Ballin’.

Search terms this week:

naked lady covered milk

dog poop in britney spears mouth at night

elephantiasis of the vagina

….Who are you people?

Did 2% get sexy recently? I mean, who doesn’t like big jugs….but that’s not usually what we’re talking about.

Surprisingly, these elephantiasis searches are common. Elephantiasis of the face, the vag, the ball sac. I’m not sure how they lead people to my blog, but apparently there’s some correlation.

I don’t even really know how to comment on the weird Britney Spears’ search term involving dog shit.

Elephantiasis is one hell of a disease. There’s really no point to living if you are stricken with such an unfortunate deformity. I would end my life. I just would.

.

I’m not even sure where that man’s dick is.

.

.

That’s a real shame. That bum was okay to begin with.

.

.

That’s the worst case of cankles I’ve ever seen.

.

.

Just kidding about that last one. That’s just a morbidly obese man. His deformed body has empanadas to blame, not elephantiasis. He’s got no disease scapegoat to excuse his misshapen, disgusting carcass.

For more on elephantiasis-afflicted scrotums and hilarious ways to exploit the disease for humor, check out the hilarious Becky Delport’s most recent post: http://beckydelport.blogspot.com/2011/10/giant-testicals-strained-groin-muscles.html

I just stuffed so much Chinese food into my tummy. I am bursting at the seams. Today was one of those days that dragged on forever, and in my despair, I was afraid that the day would never come to an end, and even if it did, I had nothing to look forward to. Then I remembered it was Thursday. Fried rice was the light at the end of the tunnel. Now I am immobilized by my full gut. Hopefully I’ve digested enough by bedtime to at least leave the couch.

I’m tired of hanging up clothes. I don’t necessarily mind the act of doing laundry, and I really don’t even mind folding them. But hanging articles of clothing up on hangers? It grinds my gears. I don’t like doing it. I also hate that I am constantly running out of hangers. Where are they all going?

….maybe I just keep buying things.

The world series of baseball is really ruining my television agenda. No one gives a shit about baseball. Even people that give a shit about baseball don’t want to watch it on television. X Factor got F’ed, The Office is F’ed, Community is F’ed, EVERYTHING IS F’ed!!!!!!

Stupid baseball.

….

NO ONE LIKES BASEBAAAAAALL!!!!!!!!!!!

Well…..bye.

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W:  What did you have for dinner? I’m starving.

B:   I hate tomato soup.

        Had.

        I love tomato soup, just to clarify.

The dog days aren’t over.

The temperature outside reads 93 degrees. The heat index because of the inconceivable amount of humidity (96%) is 109. ONE HUNDRED AND NINE DEGREES!

It is September 4th.

I was very close to actually dying today from the heat. I have never experienced such oppressive humidity before in my life. It was so bad. I could see it. It looked like fog settling in over the entire city for miles and miles. I was sweating hand grenades. I held my Droid up to my ear for a few minutes while I spoke on the phone, and my arm was literally dripping with sweat. I am now in my living room sitting on my couch with an ice pack on my lap, and my computer on top of the ice pack, because it is too FACKING hot even to have my computer on my skin.

Good one, Mother Nature. You got us. Now stop being a jackass and drop the temperature by about fifty degrees. I could not possibly be more antsy for fall weather. All I want to do is be comfortable and snuggly in hoodies and jeans and not sweat my ass completely off of my body while riding in my un-air-conditioned vehicle.

A girl recently requested my friendship on Facebook. I clicked on her name to browse her profile before deciding to accept or not. This was her current profile picture:

This was the one after that:

Can you guess what the rest were like? I’ll give you a hint: they made up the Jurassic Park cast.

Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

My phone keeps auto correcting to stupid things. For example, it sends “Baghdad” instead of “hahaha” on a regular basis. Someone says something funny, and I reply, “Baghdad.”  It doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone ever talk about the Middle East more often than they would laugh? I guess unless you’re a POW. Then again, most POWs probably don’t have cell phone privileges, so we’re back to Point A.

Recently I ended one of my posts with a quote from a television show that I found humorous, which was “And that is why you don’t get your money’s worth when you wear jeans to a strip club.”  Shortly after, I discovered on my blog info that tells me what search terms lead people to my blog that somebody out there in the world Googled “Why don’t you get your money’s worth when you wear jeans to a strip club?”   Baghdad. Someone didn’t get it and wanted to find out.

WELL, time for me to sweat to death. Bye bye.

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C:   “I’m drunk and watching Titanic in my bed.”

B:   “I am also watching Titanic. I am getting emotional. Such a sad love story. Leonardo just gets me.”

C:   “My emotions are knocking at the door, too. But when she blows that whistle, BOY is that uplifting. She really wants to go on, you know? Her heart wants to go on.”

Fryday, Fryday, gonna get down on Fryday.

One of my friends took a picture of this poster ad on their cell phone in Philadelphia. A picture is worth a thousand words.

Yes, Jermaine. It is you “they” are looking for. “They” being the state police, of course. Creep.

Kidding. It’s Lionel Richie. Still.

As you may or may not know, I am a roof salesman. Therefore, I deal with several crews of roofers on the daily who build the jobs I sell. One of our newest crews is a bunch of guys from Kyrgyzstan which is in Central Asia. One of the main religions in Kyrgyzstan is Islam, so most of these guys are Muslim.

This particular crew of men has been working on the roof of the house that I currently rent and live in for the last couple of days, and I have noticed that when I take my dog outside and he goes near them, most of them avoid coming near him and act like he’s carrying the plague. They won’t pet him or play with him or give him any attention of any kind. I Googled “Muslims and dogs” out of curiosity. This is what I found.

Muhammad made strange and harsh statements about dogs and these edicts affect dogs in a tragic way. Muslims render dogs as unclean, “impure” and worse. Per Muhammad’s orders most dogs were to be killed and all dogs of a specific color (black) had to be killed. Then Allah’s apostle forbade their killing. He said: “It is your duty to kill the jet-black (dog) having two spots (on the eyes) for it is a devil.”

This is my dog:

.Raleigh = Satan.

You learn something new every day.

I watched Clash of the Titans last night. Imagine waking up with one of those gourd creatures in your bed after a night at the bars.

Vom.

I watched one single episode of Freaky Eaters on TLC, and I think that was enough. The particular episode I viewed was of Eric Willmann, “The Fry Guy.” Eric eats virtually nothing but french fries. He remains a normal weight. This is my dream come true. Sure, he’s got heart disease and cholesterol higher than teenagers at a Bob Marley concert, but if I could count how many times I’ve said, “I wish it were feasible for me to eat nothing but McDonald’s french fries for the rest of my life without morphing into Kirstie Alley,” I’d be driving a Rolls Royce.

Anyway, the point is, the show is unbelievably dramatic, the hosts are terrible, and Eric doesn’t understand the definition of “active.” He said, and I quote, “I’m very active. I skateboard at LEAST once a week, if not twice.”

…

Okay, Eric. I’m VERY charitable. I’ve added a $1 donation to my PetSmart purchase at LEAST once, if not twice. Let’s not get carried away.

For those of who have been on edge, biting your nails, wondering how my hair fiasco is progressing, let me just say this: I just took a shower and shampooed the shit out of my hair not once, but twice, using at least a metric ton of Garnier Fructis, and even after the second rinse of shampoo AND rinsing out the conditioner that followed, the tub was filled with bright pink sudsy bubbles. It looked like someone sprayed the Pink Panther with a hose.

.

So, that’s what’s going on with my noggin. Thanks for stopping by.

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“I want you to trim the fat.”

“What?”

“I want you to fire all the fat people.”

Larger than life.

Why do the fattest people drive the tiniest cars?

On too many occasions I have watched Free Willy waddle from the exit at Burger King to their tiny Chevy Cavalier, come crashing down into the driver’s seat, noticeably shifting the car into a deep driver’s side lunge of sorts. It’s like watching someone sit on a see-saw with no partner. The car is practically driving on two wheels. It is going to tip over. Is this safe? It’s like, you don’t put a bottle-nosed dolphin in a jacuzzi. You put it in an enormous whale tank at Sea World. You don’t put a German shepherd in a hamster cage. You don’t put Bruce Vilanch in a Hyundai Accent. I guess I thought this was just common sense.

UUUGGGHHHHH, I am dreading my 6 finals this semester.

JuSt KiDDiNg, I’m a college drop out. I always know when it’s finals time, because viewings of my blog spike dramatically. People would much rather read about my life and the things that I despise than bury their faces in their political science study guides. It’s not rocket science.

I’m not sure how the Asians do it, but they do not age like other human beings of different nationalities. Asians remain youthful looking for years and years, not showing a single telltale aging sign such as a wrinkle or grey hair as they creep upward in age. Then all of a sudden when they hit like 80 years old, it comes all at once. They lose 2 inches off their overall height, their hair turns white, and their eyelids sag down to their upper lip. They go from spry to nursing home in the blink of an eye.

Typical aging progression pattern of an Asian:

Age 20:

Age 35:

Age 50:

Age 65:

Age 80:

Age 81:

It’s weird.

This is all too familiar:

http://www.explosm.net/comics/2396/

I hate sitting down on the toilet to do my business and then realizing I’ve forgotten to grab my cell phone to entertain me for the long haul. At that point I’m already too committed to the deuce that I can’t just get up and waddle to the kitchen to grab my Blackberry off the counter. It’s too late. I’m stuck. I must lay in the bed I made for myself, as it were. Time seems to run on and on. I find myself grabbing at anything within arm’s reach that has words on it. Next thing I know, I’m reading the active ingredients in Degree Body Response deodorant like it’s the New York Times.

WELL, I’m off to probably do exactly what I just described. Goodbye.

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C:  Oh no. There is a ‘glitch’ in the restrooms at the wedding reception.

B:  Jesus take the wheel.

Hallomean.

McDonald’s vagina menu.

Train mows down women.

Chainis food.

Vegaina waxing photo.

vaginal where baby came from.

Again with the search terms. Who are these people? Hide. Hide your children. Hide your wives. Hide your husbands. Perhaps the only thing more worrisome than the search terms themselves is the horrific spelling that accompanies it. WHAT is the DEAL? Vegaina? Really? Chainis? Let’s get real.

Probably my favorite recent search term however, was “Stink bugs cause suicide.”

Did this really happen? For any of you who do not live in eastern Pennsylvania, you probably can’t begin to understand how bad of an invasion is happening from stink bugs. They are EVERYWHERE! Imagine leaving a candied apple outside on the sidewalk in the middle of the summer for an entire day, and returning to find it covered in swarming ants. The candied apple is Pennsylvania, and the ants are stink bugs. More specifically, the candied apple is screens, walls, windows, roofs, blinds—you name it. They’re everywhere. They’re like Asians in San Francisco. They’re like Gothic kids in the mall cafeteria. They’re like pre-teens at a Justin Beiber concert. They have taken over.

So, might it be possible that the taking of the world by stink bugs has caused somebody to end their life? I don’t think that’s too far-fetched.

Last night was Thursday. It was breezy and lovely outdoors, so around 7 pm I opened the upper balcony porch door to let the breeze blow through the stuffy apartment. A few minutes later, I heard shuffling through the leaves below, approaching the door. Must be Trent, I thought. Then the doorbell rang. I figured his hands were full, and he needed me to open the door, so I shouted, “COMIIIIIING!!!!” as I scampered down the stairs. Just for cautionary purposes, I peeked through the peep hole to make sure it wasn’t a serial killer. There stood a little boy dressed from head to toe in army fatigue, face painted camouflage and all.

Shit.

For a moment, I paused, and considered pretending no one was home. Then I realized I had yelled “COMIIIIING!” as I stomped down the stairs to the door.

…Shit again.

I slowly opened the door. Before I could prevent heartbreak, the child chimed, “TRICK OR TREEEAT!” with both hands outstretched, holding his candy bag.

I stood there for a second blankly. His parents were standing about ten feet behind him on the sidewalk. I had to tell him the truth.

“This is really embarrassing…but….I actually don’t have any candy. I’m sorry.”

He stood, disheartened, with both arms outstretched still. All I had in my pockets were Milkbones.

“You see….I didn’t know people would actually trick-or-treat at apartment buildings. Plus, isn’t it Thursday? I’m confused.”

The child stood silently. His parents paused for a minute. For a second, I started racking my brain, trying to think of something in my apartment that I could offer him that might pass as a Halloween treat. All I knew we had was a half a bag of brown rice, many cans of chicken noodle soup, bananas, and granola bars. Kids don’t like any of those things, except maybe the chicken noodle soup, but no one wants to lug that around in a sack full of Dots and Tootsie rolls for eight blocks. It got really, excruciatingly awkward. Then the parents called him to continue on to the next “house” (apartment door).

Then it happened again with my next door neighbor’s 3-year old son. You know, the couple that keeps inviting me to play Rock Band and drink smoothies with them.

Oops.

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“Why go to the store for milk when you already own a goat?”

-Trent trying to say “Why buy the cow when you can milk it for free.”

Jam Session.

The internet can be a dark and dangerous place. This is no secret. There are freaks and pervs surfing the web 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I know this, because their freaky, socially unacceptable, and wildly inappropriate search terms that lead them to my website show up in an organized list-format for me to look at every day. This week’s winners for creep-ass of the year? Let’s take a look:

vagina decorate

hot bare vagina

jewelry of your vagina

raves stabbing with needles

elementary vagina

cheez whiz cancer

retard asian

Quite the melting pot of search terms, wouldn’t you say? Who are these people? I can only imagine what it is they’re attempting to research during their lunch breaks at their menial office jobs, or at 1:45 a.m. alone in their basements. What in the sam hill does “elementary vagina” mean? Ew. Why don’t one of you readers go ahead and Google it and see what pops up, then get back to me with the 4-1-1. I’d do it myself, except that I don’t want to have that term on my web history. It makes me feel like I might end up in jail.

I am really into apricot jelly right now. For the longest time I insisted that only strawberry jelly was acceptable on a PB&J. Later I grew to accept grape. Recently, however, Trent has broadened my horizons when it comes to the dynamic duos of peanut butter and various jellies. I can’t get enough of apricot jam. It is so sweet and delectable. It’s warm, amber glow just invites my incisors to mow down my sandwich every day with great enthusiasm. You must try it. It’s soooooo gooooooood. I just want to curl up inside my sandwich, in between the soft, inviting slices of wholesome wheat bread, and snuggle down in the ooey gooey goodness of the apricot preserves.

I feel weird for saying that.

…I’m not taking it back.

My birthday weekend was a great success. Trent and I rode the Amtrak from Harrisburg to Philadelphia, checked into the Penn’s View Hotel, and ran around to do some vintage/thrift store shopping. More on that later, and the great successes of our newly acquired booty. We ate at L’Angolo, an Italian restaurant there which was absolutely delicious, and then the next day spent some time with the Doyles and consumed a delicious Philly cheesesteak. Yum.

I ate a LOT of garbage this weekend. A lot. Between the copious amounts of local restaurant food in Philly and the gigantic sweets-loaded package my mother sent me, my teeth are scheduled to fall out between 5 and 7 pm Central Daylight time tomorrow, and my stomach lining has deteriorated into wet tissue paper. Twix bars, brownies, 7-layer cookies, Warheads, chocolate covered cookie dough bites, Bazooka bubble gum, veal stuffed ravioli, Juicy Fruit, chocolate torte, spaghetti and meatballs, a Philly cheesesteak, pork sausage pizza and breadsticks—goodbye, figure. Hello plus size. I need to eat nothing but lettuce and lemon water this week to compensate for my erratic consumption behavior. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Ta ta.

————

“What if we named our dog ‘Blackass?'”

Cheez whiz.

I was in Hy-Vee gathering necessities for a successful College World Series tailgate (wine, frozen fruit, straws, cups) recently. In an effort to save myself from wandering aimlessly throughout the many aisles searching for the items I needed, I looked up above the shelves and read the overhead titles. That’s when I saw this sign for aisle 12:

CUPS

BAGS

PAPER PLATES

VELVEETA

One of these things is not like the others.

Velveeta. What the hell is it? It’s unnerving. I remember the first time I discovered that Velveeta needn’t be refrigerated. I was walking through the grocery store one day near the bakery, when I turned the corner to see a giant pyramid made entirely out of blocks of Velveeta.

“….why isn’t this being refrigerated?” I asked my mother.

“Velveeta doesn’t need to be refrigerated,” she replied nonchalantly.

“But it’s—–” that’s when I realized. It’s not cheese. If it isn’t cheese, then what the hell is it? Basically Elmer’s school glue, silicon, and orange food coloring molded into block-formation. You can probably get cancer just from being near it. I understand why it was placed in the category it was placed in at the store. It doesn’t belong with the cheddar, mozzarella, colby jack and parmesan, but with the plastic, rubber, and paper. Cups, bags, paper plates, Velveeta. It all makes sense.

….but damn it tastes good in cheese dip.

Yesterday I was perusing Facebook in my spare time (what little of it I have these days), and I came across a random girl’s profile and scanned her information:

Interests: I like donating blood.

…

That’s it. And by that’s “it,” I mean that’s “really weird.” Soccer? Movies? Reading? Jazzercising? Letting glue dry on your fingertips and peeling it off? All very normal and socially acceptable activities. Enjoying donating blood? Insane. Nobody enjoys giving blood. It’s time consuming, the needle hurts, and you get dizzy and sometimes pass out from it. It’s an undisputedly and widely agreed upon unpleasant activity. Even if you truly DO enjoy donating blood, keep it to yourself. Avoid ridicule. Appear to not wish you were a vampire instead of a human being. At least pretend.

People.

WELL, time to roll on out. Until next time, hasta luego, amigos.

——-

“What’s a dirty monkey?”

“….eet is some-sing good.”

Defensive Driving.

I’m becoming terrified of being on the road as of late. I have a growing, erratic fear of other cars careening into my lane after missing me in their blind spot, or cars not waiting at stop signs and pulling out in front of my vehicle, causing me to smash into them full-force. I’m turning into my mother. Trent will be driving along, and every four minutes, I’m gasping like I just saw someone run over a pedestrian, wild-eyed, and heart rate climbing, grabbing at the steering wheel from the passenger seat in an attempt to “save our lives” because I think the Jeep Grand Cherokee in the lane next to us is going to veer over and hurl our car off the bridge and into the river. I’m so scared. I’m clinically paranoid. I need to start drinking before driving.

Why does Facebook chat try to make me look stupid? And why does Facebook underline

Naked.

I’ve noticed a hideous trend developing in the world of cosmetics recently. What is this fad, you ask? Pale, nude-colored lipstick.

Ugh.

Cropping up every now and again on my newsfeed are photos of girls with invisible lips; lips painted flesh-colored, blending almost perfectly with their faces. Pale lipstick is disgusting. Why would

A+

I have a compulsive, instinctive urge to correct myself and others when typos are made, even when it is absolutely not important and obviously a typographical mistake, or a slip of the index finger. I’m talking like, during Facebook chatting. Do I accidentally type, “I don’tk now,” and ignore it, assuming that the recipient of the message clearly understood what I meant? No way, Jose. I quickly and hastily type “I don’t know*,” to correct myself before the other person can (as if they would). Sigh. Lord, release me from this prison of perfection.

So today was my first full day in the state of Connecticut. People seem really angry here for some reason. The drivers are