Wednesday, September 16, 2009

I am bungholio i need TP for my bunghole

k...again...said uh...girl...goes to do to favor for uh...said boy at small said autodealership...enter said latin mechanic employee

I can neither confirm nor deny there was a bathroom that said girl needed to use

I can neither confirm nor deny that bathroom was already in use

I can neither confirm nor deny said mechanic did not lock said door...said girl did not enter said bathroom...

OMFG really? I mean really? The lock was fully functional...are you kidding me?  What made it that much more special was him killing those little girl notions that boys stand up to pee...or perhaps it was #2 I'm not really sure which thought makes the raping of my eyeballs more bearable.  But it doesnt just end there...the humiliation gets passed around because the more the merrier right?...apparently in somewhat of a "tit" for seeing said mechanics "tat"....

I can neither confirm nor deny said germ-a-phobe girl always TP's the seats of public bathrooms before sitting down

I can neither confirm nor deny a mysteriously missing piece of toilet paper when said business is done...

Sadly I can neither confirm nor deny said missing toilet paper may have been trailing from said girls pants until said business owner points it out....

ah...and the era of no dignity...continues

Wednesday, September 09, 2009

To work out or not to work out..that is the question

So in the  past year or so I have stumbled upon another aspect of getting older that is just friggin unfair.  Exercising...Now I'm not gonna sit and whine about how fat I am blah blah blah ok?  Im in decent condition and when I'm not eventually I get up and do something about it vs whining hence why I go between little blondie and Shamu..So what I am finding really annoying is no matter how much I seem to exercise fairly little progress occurs and in some cases not at all what I was trying to accomplish so is it fair that when I exercise:

1) My boobs and ass get smaller...So we can thus conclude you can either be skinny with a flat behind and no chi chi's or be Shamu and keep your "Assets" so to speak.

2) My trainer tells me that I'm not losing weight because my body is used to the exercise that I have to vary it up basically trick myself because after about one week of running my Ass is apparently "on to me" and figures out how to retain its third world continental size despite my best efforts to the contrary.  Which kind of makes you wonder if I can trick my body into thinking it should be losing weight why can't I trick it into thinking that twinkie is really a lean cuisine, or that I really CAN fit a size 3 again? 

3) I can exercise for 2 weeks with no apparent results but eat one dinner at cheescake factory and gain 5 pounds overnight despite having absolutely nothing anyone one with a sense of smell or taste buds would want to eat the rest of the week.

So i was thinking...Hmmm lets see after about 10 years what the damage really is back i set the timer on my camera and took a rear view picture (shut up like you havent!) What I discovered was that I should always face legs looked like two christmas hamhocks with a large rump roast sittin on top.  I mean seriously...I wanted to baste myself and wrap those puppies in some string.

Monday, September 07, 2009

Thats my story and I'm stickin to it

so i once knew this girl who had some pictures on her computer...some of them good... some of them of a uh...delicate nature....
so while on said person decides to make a little greeting card cutesy and innocent
(anyone see where I'm going with this?)
said person gets click happy...said photo's get uploaded to

said person is up till 1am frantically trying to get delicate pictures off the F-in website.....

Bitch just can't make this shit up

Gym Farting Etiquette

so to elaborate on my inflamed comments on facebook myspace and whoever the f else would listen...


yes I'm talking to you ya old wrinkly, blonde, broccoli eating middle aged crackhead with your Jane fonda spandex and your husbands old t-shirt.  Since there were just the two of us a 20 foot radius I'm
PRE-TTY sure it wasnt MY ass that leaked the funk of 20 dead sewer rats...It takes a lot to offend me it really does and the first time I let it pass (no pun intended) and the second time I though well it saves me a waxing as the hairs on my body curled and fell off,  but the third time I vomited a little in my mouth and stomped out of my gym...

you owe me 65 calories, 5 minutes and some eye drops for my stinging and forever damaged and screaming senses...

Monday, January 09, 2006

Ok so you know I had to rise from the dead and blog away when I heard about this….

Army Lowers Bar for Recruits:,13319,78111,00.html?

(insert constipated look here). Now I realize almost being carried away in a port o potty once may in some small way detract from the credibility of my opinion on this matter depending on your perspective (and perhaps use of hallucinogenic products), however…WTF over? It seems the good idea fairy has once again been on vacation in the white house. You may have seen her work during the early part of the war when we forgot to ask permission from Turkey to use their yellow brick road to get to Iraq before centering our entire operations plan around it. Could be me, maybe I’m an @sshole, but I’m not entirely sure the limits for legally brain dead aren’t already being waivered daily at recruiting stations round the country. Here’s to those special individuals who made the day of myself and others with their little engine that could attitudes and water boy enthusiasm…Here’s to the soldier(s) that…

1. Nair’ed his head rendering himself non deployable who thought this was a viable course of action since the bottle for this bikini waxing substance did not specifically state “Do not use on head”. This guy was probably one of those grubby little kids that used to eat the glue paste in kindergarten.

2. Got drunk on post (in the middle east), stole an army vehicle with a locked steering wheel and lost a game of chicken to a 10000 pound concrete barrier ten feet in front of him.

3. Got snagged by an errant piece of constantina wire trailing behind a vehicle going about 50 miles per hour and well…need I say more than theeeeee wheels on the truck went round and round…round and round…round and round OH the wheels on the….

4. Did I mention they promoted me to captain? Someone up there was smoking something good that day…Maybe some HERBAL tea? (wink wink, nudge nudge)

5. All those big bad apache helicopter pilots who have cost the army thousands of dollars scaring the cows into coma’s in this hills of Fort Hood. Eat more Chikin guys.
So now I’m in dallas and well…to be continued.

Friday, April 29, 2005

The Snores Heard Round the World

Ok so it I sit hunched over my laptop for the third sleepless night in a row wondering what possessed me to think it a viable option to occupy the same condo/hotel suite as my father. I had almost forgotten those long ago teenage years when I would lay smothered beneath my pillow on the floor trying to block out the Snore heard round the world. When I was younger my father worked sort of like a babysitter in assisted living home for the mentally ill. As a live-in type scenario during the weekdays it was much closer to my school thus I ended up spending many a night on a futon on the floor saying my oft repeated prayer

“God bless mommy and daddy and all our friends and God please…. let me fall asleep before Dad starts snoring”

Until I joined the military my dads snoring was sort of an indescribable experience, however being the honorable war veteran that I am, I find myself jolted awake reaching frantically for my 9mm listening for the next incoming round…of course that is on the lucky occasion that I happen to fall asleep first which has happened a grand total of twice…. Back in my younger days I had that sort of careless ask not what you can do for your parents but what your parents can do for you attitude, which left me by no means above any measure needed to get sleep. Since I could not actually throw anything at my father (mostly because the evidence would bounce off his head and still be there to get me in trouble directly), I found the most efficient method was a quick loud noise that would be enough to wake him up, but still leave him snorting and unsure as to exactly how he came about waking up. Meanwhile I would dive under the covers and count sheep triple time trying to fall asleep before the inevitable. Now of course I’m older and he’s got that guilty, old man thing going for him. Unable to lower myself to yelp, clap or whistle, I instead resort to furiously typing a phone text message that would transcend across thousands of miles to bitch and whine to the only person who could really understand my agony… my mother.

“He’s killing me here Ma, how did you not smother him to death?”

I mean seriously I would have divorced him after 3 days. What I’m not sure is if this is sort of like a short little redneck thing, respiratory illness, or if some evil struggle for the soul of mankind is being fought in there. Of course then he is up at the ass crack of dawn leaving me to hiss and glare and the fresh mornings dew. I suppose in the grand scheme of things I probably don’t need as much sleep being here due to the energy per time ratio I’m averaging. I would say its about 9 hours of sitting on my ass watching Gastineau Girls or Growing up Gotti, to about 10 minutes of actual movement other than that of the remote control persuasion, maybe 5 minutes if you cut out bathroom breaks and nose picking. Of course I blame Iraq for all of this. Spending 11 months in the desert with Mr. terrorist bombing bastard playing “Where’s Waldo” throughout the country it makes you unable to come back and take anything whatsoever seriously. I mean all I want to do is sip latte’s, read Cosmo and talk about Brittany Spears (who buys their own ring anyway?). Of course also I am in Hilo Hawaii, which in some not so discreet ways conjures up nostalgic memories of some of the backwoods country folk I encountered in my brief, yet excruciating stay in Missouri. Case and point, the rather robust man I noticed on the back roads leading away from my dads property fixing his truck in a pair of blue jean overalls and most obviously not much else. I suppose when you have that much back hair, clothing pretty much becomes optional. I look forward to what tomorrow brings….

Sunday, March 20, 2005

Hi Ho, Hi Ho, its not to work I go...

I actually really like this whole not go to work and still get paid thing, I'm currently searching the want ads for similar luck yet but there must be someone who wants to pay me for sitting on my ass and eating bon bons I’m sure of it. I realized there is truth to the statement you are a product of your environment. This became abundantly clear when I watched my Buddha bellied little roommate leave his position within arms reach of the television to search for the remote to turn up the volume. No wonder why I can’t get skinny, I have an “other” who eats ice cream for breakfast and a roommate whose greatest exercise is a frantic search for the remote. So I was supposed to go to spring break at South Padre Island this weekend right?(hence the personal trainer, whatnot)… Well one of my supposed best friends ditched the plans we have had for over 2 months to go to Germany to visit her boyfriend and oh by the way forgot to tell me until I found out accidentally like 2 days before we were supposed to go. Sucks to be me right? This year was supposed to be our last year, I mean at some point you become too old to do this sort of stuff right? One such indication of this point is when the personal maintenance to make yourself presentable for this trip exceeds 200$. It becomes like that mastercard commercial:

Personal trainer 150$,
Mystic tan 25$
Cute flippy haircut and college girl highlights 50$
Supposedly less painful sugar waxing 70$
Yawning at 11pm because its 2 hours past your, Sex in the City watchin, gotta go to work Monday, 20 year old, Dirk Diggler frat boy wanna be pimp is hitting on me, middle-aged ass betime….Priceless.

It was a battle of wills between me and my bikini line this weekend. Since I was still clinging to making the whole trip work (Dirk was awaiting), I was in the race against time to find that small waxing window of opportunity that would ensure I still had enough recovery time prior to donning the 2 oz of swimsuit material that laughed at me from my half packed suit case. Naturally a suitable Waxist was nowhere to be found on short notice so I found myself wandering the hair removal wastelands at Wal-Mart. I had previously attempted a home job about 5 years ago, and vowed imbetween very bad words never to resort to such stupidity ever again, yet here I was face to face with a vast array of choices before me. Some boasted less pain, others slower regrowth, while still others boasted an all-natural edible waxing substance. Edible…? At what point in this process does it become a viable option to consume any part of a product you have just ripped off your crotch? Personally, picking a particular product seemed on par with going to an underground fetish chamber and choosing which instrument you want to become intimate with; nothing good could come of it. And of course nothing did….Hours, a big fat waxy mess and a few bald patches later I stood in front of the mirror like john Wayne in a wild west movie standoff (well except for the being naked part) fingering the trigger of an electric hair clipping device. There just isn’t any dignity in being 25. I’m convinced it’s like the worst age ever. You already finished with school so you have to find a real job, waxing your bikini line becomes a significant emotional event instead of just routine maintenance. All your friends are having kids and without any you have nothing to blame for why your ass is now eating your pants. Calgon, take me away….

Wednesday, March 02, 2005

I'm a Carbie Girl in a Carbie World...

Ok so I’ve officially stopped going to work now, I am “Clearing Post” which means I wake up at noon get a latte and watch Days of Our Lives. Not really, but yet not so far off either…today it was Blue’s Clues: quality entertainment. So I discovered when I got home that an anorexic midget leprechaun had stolen all my jeans and left me her Brittany Spears wardrobe. I got one leg halfway up my thigh and it stopped there sort of confused as to what was supposed to happen next. Still not convinced that my ass had really expanded to the size of a small third world country I crammed the other leg in and commenced to shimmy and shake myself the rest of the way in. As I lay on my bed like a beached whale flopping about trying to button them up I decided perhaps I had eaten one too many of…well EVERYTHING. The next day I hit the gym and a month later my ass was still celebrating Fat Tuesday. With a spring break trip planned for South Padre Island and Hawaii the following month I decided to hire a personal trainer to assist me down my yellow brick road to skinny. So I make the appointment and I open the door to find a cute happy little woman who scampered in with a milk crate full of what I would later come to know as the devices o’ torture. 30 seconds into our first workout I knew that I had been bamboozled and hoodwinked. Beneath the bouncy happy exterior lay a masochistic slave driving torturous fiend with a beady eyed glint and a smile that would make the Predator look cuddly. When Sunday’s came around I’d find myself curled in the corner in a little ball trying to go to a happy place to forget about what had just taken place. She was not above public humiliation either in the form of sprints up and down my street. As I lumbered up and down the block the beady little eyes of 15 dirty old men, 20 overweight glaring housewives and 500 neighborhood children watched in fascination. I am THE slowest sprinter on the face of the earth. Tricycles and small rodents were lapping me. After about the third sprint my appendages started to do their own thing independent of any type of directions from my brain. I imagine I looked somewhat the Tasmanian devil with arms and legs flying about in angles and directions that defy the laws of physics and most certainly do not resemble any type of physical training. To add insult to torture this week she decided I was still too fat and cut my carbs to one meal a day prior to lunch. She warned me that this could cause me to become irritable. Irritable? I had hallucinations as I hunched over my baked potato snarling and scaring small children in Wendy’s. I mean holy hell I went to Red Lobster the other night and I started to sweat when the put the cheddar biscuits down in front of me. I watch my “Other” eat potato chips and pizza and feel downright homicidal. I am pretty sure that this food rage is a genetic thing. Once when I was seven I tried to take a tater tot off my moms plate and she speared me with her fork….I get it now Mom, I understand….

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