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.