Valentine's Day (Alt. Title: Shoot Me in the Face)

V.D.

It’s no coincidence that Valentine’s Day shares the same initials as Venereal Disease. They both come with a lot of discomfort, shame and anxiety.

Can you tell that I’m a hopeless romantic? I’ve got romance seeping from my veins, motherfuckers.

Obviously.

I know what you’re thinking. “This bitch just needs to get laid.” And you know what? You’re absolutely wrong. I get my lay on plenty. Really, when it boils down to it, my problem with V-Day is much like everyone else’s: Shut the fuck up and stop telling me that one day in the year I should be spending all this money on stupid pink and red crap that will get me NOWHERE closer to my ultimate goal of being a Sex Goddess. That’s everyone’s goal, right? No? Whatever. Shut up. It totally is.

Regardless of my general distain for the concept of the holiday, I’ve found myself attached this year and figured perhaps we would take part in something somewhat festive. After some brief brainstorming sessions and a stupid amount of back and forth texting with me declining pretty much every suggestion she made, I think we’ve come to the conclusion that Valentine’s Day is really just fucking dumb.

Everything that would qualify as romantic on an ordinary day suddenly seems cliché and douchetastic.  If I woke up some random morning in May and found roses all over my room and a fun-filled day of sex and adventure planned, then FUCK ME SIDEWAYS I would be happier than a pre-teen skank at a 50% sale at Forever 21. But, on Valentine’s Day, these gestures feel forced. If you weren’t paying attention in the previous post, I don’t like it when people tell me what to do. Hallmark is telling me to shower my babyboo with love, affection and edible strawberry oil that tastes like cancer, and it makes me want to throw some slaps. (Come to think of it, that might just be the perfect gift... but you don’t need to hear those details. Let’s move along…)

Regardless of the ludicrousy (shut up, spellcheck! That’s a fucking word.) of horoscopes, I’ll admit that I get sucked into them from time to time. I want to disregard them and claim them all to be a giant pile of great fuckery, but I am a Pisces through and through and no matter how hard I try to ignore it, astrology gets me. (Stop judging me.)  So, one slow afternoon at work, I found myself perusing a website that told me all about how my Piscean waterself is compatible with my Scorpion counterpart. What riveting literature!   To my delight, below the detailed description of our passion and fervor was a list of suggestions on how to spend Valentine’s Day.  I couldn’t pass this by, folks, I really couldn’t.  So, in the spirit of the impending blood bath lovefest, let me introduce:

Valentine’s Day Ideas 

Brought to you by: The Biggest Asshat Website in the History of The Internet

On this Valentine’s Day reenact the first date of yours, followed by a walk with your palms clutched together, she'd definitely adore the idea of violins and a Valentine’s Day cake, if you can arrange. Make her feel loved by singing a love song for her on this Valentine’s Day. Do something which would move her, which would mesmerize her like making a photo collage of her which should showcase her in all moods. This would make her feel that how closely you observe her and know her.

 

Like women, even men like being pampered and spoiled, that's our take. So, this Valentine's Day even if you are bad at cooking, prepare his favorite dish and feed him with your own hands, even if you would have messed it up, he will never complain as the salt from your hands will make it even more delicious. Try to pen down some beautiful love poetry for him which would make him realize upto what extent you can go to express your love. This Valentine's Day become his best friend and share with shim your deepest thoughts and dreams and make him think that in your small nest, he owns a very prominent place.

SHUT. THE. FUCK. UP.

I think this pretty much writes itself. I can hear the sound of all of your eyes rolling into your heads as you scanned those suggestions, but if any of you at any point thought “Hey, that’s a good idea” then I hate you. (Baaaaah, fine I don’t hate you, but seriously? SERIOUSLY?  Go smear your salty hands over someone else’s food.)

I could spend an afternoon ripping through those piece’o’shit suggestions, but I’m going to hold back a bit because I know y’all have lives and whatever.  There are, however, a few things I can’t let slide.

1)  If you’re going to sit me down and sing to me about how you feel, things are going to get fucking awkward (especially if you can’t play an instrument). I would know, because when I was 17, I did it. I learned the hard way.  Nothing is more uncomfortable than having a one person accapela version of Boyz II Men’s I’ll Make Love to You* sung to your face as you sit there silently. Seriously. Don’t do it.

*I did not sing that song when I was 17. I wrote my own song. It was shameful.

2)  Don’t ever try to show a girl all of her moods via collage. She probably knows she’s a moody fucking bitch, and she doesn’t need you reminding her.  That, my friend, is how you get a fork in your face.  

3)  That thing about the food? False. If you cook me something disgusting, the salt on your hands is not going to help. Also, why the fuck are your hands so salty? Do we need to take you to the doctor? Wash your hands more, you filthy motherfucker.

Here’s an idea: Stay in bed this Valentine’s Day, get your fuck on (or masturbate if you’re alone) and shove a shit ton of delicious food into your face.

Romance.

**

UPDATE: 

This was my favourite follow-up 'suggestion' from a reader.

What. Is. Wrong. With. You.

 

Don't Dip Your Junk in Chocolate

Let me tell you a little story about what could have been.

 

I may have mentioned this before in passing, but in case you didn't know, I love to bake. More specifically, I bake the shit out of cupcakes/cake-related products. 

Bonjour, Cupcake

When I first started this blog, it was supposed to be a baking blog. (I use the term ‘started’ loosely. In other words, I wrote maybe 2 posts last spring, and then they just sat lonely and untouched for months… kind of like me. Just kidding. Maybe.)  I was all geared up and enthused to write about my adventures in baking, including pictures of my triumphs and fails. Woohoo! Everyone loves a good baking blog, right!?

… But then it dawned on me: baking is fucking expensive.

I have always baked here and there, for special occasions or just for fun, but never on a regular basis. To keep a blog afloat, one needs to post often enough to keep readers coming back. I wasn’t prepared to start spending half of my paychecks on butter, sugar and chocolate, and I certainly wasn’t going to opt for cheaper, less awesome ingredients. So there my blog sat, shivering in its cold, dark corner of the blogosphere, with abandoned pictures of cakes and cookies.  My baking blog dream had come to an end and it was time for a drink. Or six. Or twelve…

I'm sorry, cake, but you never stood a chance.

After months of neglect, it occurred on me that cursing and random story telling was much more my speed and this badboy was born.

But, despite my inability to blog about what I bake, I still like to throw around the flour from time to time. I spend an embarrassing amount of time perfecting what I’ve baked, and in my more ambitious moments, have even considered making my own sprinkles and confetti for cakes. 

Gluing confetti to cake pops with corn syrup isn't as fun as you'd think it would be.

I take that shit seriously, yo.

Anyone who’s been in the kitchen with me while I’m baking can tell you that I don’t play nice. (That’s MY spatula! I’ll whisk how I WANT to whisk! Back the fuck off, motherfucker. I will dip MY balls* into MY chocolate. *stomps feet* ) They would also tell you that I get myself worked up into a tizzy when I think the final product won’t be the masterpiece I had envisioned… and that when things finally start falling into place, I get this crazed look in my eye and resemble one of those fanatical mothers from Toddlers & Tiaras. 

*I’m talking about cake balls, you sick fuck. 

There's something twinkling in those eyes... might just be drag queen glitter.

The trouble with baking is that although it’s super delish, it’s also very fattening. While some people may try to cater their baked goods to the more health-conscious crowd (See:  Mrs. Dingleblat’s Debbie-Downer treats), I refuse to demolish the whole institution of baking with applesauce substitutes. That’s just disgraceful.

Once I have finished baking, the next step is finding people to eat it.   I’ve come to learn that when you work in an office, people will eat just about anything when it’s free (even if it probably should have been introduced to Mr. Garbagecan upon exiting the oven). Last night, my girlfriend and I attempted to make soft pretzels. With a slight mis-measurement of the flour content (I’m not pointing any fingers…*cough*) they turned out extremely doughy. As a result, they had to stay in the oven far longer than intended, and the outside got… slightly overcooked. Nevertheless, I cut them up, threw them in a cookie tin and low and behold, they were gone in under an hour. (I know what you’re thinking… but people came back for second and third helpings. The ‘pretzels’ weren’t just eaten out of sympathy for my efforts. And screw you for thinking such things! I’m never making pretzels for you. Not even if you beg. Asshole.)

So, even though my blog became an unexpected slur of grand fuckery (which, by the way, I adore, thanks to my wonderful followers/commenters/friends), from time to time I may throw some baking into the mix. Ohhhhh a baking pun!! You’re welcome!! (I probably won’t actually ever blog about baking… but now I don’t want to delete that pun... Eff my life is *so* complicated sometimes.)

All of this is to say: this is not a baking blog…but it was supposed to be… but it’s not.

Yep.

 

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. 

 

Nothing is Quite as Fabulous as a Man in a Dress (Alt. Title: Protect Your Nipples)

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from frequenting gay bars, it’s that dragqueens can do “diva” better than any vagina-sporting bitch I know.

They’re six-foot-something, looming beasts, armed with a concept of ‘femininity’ that could leave Nicki Minaj perplexed.  The bigger the hair- the better. The smaller the dress- the better. The longer the lashes-the better. The smaller the bulge- the better.

Watching performances, it often appears they’re in a competition of “Who can flail their arms around the most”, while proving that they can own the shit out of a classic Celine Dion chest-pound.  

Now, I don’t want this to come across as an “I hate dragqueens” post, because I feel quite the contrary.  I think they are fabulous and I gurgle with joy when I see a man in a dress. What I’m most bamboozled by (yes, that’s a word! It means baffled! The world is an exciting place!) is the abundance of titty-grabbing that occurs when a man is dressed as a woman.

Let me explain.

On more than one occasion, I have been minding my own business in the ladies’ room at a bar when suddenly a towering vision of glitter and weave appears behind me in the mirror.  There is something about a 6’7” ‘woman’ that makes me both excited and terrified.  So, let’s assume for the sake of this story that I was drunk. I know it’s a long shot, but try to imagine it, folks.  So there I am, fixing my face and practicing my “I’m not drunk, I’m just sassy” face, when this superfab tower of glam approaches me.  I smile, contemplate throwing a ‘love the outfit, girl!”, or a simple “WORK”, her way, but decide I’m not fabulous enough to pull it off.  She begins adjusting herself and I took this as my cue to leave. Sooner than I could say “Where’s my drink?” the queen spins around, looks me in the face and grabs my nipples.

Had this man not been head to toe in glitter, sequins, and eau-de-hoe, I would have thrown a slapbomb so hard he would’ve been a she for realz. But the combination of hair and glamour threw me for a loop.  She exhaled and let out some loud, enthusiastic variation of “honk honk” and I just stood there- nipples pinched and wide-eyed, still sporting my drunken smile.  I leaned over, picked up my purse and let out possibly the most awkward laugh of all time.  I stumbled out of that bathroom shamed, confused and a little aroused.

So, next time you’re alone in the bathroom with a dragqueen, remember to guard your nipples- or she’ll come a-honkin’.

These are life lessons, people.  

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.