I Hope You Like the Taste of Slaps

I’m going to be honest with you guys, there is a lot of shit that pisses me off.

You can pretend to be surprised by that statement, but I’ll know you’re just being polite- and quite frankly, if you’re the ‘polite’ type, I’m not sure we’d get along. You should just call me a crazy bitch like the rest of ‘em so we can move forward and develop a normal relationship.  

Good.

What was I saying? Oh right, a lot of shit pisses me off.

I don’t think I’d classify myself as an ‘irrationally angry’ person. Generally speaking, my anger is entirely rational and it spawns from other people’s ignorance and general douchebaggery. If you’re going to parade around like you’re the motherfucking king of Asshole Castle, then chances are I’m going to want to slap you. Really fucking hard.

I decided to make a list.

People I Want to Slap Really Fucking Hard

• People who don't know how to walk

A word to those of you who decide to randomly stop walking to check your phone/pick your ass, if I’m behind you when you stop, you might wake up with a new hole.

• Loud cellphone talkers

Seriously. Shut the fuck up. No body wants to hear about Becky’s questionable decisions and your inability to hold down tequila. You’re just as slutty as Becky and you know it.

• People who let their kids run amuck in public washrooms

Your 4 year old can’t be trusted not to piss on everything. Keep that thing on a leash.

• Girls who relentlessly look at themselves in the reflection of windows they're walking by

 Let me make this easy for you: You look like a bedazzled asshat. With a cameltoe.

• My Landlord

To put it lightly, this man deserves a hot iron to the testicles.

• Guys who are constantly 'adjusting' themselves

Everyone knows you have a penis. Congratulations! Chances are if you need to touch your junk that much, you should probably get that checked out. Or you need to lay off the G-Strings. One of those.

• People who drink light beer

Fuck you. Drink better beer, pussy.

• People who always try to top your story

Listen, I understand that something sort of, kind of, not really at all similar happened to you once, but I don’t want to hear about it and quite frankly, you’re about to learn what my foot tastes like. I hope you’re hungry.

• People who breathe really loudly at the gym

Seriously, broseph, are you giving birth?

• People who wear UGGs

You’re wearing boots named after the abbreviation of the word ‘ugly’. It is no coincidence that they’re motherfucking ugly.  People really will buy anything, won’t they? Maybe I should start a purse line named “VAG”. (You can bet your ass they’d all be made with a soft, pink lining.)

• Elderly people who chew really loudly

Just kidding. I’d never hit an old person. Probably.

• The guy that never toasts my bread correctly at the sandwich place where I get my breakfast

Who the fuck likes burnt toast? Probably your mother. I hope you like the taste of slaps.

*

I know you guys will have some good ones, so let me hear ‘em. What makes you want to shove your fist through someone’s face? (Now there’s a sexy mental image!)

Does This Frostbite Make Me Look Fat?

I’m going to have to take a moment to acknowledge the recent change in temperature my fellow Canadians are experiencing. While I’m sure you northern Americans are also reaching for your heavier sweaters, my sympathy runs very shallow for y’all- because this morning, in addition to nearly losing a nipple, I could see my breath. 

At first, I was confused. Am I smoking right now? Am I a dragon and my fire has been extinguished? Did I take up flame spitting in my free time?  As I pondered the possibilities, I huffed and huffed, watching the steady stream’o’steam leave my body. As soon as I walked around the corner, and into the windy motherfucking street of death, it was clear to me that winter had arrived to bite me in the ass. 

To those of you into ‘winter sports’, I’m giving you the middle finger right now. Even if you can’t see me, just know that it’s happening.

I believe that winter exists for the sole purpose of making people lazy and unhappy. If I want to go anywhere in the winter, it means I am going to need to plan out exactly how to execute my trip from point A to point B, ensuring minimal outdoor exposure.  This means that if you don’t live near a subway, chances are we won’t be friends for the next couple of months. Well, we can be friends, but I’m not coming to your house. As awesome as you may be, I value my skin more than I like you, and I’m not putting up with the impending frostbite just so we can get hammed-à-la-house.  The promise of liquor only holds so much weight, and when the cold runs so deep that I can feel goosebumps in my buttcrack, you’re on your own, my friend.

While I’ll admit that my pain threshold for withstanding the cold is very near non-existent, I have a few suggestions on how to prepare for the approaching cold weather.

Tricks to Staying Warm When Mother Nature Decides to be a Cu  Bitch

1.      Stop dieting- Everybody knows that body fat keeps you warmer than any fleece sweater and/or Snuggie.  Put down the lettuce, and pick up the croissants. If your meal involves butter and cheese, you’re doing it right. 

1. (b) While we’re on that note, also hide/bury/destroy your scale and/or full-length mirror. This way you can appreciate your newfound warmth without all the messy crying and shameful, fat, naked mirror dances.

2.      Grab that bottle- The quickest way to warm your body is through your liver. In other words: take up drinking.  I recommend whiskey for the colder days. Whiskey is like a giant Fuck You to winter, because it says “Your efforts to make me miserable and frozen are lost on me! My nose would be this red even if it weren’t below zero. Let’s go tobogganing without coats! HUZZAH!”

3.      Stop shaving- If ‘sexiness’ is your concern, let us revisit #1.  If you’re going to let yourself go, why not fully commit? This way, you’ll have your very own personal fleece blanket… in the form of hair… all over your body. 

  

4.      Take up arson- Some of us don’t live lives of luxury. Some of us can’t afford ‘fireplaces’ or ‘fire pits’ or ‘heat lamps’. Some of us still deserve the warmth of fire. Having trouble rationalizing? The entire Christmas music industry supports arson if you listen closely enough (…Chestnuts roasting on an open fire? Please! More like: Chestnuts roasting on an illegal, gasoline-ignited fire). But! Be mindful of what you’re burning down… it’s best if it belongs to an asshole. We’re nearing holiday times, folks, no need to get on Santa’s naughty list!

5.      Forget the concept of personal space- It’s a well-known fact that body heat is the biggest player in the game of staying warm.  While the odd cuddlefest may be nice when you’re at home snookuming with your honeybuns (pardon me while I puke in my mouth a little bit…), chances are, if you’re a productive member of society, you have to leave your bed/couch sometimes. When you’re out and about, make sure to take a moment to acknowledge and appreciate other people’s bodies and the warmth that they provide. Snuggle up to a stranger in the subway/at a bus stop/while you’re waiting to cross the street/wherever there are people and it’s cold. They’ll appreciate your body heat as much as you’ll appreciate theirs. It just may take them a few moments/court hearings to realize it.

Do you have any tips on staying warm in the late fall/winter?

Lettuce Forget How Much You Suck.

Today, I have beef. 

I’m not saying, “I’ve got a baggie full of ground beef in my purse right now, guys”, I’m saying “I’ve got a bone to pick, and I’m going to yell it from a motherfucking rooftop.”

Let’s pretend this blog is a rooftop, shall we?

Perfect.

An Open Letter to Lettuce (and Other Leafy Greens.)  

Dear Lettuce,

You make your way into my fridge, and before I can remember that I purchased you, you sit in my vegetable ‘crisper’, wilting away, generating a mysterious liquid, and plotting your absolute domination over the other, less douchey produce items in your general vicinity.  Leave the apples alone, arugula, they did nothing except be delicious.

I understand that you’re likely envious of their crunchy, juicy, delightful ability to satisfy one’s piehole, but back the fuck off. If I do pick you up, consider not leaking all over me. I know it’s a crazy idea, but maybe if you were more likeable and less like an unpotty-trained chihuahua, I’d consider picking you up and ingesting you more often.  

Why did I buy you and not let a more avid leaf-eater purchase and consume you in my place? 

The answer is simple: your enchanting green hue tricked me. It always tricks me.

I see you sitting in your mountain of well-misted glory, and think “Maybe this week, I’ll make a salad every day and bring it to work. I could totally do that. I’m going to kick ass at being healthy. I’m a health MACHINE!”  So, I pick you up, place you in a bag that will inevitably become your eternal resting place, and mosey along- purchasing other healthy, boring items on my quest for the healthy lifestyle I have been hearing so much about lately.  

Chances are, in the throes of post-grocery shopping bliss, I will make that salad. I will throw your luxuriant, green leaves into a bowl with your vegetable crisper nemeses, and ingest it like a champ. I will pat myself on the back and think “Damn, I ate the fuck out of that healthy meal. I’m the healthiest bitch in the room.” And then I’ll do a little dance, because I’m the only bitch in the room, while I fantasize about the chocolate I’ll eat later to reward myself for eating so well.

The thing is, lettuce, you just aren’t satisfying at all. While I may momentarily bathe in your healthy, leafy glow, you never truly eliminate my hunger, you never kill a craving, and you, more often than not, get stuck in my teeth, making me look like a doofus all after-fucking-noon.  Your seasonal ‘mixed greens’ resemble something I’d find in my mom’s bag’o’weeds after she’s done with her afternoon gardening, and I’ve had enough of your pretention.

So, leafy greens, for the love of god, next time we meet in the produce aisle, why don’t you just act like your weepy, droopy, poopy self, so we can avoid the awkward “Oh right…you’re in my fridge, aren’t you… I guess I should probably throw you out… WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU LEAKING ON ME” moment.

Thank you,

Britt

Xoxoxo

P.S. Why can’t you be more like cheese.  Cheese is awesome. 

P.P.S. I hope you caught the brilliant 'play on words' in the title. I'm here all week, folks. 

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? …

Crazyfakedoctorsaywhaaaaaat?

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.

SCIENCE!

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: 

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:

Fanfuckingtastic!

 NOT ON MY WATCH, KEITH.

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.

Ineffective.

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.

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.  

Douchebaggery.

***

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.

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.

Back off, I bite.

It’s Monday- which effectively means I’ve spent the day fantasizing about punching a kitten or lighting something on fire.*   Last night, my unconscious self must have thought it would be flippin’ hilarious to play a trick on my it’s-6am-are-you-fucking-serious? self. I found my phone/alarm clock wedged between pillows, which were lodged between the mattress and the wall.   It’s hard enough for me to wake up just enough to hit snooze for thirty minutes when my phone is sitting peacefully on my bedside table. When I have to dig like a motherfucking gopher just to hit snooze, the world had better watch its back.

I learned months ago that public transportation in Toronto at 7:30am is the modern day version of Chinese Water Torture, in that it will test your patience until you find yourself slinging your free Metro newspaper at the face of the nearest son-on-a-bitch that keeps bumping their oversized bag into your hip.  Plus everyone smells like bad breath and unwashed sheets.  Someone needs some Downy, stat.

So, to avoid the inevitability of being arrested for violent misconduct (that’s a thing, right?), I’ve resorted to biking to and from work, where I am free to flip off whoever the hell pisses me off, without having to then stand next to them in a confined tube, filled with rage and discomfort. Biking isn’t without its frustrations, but at least I don’t have to smell anyone’s coffee breath 3 inches from my face. (Unless something goes terribly wrong, but then the coffee breath probs won’t be the main concern at that point… but I digress.)

When I do have to resort to taking the subway during rush hour, I am rapidly transformed into an impatient efficient, don’t-take-no-shit-from-no-one, speed-walking bitch- and the rest of the world suddenly can’t walk in a straight line.  Either I missed one hell of a party last night, or you asshats need to figure out your left and rights before you leave the house.  If your excuse is that you’re still drunk, it’s 7:30am, buddy. We should probably just be friends. I’ll put up with your inability to navigate the subway system, if you’ll supply me with flasks and mints to cover the shame.

Somehow I’m back to talking about drinking.

Perhaps the main problem with the Monday morning commute isn’t (entirely) the cattle that can’t walk, it’s really that I’m wineless and I have a full 5 days to wait before morning drinking will be acceptable once again. And by acceptable, I mean ‘gets you dirty looks from parents with young children in the park.’

*I don’t actually punch kittens. Please don’t send me angry letters about animal cruelty. Kittens are super-awesome-furballs-of-joy.