Your Pictures Are Stupid; I Can't Look Away

In today’s day of social media sites, there is one megabeast that has made everyone its bitch. Yes, my friends, I’m talking about Facebook. This ‘social’ media tool has allowed for me to know when my friends are grocery shopping, if they’re still friends with that bitch from high school and how often they poop. While we all have a handful of friends who ‘won’t join Facebook out of principle’, I’ve decoded their reasoning to mean one of the following three things:

1)      “I’m worried I will look like a loser because I don’t have enough friends.”

2)      “I don’t understand social media websites.” 

3)      “I go out on a lot of heavy drug and drinking benders and don’t have the time or energy to untag myself from photos on a regular basis.” 

Whatever the reason may be, let’s just be clear about one thing: If you don’t have Facebook, you’re not getting invited to parties.  If you’re part of reason #3 for not joining Facebook, you’re probably doing yourself and your future rehab bill a favour. Jussayin’.

Like so many of you, I fucking hate Facebook. By this, I mean: I can’t stop fucking checking it.  I hate that I care what you did last night; I don’t know why, but I hate your face; if you post one more political status, I’m fucking deleting you and your pictures of your stupid bachelorette party make me want to stab myself in the shoulder/WHY WASN’T I INVITED!?

Whatever your relationship might be with this mind-numbing site, we all have different categories of people in our friends list. Some of them you care about, and others… well, you find yourself wishing them a firey death on a regular basis. I know what you’re thinking, but unfriending would just be too easy.

I’ve broken these people into 6 categories.

The Significant Other

There are a few things to consider when communicating with your shmoopy on Facebook:

First of all, do you have any shame? No? Then go ahead and post all of your disgusting love-filled messages all over their wall and let us judge you while we eat spicy peanuts in bed.  If you do have shame, keep in mind that with every cheesy message you write, it becomes increasingly challenging to think of you as an equal. (Sidenote: I know 90% of people with smartphones use them while they’re on the toilet. Don’t pretend you don’t. With that in mind, when I see horrifically sappy Facebook posts, I like to think of the author of said post sitting on the john while they profess their love. Take this wisdom with you, folks. Life just got a little brighter.)

Secondly, how many pictures have you posted of you and your poopybear kissing? If there is more than 1, that’s too many and you deserve a good swift chair to the face.

Lastly, if you’re the kind of person that updates your relationship status on Facebook, then please, for the love of god, only change it once you know you’ve broken up and/or started dating someone for realsies.  Keeping with this theme, I’d also like for you to keep your emotional status updates to yourself. I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re quoting some song you heard that touched your inner being; you sound like a whiny twelve year-old and I’ll assume you spend a good portion of your time crying and watching Twilight. Guess what? We’re not friends anymore.

The Good Friends

In a perfect world, my Facebook friends list would be compiled solely of my good, dear friends. These are the people I care about, and they post shit I want to read. I can tease them to their face about the dumb shit they write about, and we can bask together in our shame every weekend when the photos of our latest drinking binge surface. It’s not a perfect world, though, and Sue from accounting is going to add you as a friend, and you can’t do fucking shit about it. This brings me to my next category.

The Coworkers

Way to rain on my fucking parade, colleagues. Now I have to create a whole new limited profile for you, so you can’t know about the sex shows I attend and all of the blow I did last night. When I call in sick on Monday, you’re going to rat me out and I’m going to have to stab you in the bathroom. If you had just minded your own business and kept your friend request to yourself, we wouldn’t be standing here in a puddle of blood, hashing it out Freddy-style.*

*Not exactly an accurate depiction of real life. Dramatics added for color.

The Former Friends

These are probably the people I spend the most time stalking. You know those nights when you end up looking at someone’s wedding photos where you don’t know a single attendee, but you find yourself judging the décor and thinking that these people are fucking lame?  Ya. We’re never getting that time back, guys.

Seriously, though, stalking former friends can result in you missing them, hating them and/or envying them. Sometimes, all three emotions can occur when browsing through a single photo album, and you find yourself lingering over the ‘like’ button and wondering if it would be weird, nice, or creepy to click it. It’s probably creepy, since the album was from 2008, but go ahead a click it. Stir the pot a little. 

The Acquaintances

These are the people you contact once a year because Facebook told you it’s their birthday.  You should probably delete them.

The Family Members

Your relationship with your family will really affect how you perceive this category. If your family members are your BFFs, then la-dee-fucking-da, keep everything public and embrace your Honesty is the Best Policy way of life.  For the rest of us, yet another limited profile is created, double checked, triple checked, and checked again on a regular basis every time Facebook goes and changes their motherfucking privacy settings.

There are, of course, members of my family who have an all-access pass, namely my sister, who probably wishes she didn’t sometimes… but as for the aunts and uncles who saw me play baby Jesus during our reenactment of the nativity scene once upon a Christmas, it’s probably best to keep them at a distance.

I’ve contemplating deleting my Facebook dozens of times, but who are we kidding? That’s the cyber version of social banishment and I’m not ready to become a pariah just yet. When I’m alone with my 14 cats, living an envy-filled life spent observing the trips, parties and excursions of friends-gone-by, I’ll reevaluate. But for now, I’ll continue to judge you from the comfort of my peanut-filled bed.


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OH! And I thought I should share with you the cookies that I made for my birthday/St. Patrick's day.
I thought of you guys with every polka dot I dropped on those godforsaken clovers. (If you remember... this was supposed to be a baking blog, but I'm far too vulgar.)

A Letter to My 13 Year-Old Self

Dear thirteen year-old Britt, 

 

It’s been awhile since I’ve thought of you, but there are some things we should establish, since you’re in the throes of awkwardness and I thought you could maybe use a little light at the end of your pubescent tunnel. (No, that wasn’t a euphemism for vagina.)

Firstly, I’m pleased to announce that you finally figured out how to deal with your hair. I know it seemed like the undefeatable beast for most of your youth, but we pushed through and guess what? Afro Thunder is no longer.  (Don’t ask your present-day girlfriend, though. She’s seen you in the morning and you and I both know that’s when it’s at its finest state of ‘fro.) Oh ya, I guess I should also mention that you’re gay now. I know you wondered a little bit back then, but I can assure you that your five year fixation on Pat Waller was merely a schoolyard crush, and you are, without a doubt, a gaymo. Also, we don’t call people ‘gaymo’ anymore.

Secondly, I would like to congratulate you on growing out of your awkward, crooked, small, yellow teeth. It’s a miracle, really. For awhile there, things were looking pretty bleak for your not-so-pearly whites. I’m 93% sure the tooth fairy took a shining to you after you pulled your own teeth out on a regular basis, allowing her to prosper in her newfound, tooth-filled richness.  She did you a solid and let your teeth grow in nice and straight and not-so yellow. One of these days, I’ll start flossing regularly. Probably.

Remember that time when you got caught skipping school and shoplifting on the same day? That was a fucking awful day, wasn’t it?  You know what was even more awful? The outfit you chose to wear that day. I remember it clearly. You sported crushed velvet pants, that old purple and turquoise puffy jacket with floral lining… and the best possible sweatshirt of all time. Don’t look down in shame. That shit was legendary. I wish I still had that sweatshirt. It was (probably) from Northern Reflections, with little drawings of birds on it. Under each bird was a clever little name for the bird. That shit was pimp. The only thing that would have made it better would have been this vest: 

The security guards didn’t see you coming. In fact, I can even remember one of them saying “You don’t look like the type to shoplift…” That asshole had no idea who he was messing with. That $4.99 lipgloss should have been YOURS.  

The good news? We never got caught stealing stole again. Clean criminal record FTW!

You’ve also successfully avoided breaking any more bones. After the embarrassing stint when you broke your wrist doing a Backstreet Boys dance, you learned your lesson. You still continued to play the trumpet for two or three more years, but eventually learned that the guitar was a lot cooler. Ask any lesbian and they’ll tell you that singing and playing the guitar guarantees 75% more titties than the trumpet. Fact.

Without getting into great detail, there are a few more things I’d like for you to know.

#1 When you’re older, coming up with your own choreographed dances becomes much less ‘cool’. Also, your parents probably won’t come watch you do them in the attic anymore.

#2 Don’t shave your eyebrows. Ever.

#3 Glitter is best used in moderation. (With the exception of extra-gay events an/or Ke$ha concerts)

#4 Plaid pajama bottoms are not to be worn in public.

#5 Alcohol does get better the more you drink. Keep at it.

#6 If everyone hates the girl in your class for being a mean, angry bully, don’t try to befriend her and change her. This rarely works out and her newly-out-of-jail brother will come find you in the school yard to tell you you’re an ugly hoe.

#7 Locking yourself in the basement bathroom rarely accomplishes anything.

#8 When a boy punches you, it doesn’t mean he likes you. (WHADDUP Rihanna. Take some notes.)

#9 Things got much, much worse for Britney Spears. (But we love her anyway because she’s a sticky, hot mess.)

#10 Oh, and the world didn’t blow up with Y2K. What a fucking letdown.

One last thing before I let you go. I found your diary. You know the one I’m talking about. Quite frankly, I’m a little disappointed by the lack of juicy details. You mostly just sound like a boy-crazy kid with severe ADD. It was pretty hard to follow what the fuck you were trying to say. I think you misunderstood the concept of poetry.

I did, however, notice that you signed your name at the bottom of every entry and sometimes wrote a little secret or factoid that future-you would find interesting. I couldn’t help but notice you wrote:

My dream: To become a famous singer.

Well, I’m here today to tell you that you failed.

Keep up the good work. 

Love, 

Britt

P.S. You’re going to get 50% in math this year.  Get ready for the parental wrath.

Yes, I Can See Your Tampon String.

It’s getting hot outside and all I can say is: Fina-fucking-lly. 

My pasty skin is tired of being layered up and suffocated by itchy material that regularly convinces me I’ve got flesh eating disease and/or bedbugs.

Bring on the sunburns, motherfuckaaaah.

While I am most definitely celebrating the recent warm weather shift, I’m going to have to take a minute to be a hypocrite.  Stay with me, guys.

This past winter was the fucking tits. Why?

a)      I didn’t slip and fall once.

b)      It never got too cold for me to stop sleeping in my underwear.

Those are my criteria for determining the ‘titliness’ of a winter. I’m sure there are other (smaller) factors to take into consideration, but who the hell has time for smaller things. AM I RIGHT, Girls!?

While I can recognize that there were some pretty unpleasant days that made my face burn like a prostitute’s urethra, I feel like I need to remind people that it’s March.

It’s March, guys.

We didn’t even get snow in Toronto until January. That’s 2 months of marginally uncomfortable weather. So, congratulations to those of you who invested a small fortune in your douchey Canada Goose jackets. I’ve been meaning to tell you that you look like Queen of the Asshats when you’re sweating up a storm on the subway because you don’t know how to dress yourself appropriately. I’m willing to bet you’re the same classy skankasaurus who chooses to bare your droopy asscheeks in 15 degree weather, hoping no one will notice the tampon string or the fact that they’re three sizes too small.  

Believe me. We notice.

Having said that, I’m pretty fucking happy that it’s warm outside because it makes me feel less dead inside. There are a lot of reasons for this exaltation, but I’m going to let you guess what the MAIN one is…

….

Are you guessing right now?

….

Guess or I’ll cut you…

…

Ok, fine. I’ll tell you.

It’s booze.  More specifically: daytime boozing.

There is nothing more enjoyable, and downright awesome than drinking under the warm glow of the sun. Soaking in the cancer and giving myself early onset liver failure is what life is all about. And I’ll be honest with you guys. During the colder months, I spend several hours a week perusing my summertime photo albums on Facebook. I don’t care if you think it’s pathetic. Your mom is pathetic.

Last summer I discovered the beauty of Gatorade & Vodka (Vodkarade… or Gatorka, for you awkward types). I’m pretty certain it’s Jesus’ gift to mankind… but don’t quote me on that… I hear Jesus gets pretty pissed when he finds out people are wrongfully saying he invented cocktails.

What have we learned today?

1)      The world is full of giant douchewranglers.

2)      The season of butt cleavage is upon us.

3)      ‘Summer’ is just a glorified term for ‘alcoholism’.

4)      And most importantly, Jesus makes wicked cocktails.

This week’s assignment: Use the term ‘titliness’ in a sentence at least three times.

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Update!

It is with great pleasure that I accompany this post with a wonderful image.
Thank you to Jen Hladkowicz, who helped dream up this masterpiece.

You'd Better Be Drinking

Saturday is my birthday. 

If you’ve been paying attention, it’s also St. Patrick’s Day.

That’s right, ladies and gents! Yours truly was born on the International Day of Drinking. 

Surprised?

Me neither.

I love St. Patrick’s Day so much that it’s a shock that I don’t shit clovers. (Apparently that’s not how the digestive system works. Who knew?)

In the spirit of the upcoming Day of Debauchery, I’ve come up with some T-Shirt ideas that would tickle my blarney stone if I saw them around town on St. Patrick’s Day. (Maybe not if there are children around… or elderly people. Oh, who are we kidding, elderly people love fart jokes and anal sex.)

Introducing:

 Britt’s St. Paddy’s Day Tees 

 

 

Just in case my week continues to be as busy as it has been, I’ll wish you all a wonderful St. Paddy’s Day ahead of time!

I expect you’ll all be drunk by 3pm, drinking green beer, making out with ‘Irish’ people and shoveling potato-based food items into your piehole whilst doing a drunken jig. 

If you're not, I'm judging you. 

Cheers, beers and queers, my dears.

Xx

Don't Wear Crusty Sweaters

Don’t pretend for a moment that you’re interesting 100% of the time. At one point or another, you fail at being exciting.

We’ve all been there before.

You’ve found yourself talking to someone, only to realize halfway through your story that not only is the topic fucking stupid, but you really have no point. Even you are bored and you’re the asshole who’s talking. You start clawing desperately to come up with some sort of punch line or some miniscule detail that will relieve the discomfort of the moment… but guess what? You can’t. In that moment, you’ve lulled your conversation buddy into a glazed-over, open-eyed slumber and they’ve probably spent the past five minutes coming up with a way to gracefully bow out of ever having to talk to you again.  

Congratulations! You’re a boring motherfucker.

I’ll give you some credit, though. You realized you were drowning halfway through the conversation and you tried to save yourself with a couple of puns and I offered a faint smile and a half-hearted single-syllable ‘ha’, just so you didn’t feel so alone.

That was awkward, wasn’t it?

You know what’s even more awkward? The people who don’t realize their stories suck. We all know at least one of these people. You know who I’m talking about. They’re those individuals who aren’t able to recognize that they tell stupid fucking stories about stupid fucking things that no one wants to hear about. 

Examples? Don't mind if I do!
 

Listen, I’m happy you have a baby. I’m sure your vagina has recovered miraculously and I’m going to pretend that I haven’t been suffering through graphic mental images of your husband suckling your milky teats during your rigorous hormonal sexcapades. But I don’t need to know the colour of your baby’s poop. I don’t need to know if it farts regularly or the fact that you’re so used to its puke that you just wipe it off and strut around town with your crusty sweaters like it’s a new, trendy style.

It’s not.

Puke is gross.

I don’t care if it came out of a bouncing baby, or a fuzzy bunny. If one is puked on, one changed their clothes. That’s just the rules.

P.S. Stop talking to me about your baby’s digestive cycle.  (The same thing goes to you crazy fucking pet owners. I’m sure it’s concerning that your dog’s poop is runny and green. But guess what? I’m trying to eat and not picture a leaking dog anus. Go figure.)

Moving on…

“I had the craziest dream last night…” is one of those conversation starters that has two possible reactions.

1) The person is genuinely intrigued, and responds with an enthusiastic “Oh no way! What was it about?”  

OR

2) The person is frantically looking around the room for an out. Not another fucking dream story, they think, as they reluctantly say “Oh?” and accept that they’re going to hear about it whether they want to or not.  

(The only exception to this is if the dreamer states “I had a dream about you last night.”  Everybody wants to hear about a dream that involves them. This is true tenfold if it involves nudity.)

No matter how convoluted the dream may be to hear about, the person describing their dream are likely riveted and excited by this retelling. They feel like they’re digging into their subconscious to expose a world of fuckery and passion that is unknown to their conscious self. You know how I know this? Because I’m one of the asshats that is constantly talking about my dreams. I know you’re probably thinking “What a fucking hypocrite!”, and you know what? You’re absolutely right. I realize that my dreams are not interesting to hear about. If you read the first paragraph of this post, that’s pretty much exactly how I feel every time I recount a dream. I never learn, though, so instead, you’re just going to have to sit there and take it. I’m not going to apologize for boring you. I have, like, 250 dreams a night and someone other than me has to fucking hear about it. Suck it.

(But don’t talk to me about your dreams because that’s just fucking boring.)

I could probably talk about bad conversationalists forever, (Ha! Then that would make me a bad conversationalist! Oh the irony! Wait… is that irony? Fucking Alanis Morissette really fucked with my understanding of that term) but I’m not going to.  

Instead, I’m dying to find out what makes you tick. Do you have any conversational pet peeves? Talk to me people! Just not about poop, or your dreams… but maybe about poop dreams. That sounds pretty funny.

There Are No Tacos Here

Today deserves a good, swift kick to the crotch.

Kind of like your mom.

(Okay, that was rude. I take that back. I’ll leave your mom’s crotch out of this. For now.)

If you’re new to this blog, you may want to turn your head away from this post before your first impression of me is tarnished and soiled like your Friday night knickers.

If you’re not new, then I should still probably warn you that what you’re about to read bears no relevance to the current season and is really fucking dumb. You’re welcome.

What the shit am I going on about, you ask?

Well, my friends, I wish to embark on a journey with you. A journey into pet costumes. More specifically, ridiculous dog costumes that make me fear for the general public, dog owners and the poor canines that suffer through this embarrassment.

Why am I talking about this, you ask?

Because I fucking want to and sometimes I have way too much time on my hands.  In case you’re wondering, no I do not have a dog (or any pet, for that matter.)  

Before we get this party started, I’m sending a special shout out to DP, who is singlehandedly responsible for getting me sucked into this douchetastic insightful topic through a discussion on this up and coming website you may have heard of called Facebook.  Thanks, DP, I’m sure my readers are really grateful. (Probably) (Not)

The Loneliest Bride

This is probably one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen in my life. That dog looks suicidal and was probably plotting its owner’s death as this picture was being taken.

I made the mistake of inverting this picture into ‘negative’ and may never sleep again. I call the original picture “Dear Dog Owner, It’s Time to Join eharmony” and the inverted picture “I Will Eat Your Soul.”

....

I warned you.

The Cheerleader

Another suicidal dog, folks.

This costume has sucked the cheer right out of this furry fucker’s heart and it’s going to take a lot more than high-kicks and human pyramids to bring it back. I’m offended, the public is offended, and most importantly: your dog is going to eat that motherfucking tinsel and you’ll be singlehandedly responsible for reaching your hand up its ass to untangle your dog’s intestines.

Give me an EFF! You’re a dumb slut!

Ketchup

What. The. Fuck?

When you were considering all of the possible things you could dress your dog up as, how does a condiment come in as the winning option?  That must have been a really good joint you were smoking.

I seriously can’t tell if this is one of the most inventive ideas I’ve ever seen for a dog, or just the fucking stupidest. I’m definitely leaning towards the latter.  If this were hot sauce, however, I’d be giving you a round of applause  

(… I do love ketchup, though…)

The Raptor

I’m not going to lie; I think this is the best thing I’ve ever seen. If you dress your dog up like a raptor, I’ll probably have sex with you be your best friend.  This is just bad ass. 

Dora the Explorer

I am pretty certain that I’d pay to watch another dog pee on a dog wearing this costume. Dora the Explorer is a giant douchetwizzler. That being said, I’d also really like to buy this for a friend’s dog and make them walk their dog around in public wearing it.  The humiliation both the dog and my friend would undergo could be life altering and therapy-worthy.

No one said I was a good friend.

The Redneck

If I ever have a dog, they will wear this 100% of the time.

End of story.

I’ll always look hotter than my dog.

(That’s why people have dogs, right? So they can look hotter by comparison?

That’s what I thought. I’m glad we’re on the same page.)

I was going to post a picture of a dog dressed as a taco, but then I realized that the proportion of dog costumes that I like would start outweighing the ones I'm mocking, so that one will have to stay between me and the dog-taco.

…  Guess what, guys?

You will never get those 10 minutes of your life back.

If it makes you feel any better, those dogs will never get their pride back. So far, I think you’re winning.

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What’s the best pet costume you’ve ever seen?