Sex on the Beach! Everybody's Doing It!

The beach is full of whores. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trust.

Pop Quiz! 

What's your favo(u)rite beach moment?  

Me? Oh, you know, stepping on a used syringe is up at the top of my list... right behind getting my foot run over by a car. Ain't no thang. 

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In the spirit of blog recognition, I have appointed a winner to last post's challenge! 

It was tough because I'm extremely in love with all of you, and your rhyming techniques do not fail to impress. 

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

Her submission: 

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

THE END.

(She had me at 'fu manchu'.)

Your Pictures Are Stupid; I Can't Look Away

In today’s day of social media sites, there is one megabeast that has made everyone its bitch. Yes, my friends, I’m talking about Facebook. This ‘social’ media tool has allowed for me to know when my friends are grocery shopping, if they’re still friends with that bitch from high school and how often they poop. While we all have a handful of friends who ‘won’t join Facebook out of principle’, I’ve decoded their reasoning to mean one of the following three things:

1)      “I’m worried I will look like a loser because I don’t have enough friends.”

2)      “I don’t understand social media websites.” 

3)      “I go out on a lot of heavy drug and drinking benders and don’t have the time or energy to untag myself from photos on a regular basis.” 

Whatever the reason may be, let’s just be clear about one thing: If you don’t have Facebook, you’re not getting invited to parties.  If you’re part of reason #3 for not joining Facebook, you’re probably doing yourself and your future rehab bill a favour. Jussayin’.

Like so many of you, I fucking hate Facebook. By this, I mean: I can’t stop fucking checking it.  I hate that I care what you did last night; I don’t know why, but I hate your face; if you post one more political status, I’m fucking deleting you and your pictures of your stupid bachelorette party make me want to stab myself in the shoulder/WHY WASN’T I INVITED!?

Whatever your relationship might be with this mind-numbing site, we all have different categories of people in our friends list. Some of them you care about, and others… well, you find yourself wishing them a firey death on a regular basis. I know what you’re thinking, but unfriending would just be too easy.

I’ve broken these people into 6 categories.

The Significant Other

There are a few things to consider when communicating with your shmoopy on Facebook:

First of all, do you have any shame? No? Then go ahead and post all of your disgusting love-filled messages all over their wall and let us judge you while we eat spicy peanuts in bed.  If you do have shame, keep in mind that with every cheesy message you write, it becomes increasingly challenging to think of you as an equal. (Sidenote: I know 90% of people with smartphones use them while they’re on the toilet. Don’t pretend you don’t. With that in mind, when I see horrifically sappy Facebook posts, I like to think of the author of said post sitting on the john while they profess their love. Take this wisdom with you, folks. Life just got a little brighter.)

Secondly, how many pictures have you posted of you and your poopybear kissing? If there is more than 1, that’s too many and you deserve a good swift chair to the face.

Lastly, if you’re the kind of person that updates your relationship status on Facebook, then please, for the love of god, only change it once you know you’ve broken up and/or started dating someone for realsies.  Keeping with this theme, I’d also like for you to keep your emotional status updates to yourself. I don’t give a flying fuck if you’re quoting some song you heard that touched your inner being; you sound like a whiny twelve year-old and I’ll assume you spend a good portion of your time crying and watching Twilight. Guess what? We’re not friends anymore.

The Good Friends

In a perfect world, my Facebook friends list would be compiled solely of my good, dear friends. These are the people I care about, and they post shit I want to read. I can tease them to their face about the dumb shit they write about, and we can bask together in our shame every weekend when the photos of our latest drinking binge surface. It’s not a perfect world, though, and Sue from accounting is going to add you as a friend, and you can’t do fucking shit about it. This brings me to my next category.

The Coworkers

Way to rain on my fucking parade, colleagues. Now I have to create a whole new limited profile for you, so you can’t know about the sex shows I attend and all of the blow I did last night. When I call in sick on Monday, you’re going to rat me out and I’m going to have to stab you in the bathroom. If you had just minded your own business and kept your friend request to yourself, we wouldn’t be standing here in a puddle of blood, hashing it out Freddy-style.*

*Not exactly an accurate depiction of real life. Dramatics added for color.

The Former Friends

These are probably the people I spend the most time stalking. You know those nights when you end up looking at someone’s wedding photos where you don’t know a single attendee, but you find yourself judging the décor and thinking that these people are fucking lame?  Ya. We’re never getting that time back, guys.

Seriously, though, stalking former friends can result in you missing them, hating them and/or envying them. Sometimes, all three emotions can occur when browsing through a single photo album, and you find yourself lingering over the ‘like’ button and wondering if it would be weird, nice, or creepy to click it. It’s probably creepy, since the album was from 2008, but go ahead a click it. Stir the pot a little. 

The Acquaintances

These are the people you contact once a year because Facebook told you it’s their birthday.  You should probably delete them.

The Family Members

Your relationship with your family will really affect how you perceive this category. If your family members are your BFFs, then la-dee-fucking-da, keep everything public and embrace your Honesty is the Best Policy way of life.  For the rest of us, yet another limited profile is created, double checked, triple checked, and checked again on a regular basis every time Facebook goes and changes their motherfucking privacy settings.

There are, of course, members of my family who have an all-access pass, namely my sister, who probably wishes she didn’t sometimes… but as for the aunts and uncles who saw me play baby Jesus during our reenactment of the nativity scene once upon a Christmas, it’s probably best to keep them at a distance.

I’ve contemplating deleting my Facebook dozens of times, but who are we kidding? That’s the cyber version of social banishment and I’m not ready to become a pariah just yet. When I’m alone with my 14 cats, living an envy-filled life spent observing the trips, parties and excursions of friends-gone-by, I’ll reevaluate. But for now, I’ll continue to judge you from the comfort of my peanut-filled bed.


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OH! And I thought I should share with you the cookies that I made for my birthday/St. Patrick's day.
I thought of you guys with every polka dot I dropped on those godforsaken clovers. (If you remember... this was supposed to be a baking blog, but I'm far too vulgar.)

Yes, I Can See Your Tampon String.

It’s getting hot outside and all I can say is: Fina-fucking-lly. 

My pasty skin is tired of being layered up and suffocated by itchy material that regularly convinces me I’ve got flesh eating disease and/or bedbugs.

Bring on the sunburns, motherfuckaaaah.

While I am most definitely celebrating the recent warm weather shift, I’m going to have to take a minute to be a hypocrite.  Stay with me, guys.

This past winter was the fucking tits. Why?

a)      I didn’t slip and fall once.

b)      It never got too cold for me to stop sleeping in my underwear.

Those are my criteria for determining the ‘titliness’ of a winter. I’m sure there are other (smaller) factors to take into consideration, but who the hell has time for smaller things. AM I RIGHT, Girls!?

While I can recognize that there were some pretty unpleasant days that made my face burn like a prostitute’s urethra, I feel like I need to remind people that it’s March.

It’s March, guys.

We didn’t even get snow in Toronto until January. That’s 2 months of marginally uncomfortable weather. So, congratulations to those of you who invested a small fortune in your douchey Canada Goose jackets. I’ve been meaning to tell you that you look like Queen of the Asshats when you’re sweating up a storm on the subway because you don’t know how to dress yourself appropriately. I’m willing to bet you’re the same classy skankasaurus who chooses to bare your droopy asscheeks in 15 degree weather, hoping no one will notice the tampon string or the fact that they’re three sizes too small.  

Believe me. We notice.

Having said that, I’m pretty fucking happy that it’s warm outside because it makes me feel less dead inside. There are a lot of reasons for this exaltation, but I’m going to let you guess what the MAIN one is…

….

Are you guessing right now?

….

Guess or I’ll cut you…

…

Ok, fine. I’ll tell you.

It’s booze.  More specifically: daytime boozing.

There is nothing more enjoyable, and downright awesome than drinking under the warm glow of the sun. Soaking in the cancer and giving myself early onset liver failure is what life is all about. And I’ll be honest with you guys. During the colder months, I spend several hours a week perusing my summertime photo albums on Facebook. I don’t care if you think it’s pathetic. Your mom is pathetic.

Last summer I discovered the beauty of Gatorade & Vodka (Vodkarade… or Gatorka, for you awkward types). I’m pretty certain it’s Jesus’ gift to mankind… but don’t quote me on that… I hear Jesus gets pretty pissed when he finds out people are wrongfully saying he invented cocktails.

What have we learned today?

1)      The world is full of giant douchewranglers.

2)      The season of butt cleavage is upon us.

3)      ‘Summer’ is just a glorified term for ‘alcoholism’.

4)      And most importantly, Jesus makes wicked cocktails.

This week’s assignment: Use the term ‘titliness’ in a sentence at least three times.

***
Update!

It is with great pleasure that I accompany this post with a wonderful image.
Thank you to Jen Hladkowicz, who helped dream up this masterpiece.

You'd Better Be Drinking

Saturday is my birthday. 

If you’ve been paying attention, it’s also St. Patrick’s Day.

That’s right, ladies and gents! Yours truly was born on the International Day of Drinking. 

Surprised?

Me neither.

I love St. Patrick’s Day so much that it’s a shock that I don’t shit clovers. (Apparently that’s not how the digestive system works. Who knew?)

In the spirit of the upcoming Day of Debauchery, I’ve come up with some T-Shirt ideas that would tickle my blarney stone if I saw them around town on St. Patrick’s Day. (Maybe not if there are children around… or elderly people. Oh, who are we kidding, elderly people love fart jokes and anal sex.)

Introducing:

 Britt’s St. Paddy’s Day Tees 

 

 

Just in case my week continues to be as busy as it has been, I’ll wish you all a wonderful St. Paddy’s Day ahead of time!

I expect you’ll all be drunk by 3pm, drinking green beer, making out with ‘Irish’ people and shoveling potato-based food items into your piehole whilst doing a drunken jig. 

If you're not, I'm judging you. 

Cheers, beers and queers, my dears.

Xx

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. 

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.

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

I don't care if you really are Italian.

I understand that Jersey Shore exists solely for entertainment purposes. I get it. They’re drunk and messy and smell like last week’s dirty laundry. Ha.  I will also admit that I, too, fall victim to its humour from time to time- allowing its greasy, tanned, guido hands to wrap around my brain long enough to make me wonder if really there is going to be a ‘situation.’

But at night, when I am alone, I feel the shame deep inside of me.  Why couldn’t I look away, I wonder. Do I look like that when *I’m* drunk?  I ask myself.

When it boils down to it, I’ve likely exhibited enough Jersey Shore flavour in my time, but it went untelevised, and therefore, it was okay. Only the poor souls in my direct vicinity were subjected to my awesomeness humiliation and that, my friends, is the acceptable kind of trashy.  Sure, I’ve had to send those awkward “Hey, can you take that picture down, my nipple is totally showing” facebook messages, but who hasn’t?

There is no shame in drinking, but there is shame in fake tans and hair bumps- and also, calling yourself anything that starts with “the”. Just don’t do it.  I know your friend thought calling you “the circumstance” was a hilarious idea, but you guys were stoned and that was circumstantially funny. Ha. Just don’t do it.

So, go ahead and punch a chick in the face, throw up glitter, faceplant into a fucking cactus, whatever- but recognize that you’re an embarrassment and buy some Gatorade before you pass out under the front porch- and for the love of god, stay away from video cameras.

*Also, I generally recommend forcing everyone you’re with into the obligatory 8 shots of tequila, just so their lines will be almost as blurry as yours. Bring those judgy motherfuckers down with you.

If they can’t remember either, it’s like it never even happened.