April 10, 2006

• The Special Man Friend (“SMF”) cooked dinner on Thursday night and we ate it at the table.  By ‘table,’ I mean the one with the chairs near the kitchen, not the one in front of the television in the living room. Weird! Apparently this table has uses other than holding my mail, purse, and keys. While the SMF was slaving away in the kitchen, I was reading blogs.  Guilt got the better me, so I went into the kitchen and asked if there was anything I could do to help.  He removed something called “Thai eggplant” from the fridge and started speaking in tongues, using words like “baste” and “fryer” and “shallots.” Have I mentioned that I can’t cook? I stared at him blankly; surely he understood that my offer to help was an obligatory formality, and not one that should have been taken seriously? He was supposed to respond, “No baby, why don’t you go take a bubble bath while I prepare your meal, and then afterwards, I’ll give you a nice back massage.” I guess he didn’t get the memo. Unless he wanted me to whip up a bowl of cereal, a PB&J sammich, or some toast, I was worthless in the kitchen.  So I did what any other reasonable person would do in this situation:  I pulled out my Treo and started playing Bubble Breaker.

   

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  I won the NCAA Tournament office pool.  I don’t know anything about basketball, and I didn’t watch a single game all year, but I was so far ahead in the pool that they declared me the official winner even before the Final Four games.  I’m a bad ass.

   

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  I’ve started tanning.  I’m going to St. Maarten in a couple of weeks with the SMF and I need a base tan or I will burst into flames as soon as I get off the plane.  The manager at the tanning salon took one look at me and told me she wouldn’t allow me to be in the bed for more than 7 minutes.  My skin tone is Baby Butt White, which I just realized would make a great new Crayola crayon color name.  Along with Pubic Hair Black and Vaginal Discharge Yellow. Don’t steal my ideas, bitches.

   

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  Overheard

   

  Female bartender: I watched My Date with Drew, but I was disappointed that they didn’t show any boobies.  These days, if I’m paying $8.00 to see a movie, I want to see some titties.

   

  Male bartender: You know what? If I said what you just did, you would have hit me.

   

  Female bartender: No, I wouldn’t. I’ll show you my boobies, if you want.

   

  Male bartender: I wouldn’t pay $2.00 to see your boobies.

   

  Female bartender: If I paid you $2.00, would you look at my boobs?

   

  Drunk customer: I’ve got $2.00.

   

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  These Xangans Made Me Snarf My Grande Non-Fat No-Whip Mocha

   

  “The alarm clock went off, and I thought it was a joke. I opened my eyes only to discover it was ‘O’fuck o’clock!’ (Excuse my language. I am trying to stop swearing) After 35 minutes of snooze tag I realized I now had only 15 minutes to get ready. In my haste I believe I shaved off half my goatie, swallowed some Irish Spring, and only brushed the teeth on the right side of my mouth.” – freebirdgonewild

   

  “and i call you L. because L is for Lucifer, as my friend dav correctly pointed out. now, normally i wouldn’t trust dav on discreet names for my paramours, but he recently had a near-death experience (weed + alcohol = transcendence, “i woke up shivering…it was like i was shitted out of the womb of the cosmic consciousness”). and he told me he was reborn as the messiah. so i am the prophet, i preach his word: L is for Lucifer.” – dzhan

   

  “We need a Victor’s Secret, to make really manly underwear.” – ToxicNed

  “This last one is what the Seattle skyline looks like when you’re driving across the I-5 bridge.  Or what it looks like if you left your contacts soaking in borrowed saline in a glass beside the sink because your luggage is checked and you missed your Seattle connection due to tornadoes and you didn’t have your contact kit with you so a lady gave you some saline solution at the same hotel the airlines stuck you in Kentucky and in the middle of the night you got up and either drank the contacts or you poured them down the sink and so the next day you’re walking around Cincinnati, New York, and Seattle and everything looks just like this.” – Daffodilious

  “Damn you, vile woman who dwells in the cubicle next to mine!  A pox upon your house!  I hope your son grows up to be a serial rapist!  Well, as long as he doesn’t rape anyone I know, that is, or anyone who doesn’t deserve it, for that matter.  In fact, I hope he only rapes mass murderers, hobos, and prostitutes, and, really, doesn’t so much rape the prostitutes as procure their services and then skip out on the tab only to be hunted down and beaten toothless by an angry pimp.  And then I hope he gets molested by doctors in the hospital.  And not, like, nice doctors in porn flicks, but large, scary Eastern European ones with sinister purposes and cold hands.  Yeah.  That’s what I hope happens.  That’ll learn ya to keep walking up behind me and coughing in my face eight times a day just to tell me you’re sick, you stupid, ill-mannered bitch!” – Goatsniper

  • 9:30 am
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