all have designer jeans, which I can’t wear because my ass is too big. If I wore these jeans, my asscrack would show when I sat down. That obviously doesn’t stop some people, but my asscrack is for private viewing only. These girls also wear pretty suede boots and large funky earrings. Usually a few will wear some kind of oddly cut shirt that I would need a set of instructions to wear properly.

So, having a fashion tutor would be really cool. There doesn’t seem to be way to just sit down and teach myself how to dress well the way you can sit down and learn a language or a particular field of study. You either have a knack for it or you don’t.

However, I’m afraid that knowing a lot about things like fashion could be a clue about someone’s personality and values. Of course, every fashionista is not going to be a snob. Our fashion editor at Feedback was one of the nicest people there, in fact. But I think that generally speaking, people who put a lot of time into fashion may be lacking in some key areas. Obviously, I don’t have to be friends with this made-up fashion tutor, but I’d really hate to be three weeks into the wardrobe makeover and find out she was fucking my boyfriend or something.

Anyway, I went to the mall today. This time, the items there were bothering me more than the people I had to dodge. I used to love Express, but I’m getting ready to write that place off for good. Their clothes are reaching a level of suck higher than I’ve ever seen. Their little marketing concept is “I wish…” So one of the displays has sayings like “I wish I was a rockstar” and “I wish I had a new wardrobe” and “I wish my boyfriend were cuter” and “I wish my boyfriend had more money.”

WHAT?

Make your own goddamn money, triflin’ whore.

Gus and I got a couple of Frulatis and walked around for awhile. After he didn’t find any new shoes for himself, I was afraid we’d finish our trip to hell on earth with nothing to show for it. Not that Gus needs new shoes. We have a whole room in our house dedicated to his sneaker collection.

But our trip was well worth it. We bought living room furniture. I’m so happy about this I want to shout it from the rooftops and go dancing in the streets. We’ve been looking for new couches since the dawn of time. The ones we have now are cheap, ugly and uncomfortable. We’re giving one of them away for free and praying to God almighty that someone comes and hauls it away.

Our new couch is gray and soft. Instead of getting two couches like we planned, we got a giant red leather recliner that we can sit in together. It seemed like a brilliant step in furniture innovation to us, but I guess it wasn’t to the rest of the world because it was one of a few items in the store that was on sale for half the price.

I am overjoyed about this. Now all we need is a bedroom set before our new mattress comes next week and we’ll be all set.

I still hate the mall though.

Bonus points to whoever knows where this post’s title came from. Also, I’m watching Robot Chicken right now and their “Zombie Idol” sketch is hilarious. It’s good to know that Ryan Seacrest knows he’s a douche.

My New Year’s resolutions are the same every year. Be a better person, make healthier decisions, etc. These aren’t clear, tangible goals and due to their open-ended nature, I’m not going to base anything on them (only to forget about them mid-February at best like everyone else does). So, here’s a once-off list of New Year’s resolutions that some other people can make. These are a lot more important for the good of mankind than whether or not I eat a burrito.

People from Houston
Stop being jerks. Yeah, you’re dressed up in your favorite designer for a night on the town. Super. You got a nice house in the Woodlands, no, actually, you’re going to buy a nice house in the Woodlands as soon as that job you spend an hour a day commuting to finally realizes what you’re worth. Whatever. Just remember that Houston is a big freaking armpit with bad weather, worse traffic, no music scene, no shopping that isn’t in the Galleria, and no cuisine that isn’t steak. You’re not making it any better by acting like a fucking asshole.

Nightclub Bouncers
No YOU, seriously, stop being jerks. Especially if you’re short. Everyone knows a muscley dude who’s only 5’4 is a just a moron with a Napoleonic complex. And if you’re big, how cool do you look when you’re pushing around a few chicks who just want to go to a club and dance? Furthermore, how cool are you when the occasional dude who’s bigger than you walks in and you have to act chill and non-defensive, even though he doesn’t have an ID and is likely to kick your ass with silent haste if you don’t let him in anyway? The answer to both questions is “Not cool. You’re a jackass.”

Poker Players who Chronically Overbid
You can keep doing this, but you probably won’t be in business very long. What you can’t keep doing, however, is telling me at the end of my winning hand that I played poorly. Obviously, I did something right. The cash I leave with proves my point. Furthermore, who the hell are you to be giving advice? We’re playing $3/6 limit or a $20 sit-and-go on Party Poker. If you’re some great player, shouldn’t I have seen you at the final table at the WSOP, or at least at Bay 101 waiting for the $40/80 table?

People who Drive Below the Speed Limit in the Left Lane
Don’t drive below the speed limit in the left lane!! Jeeeeez. Usually, there are at least two other lanes to choose from. The point of highways and major roads is so people can go places quickly. If you don’t want to get to your destination quickly, or are afraid to go the full 65 mph on the highway, take surface roads instead, or if you must, stay in the right lane. Thanks.

Under-Confident Attention Whores
Stop making us all pay attention to you if every action is going to take us one rung deeper into your circles of self-hatred. If you hate yourself as much as we can see you do, chances are a lot of us hate you too. Also, no one is obligated to make you feel better about the miserable person you are, so just go away until you can be mature and fun to hang out with.

Ryan Seacrest’s Assassin(s)
This guy started as an emcee for American Idol and he’s still “performing” at every even requiring a choad with a microphone. It’s been over four years and he’s still kicking. If someone doesn’t step up soon, we could have another Dick Clark on our hands, and we all know what a disaster that can be. Get on the fucking ball guys!