September 30, 2011

Daytime Television: What a Shitshow.

On Monday, I was lucky enough to have a wisdom tooth pulled out of my face. It hurt like a bitch and for a solid six minutes I thought about taking the dentist’s scraping utensil and stabbing it through his jugular… but I resisted. I figured jail time with a cut-open mouth would probably be pretty shitty. Plus I had just acquired a brand new hole in my mouth, and I wasn’t ready to be *that* popular behind bars.

I was just recovering from being sick, and while I can definitely appreciate doing absolutely nothing as much as the next guy, it starts to get extremely boring after awhile. Especially since my pain killers were labeled with all of these “don’t consume alcohol” warnings. What a downer. 

I can only paint/re-paint my nails so many times, and after reading 123128 blog entries of all you hilarious bitches, stalking every person I know on Facebook and reorganizing my wallet, I decided to turn to daytime television for entertainment.  Thankfully my roommate was home to experience this with me; otherwise I would have blamed the pain meds and assumed I was living some sort of vivid, lucid dream. Or I would have blamed the vodka. One of those.

I’m not going to touch Soaps with a ten foot pole. Those shows are fucked and the incestfest they celebrate makes me want to throw my bloody gauze at the television. Moving along...

While flipping through channels, I landed on Dr. Oz.  Usually, if this happens, I’m quick to continue flipping, but on this glorious afternoon I was fortunate enough to catch the topic of the day: What’s The Real Age of Your Vagina and Penis?


Unfamiliar with the general layout of Dr. Oz’s bullshit segments, I was pretty blown away by the elaborate set that had been designed to demonstrate a vagina. And I was even more blown away by how much my vagina did not even come CLOSE to resembling what I was witnessing.  Fortunately for you, I was able to get some screen captures of this shit to share with you.

Dr. Oz’s: How to Confuse People about How Vaginas Look/Work
*I'm pretty sure if you click these images, you can see them full-sized.


If I met someone with a pelvic floor like a hammock, I’d be sad for them, and simultaneously try to swing on it.  I love a good hammock. Don’t tell me I can’t.

‘Scuse me ma’am, your vagina is on that lady beside you.
To demonstrate how the pelvic wall stretches, Dr. Oz had three women lie on the hammock. Now, I’m no doctor, but if you have three women on your pelvic wall, it doesn’t matter how old your vagina is, you’re probably just a slut.

We can call this “Kiddie-Style”

Here we have the vaginal wall demonstration. This leaves me both confused and angry. If vaginas are like slides, they left that shit out of health class.

Weeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Vaginas are so much fun!

More importantly, if having sex is like sliding down a slide, I’ve been doing it wrong (most of the time.)
HOORAY! The first in my marriage!

Let me get this straight. This guy slides down the vagina slide and she starts flailing the orgasm sign around like an asshole. Pardon me, but that’s not. how. things. work.  Just look at that sense of accomplishment on his face.  “Thanks, Doc, you really took a load off.”
Har. Har. Har.

Dr. Oz is so supportive.  Unlike your loose pelvic floor. AM I RIGHT, Girls!?

But it can’t be all fun and games, now can it?  Dr. Oz has to come and rain on your motherfucking parade.  That, my friends, is the look of sheer terror one experiences when they learn that their 42 year old cooch is actually…

*drum roll please*

For shame.

73. That’s right. Seventy-fucking-three.  Let’s not forget to mention that Sir Slidesalot’s sergeant is a whopping 79 years old. That’s some elderly junk right there.  And given all of the other medically accurate information we have witnessed thus far, these numbers MUST come from scientifically sound analysis. 

The moral of this story is: don’t let 3 chicks swing on your pelvic wall hammock, vaginas are like slides and Dr. Oz is a douchecanoe.

And when you’re asked what you yell out during orgasms, always be sure to answer: 

September 24, 2011

It's Sexier in the Dark

I caught a cold.

I’ll let that soak in for a second so you can get all sympathetic and shit. Yea, it sucks to be me. I am leaking from my face a lot. Sometimes I cough.

Deathly syndromes aside, I have a profound aversion to sitting at home and doing nothing on a Friday night. I wasn’t looking to go to a club, I just didn’t want to sit at home on my sorry ass, surrounded by Mount Snot-Tissues, crying at an infomercial, trying to taste the half-melted popsicle I found at the back of my freezer.  So I decided to do what lots of regular folk do on a Friday night: go to the movies. (I hear your gasps. Oh the tameness! What a yawnfest! Is she *that* girl?)  I beg your pardon, but if you recall, I’m sick.  See above for details of my suffering.

So, to the movies I went. But, if you’re anything like me, a movie isn’t a movie without a little booze.  Why would I want to sit still for 2 hours on a Friday night if it doesn’t involve a drink in my hand? Exactly.  You can’t think of a reason either. So, for those of you who do this often, or pretend you don’t but we all know where you go on Tuesday afternoons, this is a list you can show your friends who judge you or think you have “a problem.” And, to the rest of you drunk-at-the-movies virgins, please find below the reasons you should start adding flask’o’ hooch to your purse/fanny pack before heading over to the ol’ cinema.

Reasons to drink in a movie theater

  •  It makes the softdrinks taste a lot better.
  • If you bring your own flask, paying $6 for a coke doesn’t seem like such a rip off when you drink its boozy glory.
  • No one around you knows you’re drinking. So it’s like having your very own secret members-only club. In your mouth.
  • It makes even semi-unattractive actors attractive. Rawr.
  • Booze is great with popcorn.
  • If there’s a bearable good soundtrack, you’ll really appreciate it. (Sing a little? Dance maybe?)
  • When the movie is over and most all of the people have left, you have your very own stage to strip dance on.

In conclusion, drink in movie theaters, folks.  Just maybe not if you’re with your kids. Actually, scratch that. Have you seen some of these new children’s movies they’re coming out with? Fuck if I wouldn’t need to be wasted to sit through that shit.  Drink up.



Can you think of any more reasons to drink in a movie theater?  

September 20, 2011

Meet Keith: He Probably Eats Poop.

I recently posted about my raccoon problem.

While thankful the gods have not blessed me with another gift’o’fetus, I have developed a new, budding relationship with Keith, the potentially-Irish teenage raccoon of doom. He’s snarky, rude, dismissive and has clearly eaten one-too-many garbage cakes, if you know what I mean. Bitch could use some of Jose’s help. Jussayin’.

Throughout the summer, many guests of my back porch (heh heh, my back porch) were forced to scramble inside out of fear. The glowing green eyes peering from the roof were daunting, and merely the beginning.  The not-so-little shit would pop out from behind furniture and fearlessly lower himself from the roof, proving he don’t care about nobody.  

Not on my porch, Keith.

Learning quickly that raccoons will do whatever the fuck they want, I decided to make it a little bit more effort for them. Hoping this would encourage them to GTFO my property and find another poor sucker to rub their feces all over. After moving around the furniture (or ‘hide and go seek’ spots that Keith so fondly inhabits), I stacked all of the chairs atop the god-forsaken-fetus-tarp that I’ve been meaning to get rid of…

A couple of days later, I came home after work to this:



You can't see his giant ass 'cuz it's hidden by the pile of chairs.
Note: Fetus-Tarp

Planning on spending some quality sun time on my porch, I quickly got myself into quite a tizzy.  Don’t stand in my way of sunshine and patio time, you rabielicious bum.

Oh! I’m sure you’re wondering why this raccoon has been deemed a “teenager”. Let me enlighten you with the conversations that transpired after discovering him relaxing surrounded by my pile’o’chairs.

Conversations with Keith

Me(Upon discovering raccoon) Hey! What do you think you’re doing!?
Keith: Looks up. Seemingly unalarmed by the raging human.
Me: Did you move all this stuff on your own?
Keith: Stares blankly.
Me: I know you did this. You’ve created a lot of mess here. It’s time for you to leave.
Keith: I’m just going to sit here and stare at you and make loud huffing noises until you let me go back to sleep.
Me: I don’t think so, buddy. It’s after 4pm, you need to get the fuck off my property.
Keith: HISS
Me: Goddammit, Keith.

I had to leave to go to Boot Camp, which meant I was out of the house for about two hours.  Upon my return, I checked the back porch. Guess who decided to get a bit more comfortable?

Me:  You have got to be kidding me. It’s AFTER 7 O’CLOCK!
Keith: Continues to sleep and ignores my yelling.
Me:  HEY! YOU! Under MY roof, you will follow MY rules.  No more sleeping in! No more knocking down my shit! No more hanging out on my porch!
Keith: Looks up at me and stares. Completely unaffected by all of the rules I just schooled him with.
Me: I don’t speak raccoon.  Do you speak piece-of-wood-to-the-face?

I then proceeded to swing the piece of plywood my landlord decided to leave behind on one of his many attempted home-reno projects.  Bear in mind, I was still like 2 meters away from the beast.

Me: No? Do you speak pile-of-chairs-on-your-face?

Cut to me kicking some chairs around like a bloody lunatic.

Keith: Is that all you got bitch? I’m going back to fucking sleep. Come back when you grow some balls.*

*I can only assume he said that, because he then turned his head away from me and nestled it back into the fetus-tarp, returning to his deep, douchey slumber.

I yelled some more stuff about how he’s irresponsible and needs to get his act together, but at this point, he was giving me the ole’ ‘get out of my room’ silent treatment, so I gave up and went back inside.

He eventually left to eat poop or chase children, or whatever it is raccoons do. But I know he’s been back, because he ate my bananas.  But that’s a story for another day.

P.S. If you’re wondering why he’s potentially Irish, you can thank my Roommate.
She explains:

“I met this Irish guy in a bar once. His name was Keith, but he pronounced it ‘Keet’ (because he was Irish). Our conversation went like this:  What's your name? Keet. What? Keet. What? Keet. What? Keet. And so on.
Point being, I think Keith should be an Irish raccoon so I can call him Keet.”


Updated: I do not feed Keith. The bananas were part of a long, sordid, hungover, locked-out of the house adventure.  Another day, folks.

September 16, 2011

How to Build a Posse

Get ready to change the way you speak.

Are you looking for a more effective way to really drill in your ideas?
Do you enjoy receiving nods of agreement when you speak?
Are you hoping to assemble a posse of yes-(wo)men to encourage your brilliance?
Bored of ending a sentence with a plain ol’ period?
Exhausted from the overuse of ‘you know’?
Tired of hearing “Don’t you agree?”

That’s what I thought.
That shit is fucking boring.

Instead, start finishing your brilliant statements with “AM I RIGHT, Girls!?”

This will instill a feeling of camaraderie and unison amongst your listeners.

With such masterful simplicity, it can be used in practically any scenario. Whether it’s used to end an idea, question, complaint, compliment, insult, suggestion, or just any general train of thought, it will add the extra ZING you’ve been lacking.
People might even start listening to your boring-ass stories again.

Let me give you some examples.

“I forgot to buy the refried beans for the tacos. That always ruins Mexican night. AM I RIGHT, Girls?!”

“My favourite movie is Showgirls, because of all the glitter and titties. AM I RIGHT, Girls?!”

“I have spinach in my teeth. AM I RIGHT, Girls?!”

See? It’s perfect, all the time.
Especially when you’re talking to men.

Tune in next week for How to Make a Man Feel Pretty.

September 13, 2011

There Are No Strippers Here.

I’m new to blogging.  You’ve likely figured that out if you looked at my archives and thought “What the fuck? Bitch only has 15 posts?!” 

First of all, screw you!

That was rude and uncalled for. I apologize. What I meant to say was: It’s a lot of fun, but I have lots to learn.

I ended up at blogspot because … well, I can’t quite remember. I was probably trolling the internet drunk one night and thought “The world needs to know how good this nacho cheese is and I can totally adequately describe it. People need to know about this. IF ONLY I HAD A BLOG!” And thanks to the trusty internet, POOF! A blog was born.
*If you’ve now left to find the entry about nacho cheese, you’re going to be pretty disappointed when you don’t find it. That gem is only in my brain (and stomach) and it’s pretty fucking delicious. Maybe one day, buddy.

Since I’m slowly getting the hang of this shit, I decided “Hey! Maybe I’ll spruce up my page a bit! It can’t be that complicated…”  Blogger has these nifty “Gadgets” that you can add to your blog to keep people in your personal loop. They give your potential readers a feel for what your blog is ‘all about.’  You can imagine my disappointment when I couldn’t find the “It’s SLAPo’clock!” button, or “Find the nearest bar in your current area” tool.  It’s like they don’t even know me.

Instead, I located some asshat ‘gadgets’ that leave me both perplexed, and filled with a desire to drop some kicks.  Let’s begin.

1) “Pictures of Lighthouses”

No offense, lighthouselovers, but what the bloody fuck. Is there enough of a market for this? How many readers are thinking “Damn, I sure wish this post had some lighthouse pictures beside it! That would have enriched the experience!”  The answer is none. Nobody thinks that. Eff you, lighthouses.

2) Jessica Alba Pictures 

Seriously? You won’t tell me where the local bar is, but you’ll post pervy pictures of Alba on my sidebar to keep my readers… Happy? Enthused? Suicidal?  Personally, if I stumble on a blog with “Daily Random Images” of that hussy, I’d stop reading. 
That’s it. Nothing violent, people. I’m not completely irrational (usually.)

3) Chat Flirten?

I’m not sure what this is, but “iLove ist die grosse Singleborse” looks to me like it’s telling me if I don’t find love, I’ll die gross and single. So fuck you Chat Flirten!  Your girls look like whores.

4) Virtual Stripper.

The idea immediately excited me!  Finally a gadget that might be a fit. I could have a girl dance for my readers? Deal!  Then I read the description.  “She’ll not show you anything ;) - meaning the dancing is family safe.”  Uh, so she’s not a stripper?  And she’ll dance for families? What the fuck. Portal Romanesc, you’ve managed to ruin strippers.

5) The Broken Heart Guide

Because nothing mends a broken heart like daily tips from a blog gadget.
Thank god I didn’t jump off the bridge! Itakeoffthemask really gets me.  



Maybe one day I will convince blogger to make me a ‘click here to get a drink delivered to your house in 30 mins or less’ gadget.  Then maybe I’ll forgive Chat Flirten for calling me a gross single bore. Maybe.

September 9, 2011

Shut Your Face, Princess.

Ever notice how people talking loudly in a group when you’re alone is just about the most annoying thing since crying plane babies? Ever find yourself gripping your seat to avoid throwing slapbombs and yelling irrational, crude insults that warrant serious suspicion of Tourettes? Ya, me too.

Recently, while riding along on a particularly empty subway car, I sat perched across from a group of 4 to 5 ‘young adults’.  (This is a term I use loosely, since I can’t tell the difference between 16 year olds and 24 year olds anymore. Thanks, hormone-infused-food, you make me pervy even when it feels like it should be legal.) These punks were loud, laughing and having a jolly fucking time and were, therefore, extremely irritating. Everything that came out of their chirpy mouths felt punch-worthy.

What’s that? Your super-new sparkly jacked up phone has all the cool shit your friends are envious of?  Congratulations, asshole.
Your new haircut is tots not what you wanted? OMFG!  How will you go on!?
Your friend’s boyfriend’s cat’s lover’s owner’s cousin is having a party and didn’t invite you? NO FLIPPING WAY. Let’s go burn down his house.

Here’s an idea: instead of talking, you should consider shutting your stupid face.

P.S. I am totally one of those annoying twenty-something bitches, except everything I say is a gift. You’re welcome, world.

September 6, 2011

Don't Go On the Roof! Updated!

I have a raccoon problem.

Not in the ‘I can’t quit raccooning, guys- I’m hooked!” kind of way. But in the ‘they are taking over my life and will probably eat my cat’ kind of way.  And I don’t even have a cat.

Last spring, I had the luxury of discovering a dead raccoon fetus on my back porch. As we live on the third floor of a house, it felt a bit like a special delivery. The kind of delivery you’d expect from Satan, or Joan Rivers.
This was shocking and upsetting for two reasons.  1) I stopped eating meat 8 years ago because I had to dissect a fetal pig in high school and wanted to die the whole goddamn time. So it was pretty much like staring trauma directly in its hideous, inbred face. 2) It’s a fucking dead raccoon fetus.

Not knowing how to deal with this situation, I decided to grab the corner of the tarp that was conveniently strewn on the ground beside it, to temporarily cover it. Out of sight, out of mind, right? WRONG. Out of the tarp jumps the biggest raccoon fucker I’ve encountered to date. Probs from the pregnancy weight, but I’m going to judge her anyway. Bitch scared the living shit right out of me.  Worst thing? I was home alone. 

After a few hysterical phone calls and likely several shots, I stood for a long period of time, face pressed up against the glass door, expecting to see the unsuccessfully-covered fetus move. It didn’t… as dead things generally go…  The next day, my roommate and her heroic Irish boyfriend disposed of the body- later telling me they had had another encounter with Bitch-Jumps-Out-of-Tarps, but this time she also had a (living) baby. Hooray! More Raccoons all around! Just what Toronto needs!

A few months later, summer arrives and a fresh-faced 19 year old lad moves in downstairs. Sharing a love of booze, we instantly got along.  One night, he proposes the idea of climbing onto our roof sometime. My roommate agrees this would be a jolly good time, while my first thought was That’s where the raccoons are. They throw their fetuses from above- don’t go up there.  Trying not to sound like a total lunatic, I kept that thought inside and shrugged off the idea, hoping it wouldn’t arise again.

A couple weeks later, the following text message conversation takes place between me and my roommate:

Roommate: We’re thinking of going up on the roof tonight.

Me: Oh man, don’t! Maybe there are raccoon bodies up there!

Roommate: HA! If there are, I’m so getting them taxidermied and using them to scare you constantly.  Oh, what’s in your bed? Oh, what’s in the fridge? Oh, what’s in the oven? RACCOOOOONS.
And then I’m going to make them wear Anne Hathaway masks.*

Me:  I hate you.
*If you don’t get that, you should read this post.

Lesson: Don’t expect your roommate to support your irrational fear of raccoon fetuses. And also, dead raccoons are far more terrifying when you put Anne Hatahaway’s face on them.

Roommate has provided a sample of her upcoming work.

Why yes, that IS a baby raccoon emerging from her stupid chin.

September 2, 2011

The Spanish Inquisition Gets Physical.

I decided about year ago to kick my ass into shape.
About six months ago, I actually started going to the gym.

I was initially quite perplexed by the whole thing- namely the smell and how the fuck people managed to squeeze themselves into shorts 5 sizes too small.
For all of our benefits, I’m going to steer away from talking about the eldersnatch I’ve had the misfortune of witnessing on a far-too-frequent basis.  Just know that it’s a very real phenomenon, sweeping women’s changerooms nationwide.  If I wanted to know what a white-bearded crotchpocket looked like, I’d use the internet. Privately. In shame.

Old lady bits aside, the gym is a fascinating place. On your left, you have the girl that has negative 65% body fat, weighing herself relentlessly as she struggles to lift her stick-figure arms above the gaping holes where her titties should be. And on your right, you have the man who lost his balls to steroids, and has made up the difference by letting out audible, disheartening grunts and emitting offensive body odors. Thanks, bro. Appreciate it.  

Itching to be able to kick some serious ass, I decided to take on the “no pain, no gain” mentality and signed up for Boot Camp.  I don’t know about you, but when I think of Boot Camp, my first thought is this guy:

Oh, hell to the no, motherfucker.
Yell at me like that, and I’ll turn your P into a V. If you know what I mean.  

To my surprise, not only was the instructor nothing like that dude, he was old, Spanish and pretty fucking small. My first thought was I could take him.
Turns out: he’s a shitstorm of freaking crazeballs.

This Spaniard has clearly encountered one too many fucking bulls in his day and has decided to stop taking shit from anyone. He also apparently ate a dog at some point, because the barks that come out of his mouth are both alarming, and shockingly authentic.  He mutters to himself, promises a cookie* if you ‘shut your freaking mouth’ and declares that he’s a monkey, ‘unlike you bunch of fucking slackers.’  I guess being a monkey is a good thing...? 

*The cookie thing is a lie. There are never any goddamn cookies.

While he may be slowly kicking my ass into shape, I still don’t feel prepared to fight a Matador and I constantly have cravings for enchiladas. I may not be as tough as your ‘grandmami’, José, but I’m pretty sure you’re 70, and if that bitch is still alive, she’s a goddamn champion. And also, probably a zombie. Jussayin’.