At Least I'm Not Pregnant

To say the very least, this past weekend was amazeballs.


I'm coming up with a super clever, awesome, witty post. I swear.
In the meantime, a Yahoo! Answer to keep you invigorated and full of hope for future generations.
(Click image for larger view)

Right. This sounds like someone who knows her medical do's and don'ts!

Happy Halloween, FucklePuffs! May you not be 7 weeks pregnant and drunk.

XOX

You Just Look Slutty

In keeping with my recent Halloween theme (and by ‘theme’ I mean the last post was about Halloween, and this one will be too. I use the term ‘theme’ loosely.) I’ve decided to tackle the ancient practice of Halloween costumes.

Each year, when autumn rolls around, I am all abuzz fantasizing about the endless possible Halloween costumes I could tackle. “This year is going to be the best. year. ever.” I’ll tell myself.

I’ll take out a little notepad and/or post-it and write down some costume ideas.

*It’s important to note that while smartphones have a time and place, this ain’t one of them. When it comes to Halloween costumes, that shit needs to be in INK… And then later shoved in my wallet because you never know when you’re going to be in a store and think “WAIT. That cheesecloth could totally work for a Halloween costume idea I had… WHERE are my ideas!?”

Crisis averted, my friends. They’re in your wallet.

The shitty thing about starting your idea list early is that you will always think there’s a better idea about to be birthed. You find scrunched up post-its in your wallet from months before and think “HA! What a fool! These ideas are so amateur!”  You guffaw and move on your merry way, certain that a brilliant idea is just around the corner.

Think again, motherfucker.

Suddenly, it’s the week before Halloween, all you have are scrunched up post-it’s, last year’s wig that smells like shame and a box of costume jewelry that’s looking better and better with each passing day. So you jump onto Google, type in “Unique Halloween Ideas” and you realize that there’s no such thing. And if there is, you’re not unique enough to come up with one because you suck and should just go as a giant post-it with “FAILURE” stamped across it, but no! You must push forward! You must find the perfect Halloween costume!  And Google is not going to be where you find it.

After realizing that looking for Halloween costume ideas online is about as useful as looking at Yahoo! Answers for life advice, I reached the conclusion that the costumes being sold online are just stripper/dragqueen couture that’s being rebranded for a LIMITED TIME OFFER!  On November 1^st, all orders will be rerouted to twatsforsaleifyoubuytheseskankyoutfits.com.

Despite an abundance of offensive and/or ludicrous finds, a few costumes took the cake.  Sometimes some things just shouldn’t be made sexy. Sometimes a bird is just a bird, an orange is just an orange, and Chinese takeout is just Chinese takeout.

7 Costumes That Should Not Be Sexy

 #1

“Hey, I’m Chinese Takeout.”

This costume just screams for ‘eating out’ jokes, but I’m not going to go there, guys, because I’m a *lady*.

P.S. Your fortune cookie hat sort of looks like a vagina.

#2

This is supposed to be Ursula. URSULA, guys- like, the one from the Little Mermaid.

Excuse me if I’m wrong, but the only thing sexy about that bitch was the way she sang the words “body language” and moved her hips absolutely nothing.

She couldn’t have fit this outfit over one of her tentacles.

If you need a refresher, this is Ursula.

 #3

 

This one is called the “Naughty Native.”

I don’t want to get all political and ‘human right’y on you guys, but shutthefuckup.

“Let’s segregate our Native people and then make sexy Halloween costumes and call them naughty because they don’t like staying on their reserves after curfew!”

… Shall we move on?  Yes, yes, we shall.

#4

 

Hello, Teenage Mutant Ninja Slut.

This is every 12 year old boy’s wet dream… so, I guess that’s the demographic they’re going after when they put this in their ‘sexy’ section? But honey, you’re grown up now. You can probably have your own teenage mutant child. If you’re trying to make 12 year old boys’ wet dreams come true, maybe your biggest problem isn’t your skanky Halloween getup. 

You ain’t no Michaelangelo.

 #5

 

Gene Simmons.

NO.

P.S. Is it just me, or does this still look like a man in makeup?

#6

 

The Raccoon.

I don’t think I need to reiterate my overall distain for this four-legged creature, but what I will say is that this girl has got the “I eat trash, sleep in strange, unfamiliar places and my feces is toxic” look DOWN.  Bravo!

Paws up, garbagecrotch!

#7

  

 

Department of Erections

Seriously? He can bet his sweet, orange, prison-jumpsuited ass that I’m going to swat random, heavy objects at his ‘department’ all night long. That motherfucker is going home alone.

There you have it, folks.

So, while you are putting together your Halloween costumes this year, please stray away from making childhood characters sexy, consider wearing something that doesn’t graze the bottom of your snatch, and let this be a lesson that permaboners are neither sexy, nor funny. They’re just swat-worthy. And will likely be lit on fire.

**

What are you going as for Halloween?

House of Horrors... Now With More Garbage Bags.

I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I love Halloween. 

For as far back as I can remember, it’s been my favourite holiday. As a kid, I would spend hours sitting on the front porch, shredding black garbage bags like a motherfucker (think: Steve Vai, but with scissors…and garbage bags…), constructing scary ‘graveyards’ in the front garden and barricading the doorbell so people would be forced to use the door knocker- thus setting off the Ghost of Horror. The GOH was essentially a small plastic cone, covered in white material with a face drawn on it. When activated, it would shake and make a ‘ghost’ noise for about 30 seconds. More often than not, it was unresponsive to loud noises. Noise detectors in the 90’s were clearly not up to snuff.

My mom really digs holiday wreaths.

Every Halloween, the front of our house looked more like it was vandalized than decorated.

Despite all of my hard work, my makeshift decorations were usually always shitty, and most definitely not weather resistant.  And as many of you likely know, sometimes it snows on/around Halloween in our Nation’s capital. This meant that we were forced to bundle up when we went Trick or Treating. Nothing says “frightening” like a zombie in a Mountain Equipment Co-op Jacket and snow pants. “HIDE IN THE CLOSET, HONEY! THE ZOMBIES ARE COMING AND IT LOOKS LIKE THEY ARE ABOUT TO DO SOME SERIOUS TOBOGGANING!”

(Wow that paragraph was abundantly Canadian.)

The presence of snow pretty much guaranteed my garden ‘graveyard’ would always be ruined. Turns out cardboard cut-outs with “RIP” written in Sharpie aren’t as ‘authentic’ as one might think. (It’s important to note that the ‘tombstones’ were also about 6 inches tall and a foot or so apart, resembling more of a sad pet cemetery than a spooky graveyard. And given the high number of these pet-sized tombstones, one could have deduced that the child living in the house was likely a budding sociopath/serial killer.)

My parents always played the “It looks great, kiddo! You really did a stand-up job this year! How spooky!” card.

Deep down, I always knew they were just being polite.

But every year, without fail, out came that Halloween box, the garbage bags, the scissors, a role of masking tape and a kid determined to make it the ‘scariest year yet!’

I’d hate to tell you, kid, but you failed. That ‘evil, pumpkin-head scarecrow’? Not scary. That time you dressed up in your friend’s dad’s Hungarian monk robe and hid behind the tree? Not scary.  That time you turned all of the house lights off, except the glow of the jack-o’-lanterns on the porch and made your own ‘scary sounds’ tape and played it through the dining room window? Definitely. Not. Scary.

There is, however, one thing I’ve managed to master after all of these years: my pumpkin carving skills.  I can work my way around a pumpkin like George Foreman can a grill.

I guess you could say pumpkins are my bitch.  

Masterpiece by Janet and Britt. Delicious.

This year, with an abundance of Halloween plans in the working, I can hardly wait to get my hands on one of those orange fuckers and get my stab on.

Prepare to be gutted, my friends.

***

Do you have any good pumpkin carving ideas or conquests to share? If you come up with a good idea, maybe I’ll use it. And maybe I’ll credit you.

Yahoo Answers: Keeping People Stupid Since 2005 (Alternate Title: Don't Kiss Strippers.)

You know how sometimes you find some weird growth on your hand or worry that one of your eyes blinks too slowly and you think to yourself “I bet the internet can help me identify this!” and you rush over to your computer and type in (what you think to be) a fool-proof description of your situation, anticipating a useful, informative, intelligent series of answers and instead you end up on Yahoo! Answers, wondering what the fuck is wrong with the world?  Yep. That was all one sentence.

While I don’t currently have any strange growths on my hands (sorry to disappoint!), I *do* have a passion for spotting ignorance on the internet. Even though it gets my blood boiling and makes me want to punch someone in the crotch, it also makes me laugh and gives me that ever-sought-after feeling of supremacy that I aim to attain on a daily basis.  Thanks, internet, you complete me.

Without further ado, I present to you this week’s Favourite Finds on Yahoo! Answers.  (I’ll include some of the ‘best answers’ according to Yahoo, but sometimes they’re just not funny. Fuck those non-funny answers. NOT ON MY BLOG, Yahoo.) 

* My comments are in blue. The questions are direct copy/paste. Don’t bitch at me for typos. 

  Q: What are the benefits of marrying an ugly man?

Yahoo Answer: Females never marry real ugly men unless the following holds true:

A. They are really fat.

B. They are really ugly.

C. They are mentally ill.

If you’re lucky, they’re all three! 

Bonus points for stinky feet and early onset female pattern baldness.

Q: What does it mean when a stripper kisses you during a lap dance?

Introducing: The Herp. A musical.

 

Q: How drunk can you get before peeing yourself is safer then walking to the washroom?

Oh honey, it’s called ‘crawling’. Please don’t pee yourself.

P.S. You’re not invited to my house. 

Q: How does sex between a teacher and student affect the teacher-student dynamic/relationship?

Awwwkkkwwwaaaarrrrrd...

 

Q: What animals are best for having sex with, how should it be done, and what precautions should be taken?

Yahoo Best Answer: I like Porcupines best.

Har har har. That’s funny because it would hurt. I get it. 
*I'm going to sweep right by the 'highly disturbing' factor of this question. Bestiality is not for me, folks. Just say no.

Q: What happens if you get drunk during the day?

The possibilities are endless, young Padawan.
Expect a lot of awesome, possibly some jail time and probably some unexplained bruising.  Make Jimmy Buffet proud!

Q: What's the difference between cheap sex and expensive sex?

Expensive sex costs more. Cheap sex costs less.
Both make you a whore.

Q: After sex and eating your girlfriend out, is it safe to use mouthwash to clean out mouth?

My Favourite Yahoo Answer: NO! NO and thrice NOOOO!!!! Your head will explode in a minty vagina explosion

My. New. Best. Friend.

Q: Can a drunk handicapped person, who is operating an electric wheelchair, be charged with a DUI?

I have no witty comment to add to this. I just love it so much.

 

Fin. 

 

P.S. Having an internet browser open at work that reads “What animals are best for having sex with, how should it be done, and what precautions should be taken?”  is probably not the best ‘career move.’

 

Making my parents proud, one day at a time. 

I'm Probably Watching You

Fall has definitely arrived. It’s time for padded bras, hot toddies and butt warmers. But, as it were, Fall happens to be my favourite season because of the glorious smell, the crunchy leaves and the promise of Halloween. However, the cold weather also means that I’m probably getting lazy and my overall enthusiasm for getting places using my body (ie: walking and biking) has greatly diminished.  This unfortunately means that I am frequenting the Toronto subway more than I’d like.

I know I’ve touched upon this before, and those of you who know me have likely heard me lose my shit on more than one occasion when I recount my latest subway encounters.  Lucky for you, today is not just about me complaining about Mr. Standonyourfeetandtrytograbyourass or Mrs. Imighthavejustpoopedmyself, for yesterday I got to experience one of my favourite subway occurrences.

If you are at all familiar with the Toronto subway system (or any subway system, for that matter), you’ll know that the rate at which they open and close the train doors is completely random.  Sometimes they stay open for 6 seconds, and other times for 10 minutes. This has proven to make the population batshit crazy when operating in the godforsaken underground.  There’s a constant look of anger, panic and irritability smeared across everyone’s face. This is where I get the most pleasure out of walking with a smile. It’s a sneaky way to piss people off and I’ll admit it, sometimes I get pleasure out other people’s misery. (I don’t mean that I laugh at homeless people and play monkey-in-the-middle with heroin addicts’ needles…just a little harmless ‘ha. ha. ha. that bitch looks miserable and it’s probs because her iphone doesn’t get reception here.’)

Similar to that general sentiment, yesterday I was fortunate enough to sit in an unairconditioned, shitty, old subway car that decided to stay parked in the station for, let’s say, approximately 8 minutes. During these 8 minutes, I was lucky enough to be stuck next to a man with a stench too foul to describe. Let’s just say it was a disconcerting combination of sour, sweat and poop. Hungry yet? Me too.  This gentleman was also gracious enough to lend me some insight into his brain. This consisted largely of the word “fuck”, something that could have probably been mistaken for a dog throwing up and a string of words with no distinguishable association. What a dreamboat.

After deciding he was the man of my lesbian dreams, I took a few moments to glance around. Everyone was fucking miserable; I was as giddy as a schoolgirl.  Suddenly, this man flew through the open doors with a leap that would make a gazelle blush. I kept my eyes on him, because this, my friends, is the favourite experience I was talking about ^^ up there.

There is a moment, upon successfully landing in the train, where you will see the door-rusher congratulate themselves for making it through the doors. It may be subtle, it may be drastic, but I promise that it’s there.  On that glorious evening, with the 8 minutes of wait time, you can imagine how many of these self-congratulations I witnessed.  I can hear you asking ‘What do these people look like when they congratulate themselves? Do I do that?’ Please, let me enlighten you.

• There’s the Sly-Smiler.  As soon as they clear the doors, a small, often one-sided smirk washes over their face. They feel pretty cool, and break into a casual swagger as they look for a seat. You can tell they’re thinking “Way to go, rockstar. You totally nailed it.”   

• There’s the Over-Grinner.  Once these cheerful asshats clear the door, they look around the train to catch the eye of other travelers, to try and share the victory in this transcendent moment.  You can tell they’re thinking “Did you guys see that? Gee that was a close call! Typical Monday, AM I RIGHT, Girls?!”
  
• There’s the Cool-Shit-Nodder. These cocky sons of bitches act like they own those doors; like the subway conductor was their own personal chauffeur and they just like to “live life on the edge” by barely clearing the doors. But they knew they’d make it. You can tell they’re thinking “Fucking duh, bro.”

• There’s the Awkward-Winner. This last one is the toughest to spot and identify. Differing in many ways from the previous characters, the Awkward-Winner is weary of its triumph. As a result, you will often see them gazing down at some form of electronic device to appear distracted, aiming to divert the attention they just attracted through soaring through those doors. Keep watch, because a faint congratulatory smile will tickle the corners of their mouths in due course. You can tell they’ll be tweeting, “Almost got squished in the subway doors today… FML.”

Now that you’re aware of these classifications, and potentially reconsidering your general demeanor when entering a subway, let’s continue with my story.

As I sat in the stagnant subway car, a train coming from another direction must have pulled up. Herds of cattle people flooded from the staircase. Please take a moment to imagine my enjoyment and elation when, for approximately 8 minutes, I got to see people running for those doors like Jesus was having a book signing. Sometimes they were alone, sometimes in groups. Each of them sporting one of the above fuckle-puff reactions, only to realize that we were not going anywhere.

Celebrate that, easyrider.

And while it’s only going to continue to get colder, effectively guaranteeing that my subway time is going to increase immensely, it doesn’t seem so bad, so long as I’m keeping my eyes out for the door-rushers, and smiling at the miserable fucks as I reapply my lipgloss.

It’s strawberry, sunshine. 

Pass the Tequila, and the Untag Button.

Sometimes I’m not sober. 

I know that’s a shock to all of you, and we’ll have a moment of silence at the end of this post to let you gather yourself so you can move forward with your day.

I have always prided myself on my ability to hold liquor. Sure, I make some questionable statements, play too many games of “slap for slap” and become irrationally intent on proving how tough I am, but overall, I keep my puking/crying/drunk-drama to a minimum.

I also have a memory like an elephant, and unfortunately for me, can usually recall the shit that pours out of my mouth when the hooch has me in its sweaty grip.

For years, I would be the one responsible for reminding people what they did the night before. Chances are if you woke up half under my bed, wearing only a crossing guard vest, spooning a pylon with “RIGHT SAID FRED” written across your chest in lipstick, I’d be able to give you the play by play of your shameful escapades.

But the years have not been so kind to this ol’ memory of mine. We can all speculate as to why my brain lags sometimes, but you’re welcome to keep your opinions to yourself, asshole.   The point is, my drunkventures have become a little bit patchier than they used to be. This means 3 things:  1) Sunday morning usually resembles some sort of still-drunk scavenger hunt for my own belongings, 2) I spend the day logged into Facebook, waiting for the impending untagfest, and 3) I will receive several calls throughout the day from fellow bed-ridden partybeasts looking for some clarity on their poor life choices.

And while I may no longer be the best go-to resource for piecing together your disaster of a life, I vow to be supportive, use some judgment when I upload my pictures and next time I pass you that bottle of tequila, I’ll promise to take you for street “meat”* afterwards. Because that shit IS what dreams are made of. 

*I use the term ‘meat’ loosely. I’m a vegetarian, and I don’t give a shit if you have a problem with that.  You eat meat; you don’t eat meat, whatever. I don’t care. Veggie street meat is the shiz. End of story.

*** 

Some of you may be looking for a Thanksgiving recap, and this, my friends, is not where you’ll find it… Not today, anyway. I ate/drank too much and my brain has yet to regain full functionality.

I’m going to go drink some wine and find a park somewhere.

Cheers.

**

P.S. After some brief and informative research on slag terms for booze, I've located a new favourite, as per this site: 

The Porch Climber: A Canadian slang, Porch Climber refers to someone who is extremely drunk or in the state of intoxication.

I'm sorry, but do we have a problem with people climbing porches in Canada? Is this some sort of epidemic I'm unaware of?  If so, how can I get on that train? I do enjoy a good porch. 

Thanks, Harvest, You Good Ol' Sonofabitch.

This upcoming weekend is Thanksgiving… in Canada. I’ll refrain from calling it the “real” Thanksgiving, and instead, just accept that our southern neighbo(u)rs like having their big holidays mashed together like peas and potatoes on Uncle Jim’s plate.

Personally, I’m a big fan of having Thanksgiving in early October.  It eases me into the fall spirit, gives me a long weekend to drink away cope with the loss of summer, and makes way for the best holiday of all: Halloween.  Unlike many people, I have only grown to love Halloween more and more with age. Sure, as a child it was fun shit with the free candy, but as far as I’m concerned, drinking in a costume surrounded by other people drinking in costumes wins. Hands down. I can buy my candy on sale on November 1^st, or steal it from children like the rest of the world.

No? That’s not what you do? Interesting…  But there’s plenty of time before Halloween, and right now I’m talking about Thanksgiving.  Let’s stay on topic.

In Canada, Thanksgiving is an annual holiday to give thanks to the close of the harvest season. We’ve been celebrating this shit since 1957. A whole 54 years. Don’t our deep-rooted traditions and rich history just warm your heart? 

While our Thanksgiving may not have anything to do with pilgrims and slaughtering, and may not have started in 1863, WHADDUP America, Canada takes pride in its ability to turn out some pretty badass cornucopias.

"Horn of Plenty" is right.

Jealous?  Yea, that’s what I thought.  I bet you didn’t expect a history lesson on Canada’s shortcomings awesomeness. You’re welcome.

This year, I’m heading to my native land of Ottawa, Ontario, to bask in the glory of giving thanks. This means 2 things: #1 I’m going to eat a shit-ton of food and #2 I’m going to drink a shit-ton of booze. During these consumption escapades, I’ll be sure to pay homage to our national holiday by rolling around in some leaves, stabbing a pumpkin and making a scarecrow (as #2 above ^ pretty much results in that outcome anyway.)

This year, some friends and I will also be doing the hour drive to go here:

Parc Omega! Throw your kids out the window and drive like fuck!

Words can’t describe how hard I hope to see this kid jumping around, unclaimed and unsupervised in front of moving traffic with wild animals.  This is the stuff dreams are made of, people.

And you can imagine my delight and excitement to see they have these little fuckers treats on their premises, as well:

Oh haiiiiiiiiii

 

Stay tuned, folks, this Thanksgiving’s going to be amazeballs.