August 23, 2012

If You Need Me, I'll Be Locked in the Bathroom.

I want to talk to you about my relationship with bathrooms.

Before you click away from this page with your nose high, thinking “I don’t need to hear about poop, thankyouverymuch”, let me assure you this post has nothing to do with bodily functions. At least that’s not the plan… I can’t make any guarantees. 

If you’re my sister or my parents, the content of this post will come as no surprise to you. I should mention, however, if you are my parents, please stop reading this blog and pretend you never found it. Your daughter is a sweet, innocent girl who hardly ever calls people motherfuckers. I promise. Probably.

Now back to bathrooms…

I grew up in an old house in Ottawa, with my mom, my dad and my older sister. That’s right, y’all, I’m the baby of the house. I’ll be the first to admit I was a temperamental little bitch of a child, and I had no problem letting people know exactly how I felt. About everything. All the time.  I know it’s pretty hard to imagine me as an outspoken little twat, but try and use your imagination.

When I reflect on my childhood ‘traumas’ two things come to mind. 1) I was very prone to getting the wind knocked out of me. 2) I was very prone to making shit hit the fan and losing my cool.

Let me clarify that the first of those two things is not related to some sort of health problem. I liked to roughhouse. A lot. And more often than not ended up rolling around on the floor, gasping, as my lungs tried to recover from the sudden shock of my body slamming against the ground.  It’s important to note that more often than not, I caused the fall on my own. I think it goes without saying that I was a pretty cool fucking kid.

Now let’s talk about the second item on that list. That’s right, ladies and gents, my childhood is rich in shit-covered ceiling fans*.  Every child deals with stress and anger differently. Some kids throw stuff. Some kids break shit. Some kids punch people. Some kids throw feces. I, however, would lock myself in the bathroom. Every. Fucking. Time.  I didn’t do this in a peaceful manner, I did this in the most bratty, slap-worthy manner possible. The door would need to be slammed at least two solid times, depending on how close the adult was on my trail. Rest assured I would also scream a lot, but only from behind the safe solace of a locked door coupled with a hefty supply of toilet paper to soak up the tears. To this day I can’t scream without crying. If I’m furious, I will weep like a little bitch. It’s just the way I’m wired, and it’s just what’s going to happen if I yell at you. Don’t be fooled by the tears. I will fucking cut you if I have to. But, you know, remorsefully.

*Not literally. Sweet jesus!

I couldn’t tell you how many times I ended up in a screaming fit with the back of the bathroom door. I’m pretty sure if I went to my parent’s basement bathroom, I’d find dents in the wall from my pounding fists/face.  The problem started at a young age. I can recall my babysitter missing an exam because yours truly was a jumbo piece of shit and decided a temper tantrum was more important than a future. Let’s not talk about what that babysitter is doing now.

My personal favourite bathroom incident took place in a hospital. Let me tell you a story.

Once upon a time, I was a jolly young tot who found a tree full of caterpillars. It was the best fucking day ever. The caterpillars lit up my world. So much so, that I got a plastic bowl and filled it with them. Then I proceeded to run the short block home, yelling bloody murder for my mother’s attention so she could witness my earth-shattering, delightful discovery.

The show and tell didn’t go quite as planned.

I fell. Hard.

I don’t even want to think about the caterpillar genocide that took place that afternoon.

With my mom standing at the edge of the porch, she saw her possibly-mentally-challenged daughter wipe out on the curb with a bowl full of caterpillars. Unluckily for me, there also happened to be broken glass and pebbles present at the scene of the crime. These things ended up in my knee.

Screaming and bleeding, I was rushed to the hospital. Once I finally got to see a doctor, they decided they would not be putting me asleep to remove the clutter from my knee.  What does an injured, traumatized child with a knee full of pebbles and glass do?  Make a b-line for the bathroom of course!  Using my advanced conversational skills, I informed the doctor that I needed to pee. I got up and began to saunter to the handicapped bathroom.  A light bulb in my mom’s head went off and she quickly began to follow me. The woman knew I was heading for the only bathroom I could lock. My injured leg did not hold me back. I got in there and locked the door. SWEET VICTORY.

My stay in that bathroom is a little bit foggy. I may have been losing blood, but I cannot be certain. I can recall a team of people outside of the door, trying to coerce me to come out. If memory serves, I indulged in a can of grape soda and a cookie after they fixed up my knee, so it’s probably safe to assume I was bribed.

Side note: You can no longer bribe me with grape soda and a cookie. Liquor, however, is another story.

Needless to say, locking yourself in a bathroom accomplishes very little, but man can it be a fun time. For years, I could have probably listed all of the ingredients in the shampoo and told you exactly how many bandaids were left in the medicine cabinet, but I don’t mean to brag.  

I’m proud to say that I no longer lock myself in bathrooms. On an unrelated note, I do have to look behind the shower curtain every time I pee. Oh look, a bodily function reference. Like I said, no guarantees.


 Did you have any special childhood hideouts when you got in trouble? 

August 8, 2012

Sex on the Beach! Everybody's Doing It!

The beach is full of whores. 

Found in all shapes and sizes, beach whores are a breed of women who lose all sense of dignity the moment they smell that breeze coming off of the water. Once the sun hits their greasy, orange skin, all bets are off. Except for slut bets. Those are still on. They're always on.

After spending an extended weekend at Wasaga Beach, a place near and dear to my heart, namely for the day drinking, my awareness of this slutnomenon (slut-phenomenon, stay with me folks) skyrocketed.  The most shocking discovery? Age is not a factor in ones whorability on the beach.  I’m 90% sure one of the skanky grannies even had her ladybits cornrowed. Why do I know this? Well, my friends, no one can wear a hot pink mesh thong and expect discretion.

Beach culture perplexes me. Everyone is nearly naked and covered in oil. Women lay straddling their boyfriends on their beach blankets, as if passersby aren’t being forced to imagine them bangers’n’mashing, as children sit nearby indulging in the delicacy of sand pie and lake tea.  You would think watching a bunch of screaming kids eat dirt and pick their wedgies would be enough of a bonerkiller, but it would appear that the beach whores are impermeable to such blatant reminders of their sexual indiscretions. Let’s go bang in the lake, baby! The water is pretty much a condom anyway.

Watching men and women interact in the sand is like watching Animal Planet. My homosexuality allows for objective observations. (It doesn’t really, I just wanted to use the word homosexuality today. It’s just one of those days.) Mating behaviours between men and women are not unlike those between two women. When it boils down to it, we all just really want to get it in. Am I right girls!? … Ok, so maybe some of us are also looking for companionship and other hot topic items I’ve heard T-Swifty sing the living fuck out of, but let’s be real. Generally speaking, when you’re flailing sand around like a drunk walrus with heat rash to get some beefcake’s attention, you ain’t looking for a hubby. You lookin’ for an STI scare.

Despite the overwhelming abundance of cellulite, I’ll keep the discussion of “beach bodies” to a minimum. Much like nude beaches, those who chose to bare all/close to all are rarely ‘sexy’(I realize this is a very big overgeneralization. Suck it.) This is probably going to surprise you, but I’m not going to complain about it. If you’re comfortable flaunting your stretch marks, saggy tits, microballs or thunder thighs, all the power to you. You’re a fucking rockstar and I hope you don’t get skin cancer on your labia. 

Regardless of what you wear or who you do on the beach, the most important thing is to be sure you keep hydrated... (before you start thinking I’m offering a piece of legitimately responsible advice, let me elaborate) with liquor.  If you’re not drunk, you’re not going to appreciate the beach whores or skanky grannies nearly as much as you should. Besides, sand tastes way better after a 26 of vodka and a handful of weed cookies.


Pop Quiz! 
What's your favo(u)rite beach moment?  
Me? Oh, you know, stepping on a used syringe is up at the top of my list... right behind getting my foot run over by a car. Ain't no thang. 


In the spirit of blog recognition, I have appointed a winner to last post's challenge! 
It was tough because I'm extremely in love with all of you, and your rhyming techniques do not fail to impress. 

The winner of the rap challenge is.... my dear fucking hilarious friend at Cerebral Milkshake!

Her submission: 
You know I fucking suck at rhymes
'Cause I don't do it all the time
Awe, don't throw a fit,
'Cause, chicka-check it, it's Britt
She all up in the boozing and baking
The writing she do is funny making
She lives up north in CanAyDia
And likes to drink Vodka and Gatoradia
Check her rockin' the fu manchu
She be in style when she says "achoo"
Now I gotta stop 'cause I'm laughing hard
'Cause this rhyme proves that Imma fucktard.


(She had me at 'fu manchu'.)