5 Ways to Kick New Year's Eve in the Balls

It’s that time of year again- the time when we wake up with fuzzy vision, a pounding head and a decent bout of nausea.

It’s cold season, motherfuckers… and by no coincidence, it’s also time for New Year's Eve.

The night that promises to pack as much punch as my tequila-ridden alter ego is always filled with enough disappointment to last throughout the year. While I often find myself deciding this will be the last year I dress up and make plans, December rolls around again and I find myself in the throes of festivity planning.

This year, I’ve managed to keep the planning to a minimum. My plan thus far is: Booze.  I’ve even written it out on a post-it note to make it official.  

Post-its make things official.

The funny thing about New Year's Eve is that regardless of your attempts to avoid any sort of planning, some expectations are always set, and the little demon of disappointment nestles onto your shoulder, ready to pounce at any moment.  

This year, I say we kick that fucker’s ass.  

5 Ways to Kick New Year's Eve in the Balls

1. Start Early

While many of you are likely familiar with the quintessential Jimmy Buffet song It’s Five O’clock Somewhere, some of you may not be familiar with my personal mantra “It’s Never Too Early To Drink Your Face Off.”  Keeping that in mind, start your New Year's Eve off with a bang. If you’re a coffee drinker, throw some Irish cream into that bitch. If you’re an OJ drinker, a splash of tequila will wake you right up. Whatever your morning beverage preference, there’s always a way to make it boozy. If you’re unsure, and need some advice, I’m here for you.

2. Skip the Shower

That’s right. Skip it. The more effort you put into your appearance, the more likely you’re going to be sitting on a curb with your outfit torn up, covered in slush,  and cursing the day you thought bar hopping on the almighty Day of Disenchantment was a good idea. And if you decide to ignore my advice and shower anyway, please, for the love of God, do not wear fake eyelashes. They set the expectations bar higher than any other face accessory. If you’re gluing something to your eyes, you’re gluing disappointment to your future. That’s a fact.

3. Keep it Real

The best way to not get overwhelmed by plan making is to not make plans. While I’m not condoning sitting on the couch wrapped in a blanket of self pity, I am suggesting keeping things real. People seem to get so caught up planning their NYE celebrations that they forget they aren’t superbeings.  In other words, the time/space continuum has not been altered to accommodate being in 35 different places at once. If you’re going to make plans, agree to one or two things, and go from there. Don’t spread yourself too thin or you’re going to be sobering up and pissed off the whole night. And worst of all, you’ll be the biggest Party Pooper of the night. Ew.

4.Turn Off Your Phone

While Judy might be pissed off for the five minutes she’s remembered that she’s supposed to be meeting up with you, you’re probably better off without her drama. Judy is a bitch.

I cannot even begin to recount the number of NYE I’ve spent trying to meet up with people, missing calls, waiting for texts or trying to remember why the fuck my phone is in my hand. That shit is just a waste of time.  Enjoy the moment and put down the phone. This year, I’m going to set a new personal goal: Slap anyone that won’t stop checking their phone. I’m not going to explain it; I’m just going to do it. And If I follow my first little piece of advice (morning boozin’), you can guaranfuckingtee I’m going to be throwing some serious slapbombs around.

5. Stay Energized

I’m not suggesting you run out to your local blow dealer to ensure you’re the life of the party, but a Red Bull wouldn’t kill you. (Or maybe it would… I guess this last bit of advice is not to be followed if your heart ain’t down with a hard hit’o’caffeine...) Nothing is more embarrassing than being the person who doesn’t make it to midnight. Okay… well some things are probably more embarrassing, but it’s a social faux-pas, and we wouldn’t want that now would we?  So stay awake and stop being a little bitch.

I realize that our plans aren’t always 100% in our control, as some of you may be getting dragged somewhere by your ‘significant’ other, and/or your annoying, eager friends, but, try your best to stay afloat! Just remember: the drunker you are, the better the chances are that you’ll forget this sonofabitch night ever happened.

Happy New Year, my little fucklepuffs!

Cheers!

There's Nothing Sexual About Hungry Hippos (or Justin Bieber)

Holy gluttony, batman.

The only real way I can justify my recent absenteeism is by explaining the quantity of food I have consumed over the past five days. I may as well have strapped a feeding bag to my face and called it a weekend.

I noticed an ongoing theme when it came to eating this holiday season. Never have I ever been encouraged to eat things quite so ...forcibly.  While I was  eating the odd sweet here and there, in moderation they might say, I came to learn (pretty quickly) that when it came to being offered goodies and treats, no one wanted to take no for an answer. “It’s Christmas!” would often be the dessert-pusher’s argument of choice.  It’s challenging to dispute this, as their point is both accurate and seasonably poignant.  More often than not, I found myself taking a second look at the tray of treats, then back at the tray holder, and ultimately my hand would make the reach to grab yet another buttery treat of delicious delight.

The worst thing is when you finally do give in, and you bite down on what you thought was chocolatey fudgey somethingdelishandmelty and it ends up being made with raisins, or dates, or minced meat. Who the fuck invited Mrs. Dingleblat to the party with her bowel-friendly treats for diabetics? They’re the worst.  My entire justification for having consumed something fatty has been flushed down the toilet… so to speak.

I made these candy cane red velvet cake balls... They're everything I look for in a dessert: chocolate and possible heart failure.

While I have done several non-eating related activities over the past few days, most of them involved a pre or post drink and/or meal. And the problem with overeating is that it stretches out your stomach and your appetite gets enormous. The constant chain of consumables over a five day stretch has left me hungrier than a dishonest kid’s hippo in a game of Hungry Hungry Hippos when the kid keeps tilting the board so all the marbles go in his hippo’s mouth. That’s how hungry I have been… Except for food, not marbles. Those things hurt my teeth.  That’s probably not the best analogy to have chosen… but I’m leaving it there because I love that game and it doesn’t get referenced enough.

On Christmas night I got so drunk on wine that I enthusiastically participated in a caroling session that Santa Claus himself would have chortled at.  You know it’s time to lay off the vino when you start adlibbing between verses and throwing in the Christina Aguilera/Mariah Carey oooOoooOooooos.

I can feel the Christmas album in my near future. Look out JBiebs, I’m about to deck yer halls. (Nothing sexual, guys. That’s just not cool.)

I think that’s a wrap for me.

Oh ho ho… see what I did there?  Christmas puns never get old.

Okay, they might get a little old. Let’s change the subject.

Did anybody get anything hilarious and/or amazing for the holidays?  

An Open Letter to Santa Claus

Dear Santa,

I hope you’re not upset with me for not praying to you in awhile… I know you are always watching and you- wait a minute… That’s not Santa, that’s God. 

Let me start over….

Dear Santa,

I like your beard.

Love,

Ke$ha.

… Wait…

Let’s try this again.

Dear Santa,

I’ve been pretty naughty this year. 

That sounded really sexual… but I’m going to blame you for that one, because you’re the one with the Naughty or Nice List.  You could have gone with a name that has fewer “Spank me, I’ve been naughty” implications, but hey, whatever floats your sleigh. (See what I did there? I know how much you like your sleigh jokes.)

I figure taking ownership of my “naughty” status should get me some extra points/presents. At least if I don’t parade around being all “I’ve been so good this year, Santa! I haven’t even said the word Fuck once!” you’d see right through me and our relationship would be tarnished. I accept my place as a naughty bandit, and take my spot next to the other wrongdoers with pride.  Come to think of it, the members of your Naughty List could probably throw a pretty kickass party… so feel free to pass that list over when you drop off all of my goodies.  And goddammit there will be goodies!  Don’t even think of leaving me a lump of coal… unless it’s a bag of coal… because I have a charcoal barbecue and carrying bags of that shit home on the subway is a royal pain in the ass, so that’d be helpful. However, don’t ONLY leave me a bag of charcoal, cuz that’s only like $12, and I think you can do better than that.

I know I’m supposed to write you a list of things I want for Christmas, but that seems kind of silly since you spend all of your time watching everything I’m doing.  (Speaking of which, I’m sorry about that thing you saw the other night. It was awkward for both of us… and I hope we can move on.)

I’d like to think you can use the power of deduction to find my perfect gift(s). You should know me better than anyone, Santa, so I trust you to find me exactly what I’ve always wanted. Don’t go searching my internet browsing history either, because I’ve already cleared it. 

This is a test. We’ve been in a relationship for over twenty years now, Santa, it’s time you bring it.

For years I’ve been hearing you aren’t real, and quite frankly, I’m tired of the “real or not real” debate. I hear that enough about tits.  Please don’t be another sac of disappointment and silicone. I don’t need a new set of floating devices, I need a … Oh wait, I told you I’m not telling you what I need or want. You almost got me there again, old pal.  

I’m counting on you this year. I know it was a fluke that year when I found all my presents in my dad’s workshop before Christmas. You must have been under the weather that year… and I get that. I get sick all the time in the winter. We’ve always been the same like that… but this year, it hasn’t been cold enough for you to get sick, so I expect a top performance.

I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I just wanted to send a Holla! your way to remind you to bring me many gifts, maybe a bag of coal, and whatever booze you’ve managed to snatch from the neighbours.

Love your #1 fan,

Xoxo

Britt

P.S. I was going to go visit one of your mall representatives, but the idea of sitting on a strange man’s lap while I told him what I wanted seemed a little bit too heterosexual and a lot too creepy.  Maybe you should consider sending Mrs. Claus to do your bidding. Or a sexy elf.

Jussayin’.

I want to know...

*Disclaimer: This is not a real post... Really, I'm just confused. 

a) What the fuck is 'duhbro slang'

b) Who the hell gets tattoos of baby raccoons. That's like the anti-tough.

(Things that found my blog this week)

If You Were My Brother, I'd Let You Pee on My Tree

I’ve been stupid busy lately.

This holiday season has been everything it always promises to be: chaotic, overwhelming and fattening. And it’s only December 14^th.

This weekend, I have the first of several Christmas celebrations to endure, which means the wrapping and baking extravaganza has begun. This means 2 things: 1) the floor of my bedroom has disappeared and has been replaced by bows and ribbons and flashy wrapping paper and 2) the entire apartment is covered in some weird buttery/sugary grime. Yum.

In light of the holiday spirit, I bring you:

Yahoo! Answers- The Christmas Edition

Some of you may remember this post, which outlines my passion for finding ignorance on the internet.  The items below are little treasures I stumbled on, proving that even with all of the Christmas cheer in the air, there’s still plenty of room for some straight-up stupidity.

Let’s begin, shall we?

I have to hand it to the “Best Answerer”, that’s a pretty stellar response… Despite the glaring need for a dual-intervention, these two are a match made in heaven.

I do, however, have to point out that writing into Yahoo! Answers to find out how to “stop getting drunk” probably means you’ve hit rock bottom. If you haven’t figured out that consuming alcohol gets you drunk, and not consuming it keeps you sober, then Yahoo! Answers is exactly where you should be. 

Carry on.

A strap-on.

One day she’ll understand.

Um… haven’t you ever heard of the magical program called Paint?

For you:

I took this picture all by myself. No Sues were involved.

 

This question raises some serious red flags.

In my mind, the asker is the one straight-laced individual left in her clan of drug-ridden hippies. She is going to visit her family at the nudist camp for the holidays and is shamed by her parents for her lack of involvement in their drugged-up lifestyle. She just wants to fit in.

… Or she’s seen one too many episodes of Intervention and is dying to get in on the action.

One of those.

Your brother sounds like a good fucking time. Why don’t you pull the stick out of your ass and pee on the tree, too? It can be a new family tradition.

Problem solved.

You’re welcome.

Um.

I… uhh…

Amazeballs.

While I think the majority of people who ask questions on Yahoo! Answers are idiots, this asker takes the cake for “Most Awesome”. I demand an invite to their house for Christmas.

I WILL NOT BE DENIED AN INFLATABLE STRIPPER MIDGET ATOP A TREE!

***

I hope that you are hanging in there, folks!

Have you come up with any good tricks to deal with the chaos?

Hey Roberta, GTFO! Updated!

I have a family of animals residing in my wall.

At first, I thought there was just one. One lonely creature, clawing for attention and vying for love in this cold, cold world.

Actually, at first I thought it was a ghost… I guess I’ll start from the beginning.

Just over a month ago, a friend and I were telling each other stories of ‘hauntings’ we had either experienced first hand, or had heard about. While some may have been more of the “it happened to a friend of a friend of mine” variety, other stories carried more weight- well, one story in particular.  She told me that when she was growing up, around a certain time each night, a very distinct tapping sound would resound from her walls. She said it was always in the middle of the night, and it was always the same sound. The predictable patter was overlooked by other members of her family, but her sister has recently confirmed it’s still an ongoing presence in the house.

While I’m not particularly squeamish when it comes to ghosts/paranormal activity/old people acting crazy, I’m still a sucker for a good story. I will believe you, I will get goosebumps. I’ll say “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME” and then I’ll try to laugh it off.  Later, when I’m alone, your story will decide I didn’t enjoy it enough, and manifest itself in the form of sheer paranoia.

Suddenly, there are ghosts everywhere.

I know damn well that my fridge makes a weird gurgle sound that could give a frog a serious run for its money… and I know that there’s a train nearby that passes late at night and often makes the pictures on my wall shake ever so slightly.  But, regardless of aforementioned knowledge, after a good ghost story, my logic goes out the window and I have a million reasons to believe that a whole convent of dead nuns is after me…

While my friend’s story wasn’t necessarily hair-raising, it managed to leave me with enough residual uneasiness, that by the time I was lying in bed, my mind was thinking of fantastical scenarios where ghosts were going to use my body as a vessel for their mischievous wrongdoings. (WHADDUP run-on-sentence!)  It was, of course, at this point when a strange noise started resounding from within my walls.  It was subtle, and unidentifiable- just a faint tapping, one might say.  I would be lying if I said I shrugged it off and slept soundly, but eventually I did manage to slip into slumber.

In the following days, the tapping persisted. It wasn’t occurring at any sort of predictable interval, as my friend’s ghost had, but it was constant enough that it must have possessed a strong desire to remind me of its presence and taunt me accordingly. Thank you, Sir Fuckswithme, I didn’t need a full night’s rest anyway.

A few weeks ago, shit got real.

It was early on a Saturday morning, which means my head was pounding, and the impending urge to throw up the booze-soaked contents of my stomach was rising, when the sound of scratching started emitting from the wall right above my head. Jesus himself could have walked into my room at that point, and I’m not sure which would have had me more terrified.

The reality of the situation set in. I didn’t have a ghost; I had an animal- something with death claws and a thirsty for blood. The scratching continued for several minutes. I swung my maybe-still-drunk limb at the wall, causing a great thump. The animal scattered.  This process was repeated…and repeated… until finally there was silence and I fell back into my hangover comatose.

Since that morning, I’ve thankfully been reassured that this is not my imagination. Others have bared witness to the atrociousness exuding from my wall and a decision was made that my new, noisy neighbour is a squirrel. Probably. Maybe… I named her Roberta.

Roberta has been a faithful pain in the ass. She has consistently made her presence known at inconvenient times, and seems to find great pleasure in ensuring my hangover days are full of rage and distress. From the sounds of it, she’s clumsy, hyper and has grown indifferent to my wall smacking. The bitch thinks she’s outwitted me; she’s starting to act a little like Keith. (Come to think of it, they are probably part of some sort of fucked up A-Team- Wildlife Edition… and their mission is to fuck with me.)

This Saturday, I arrived home from the gym and plopped down on my bed, relieved by the promise of a movement-free hour.  Suddenly, from the wall came an unfamiliar sound. The habitual scratching had subsided and in its place was a strange cooing noise, accompanied by something scattering, and something shifting. Holy fucking mother of moses, Roberta is not alone. And Roberta may be a bird.  Quite frankly, I’m back to thinking Roberta is just a bloodthirsty, soul sucking chupacabra… we just can’t be sure.

So, I made the dreaded call to my infuriating landlord, Ballwant (Endearingly referred to as Ballsdeep- thank you, Tina.)   His lack of concern had me fuming at the ears. After reassuring him that I am not a crazy bitch, and this has, in fact, been going on long enough to warrant a shred of worry, he assured me he would call one of his goons to come and check it out… “Maybe… If there isn’t rain… or snow…”

… Your day is coming, Roberta & co, I suggest taking my notice of eviction seriously… or your happy days of wall residency is going to come to a tragic end.  Pass the word along to Keith.

***

Update: Ballsdeep called in his crew of muscle men/one lowly man to come take away my unwelcomed guests. While I was not home during their visit, they did leave a receipt behind. 

On the receipt it says: "Removal of squirrels."

The plural confirms that Roberta was not alone. I wish her and her vagrants well in their future endeavours of fuckery.

P.S. I think I saw her on my tree this morning. She was looking at me with a look that could only say "I can't wait to eat your face one day."

She's such a little bitch.

If It's The Thought That Counts, I'm F*cked.

I am the worst at buying gifts for people.

Every year, around this time, it dawns on me that Christmas is upon us.  Until now, I’ve managed to overlook the decorations and seasonal tunes. I’ve turned my head, and plugged my ears, but now the Big Day is 20 days away, and it’s time I opened my eyes (… and wallet, apparently.)  One thing you should know about me is that I carry a long-standing resentment towards premature celebrations of the Christmas season (aka: STOP shoving it in my fucking face when I’m still basking in my sugar-induced Halloween coma.)

While I can appreciate good holiday cheer as much as the next asshole, I don’t appreciate being reminded of all of the thing I have to buy for people who probably don’t need or want anything I’m going to buy for them.

Merry Christmas, buddy! Here’s something I found at the mall. The tag said it’s good for people of all ages, and there are a couple of really joyful asshats on the label, so I thought maybe you’d like it- but if you don’t, too bad, because I bought it at a kiosk that won’t be there when the holidays are over.

Enjoy.

Feliz Navidad, Motherfucker.

Don’t get me wrong- I’m not a Grinch. I appreciate the beauty of the lights, and the shimmer of the tinsel. I’ll have you know that I grew up in a house that puts seasonal, holiday window displays to shame. My Halloween decorating tactics are hugely overshadowed by my mom’s passion for Christmas flare. There is always a Christmas village, there is always fake snow, and you can bet your ass all of the dumbass decorations I made when I was a kidlet will make an appearance. (WHADDUP bells made from egg cartons and pipe cleaners!) She will even wrap the paintings on the walls of the house, and yes, that does include ribbons and bows. 

This guy is the Head Honcho of my parent's Christmas Village.

I can appreciate it, I just don’t advocate it.

In terms of Christmas music, there are certain versions of songs I’m fond of (Lennon’s Happy Xmas, War is Over, for example) but, to say the very least, I could live a pretty content life if the majority of Christmas music ceased to exist. While I hear the Biebs has a pretty stellar holiday album out right now, guess who doesn’t give two fucks and an ass slap? Me, that’s who. But try as I might, there’s just no escaping it. While I shop for aforementioned gifts, I catch myself humming along- singing, even (yes I sing to myself in public.) Between the scent of peppermint, the sparkly decorations and the joyful blare of trumpets and bells, it’s too difficult to use logic when picking out a gift.

So, this weekend, I found myself in a mall, and as the urge to stab someone slowly rose, so did my desire to pick up and buy whatever the fuck was in front of me, so I could GTFO asap.  Some would argue that I did just that… but we’ll have to wait until Christmas day to see if my laziness efficiency pays off.

Happy Shopping, ladies and gents.

I recommend bringing ear plugs and a taser. 

 

P.S. I am 100% aware that gift cards are the way to go. Try telling that to my family.

Meet Sharon. (Alt. Title: Please Excuse the Nudity)

I've been holding out on you guys. 

While I’ve mentioned the fact that I have tremendous friends, I’ve been pretty bad at showing you just how awesome they are.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate their eccentricities; it’s that it is nearly impossible to know where to begin.

Every time I get together with my awesomesauce pals, I find myself reaching for my phone, while in a fit of laughter, trying to capture even a morsel of hilarity for future reference.  As a result, I end up with the strangest assortment of “Notes” in my Blackberry.  To give you an idea, here are some of the note titles found in my phone:

• Ass Coming Out
• Cute…with a Wagon
• Dead Inside
• Fuckslut
• Gas
• Organs
• Penis as a Hat
• Pigeons
• Rain? What the fuck.
• Skank on the Subway

• Taxidermied Raccoons

While I can’t assure you that all of these notes are comprehensive, I can promise that they are all extremely amusing.

Earlier this fall, I was lucky enough to meet a friend of a friend.  Let’s call her Sharon. I knew practically immediately that I would love her to the bone.  Within minutes of meeting, I was being shown mostly-nude pictures of a drinking extravaganza gone awry.

She called me a fuckslut and the deal was sealed.

Sharon and I share a lot of similar qualities. We have been known to send each other morning text messages, summarizing the assortment of food items found beside the bed upon waking up, hazy and dry-mouthed.  I’d like to think our joint sense of disgrace makes the binge eating less shameful…

I’ve been encouraging Sharon to write a blog, so we can all bask in the glory of her humour, but her plate has been pretty full lately. (Food reference intentional.) In the meantime, I’ve decided that I’ll share some of her stories.  There isn’t going to be a “Sharon Sundays” segment on this blog, because as I’m sure you’ve noticed, my ability to write on a schedule is pretty near non-existent. However, I’m sure she’ll be making some appearances… And if I know her, they’ll likely involve nudity and a whole lot of Rye.

The Story of Sasha The Cat

One evening, a few of us were sitting around in Sharon’s apartment, mocking the concept of sobriety and gigglesnorting to our hearts’ content. After an extensive discussion about showing your ass in public, the topic of female cats came up and somehow everyone had some input on the subject. (I never said our conversations were riveting or intellectual.)  Sharon pipes up:

“When I was a kid, we had a cat named Sasha. She was such a bitch.
She loved being outside, but she was in the sun too much and so she got cancer.  We had to cut her ears off.
She looked like she was always wearing a helmet.
 
Oh, Sasha. She was such a bitch.*
 
We got another cat and named him Skid. We called him that because he used to rub his ass on the kitchen floor and leave skid marks.”

Sadly, Sharon no longer has Skid.  I’ve been looking for a good kitchen-floor-ass-bandit for awhile… Please apply within.

*Please don’t send me angry comments about how sad it is that the cat had its ears cut off and that we should be more sympathetic.  If Sharon says Sasha was a bitch, she probs was, y’all. 

 

Dude Looks Like a Lady

This week has been abnormally busy.  And by busy, I mean douchey.

Work is testing my patience and this morning I came pretty close to hitting half a dozen people in the face with my umbrella… intentionally… because I hate the rain/snow and it turns me into a raging beast of fury.

Yesterday was no picnic either. Tuesdays are worst than Mondays, guys. They sneak in and pretend to be friendly with all of their “Cheap Tuesday!” promises, but don’t be fooled. They’re the devil, wrapped in discounts- much like Walmart… with fewer underwear faux-pas…maybe... depending on how your day goes.

People of Walmart.

All of this is to say that I’m probably not overly amusing today. I did, however, have a pretty incredible interaction the other day in the subway.

It was after midnight, I was far from home and the only other person in sight was a girl in neon tights that would put Bowie to shame.

I was minding my own business, trying not to fall asleep before the train arrived, when, from around the corner, walks a man.  He was in his late-sixties to early-seventies and he was sporting a tilley hat.

One of these...

 

Beneath the tilley hat, he wore large headphones, equipped with a microphone that extended a few inches away from his face. He wore cargo pants and an old, teal, zip-up jacket. He took one look at me and stopped in his tracks. We made eye contact. (Oh, the dreaded eye contact.)  He took a few steps towards me, now standing a few feet away, and muttered something under his breath.  Not wanting to instigate a conversation, I shot him a look that said ‘huh?’ and shifted my gaze in another direction.

Tilley man piped up and said: “Playing the video games, I see.”

I looked down, remembering that I had been playing some Hangman on my phone to kill time, and offered a silent nod, acknowledging his observation.

Tilley man: “Wait one second while I take this off.”

Alarmed by such a statement, I looked up, silently praying this be a nudity-free interaction. Thankfully, he reached for his hat. Whilst leaving his headphones and microphone in tact, he raised his hat above his head, and leaned down a little bit.

Tilley man: “Do I look like Mrs. Doubtfire?”

I stared blankly at him, taking a second to register the question, and trying to determine if this was a joke.  He took my silence as a cue to continue.

Tilley man: “I’m related to Mrs. Doubtfire, you know.  I was just going through my family tree…”  (He fires up his Scottish accent) “…turns out, I’m a Williams!  Also! I had family in Liverpool! That’s English!”  (His accent quickly changing from Scottish to English) “You know who was from Liverpool, don’t you? The Beatles! It’s true!”

I smiled reluctantly and said “Oh, that’s great”, attempting to sound as genuine and enthused as possible.

He placed his hat back on his head and in a tone that screamed ‘I’m pretty much famous’, he said “You’ll see me around”, as he sauntered off to a nearby bench.

… Still waiting for our next run-in.

The thing that pleases me most out of this interaction?  Out of all of the Robin William characters to choose from, he likened himself to Mrs. Doubtfire.

What a lady, she is.

Whip It, Whip It Good.

Lately, I’ve been noticing a lot of mention of Fetish Parties.   

I’ve been invited to many over the years, but have yet to attend one. I say ‘yet’ as if it’s on my ‘do to’ list, but I just can’t seem to get around to going to the latex store to get fitted for a custom onesie with all the fixin’s. 

Over the years, I’ve had a lot of random run-ins with these sorts of events, and admittedly have perused the likes of Facebook for a colourful depiction of the ongoings of these special nights. I’ve always been greatly amazed, and sometimes horrified, at the lengths at which the partygoers will go to ensure the authenticity of their outfits. They aren’t kidding around, folks.

So, why am talking about this today?  Well, I recently received an e-mail with regards to one of these soirées, and it reminded me of a job I once had.

Before you get your panties in a bunch, let me explain.

Back when I was in university, I took on a lot of random/shitty jobs during the summer months to support my raging alcohol dependency during the school year. One of those jobs was assisting Americans in writing grant proposals to the government- the American government. Naturally, a failing budding sociology student would be fully equipped to help the financially unstable get their ducks in a row. While we were generally ‘discouraged’ from providing ‘financial advice’ to our desperate callers, we were encouraged to charge them $400 to provide them with information already available to them for free through the glorious information highway called The Internet. (But shhhh! That last part was a secret.) 

You can imagine how fantastic I felt knowing I was ripping off these underprivileged individuals. If they hadn't been paying me in commission, I’d have done the bare minimum and skated by until September when I could say ‘Fuck You’, and go join the pothead  (seriously, spellcheck? That’s actually a word? Amazing.) upstairs, who so frequently filled our office with the glorious distinct smell of weed.  Did I mention that my bosses also lived in this loft, so if you showed up early for work, you’d likely be greeted by your employer in a bathrobe with questionable morning-sex hair?  Yep. It was awesome.

I knew my bosses were a little eccentric.  There were indications of that all over their house/our office; but during business hours, they were usually pretty professional and we got shit done. And by ‘got shit done’, I mean we successfully took money from poor people.  When September rolled around, I knew my working days were coming to an end.  I gave my notice, and said my farewell to the loft, the office cat and the couple who employed me and brought me one step closer to the gates of hell.

Towards the late fall, I was in the eye of the shitstorm called exams, and I received an e-mail.  The sender was unfamiliar, but I’m a badass and still open e-mails from people I don’t know (viruses got nothin’ on me, foo.) Up pops some pretty explicit photos of women and men in bondage gear, people dressed up as giant stuffed animals, whips, chains, and all that good stuff.  At first, I assumed this was sent to me in error. “I probably signed up for some mailing list at the bar last weekend. I’ve got to stop signing up for things when I’m drunk.” I told myself- until I saw the names in small print at the bottom. My former bosses.

A light bulb went off in my brain faster than a hooker can say “that’s $100 extra” and I started experiencing flashbacks to Monday mornings in the office. I suddenly remembered all of the ‘unexpected number of guests’ they’d received that weekend and what a mess it had been to clean up. There was mention of moving the furniture, of changing the lights, of covering the giant, loft windows.

It. all. made. sense.

A deep urge to bathe washed over me as I considered the surfaces I had touched over the previous months. I thought about my desk, and my chair. I thought about my telephone receiver. I thought about my stapler. In the world of fetish parties, nothing is off-limits. (Isn’t that the nature of fetishes?)  My entire summer suddenly had a different sheen to it- maybe if I hadn’t been drunk the whole time, I would have picked up on their ‘hobby’ earlier. But we can’t always blame the booze, can we?

The moral of this story is: when you get a job on Craigslist, assume the employer also hosts fetish parties. And then see how you can get an employee discount on admission, because fuck that shit costs a lot. 

Does This Frostbite Make Me Look Fat?

I’m going to have to take a moment to acknowledge the recent change in temperature my fellow Canadians are experiencing. While I’m sure you northern Americans are also reaching for your heavier sweaters, my sympathy runs very shallow for y’all- because this morning, in addition to nearly losing a nipple, I could see my breath. 

At first, I was confused. Am I smoking right now? Am I a dragon and my fire has been extinguished? Did I take up flame spitting in my free time?  As I pondered the possibilities, I huffed and huffed, watching the steady stream’o’steam leave my body. As soon as I walked around the corner, and into the windy motherfucking street of death, it was clear to me that winter had arrived to bite me in the ass. 

To those of you into ‘winter sports’, I’m giving you the middle finger right now. Even if you can’t see me, just know that it’s happening.

I believe that winter exists for the sole purpose of making people lazy and unhappy. If I want to go anywhere in the winter, it means I am going to need to plan out exactly how to execute my trip from point A to point B, ensuring minimal outdoor exposure.  This means that if you don’t live near a subway, chances are we won’t be friends for the next couple of months. Well, we can be friends, but I’m not coming to your house. As awesome as you may be, I value my skin more than I like you, and I’m not putting up with the impending frostbite just so we can get hammed-à-la-house.  The promise of liquor only holds so much weight, and when the cold runs so deep that I can feel goosebumps in my buttcrack, you’re on your own, my friend.

While I’ll admit that my pain threshold for withstanding the cold is very near non-existent, I have a few suggestions on how to prepare for the approaching cold weather.

Tricks to Staying Warm When Mother Nature Decides to be a Cu  Bitch

1.      Stop dieting- Everybody knows that body fat keeps you warmer than any fleece sweater and/or Snuggie.  Put down the lettuce, and pick up the croissants. If your meal involves butter and cheese, you’re doing it right. 

1. (b) While we’re on that note, also hide/bury/destroy your scale and/or full-length mirror. This way you can appreciate your newfound warmth without all the messy crying and shameful, fat, naked mirror dances.

2.      Grab that bottle- The quickest way to warm your body is through your liver. In other words: take up drinking.  I recommend whiskey for the colder days. Whiskey is like a giant Fuck You to winter, because it says “Your efforts to make me miserable and frozen are lost on me! My nose would be this red even if it weren’t below zero. Let’s go tobogganing without coats! HUZZAH!”

3.      Stop shaving- If ‘sexiness’ is your concern, let us revisit #1.  If you’re going to let yourself go, why not fully commit? This way, you’ll have your very own personal fleece blanket… in the form of hair… all over your body. 

  

4.      Take up arson- Some of us don’t live lives of luxury. Some of us can’t afford ‘fireplaces’ or ‘fire pits’ or ‘heat lamps’. Some of us still deserve the warmth of fire. Having trouble rationalizing? The entire Christmas music industry supports arson if you listen closely enough (…Chestnuts roasting on an open fire? Please! More like: Chestnuts roasting on an illegal, gasoline-ignited fire). But! Be mindful of what you’re burning down… it’s best if it belongs to an asshole. We’re nearing holiday times, folks, no need to get on Santa’s naughty list!

5.      Forget the concept of personal space- It’s a well-known fact that body heat is the biggest player in the game of staying warm.  While the odd cuddlefest may be nice when you’re at home snookuming with your honeybuns (pardon me while I puke in my mouth a little bit…), chances are, if you’re a productive member of society, you have to leave your bed/couch sometimes. When you’re out and about, make sure to take a moment to acknowledge and appreciate other people’s bodies and the warmth that they provide. Snuggle up to a stranger in the subway/at a bus stop/while you’re waiting to cross the street/wherever there are people and it’s cold. They’ll appreciate your body heat as much as you’ll appreciate theirs. It just may take them a few moments/court hearings to realize it.

Do you have any tips on staying warm in the late fall/winter?

Lettuce Forget How Much You Suck.

Today, I have beef. 

I’m not saying, “I’ve got a baggie full of ground beef in my purse right now, guys”, I’m saying “I’ve got a bone to pick, and I’m going to yell it from a motherfucking rooftop.”

Let’s pretend this blog is a rooftop, shall we?

Perfect.

An Open Letter to Lettuce (and Other Leafy Greens.)  

Dear Lettuce,

You make your way into my fridge, and before I can remember that I purchased you, you sit in my vegetable ‘crisper’, wilting away, generating a mysterious liquid, and plotting your absolute domination over the other, less douchey produce items in your general vicinity.  Leave the apples alone, arugula, they did nothing except be delicious.

I understand that you’re likely envious of their crunchy, juicy, delightful ability to satisfy one’s piehole, but back the fuck off. If I do pick you up, consider not leaking all over me. I know it’s a crazy idea, but maybe if you were more likeable and less like an unpotty-trained chihuahua, I’d consider picking you up and ingesting you more often.  

Why did I buy you and not let a more avid leaf-eater purchase and consume you in my place? 

The answer is simple: your enchanting green hue tricked me. It always tricks me.

I see you sitting in your mountain of well-misted glory, and think “Maybe this week, I’ll make a salad every day and bring it to work. I could totally do that. I’m going to kick ass at being healthy. I’m a health MACHINE!”  So, I pick you up, place you in a bag that will inevitably become your eternal resting place, and mosey along- purchasing other healthy, boring items on my quest for the healthy lifestyle I have been hearing so much about lately.  

Chances are, in the throes of post-grocery shopping bliss, I will make that salad. I will throw your luxuriant, green leaves into a bowl with your vegetable crisper nemeses, and ingest it like a champ. I will pat myself on the back and think “Damn, I ate the fuck out of that healthy meal. I’m the healthiest bitch in the room.” And then I’ll do a little dance, because I’m the only bitch in the room, while I fantasize about the chocolate I’ll eat later to reward myself for eating so well.

The thing is, lettuce, you just aren’t satisfying at all. While I may momentarily bathe in your healthy, leafy glow, you never truly eliminate my hunger, you never kill a craving, and you, more often than not, get stuck in my teeth, making me look like a doofus all after-fucking-noon.  Your seasonal ‘mixed greens’ resemble something I’d find in my mom’s bag’o’weeds after she’s done with her afternoon gardening, and I’ve had enough of your pretention.

So, leafy greens, for the love of god, next time we meet in the produce aisle, why don’t you just act like your weepy, droopy, poopy self, so we can avoid the awkward “Oh right…you’re in my fridge, aren’t you… I guess I should probably throw you out… WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LEAKING ON ME” moment.

Thank you,

Britt

Xoxoxo

P.S. Why can’t you be more like cheese.  Cheese is awesome. 

P.P.S. I hope you caught the brilliant 'play on words' in the title. I'm here all week, folks. 

Better Than a High-Class Hooker

It's Friday.

If you hadn't already realized that, I'm very glad to have enlightened you. (You should probably lay off the weed, though, because even I can keep track of my days...)
If you had realized that, then you're probably like me and counting down the minutes until you can GTFO of work/school/prison... 

My attention span is pretty much non-existant today, but that doesn't mean I haven't had time to browse ye ol' Craigslist.

Today, I bring you my dream job.
If it weren't across the country, I'd be sending my letter of interest along with a picture proving I can definitely "pretend" eat someone's face.

I say, "Potato", you say, "Let's run the world with pigeons."

I’ve hit a wall.

I keep staring at the blank screen, trying to think of something that might make you chuckle or, at the very least, huff loudly through your nostrils, but the proverbial crickets be chirpin’.  

This is all your fault.

If you weren’t so intent on being amused when you read my blog, I could just write about how much I love potatoes and that would be that. I wouldn’t need to think up clever anecdotes and new ways to say the word ‘tit’. I could just be all “Yum. POTATOES. Nom nom nom” and you would take it like a champ.  

Actually, can we take a moment to pause and appreciate the potato, folks. I mean, for serious. The possibilities are endless with those little delicious fuckers. Starchy, adaptable vegetable FTW.)

If I had an online store, I would sell T-shirts that say:

Since y’all aren’t here to read about produce, you’ve left me up shitcreek without a paddle. Nothing overly interesting has happened in my life lately.  I mean, I could tell you about last weekend and how I got so drunk I nearly picked up a cougar by accident, or about the time my landlord locked me out of my apartment and I reluctantly donated my bananas to raccoons, but those stories would probably compromise my ‘cool shit’ reputation, and we can’t have that, now, can we?

So instead, I’m going to enlighten you with a brief story that outlines why my roommate may eventually take over the world.

One quiet evening, I sat in the living room of our little apartment. The television may have been on. This is not relevant to the story. My roommate was in the kitchen, probably doing something with food and/or drink (so far, this story is going really well…), and suddenly came hurtling into the room.

Roommate: “Okay, think about this:  If you were telepathic with pigeons… like, if you were all ‘Dr. Doolittle’ with them, you could totally take over the world. With pigeons.”

Me: “What exactly would you accomplish by communicating with pigeons? Tell them where to poop, and to swoop down near people’s heads when they aren’t paying attention to scare the shit out of them*?”

Roommate: “They were used in the war!”

Me: “Well then.”

Roommate: “Think about it!”

So, if she starts acting strangely more strangely and engages in bizarre one-on-one interactions with pigeons, I’ll know to watch my back- because bitch be taking over the world, Dr. Doolittle style. 

(P.S. I still think you're crazy, roomie. And I've thought about it.)

 

* I’m 90% sure that pigeons exist for the sole purpose of fucking with me when I’m drinking wine in a park.

Nothing is Quite as Fabulous as a Man in a Dress (Alt. Title: Protect Your Nipples)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from frequenting gay bars, it’s that dragqueens can do “diva” better than any vagina-sporting bitch I know.

They’re six-foot-something, looming beasts, armed with a concept of ‘femininity’ that could leave Nicki Minaj perplexed.  The bigger the hair- the better. The smaller the dress- the better. The longer the lashes-the better. The smaller the bulge- the better.

Watching performances, it often appears they’re in a competition of “Who can flail their arms around the most”, while proving that they can own the shit out of a classic Celine Dion chest-pound.  

Now, I don’t want this to come across as an “I hate dragqueens” post, because I feel quite the contrary.  I think they are fabulous and I gurgle with joy when I see a man in a dress. What I’m most bamboozled by (yes, that’s a word! It means baffled! The world is an exciting place!) is the abundance of titty-grabbing that occurs when a man is dressed as a woman.

Let me explain.

On more than one occasion, I have been minding my own business in the ladies’ room at a bar when suddenly a towering vision of glitter and weave appears behind me in the mirror.  There is something about a 6’7” ‘woman’ that makes me both excited and terrified.  So, let’s assume for the sake of this story that I was drunk. I know it’s a long shot, but try to imagine it, folks.  So there I am, fixing my face and practicing my “I’m not drunk, I’m just sassy” face, when this superfab tower of glam approaches me.  I smile, contemplate throwing a ‘love the outfit, girl!”, or a simple “WORK”, her way, but decide I’m not fabulous enough to pull it off.  She begins adjusting herself and I took this as my cue to leave. Sooner than I could say “Where’s my drink?” the queen spins around, looks me in the face and grabs my nipples.

Had this man not been head to toe in glitter, sequins, and eau-de-hoe, I would have thrown a slapbomb so hard he would’ve been a she for realz. But the combination of hair and glamour threw me for a loop.  She exhaled and let out some loud, enthusiastic variation of “honk honk” and I just stood there- nipples pinched and wide-eyed, still sporting my drunken smile.  I leaned over, picked up my purse and let out possibly the most awkward laugh of all time.  I stumbled out of that bathroom shamed, confused and a little aroused.

So, next time you’re alone in the bathroom with a dragqueen, remember to guard your nipples- or she’ll come a-honkin’.

These are life lessons, people.