Chew On This

I don’t like the fact that people tend to associate you with something they remember you doing once before. It’s like you do one little thing and that’s it, that’s all they remember you by, and it’s associated with you for the rest of your life. Like my neighbor always referring to me as the crazy naked woman he found in his pool that one night. It was hot, I thought he was out of town… I mean, Jeez, let it go already! There’s so much more to me than that anyway, like I know how to pick fruit from other neighbors’ trees without getting caught, for instance.

Listen, I used to wait tables a long time ago but does that still make me a server? No. I accidentally spilled a shit load of beers on a group of off-duty cops during happy hour one night but does that make me a klutz? No, it makes me a friggin’ genius… I can’t stand cops.

The other day, I got an unsolicited email offering me a job as a dishwasher. A dishwasher?! Are you serious? Like I don’t do enough dishes as it is, being a woman with no automatic dishwasher. Please. What’s really ironic is it came from a company called Compass Group Talent Acquisition (apparently it takes talent to do the dishes now). I nearly spit out my coffee when I read it! That’s just an expression by the way, I don’t drink coffee, it doesn’t agree with me. Neither does chocolate, which is truly, truly awful. I’ve had to eliminate two of the best tasting things on this planet out of my diet. I can still eat dick though. Actually, I wouldn’t characterize dick as best tasting… or even good tasting, for that matter. I’d rather have a chocolate bar, put it that way.

When I realized I could no longer eat chocolate, I contemplated my existence on this earth; what’s the point of living if you can’t eat chocolate?! Well, I can eat chocolate, but I’ll pay for it later with the Hershey squirts. Sorry, I didn’t mean to gross you out, but that’s what happens. I must have the weakest digestive system in the world: I can’t eat dairy or chocolate, I can’t drink caffeine or alcohol, and I don’t eat meat, it’s pathetic. Being vegetarian’s by choice though because one, I live near Los Angeles, and two, I truly believe it elevates me as a human being. You know, there are a lot of guys out there who think their beards and hair buns elevate them as more evolved, but that’s just appearance; I truly am more evolved.

A man bun is slightly repulsive.

Anyway, how do I survive this meager existence? I live my life vicariously through watching other people eat. No, I don’t peek through my neighbor’s kitchen window during dinner, I watch videos on YouTube of people eating copious amounts of food, like any other normal human being. It’s a thing. People film themselves porking out on large amounts of food for their online audience; they call it Mukbang. That’s Korean for “I don’t, know what the fuck?” I’m kidding. This phenomenon did start in Korea though. Look it up online, there’s a great definition on Wikipedia.

I can only dream of being half as piggish as these people are! It’s incredible the variety and amount of food they put away and I watch in fascination as they slurp, chomp and devour some delicious, and not so delicious looking food. Some of them are understandably chubby, but others are really petite, slender even, which tells me they’re barfing up their food afterwards… duh, no-brainer! It doesn’t matter to me though, it seriously gets me through the tough times, which is like, every single fucking day.

I may not watch Mukbang every day, but I know it’s always there for me, like a chocolate bar would be there for me when I was younger and could eat it with impunity.




You know what I love about summer? The lemons. Cheery, bright, yellow, juicy, sweet-sour, mouth-puckering lemons! It could be the quintessential fruit of the season if it weren’t for the friggin’ watermelon; that big, heavy round thing that resembles my belly at the moment. Nope, I’m not preggers… that, my friends, would be an immaculate conception… and terrible! Kids? Yuk. Rather, I’m experiencing a painful bout of IBS. I’ll spare you any details, just know that it’s really fucking uncomfortable… not to mention awkward being a slightly older woman who looks pregnant.

Bright yellow lemons remind me more of summer fun than a red watermelon, and having fun is what summer’s all about. One of my favorite fun things to do on a hot summer day is stop at some kid’s lemonade stand and have a refreshing beverage. I happen to like lemonade, okay? Besides, I once read that if you see a kid’s lemonade stand, stop and buy a lemonade from them to make them feel good, even if you’re not thirsty. That’s every altruistic, isn’t it? I totally agree, everyone should stop to buy a lemonade from the cute kids that went to the trouble of putting up a lemonade stand. They’re like young entrepreneurs.

Which is why I gave two of them some business advice this past week.

I went to a lemonade stand down the street from my house. It was being run by two very enthusiastic, slightly obnoxious little girls who were selling their lemonade for fifty cents, so I bought one. Then I went two streets over to another lemonade stand, which was being run by two smelly older boys, and bought their lemonade, which was seventy five cents. Both were awful, frankly.  

So I went back to the first lemonade stand and said to the girls “Listen, there’s another lemonade stand a couple blocks over that are bad mouthing you guys and your product.” the little girls gasped. I went on: “Yeah, they’re getting passing cars to blow off your stand and come to theirs. Not only that, they’re selling their lemonade for more money, and, to be honest, it tasted much better. If I were you, I’d add more sugar to your product and raise the price by seventy five cents. The added sugar will bring repeated business, trust me. Plus, they’ll bring their friends.”

The girls listened intently and nodded their heads. I told them they should thank me for the free advice, then I promptly went back to the other lemonade stand the boys were running. I said to them “Look, there’s another lemonade stand two blocks over that are bad mouthing you guys and your product.” The boys looked at me with disbelief. I continued: “Yep, they told me their lemonade was better than yours and they’re getting passing cars to blow off your stand and come to theirs, and to be honest, I thought theirs tasted better. If I were you, I’d make your product better and raise your price by fifty cents.” They asked me how and I suggested they add food coloring to make it pink because everybody loves pink lemonade since the yellow lemonade looks like pee. 

Last time I drove by, one was selling theirs for two fifty and the other, two seventy five and they both looked like they weren’t doing a lot of business, which wasn’t surprising; who the hell wants to pay that much for a goddamn lemonade?



Someone left a bean in the microwave; a single bean. It was sitting right on top of the glass dish, the one that spins around when the microwave is on. I left it in there and just watched it spin around, and as I did, I thought of my last narcissist, uh… boyfriend, and the last time I had sex, which was with him, and I realized the bean was serving as a metaphor for my lonely, pathetic life.

Picture a dried up, single bean. That’s me right now. I really wanted the bean to represent that asshole, not me, but I’ve tried every single angle and believe me, I just can’t get it to work any other way. I’m wondering if I’ll ever have sex again, because it’s bean a while, get it… bean/been? *snort, snicker* and I’m not meeting any new dudes. I’m worried that the last sexual encounter I will ever have is with that asshole and it will be my final memory of that God-given act of pleasure.

That would suck.

It’s not that the sex was bad, but you know how it is when you break up with someone; you know you’d never want to go back, so thinking about having sex with them grosses you out. I mean, if you’re normal, it grosses you out. Okay, maybe there are some of you who would go back and wanna have sex with your ex and it wouldn’t gross you out, even if you were disgusted with them as a person.

Which, in all honesty, should make you disgusted with yourself.

Speaking of disgusting, a massive heat wave is in the forecast for the next three days and I’m really not looking forward to it… just in case I have to qualify that. Who the hell ever says they can’t wait for it to be 110 degrees? Well, maybe the same person that would have sex with their ex…

I dread hot weather because the air conditioner in my car only works for about 5 minutes, then poops out, and I live in Freeway Hell-Angeles (that’s Angeles, as in Los Angeles, not Hell’s Angels, just in case you read it too fast), and it would cost more to fix the air conditioner than the car is worth, so I was trying to figure out a way to solve this problem. So I did what every other fucking great American in this country would do if they were in my shoes: An internet search.

Happy Independence Day!

No, I didn’t mean for the Fourth of July, so you can put out your sparkler, Tonto. What I mean is my independence should be celebrated since figured it out on my own. So in true American fashion, I made myself a White Trash Air Conditioner! What is that, you ask? Well first, ask yourself “What would MacGyver do?” but instead of MacGuyver, it would be MacGirlver. Then go watch a YouTube video and Bam!… you got yourself a way to cool down your mobile oven. 

I got a styrofoam cooler, a mini car fan with an a/c plug, and a pvc pipe elbow joint. I proceeded to cut two holes in the cooler, one for the fan and one for the elbow joint. I stuffed a bunch of ice packs inside the cooler, stuck the fan through the side hole of the cooler and the elbow joint in the top, then turned the fan on. 

It worked! But only if I kept the fan on low and the car stationary, otherwise, the lid would pop off from all the blowing air. So I just need to strap that puppy down (probably with some bungee cords) and it should be golden.

Should be.

If not, I’ll be a disgusting, sweaty ex. 


Princess AF

There are several indicators that show someone is high maintenance. To be helpful, I’ve created a list of those indicators for you to refer to:

1. They’re a woman

2. They’re needy

3. They require constant attention

4. They’re a pain in the ass

4. They’re a woman

Hmmm, did I repeat myself in there somewhere?

Anyway, I know I’m not gonna win any Feminist of the Year awards for this one, but maybe I’ll win an I Don’t Give a Shit of the Year award for speaking the truth… or uh, writing the truth… so yeah, maybe I’ll get an award for that. How can I betray women when I am a woman and claiming this as truth? Because I know how to spot someone high maintenance specifically for that reason. Women have strong tendencies to become high maintenance, what can I say? But it’s not our fault because we were lied to through make-believe…

… and it’s all because of one person:


Cinder fuckin’ rella!

A fictional cartoon character, based on a fairytale created by a man, influenced entire generations of young minds which helped to create The High Maintenance Woman. It’s true, and the fairytale continues to have that effect on women and society to this day and I don’t see her stopping anytime too soon either unless parents pull the plug on Disney, which they should if one of the major things it’s contributed to society is teaching women to become high maintenance.

Let me explain:

Cinderella was portrayed as this helpless victim who had something missing from her life (supposedly, a man) and she would not become whole until she found one (a man). She had a mean family, she was poor, she only knew how to sweep a floor. She had style she had grace, Cinderella gave good face. Then one day she heard about a ball, and along came a man, dark, handsome and tall. She…

Okay, that’s enough.

Anyway, she was brought into wealth by a prince and then she was considered beautiful all of a sudden. She got her hair done, her nails done, got a new wardrobe, some facials… see where I’m going with this?

Walt Disney created this ideal around how he viewed women, which was helpless, ugly and unwanted until marriage to a man saved them. That lead to further victimization of women by society and the media because we were portrayed as being unable to take care of ourselves and were not valued unless we could get a man, and a lot of us women didn’t fight back right away.

We were fed this image as children and took it into our adulthood. We bought into the whole “One day my prince will come and save me and then I’ll live happily ever after!” What a crock! Disney was an asshole. Sure, he delighted millions of children around the world, but he was a misogynist, nazi-sympathizer who portrayed women as slovenly ash-sweepers until men came into their lives, rendering them beautiful and lovable all of a sudden. 


We’re supposed to buy into all this from a guy who manifested his homosexual tendencies in a gay rodent called Mickey Mouse?

Not that there’s anything wrong with being a gay rodent. 

The Cinderella fairytale has created an entire social system of high maintenance women that has perpetuated throughout the decades. This belief we are incapable of doing anything ourselves has made us constantly need reassurance, attention and assistance… and when I say “we”, I mean the “royal we”. I, personally, am not high maintenance. I’m an independent, free-thinking, do-it-yourself woman!

Until it comes to plumbing. Then I require a man to come over and snake my pipe.


I recently had an experience with one. No, no, not a plumber… I mean, not this time anyway. Of course I get my pipes regularly snaked… but right now I’m referring to a recent experience with a high maintenance woman. Someone I don’t even know who wanted to participate in an event a few of us were doing, but she wanted to make sure we she wouldn’t be able to participate in all aspects of the activity and wanted us to know how much of a problem it was going to be, which begs the question, why do you want to do it then? She didn’t really want to do it, she just wanted to draw attention to herself.

High maintenance.

I’ve found the best way to handle these types is to ignore them and they’ll go away. They’ll soon figure out you won’t feed into their drama and they’ll never bother you again.

Now, if you’re already married to one, that presents a slightly trickier situation. You probably already do try to ignore her, but it doesn’t work. She keeps yapping away, driving you crazy. Well, sorry Prince Charming, but you can’t complain about her now, you were the one who picked up her crystal shoe! Oh right, glass slipper. Whatever… you’re the one who pursued this nightmare now you gotta deal with it.

Yes, I realize Prince Charming was the man in Sleeping Beauty, another stupid movie. Seems like men have fallen for the same trap us women were lured into with these inane fairytales.

Basically, if you’re “royalty” with lots of “assets” and you married a beautiful woman based solely on her looks and how it would make you look, lured her into a life of leisure and wealth, and now you can barely keep up with her demands, you get what you deserve. If you’re really unlucky, you got married in one of the nine states that has community property. Actually, bad luck has nothing to do with it, I mean, let’s just call a spade, a spade: You were stupid and not thinking properly… or property *snicker* *snort* Be careful in the divorce, your assets might get “Frozen” *snort, snort, snicker*

I just love happy endings!


I wanted to get rid of some pesky annoyances, but it didn’t work because I failed to put on the proper man boots.

I’ll explain.

I had an ant problem. They got in everywhere they possibly could, even in my pants, where they definitely don’t belong… kinda like sand, or Republicans. I’ve been avoiding calling pest control because I don’t like poison and care about the environment… to a certain extent. I mean, don’t ask me to give up my plastic shopping bags, take-out containers, and fossil fuel or anything.

So I’ve been trying to keep them at bay, unsuccessfully. It got to the point where I finally couldn’t take it anymore and had to dig in deep to fight the bastards with everything I could (which is probably how Planned Parenthood and women’s rights groups feel under the Trump administration), so I called The Exterminator to get an estimate.

I envisioned a giant, robotic beast of a man resembling Arnold Schwarzenegger showing up wearing khakis and big, black boots with a fire-thrower slung over his shoulder, but all I got was a millennial, aka “home-dweller”, with a beard, sunglasses, and inked-up, scrawny body (look up millennial in the dictionary, that’s the exact description). I guess it’s fine, it is just ants, after all, we’re not dealing with Armageddon or anything. 

Anyway, he talked me into spraying the ant poison, which really wasn’t that hard considering I was at the end of my soap-on-a-rope, so he said he’d come back the following day and spray the perimeter of my house.

Now this is where it gets weird: I gave explicit instructions on where not to spray, because of my two cats, so when I got home, I could immediately smell the stuff he used, and it was where I instructed him not to spray. Okay, I was very clear in my instruction when I texted him a reminder in the morning… or so I thought. But I guess there’s a discrepancy in the way a bright, attractive, young(ish) woman and a scrawny millennial dude communicate through texting; I use all my vowels, punctuation and emojis, and he doesn’t.

im sry i dnt mk mysf clr a*hole 😠

I was dumbfounded that he couldn’t even follow simple directions. As I was texting instruction on where he was to avoid spraying, I thought to myself, “Okay, he’s a man, so you gotta keep it really simple, don’t complicate things and it’ll be just fine.” You see, when you need to explain a job to a man, you have to put on your man boots; you have to think like a man would. That means you have to pare down any extraneous information; don’t make the language too flowery or cute, and allude to the possibility of sex afterwards if the work is done properly.  


Anyway, apparently this reasoning was not enough, because you have to figure in visuals too. Why do you think all those stupid manuals have pictures in them? Because they’re designed by men, and men like pictures… Playboy, Sports Illustrated, Cereal boxes… I had completely forgotten to draw a schematic, silly me!

Plus, if I were really thinking like a man, I would realize the first thing he would’ve noticed as he approached my gate would be the bungee cord I use to hold the gate closed, because his thought process would go something like this:

See bungee cord… *grunt*

Bungee cord good… mmmm….

Me go to bungee cord… unga bunga!

What? Why do I use a bungee cord to hold the gate closed? Does that question really add any value to this one-sided conversation? I don’t think so. Please, let’s move on…

The only place I didn’t want him to spray was my patio area, which is a garden, really, and I instructed him not to spray in the “garden”. But then the damn bungee cord fucked it all up! A man sees a bungee cord and immediately thinks of strapping something down, consequently getting excited. The section of his brain that controls reason goes offline and the amygdala, or “serpent brain” kicks in (really, that’s what it’s called, I didn’t make that shit up). That’s the section of the brain that is the most primitive, in case you didn’t know, and there is a direct correlation between the word “serpent” and a bungee cord producing excitement in men, like ants in the pants.

I’m even getting kinda hot writing those words together.

So instead of putting up signs with giant lettering and arrows pointing the guy in the right direction, which I seriously considered, I failed by leaving the bungee cord where it was, assuming he would figure it out by the text. I can’t even say for sure that large signs would’ve been sufficient, I probably would’ve needed to completely remove the bungee cord from view; you don’t want to leave any temptation or distractions for the simple mind to get swayed.

So I failed to fully think like a man, which is totally natural considering I do not have a serpent in my pants. 



So I’ve got a tooth that’s gotta come out. A root canal was done on it years ago and now it’s gotta get replaced. Thank God it’s in the back where no one would actually notice that it’s missing, but I still want to replace it with an implant… which is kind of exciting actually, I’ve never had anything implanted in my body before!

Unless you count the time that hairy bastard I’d picked up at a bar put his…


Anyway, it costs a small fortune to get a tooth implant, did you know that? Supposedly, it’s a whole process: They have to harvest tissue from a cadaver and stick it in the hole where the tooth once was, then wait a few months for it to take. After that, they do some drilling, stick in a steel post, and top it off by screwing on a new tooth. You know, this sounds disgusting. Well, I’ve done disgusting things before so what’s one more, right hairy bastard?

All told, it comes out to about $5,000, and that’s if you want a competent dentist. If you don’t care, well then, you could probably find someone for about half that and take your chances, but that’s still $2500 bucks… for one tooth! Now I can just get the tooth extracted and leave the hole, but besides the fact that I’d be feeling like a damn hillbilly from the hills of Tennessee, they charge for that too!

People from Tennessee: DO NOT EMAIL ME.

So yeah, the dentist actually charges you to take a tooth out, which I think is ludicrous! I mean, they’re taking the damn tooth and leaving me with nothing, that’s hardly something they should charge me for. They’re taking the goddamn tooth, don’t you think they should pay me?

Jesus, I hope they wouldn’t reuse it on someone.

On top of all that, the dentist doesn’t even take payments, I’d have to pay all at once since I don’t have insurance. So I asked him if his office ever does any charity work, you know, like Doctors Without Borders, except maybe it’s called Dentists with Toothless Patients Against Corporate American Healthcare. The answer was no, in case you actually needed me to qualify it.

The insurance companies essentially say, “Well yeah, looks like you have to have this tooth taken out but we’re not going to pay to replace it because you have, like, 31 other teeth already, so you have plenty. Even if you only had 16 teeth we still wouldn’t pay to replace any missing ones because it’s considered cosmetic.”

Cosmetic… uh huh.

Never mind the fact that no one would want to hire a toothless person for… well, just about anything. Unless they wanted you to work someplace you wouldn’t be seen, like in a morgue. I guess I could make extra money harvesting cadaver gums…

But I would be completely undateable, no one wants someone with no teeth! Well, unless I wanted to go out with another toothless sucker… and I’d have to call him my Gummy Bear! Never mind the fact that humans need teeth to chew food to stay alive unless you wanna suck your dinner through a goddamn straw! In fact, the only good thing about the possibility of being toothless, is that I would never have to deal with another moron dentist again! Well, that and the blow job thing with my new honey, Gummy Bear.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I have something stuck between my teeth.



You’re Missin’ Out, Dollface

You wanna know how to create a frenzy over something? Make it scarce.

Limit its accessibility to the public and create the illusion of scarcity, which in turn, creates the illusion that the thing is more valuable than it really is, that there’ll be a shortage of that particular thing, and if people don’t act right away and go out and get it, they’ll lose out. All of a sudden that thing becomes a highly valuable commodity, because it’s human nature to want something that others don’t have, and… to be able to get it first.  

FOMO, basically (Fear Of Missing Out).

We want to own something others don’t, we want to have the first edition, we want to say we bought something first, and we want to make sure we have that thing, whatever it is, before it falls off the “Most Wanted” list.

Why? So we feel superior to others. We want bragging rights because otherwise we’ll be losers, and let’s face it, nobody likes losers. I certainly don’t.

Remember the Cabbage Patch Dolls from the Eighties? There was a buying frenzy for those things, it was a complete phenomenon! Those dolls were hideous too; the ugliest things I’ve ever seen… well, next to our President. Now that I think about it, there’s quite a resemblance *snicker, snort*  

Anyway, I couldn’t understand why a child would even want that thing in his/her bedroom; it looked like a mushroom grew a face… and it was fat! Nooo… there’s nothing wrong with being fat, it’s just that… well… it’s just that… fat isn’t really in style, is it?

Fatso. Fatty. Porko.


ahem… sorry. It’s a compulsion.

Anyway, the company that sold these hideous things created a tremendous feeding frenzy by limiting distribution. They created the illusion of lack, and people just went nuts trying to get one. Toy stores were bombarded and there was complete mayhem; people were crying, hair was pulled, punches were thrown! Personally, I never wanted one but I couldn’t resist getting in on the action.

God, I miss those days…

I’m sure the asswipe who invented ‘em made a fortune. He probably took a dump and that’s where he got the design idea, ‘cause they looked like crap. They did, they looked like a do-do.

Now that I think about it, that’s how people must’ve felt when I took myself off the dating market for a little while. NO, not that I looked like do-do, that there was an illusion of lack! No, no, no… that doesn’t sound right either; that they were going to miss out (that’s better). I can only imagine what frenzy ensued. No, I don’t have any actual data, but I would bet money… pennies, I would bet pennies… that it left a resounding void in the entire, um… block…

…of houses…


When I got back on the market, I strategically put myself on a couple of the online dating things simultaneously, just to give everyone the most opportunity to get with me.  One was an app where you had to swipe either left or right depending on prospects or rejects. That one’s loads of fun because you could spend the entire day just thumbing through all these idiots without a care in the world!

In the whole online dating process, I discovered a few rules I didn’t know about beforehand. For instance, when trying to catch a man, I’m only supposed to post pictures that least represent how I actually look in real life, they should be from around 5 to 7 years ago, and only during times I was skinnier… because, ya know, the “fat” thing.

Also, I’m not supposed to tell a guy how much I weigh. I had no idea! Supposedly, women lie about their weight all the time, usually taking off anywhere from 15 to 20 lbs. That’s a lot, my friends! So when this one guy sent me a message with his stats… you know, how tall he was, his weight, etc., I felt compelled to send mine. I told him that I weighed… uhhh… well, I’m not gonna tell you because I don’t want to astound you… but anyway, he must’ve added on the 20 lbs. women normally subtract because he deleted me right away… the nerve! I must have seemed like some giant cow to this idiot. He didn’t even give me the chance to show how amazing I actually am.


The guy, not me.

Of course, two can play that game because it seems men like to add a few inches here and there too; to their height, their biceps, their… well anyway, after months of swiping, I finally met someone face to face, which is apparently comparable to scoring a big win in Vegas or winning the lottery. We decided to meet for an afternoon coffee for a quick look-see, and of course, I was disappointed, even though I’m sure he felt like the cat’s dinner. We really didn’t have much in common other than the fact that we both found myself attractive. There wasn’t much conversation either. Finally, after a few long moments of silence, the guy asked me if I had anything at all to say, so I said “Well, I happen to love broccoli stems much more than the florets, and I say this because in life, you have to stand for something, otherwise you’ll fall for anything.”

Like Cabbage Patch Dolls.




As a gifted writer, I’ve managed to attract a lot of followers (at least a hundred) and I’ve become somewhat of a word master because I’m super, um… extremely… uh… well, good with the words ‘n stuff.

But sometimes words alone just don’t cut the mustard because words can get misconstrued, especially when reading them in print, which is mostly where words occur. Mainly where they occur. Actually, the only place they occur.

For instance, words get misconstrued in texts or emails, or comments in the comments section, which is the most annoying misconstruing of all the misconstruct… misconstrar… um, misunderstanding of them all. Someone writes one simple comment another person doesn’t like, and boom, everyone’s panties are all bunched up!

Jesus Christ, people. Listen, it isn’t always about you…

…it’s about me *snicker* *snort*

Seriously though, I know you know what I’m talking about because we’ve all been guilty of doing the misconstruing, and I’m pretty sure that’s the reason emojis were invented: To assist us in replacing what we emote in real face to face communication. Things such as expression, emphasis, tone of voice, etc., and we punctuate our words with a corresponding emoji so that they aren’t misconstrued.

Wow, did you read that? I really am good with words!

But maybe we use emojis to make people believe that what we wrote, isn’t really what we meant… it’s nicer.

Have you ever been to the South? You know, the bible belt states like, Alabama, Kentucky, Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, Georgia and all the rest of those fuckin’ weird-ass places? All those states where I’d never want to live in a million years because they have their own way of doing things that don’t fit in with the rest of society, like they have laws that make absolutely no sense whatsoever. For instance, you can’t have Greek-style sex in some of those places.

Not that I ever want to have Greek-style sex, I mean, ugh… how barbaric! 

But I’d still wanna have the choice to have Greek-style sex if I wanted to, so if one day I decided “Hey, let’s give this fuckin’ weird Greek-style sex business a go.” well then, that’d be my choice and my business and I wouldn’t be arrested and thrown in jail because of it, then consequently ass-raped by the prison guard, which goes against the very law they created in the first place… I mean, how fucked up is that?!!

Not that I’d ever want to do Greek.

But I’ve totally gone off track from my point right now.

My point is, if you’ve been to the South, you’ve heard at least one woman utter the phrase “Bless her heart”, right? Well that phrase doesn’t mean what it means on the surface, know what I mean? It’s got major subtext, and that subtext is: “She’s a fuckin’ idiot”, something they’d never say out loud, God forbid.

It’s Southern Comfort, if you will. A way of not saying what you really wanna say because that would be too East Coast, and we all know Southerners would never want to sound like people from the East Coast – those loud motherfuckers.

I’m pretty sure some Asian techie dude invented the emoji too, because that’s what Asians are good at, which is completely understandable considering how difficult it is for them to read their own language, much less the English language. ‘Cause if you think about it, the Asian language essentially is, all emojis. I should say, all the Asian languages, since there are more than one, which may not be immediately apparent to some of you racists out there.

So we use emojis to help us illustrate our point and even offer subtext. For instance, if I write something like: “Hey guys, I know I’ve said this before but I guess you didn’t hear it the first time.” it could be misconstrued as: “Hey guys, I’m pissed off you didn’t hear what I said the first time, you goddamn morons!” But if I add a smiley emoji to it, it clearly shows I’m not really pissed off with you morons after all. It makes it all nicey-nicey, doesn’t it? and that’s perfect for someone like me!

I can use it to address people and not be offensive. At least, that’s what my credit card therapist said. Emojis are in place to make sure you understand that when we refer to you as an idiot, but follow it up with a warm, smiley emoji, we’re letting you know we really mean it, but we’re subtly trying to make you believe we don’t. 

How genius! 


Hit the Road, Jack

I was sitting here trying to remember what I wanted to talk about and then this annoying song that’s been stuck in my head started playing again. It’s been playing in my head over and over, even during my sleep. Jesus Christ, that’s just way too much brain activity. I’m a blonde, I’m not supposed to have that much brain activity!

The song is “I Can’t Feel My Face” by The Weeknd… or, whatever the hell the title of that song is. It’s about his love affair with cocaine, in case you didn’t get that by the lyrics, which I have mixed feelings about quite frankly; they’re playing a song that’s catchy, but glorifies drug use. I’m certainly not innocent, I had my own love affair with cocaine back in the Eighties… I used to pack my face with the stuff every Weeknd.

God, that was a lot of fun!

Well, it was fun and games, but after awhile you get to a point where you become what’s called an “adult” which means you adopt an attitude of disgust towards teenagers, 20 somethings and young people in general (you know, the ones doing the drugs and listening to that shitty music) so you come to look at drug use with disdain. And if you don’t, you’re what’s called an “addict”.

Anyway, as catchy as the song is, it’s driving me crazy going around and around in my head, so I figured I’d try to get rid of it by replacing it with an instrumental song that was hugely popular back in the disco era of the Seventies. I couldn’t tell you what the name of the song is since there aren’t any lyrics, but if you really wanna know, just pick a disco instrumental from the Seventies (make sure it’s got horn) and it’s basically the same thing.

(I’m playing the song in my head right at this moment, give me a minute)

Oh my God, it worked!

I think I’ve just discovered how to get rid of any annoying, pesky songs that get stuck in your head… goddamn it, I’m brilliant! Now if I could only patent this, hmmm… anyway, it’s a three-step process:

Step 1. Just think of another song that is similar in style and beat to the one that’s stuck in your head, but it has to be an instrumental piece, no lyrics. Then, replace the tune stuck in your head with the instrumental one and continue to play it in your mind until the other one stops completely.

Step 2. If someone points out to you that the other song will now get stuck in your head instead, tell them to go fuck themselves.

Step 3. Get off the cocaine.

Oh, I remember what I was gonna talk about: My annoying boss. Yes, yes, yes… of course I have one, whaddya think, I make millions as a writing hack? Anyway, he had given me a task but purposely left something out ‘cause I guess he was testing me to see if I could figure out how to do it, so I asked him a question about it and he says “Well, I purposely left something out ‘cause I was testing you to see if you can figure out how to do it.”

How stupid, of course I know how to do it… at least, this time… and I got a bit annoyed at little Mr. Napoleon and his little Midget Emperor game, so I was trying to come up with a few new names to call him, ‘cause every week I come up with something different, like, Huff ‘n Stuff, Mr. Not Gettin’ Jiggy Wid It, Hamster Ass, etc., when another song popped into my head, this one called “Hit The Road, Jack, and Don’tcha Come Back No Mo’, No Mo’, No Mo’, No Mo’!”

Yes, I do realize those are the lyrics, not the title of the song itself, sheesh, give me a break, who the hell actually knows the name of that song?! Everyone knows it by the lyrics, and anyway you’re missing the point; the point is this song popped into my head for a reason: The name Jack is often used in a manner to suggest that the person to whom it is referring, is an ass, like in Jackass, Jack ‘n the Crack, Jack-off, Jack, Jack, Jack (I just like saying it) and if you say it with enough intention and authority and… no, not hubris… chutzpah, it really gets the point across


and I’ll bet that’s exactly what that woman in the “Hit The Road” song was thinking when she was singing it, which is why it popped into my head, so now I know what to call my boss for the week. See, everything does happen for a reason!

Shit. Now that song’s stuck in my head.


Fo’ Sizzle

I’m getting hotter.  

Yes, yes, yes… of course my looks! I’m hot, I’ve always been hot. But lately, I’ve been getting even hotter.

It happens either when I’m sleeping, or sitting in one place doing absolutely nothing (two of my favorite activities, by the way) and I’ll start getting really hot over my entire body. It starts from the top of my head and spreads down my body, like a disease. Comes outta nowhere, just like that *finger-snap* …it’s driving me crazy!

Someone told me it’s because of my age and um… you know… the things that happen to a woman when she gets older… and I burst out laughing when they said this! Can you think of anything more ridiculous than that? Why on earth would my temperature rise along with my age? Stupid Gynecologist… he doesn’t know anything, he’s just guessing, that’s why they call his office a “practice”. What the hell does a man know about a woman’s body anyway? They can’t even find the taco berry most of the time and when they finally do, they don’t know what the hell to do with it. They go in like it’s a job they gotta tackle, or a race or something. Men say women talk a lot… ha! Men wag their tongues waaay more than women do, just in the wrong manner.

“Slow down, Tonto… this isn’t Cowboys and Indians!”

Which leads me to another thing: Young guys are always hitting me up for sex so I can “instruct” them on what to do ’cause I guess that’s a “thing” now. Are you kidding me? Like I want to spend my time trying to teach another man how to properly treat me in bed. No thank you, I’ve already spent the last thirty… I mean, twenty… twenty years trying to teach men how to do it properly, why would I want to teach another one of you morons?

Okay, you want me to teach you something? How ‘bout I teach you how to clean a goddamn toilet? Afterwards you can bathe my cats… and then get the hell out.

That’ll teach you something.

Jesus Christ, I’m starting to get hot again. Did the dinosaurs all of a sudden get really hot, and then go extinct? Is that what this is about? No, no, no… I cannot use that analogy. One, it’s not really an analogy, it’s more of a question. Two, it completely lacks any sense, and three, I’m not going to compare myself to a goddamn dinosaur.

Someone gave me a gift for my birthday which has turned out to be the best thing on this planet right now. It’s a towel. No, I’m being serious… it’s the best thing! It’s called a Chill  Pal and we’re totally buddies right now. I can’t remember who gave it to me because it was from last year’s birthday, and anyway, I can’t keep track of everyone who wants to impress me. So it’s a towel, but not just any kind of towel; this thing is made of some special PVC polymer fiber woven crap that keeps cold when you wet it, even when it’s in ambient temperature. I just run it under cold water, squeeze out the excess and keep it right next to me at all times… like white on rice… and when I start getting hot, I wrap it around my neck and it immediately quells the heat… it’s friggin’ amazing! Now that I think about it, I could probably wrap the thing around those beef thermometers… that’ll cool ’em off. 

Listen, if they’re going to behave like a Tyrannosaurus Sex, they better have a Gigantosaurus! *snicker… snort*

I kept the damn towel in my closet for a year because I couldn’t understand what the hell to do with it. Now I realize this person mistook me for the type of woman who would need this sort of thing and I’m not sure if I should’ve been thankful or insulted. Turns out I coulda used the thing a long time ago.

I’m not old, I’m just getting um… uh… more, uhh…


You know what I don’t understand either? Runners. People that like to run for health or attention, or whatever. You get really hot running, why on earth would you want to run? The only running you should ever be doing is running towards something… like donuts. Or away from something… like the cops. And it’s pretty safe to say, if you’re a wanted felon, you shouldn’t be running towards donuts.

Donut tell me you need me to explain that one!

*snicker… *snort…


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