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!

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.

It's Sexier in the Dark

I caught a cold.

I’ll let that soak in for a second so you can get all sympathetic and shit. Yea, it sucks to be me. I am leaking from my face a lot. Sometimes I cough.

Deathly syndromes aside, I have a profound aversion to sitting at home and doing nothing on a Friday night. I wasn’t looking to go to a club, I just didn’t want to sit at home on my sorry ass, surrounded by Mount Snot-Tissues, crying at an infomercial, trying to taste the half-melted popsicle I found at the back of my freezer.  So I decided to do what lots of regular folk do on a Friday night: go to the movies. (I hear your gasps. Oh the tameness! What a yawnfest! Is she *that* girl?)  I beg your pardon, but if you recall, I’m sick.  See above for details of my suffering.

So, to the movies I went. But, if you’re anything like me, a movie isn’t a movie without a little booze.  Why would I want to sit still for 2 hours on a Friday night if it doesn’t involve a drink in my hand? Exactly.  You can’t think of a reason either. So, for those of you who do this often, or pretend you don’t but we all know where you go on Tuesday afternoons, this is a list you can show your friends who judge you or think you have “a problem.” And, to the rest of you drunk-at-the-movies virgins, please find below the reasons you should start adding flask’o’ hooch to your purse/fanny pack before heading over to the ol’ cinema.

Reasons to drink in a movie theater

•  It makes the softdrinks taste a lot better.
• If you bring your own flask, paying $6 for a coke doesn’t seem like such a rip off when you drink its boozy glory.
• No one around you knows you’re drinking. So it’s like having your very own secret members-only club. In your mouth.
• It makes even semi-unattractive actors attractive. Rawr.
• Booze is great with popcorn.
• If there’s a bearable good soundtrack, you’ll really appreciate it. (Sing a little? Dance maybe?)
• When the movie is over and most all of the people have left, you have your very own stage to strip dance on.

In conclusion, drink in movie theaters, folks.  Just maybe not if you’re with your kids. Actually, scratch that. Have you seen some of these new children’s movies they’re coming out with? Fuck if I wouldn’t need to be wasted to sit through that shit.  Drink up.

Cheers.

----

Can you think of any more reasons to drink in a movie theater?  

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.

I just said "wassup" aloud to a pigeon.

Working in the financial industry isn’t colourful, to say the very least.

Sure, I get to work on accounts for people named Mehboob, and people like to yell at me in French a lot, but I don’t like to brag.

I am, however, lucky enough to have a stalker friend awesome enough to keep me entertained throughout otherwise monotonous days.

She is hilarious and crazy. Together we get to bounce insane offensive disgusting sexual brilliant ideas off of each other.

Since these e-mails brighten my day so much, they may also do the same to yours.

Or you’ll go cross-eyed and get kicked by a mule.

Either way.

It’s your life. Do what you want.

For all of our sakes, I am only posting my favourite lines from some of these e-mails. No one needs to see the banter. Except us. MEMBERS ONLY, BITCHES.

*Please note, names have been changed. Ivan is a girl. Get used to it.             

***

Ivan: The lifestyle choices you just described sound like some sort of epic Monty Python wet dream.

***

Me: I think stapler violence is underrated. Nothing says "get smarter" than a stapler to the head.

***

Ivan: I imagine her as an extremely anxious gerbil. Like, if you don’t feed her enough, she’ll just pee all over your hand.

***

Me: I have a terrible ability to be ladylike in a skirt and end up with my legs apart, flashin’ the world. Leggings just seem safer, and far more effective for avoiding accidental pregnancies. THAT SHIT JUST HAPPENS, YO.

***

Ivan: I miss being able to chew like a normal person. Instead of, you know, drooling all over my badass self. It makes me significantly less badass when it looks like I’m my own retarded cousin.

***

Me: ... I'm not sure what kind of signals I'm sending out, but to me it feels a bit like death/stabby/herpes/anger.
Not necessarily in that order.

(probably in that order.)

***

Ivan: I respect your buttboundaries. A LADY HAS STANDARDS. Unless she pays for a lobster dinner- then all bets are off, biatches.

Me: I only put out for lobster, but first they have to get me to eat it.
Hint: I don't eat lobster.
Hint: I need to start eating lobster :(

***

Ivan: I’VE ALWAYS WANTED TO FLY PORTER. Dayum, gurl.
Can you like, steal some plane memorabilia for me? Like a cappuccino machine? Or a flight attendant? I feel like they’d be handy in some sort of crisis. They’d probably know where all the emergency exits are located.
AND I WOULD CALL HIM/HER STEVE. Just because.

Me: I will steal 3 flight attendants.
We'll call all of them Steve and make them wear different coloured boas. The Boas will determine how much we like them. The suckiest one gets yellow. The best one gets purple and the middle one gets a kick in the face, because honestly, if you can't stand out for being good OR bad, you just don't deserve a boa.

***

Me: I take all my dates to all-you-can-eat buffets. I let them go first and then I just eat a salad.
FEEL BADLY ABOUT YOURSELF, BITCH.
:) I'm the best date ever.

***

Things Ivan shouldn’t Google from work:

-          Midgets
-          Mexican midgets
-          Funny Mexican midgets playing dodgeball
-          TIT CUPCAKES