Craddle the Whiskey: A Fun New Game!

It’s hump day y’all, so you’d better be humping. And if you’re not humping, you’d better be thinking about humping and cradling a bottle of whiskey between your tits to make yourself feel better for having an inadequate sex life.  

I’m not going to apologize to you guys (I’m an asshole, remember, assholes don’t say sorry), but I am going to give you a heads up that my life is fucking crazeballs right now so my ‘free time’ has been stunted. This means that I’m finding less time to be funny, and more time to be insane. (On an unrelated note, does anyone have any suggestions on how to go about burning down a house without it being retraced to me? Just kidding! (Probably. LOLZ*))

*For those of you new here, I promise I don’t use LOLZ on a regular basis. Maybe.

My roommate and I have (I think) finally narrowed down an apartment to move into. This means that I’m in the throes of moving and all of the glory that comes along with it. (Listen, I know you don’t want to hear about it. Listening to someone talk about moving all the motherfucking time is extremely annoying.  In fact, I’m pretty sure that if you were in my general vicinity for even 2 hours you’d probably try to wrap my telephone chord around my neck and gag me with a stapler. Okay, fine, maybe that’s my fantasy. Whatever. You get what I'm trying to say.)

Stapler gags and office sex jokes aside, I should probably just admit to you that there is no point to this post and you’ve wasted however many minutes it has taken you to get to this point. (2 minutes? … maybe 10 minutes if you’re fucking slow and/or have been cradling aforementioned tit whiskey. I'm hoping for the latter.)

If you need me, I’ll be on the floor in my rubber gloves.  

There Are No Tacos Here

Today deserves a good, swift kick to the crotch.

Kind of like your mom.

(Okay, that was rude. I take that back. I’ll leave your mom’s crotch out of this. For now.)

If you’re new to this blog, you may want to turn your head away from this post before your first impression of me is tarnished and soiled like your Friday night knickers.

If you’re not new, then I should still probably warn you that what you’re about to read bears no relevance to the current season and is really fucking dumb. You’re welcome.

What the shit am I going on about, you ask?

Well, my friends, I wish to embark on a journey with you. A journey into pet costumes. More specifically, ridiculous dog costumes that make me fear for the general public, dog owners and the poor canines that suffer through this embarrassment.

Why am I talking about this, you ask?

Because I fucking want to and sometimes I have way too much time on my hands.  In case you’re wondering, no I do not have a dog (or any pet, for that matter.)  

Before we get this party started, I’m sending a special shout out to DP, who is singlehandedly responsible for getting me sucked into this douchetastic insightful topic through a discussion on this up and coming website you may have heard of called Facebook.  Thanks, DP, I’m sure my readers are really grateful. (Probably) (Not)

The Loneliest Bride

This is probably one of the scariest things I’ve ever seen in my life. That dog looks suicidal and was probably plotting its owner’s death as this picture was being taken.

I made the mistake of inverting this picture into ‘negative’ and may never sleep again. I call the original picture “Dear Dog Owner, It’s Time to Join eharmony” and the inverted picture “I Will Eat Your Soul.”

....

I warned you.

The Cheerleader

Another suicidal dog, folks.

This costume has sucked the cheer right out of this furry fucker’s heart and it’s going to take a lot more than high-kicks and human pyramids to bring it back. I’m offended, the public is offended, and most importantly: your dog is going to eat that motherfucking tinsel and you’ll be singlehandedly responsible for reaching your hand up its ass to untangle your dog’s intestines.

Give me an EFF! You’re a dumb slut!

Ketchup

What. The. Fuck?

When you were considering all of the possible things you could dress your dog up as, how does a condiment come in as the winning option?  That must have been a really good joint you were smoking.

I seriously can’t tell if this is one of the most inventive ideas I’ve ever seen for a dog, or just the fucking stupidest. I’m definitely leaning towards the latter.  If this were hot sauce, however, I’d be giving you a round of applause  

(… I do love ketchup, though…)

The Raptor

I’m not going to lie; I think this is the best thing I’ve ever seen. If you dress your dog up like a raptor, I’ll probably have sex with you be your best friend.  This is just bad ass. 

Dora the Explorer

I am pretty certain that I’d pay to watch another dog pee on a dog wearing this costume. Dora the Explorer is a giant douchetwizzler. That being said, I’d also really like to buy this for a friend’s dog and make them walk their dog around in public wearing it.  The humiliation both the dog and my friend would undergo could be life altering and therapy-worthy.

No one said I was a good friend.

The Redneck

If I ever have a dog, they will wear this 100% of the time.

End of story.

I’ll always look hotter than my dog.

(That’s why people have dogs, right? So they can look hotter by comparison?

That’s what I thought. I’m glad we’re on the same page.)

I was going to post a picture of a dog dressed as a taco, but then I realized that the proportion of dog costumes that I like would start outweighing the ones I'm mocking, so that one will have to stay between me and the dog-taco.

…  Guess what, guys?

You will never get those 10 minutes of your life back.

If it makes you feel any better, those dogs will never get their pride back. So far, I think you’re winning.

---

What’s the best pet costume you’ve ever seen?

Keywords: Teenage Mutant Ninja Boners!!!!

Like all other bloggers, I tend to keep my eye on how many people have stumbled onto my blog, which posts they decided to read, and where the hell they came from.

I remember when I first started blogging, I nearly pissed my pants when I saw someone from Norway found my blog, and immediately felt like I was a motherfucking international rockstar. (My dreams of becoming a Norwegian princess was quickly coming true!) Now that more time has passed, I’ve learned that the Norwegian was probably drunk and left my blog as quickly as he found it… but regardless, I was famous* in my own right.

*Thanks to Ms. Annah Rondon of Red Means Go, I find myself constantly saying “famosity” in my head as if it’s a real word. I hereby declare that the dictionary is a giant doucherag and Famosity is, in fact, a word. Suck it, Webster.  Oh, and in case you haven’t already, you should totally check Annah out.

When I write a blog post, I’ll admit that I start writing with very little concept of what my ‘theme’ will be for the day. Sometimes I use my blackberry notes for inspiration, but most often, my fingers just start spewing what I like to call Verbal Diarrhea. (I have never in my entire life spelled Diarrhea correctly on the first try. Seriously. Never. Fuck you and your double ‘r’s, and what the fuck is that ‘h’ doing in there? I hate you.)

I know that my blog has no real ‘structure’, but I can guaran-fucking-tee that I get the most joy out of slandering idiots, bitching and drawing attention to all things douchey. With this in mind, I’m sure it will come as no surprise to you that the key searchwords leading to my blog are fucking ridiculous. And wonderful.

It shocks me every day that I have loyal readers who ‘get’ my sense of humour and it brings me even more joy to know that my blog is being found by crude, horrid things that people are searching on Google. This morning I checked my key words for the month and nearly spewed coffee out of my nose.

I bring you:   

This Month’s Most Searched Keywords

Some thoughts.

1)      Kristina Kustra is a dear friend of mine and I’m sure whoever was looking her up was delighted to come across posts about dead raccoon fetuses. Delightful.

2)      Ms. Doubtfire searches have generated an alarming number of blog hits. People really love that film and I don’t fucking blame them. That shit is gold. The post can be found here.

3)      Polkadot clovers. Well, that one makes sense. Logic pisses me off.

4)      “Squirted so much” Puddle. This is a personal favourite of mine. Sharon and I were recently discussing this one and decided that some poor weeping girl must have been devastatingly embarrassed when her boyfriend made her squirt that she took to the internet to find some answers. All I can hope is that her boyfriend now calls her Puddles and only fucks her in the tub like the classy bitch she is.

5)      Crying in my underwear made it in there twice. This makes me feel less alone, but it also makes me feel like a cliché. I’m willing to bet I’m the only one who had beets involved in her weeping display of distress. Those fucking beets will haunt my dreams forever.

6)      Polkadots vs run the world. I told you guys I’d become Norwegian royalty, and everyone knows that when you rule Norway, the next step is running the world. (Probably with pigeons).

 

7)      Sex Valentines Shoot. I can only hope that ‘shoot’ means ‘pictures’ and not ‘gun’.

8)      Sharon Pigeon Nude.  You just know that someone out there was looking for pigeon porn. Sorry to disappoint, but I have a strict No Nude Pigeons rule on my blog. 

9)      Teenage Mutant Ninja Boners!!!! My favourite part about this is the enthusiasm expressed with those exclamation marks. I can’t even try to understand what the fuck the context of this was, but boy am I glad it found my blog.

A couple other favourite keywords that found my blog this week:

1) Eldersnatch

2) Ninja Slut

3) How to deepthroat*

I can’t even begin to express how proud I am. 

This must be the feeling my parents were talking about when they talked about "success."

*Holy shit are you ever in the wrong place, darling. 

 ---

Are there any funny keywords that found your blog?

Hand Me a Tissue... For My Nose, Perv.

F my L!

I’m sick. 

I’m snotty and my voice is starting to resemble a phone sex operator who smokes 45 cigarettes a day and takes her daily vitamin with a stiff mug’o’whiskey. (I didn't say I sounded like a hot phone sex operator.) Also, my brain feels like it’s been covered in bubblewrap… and not in a fun kind of way. (I know you were probably thinking ‘That lucky little bitch. That would be so much fucking fun. I’d smack my head against everything all day long just to hear those glorious popping* sounds.’ Not today, guys, not today.)

*I think it’s important to tell you that I first spelled it ‘pooping sounds’.  Glorious pooping sounds.

While I realize a run-of-the-mill headcold is something that gets and deserves very little sympathy, I’m going to demand it anyway.

Sympathize with me, bitch!

I’ve killed too many brain cells in my life to be able to afford this sort of mental blockage. Soon people at work are going to wonder if I’ve been spending my breaks taking a stroll with Ms. Mary Jane. 

As a general rule of thumb, I try my best to get through the work day using the minimum brain power necessary. This means two things: 1) Out-of-the-ordinary questions can make my face turn as red as a constipated hippo and 2) I stare off into space a lot.

If you’re anything like me, you’ve spent a great deal of time mastering the art of spacing out. Rookies make the mistake of staring off into the far distance, seldom blinking and often, inadvertently, in the direction of someone who is now convinced they’re being glared at. Stupid. Amateur. Don’t do that. If you want to give your eyes a lil’ rest in the middle of the day/meeting/conversation/on the subway, look down, and pretend you’re looking at your phone/newspaper/planned parenthood pamphlet and let your eyes drift off into that sweet glazed-over haven. No one has to know that you aren’t actually reading. If they challenge you, I recommend a swift kick to the throat.

All of this is to say that when I’m sick, my glazed-over haven becomes my permanent expression. Even now, as I’m typing, I’m only half-focused at the screen. If you’d like to consider this a skill, I’d be fine with that.

Despite my crippling illness, I’ve been assigned to sit with one of the (how shall I word this…) slower trainees to try and iron out some of his blatant shortcomings in learning the ropes of the position. While I may not be the most patient person in the world, I’m still (mostly) understanding when it comes to learning. Want to know what I’m not understanding about? Body odor.  The big BO. That’s right, folks. This motherfucker stinks worse than Paris Hilton’s cooter and I’m forced to sit 4 inches away from him. All day long.

I can tell that you’re pretty jealous right now. My life is pretty fucking glamourous.

In case you’ve already forgotten, let me remind you that I’m sick. Snotty. Stuffed up. Congested. Booger-y. Before you roll your eyes and tell me to get the fuck over it, there’s a reason I’m reiterating this. I’m sure you’ve all been here before. You’re leaking from your face and no matter how often you blow your nose, it makes no fucking difference. Your snot has set up shop for a second by second drippity drip and it don’t care who it gets on. (Re-read that sentence 3 times and it probably still sounds just as bad and nonsensical.) My point is: When I can barely breathe out of my motherfucking nose and I can still smell your vile eau de stank, you’ve got bigger worries than not being able to click the right links on our website. JUSSAYIN’.

I probably should be taking the day off of blogging to save you all from this horrendous pile of steaming fuckery, but too effing bad. It’s my blog and I do what I want.

Since you can’t see me, I figured I should tell you that I’m also sticking my tongue out at you right now.

Yep.

I’m 12.

Delightful? Yes. Debaucherous? Absolutely.

You may remember her from such posts as Meet Sharon. (Alt. Title: Please Excuse the Nudity) and Your Face Isn't Stinky (Probably). 

She has injected my life with a dose of fuckery that would shame the panties off of the Kardashians, and I am forever grateful.

Why am I, yet again, bragging about how awesome Sharon is, and making you feel like an inferior human for not having her queefy shenanigans as a part of your daily life?

Because, ladies and gentledouches, Sharon has decided to start a blog! After months of me telling her to get her ass on the dildo we call Blogger, she has finally taken then leap.

Since she is a dear friend of mine, and a freaking hilarious bitch, I hereby force encourage you to pop on over, show her some love, click that almighty "Follow" button, and give her a chance to enlighten you with stories about her "extremely vulgar and innappropriate personality and sense of humour, tales of drunkeness, nudity, verbal (and regular) diarrhea, and really just silly everyday life experiences that make me queef in excitement." (Those are her words... not mine)

Introducing

Sharon Neilson - "this is my shitty-fucking-blog."

Viewers discretion is advised.

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)