Technicolor.

Human beings are hoarders of life. We keep animals as pets, dozens of plants, some of us have an ungodly amount of children (“one or more”). I think it’s bizarre. It’s weird that humans keep animals around. Haha. Don’t you think?

I’ll stop smoking now.

I just saw a movie trailer for Final Destination 5.  Enough already. How many “final” destinations can there be? The real answer is only one. After that it’s a continuing journey. I think the makers of these movies meant to title them something else, but “Neverending Story” was already taken.

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I want Burger King to start selling eyeshadow. Then I could mix and match and have it “my way.” I think the Maybellines and Revlons out there purposely pair perfectly normal coppery and golden tones with prostitute pinks and mermaid hooker turquoise color blocks so that we’re forced to buy two or three shadow palettes to get the desired color combinations we want. “Instead of pairing copper, gold, and bronze, let’s pair copper, gold, and Finding Nemo orange so that they have to spend another $8 on another compact with bronze with lime green in it, lolol!”   they scheme.  Assholes.

They win though. They always do.

The phrase “It’s all downhill from here” is confusing to me. At first, it sounds negative, like it only gets worse from here. But really, it means things are “looking up” and getting better. Going downhill is much easier than going uphill. They really took us for a spin with these ups and downs connotations though, didn’t they?

Connotations is a hard word to spell.

I used the phrase “to the max” the other day out loud. I was embarrassed. Not as embarrassed as this guy is going to be when he finds a three-way mirror:

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I just discovered Sheetz french fries. This is a problem, because they are delicious and are sold in buckets. It is also a problem because Sheetz is in walking distance from my house.

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Okay. I’m going. I’ll be going now. I’m taking off. I’m going to take off.

(my clothes)

Come on guys, that’s perverted.

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“I sharted driving home from a friend’s tonight. Life gets easier, right?”

All that glitters is old.

Is glitter really that inspiring of a material that pop singers worldwide feel irresistibly compelled to write songs about it? Are these girls pulling out their credit cards to snort lines of glitter off toilet seats in the bar bathrooms?

I feel like every song Ke$ha has ever released is about glitter. “Glitter and Glamour,”  “Glitter Puke.”  Her lyrics, if you can call them that, say,  “Where they go hardcore, and there’s glitter on the floor,” “Dirt and glitter cover the floor,” “Go insane, go insane, throw some glitter, make it rain.”  Pink is talking about “Glitter in the Air.”

Katy Perry is on board the glitter-train, “Get up and shake the glitter off your clothes now,” Lady Gaga joined the club with “Glitter and Grease”—where does it end?

What happened to singing about love, lust, and loss?

…and rims, bitches, clubs, and cars?

………what happened to singing?

Cee Lo Green is apparently okay with the new glitter movement.

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Looks like Christina Aguilera dipped herself in caramel ice cream topping and then rolled in the dirt before this week’s episode of The Voice. My, god. That self-tanning move was a fail. She just can’t quite nail those looks this year it seems. But damnit, can she ever sing.

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How much Vicodin is safe/recommended to take at any given time? Christina is exceeding that amount. Just sloppy. Somebody needs to get that woman’s libido under control. Her inappropriate commentary about the contestants is getting out of hand. I think everyone was uncomfortable when she requested Patrick Thomas to remove his pants. Let’s try to stay on topic, Christina. Besides, the only person needing to remove their pants on NBC is Adam Levine.

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I am just not on board with Nakia. His voice is okay, but mostly I feel like he is shouting 90% of the time. The man is not attractive. He looks like Sweetums from The Muppets.

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Vicci Martinez has this tribal stomping move she does around the stage during every performance. The judges have referred to it as her “war dance,” but I have dubbed it the “squounce.” A squatting-bounce all over the place. It is too distracting for me to even notice her voice.

I love Casey Weston. She is just a doll with great pipes. If Adam Levine does not bed her, they are both passing up a golden opportunity.

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Try as they might, physicians and health gurus worldwide cannot inspire fear of skin cancer in me. Ten times out of ten, I will choose bronziness over epidermal health. I am about as afraid of melanoma as I am afraid of the boogie man. Sorry, SPFers. Sunblock higher than SPF 12 will never touch my flesh. 12 is even stretching it. Normally you won’t find me in anything heavier than 4 or 8. I think the best defense against skin cancer is a good attitude, and I’ve got one. I have a theory that anything above an SPF 30 is a hoax. If I wear anything above an SPF 8, I get zero pigmentation whatsoever. Put me in an SPF 50, and I’d probably disappear. It’s going to be hard to convince me that there’s much of a difference between SPF 30 and SPF 100. It’s like, one glass of orange juice gives me 100% of the Vitamin C I need in one day, so drinking five glasses isn’t going to do me any more good than the single glass already did.

Marketing. It’s all marketing.

WELL, I gotta go. The sun had better show its face so that I may even out my polo tan lines today.

Your comrade,

Rebecca

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“At least they styled him up a little bit. I mean they did the best they could with his ugly ass.”

“Yeah, he looks like Dom DeLouise.”

Penetration in the least sexy way possible.

I’m talking about mosquitoes here, ladies and gentlemen. They piss me off. Bad. Why must they exist? The only thing worse than the sticky, stifling humidity during these hot summer evenings are the swarms of blood-sucking mosquitoes. They’re like miniature airborne vampires. Just hearing the high-pitched whine of an approaching mosquito drives me mad. I begin to flail about, screeching like a lunatic, waving my arms around in a sort of hallucinogenic tribal dance until the offender has flown away. I wish they didn’t exist. If any bat families nearby would like to move into my neighborhood and swarm in between 7 and 10 pm to “take care of business,” consider yourself welcome.

Today is the day that I am finally eligible for a new cell phone upgrade. Am I old-fashioned for using the term “cell phone” instead of “smart phone?”  I feel like I’m saying “automobile” instead of “car.” Anyway, my pre-historic Blackberry functions slower than a 90 year old in a nursing home. It’s outdated. I’m rolling around in a horse and buggy while everyone else is cruising in a Rolls Royce. It sputters, freezes, time-outs, makes noise when it’s not necessary, doesn’t make noise when it is necessary, and is overall a worthless piece of shit. Don’t even get me started on the inefficiency and slowness of the internet connection on it. I may as well be using dial-up. A carrier pigeon could deliver a handwritten message more quickly than I can send an email on that thing. It needs to be replaced.

The million dollar question remains:

Do I get an iPhone4, or a Droid X?

This is your invitation/request/plea for input. I need reasons. Don’t just say, “iPhone!!”  I need hard facts and comparisons. Go.

The choice is intimidating me. Choosing a phone nowadays is more complicated than choosing a toothbrush (have you BEEN down the toothbrush aisle lately? There are more varieties, styles, and options than there are species of birds in the Amazon). The pending decision is going to give me an ulcer. All I really use my phone for is taking pictures and video, a lot of text messaging, word games, email, internet, and….that’s the meat of it.

In other news, today is Trent and I’s one year wedding anniversary. We made it 365 days without stabbing one another. We spent the weekend in Farmington, Pennsylvania between the Summit Inn and Nemacolin Woodlands Resort. If you ever get the chance (or win the lottery), you must all visit Nemacolin Woodlands. It is one of the ritziest, nicest, most elaborate resorts I have been to yet. We enjoyed a relaxing couples’ massage, laid out by the pool (I finally got some pigment in my skin—well, at least the front half of me), had some drinks. We ate at a restaurant called Aqueous, and it would not be outlandish to claim that I had the greatest, most intoxicating food there that I have ever eaten. Scallops, wild mushroom risotto, heirloom tomato and house garden salad—I died. So delicious. They served me a piece of chocolate cake the size of a Smart Car with a piece of chocolate on top that had “Happy Anniversary” printed on it. Unreal. Amazing food, attentive service, delightful time.

Later tonight we will be busting out the cake topper from our wedding cake in celebration. That top layer of cake was frozen at my parents’ house in Iowa for 11 months, and then rode in the back of my brother’s Jeep in a cardboard box for two days halfway across the country to Pennsylvania where it was re-frozen in my own freezer until today. We’ll see how it looks. Probably not great. But that’s not what matters. It’s going to taste like a slice of heaven.

It blows my mind how birds build nests. Can you imagine having to build your house with your mouth? Unbelievable. The mud—how do they carry and paste that mud with those beaks of theirs? Impossible.

Girls, don’t wear high heels if you can’t walk in them without looking like a newborn baby giraffe with corns on its feet. Staggering around without bending your knees is not equivalent to a confident, sexy, stiletto strut. You look stupid. And drunk.

er.

Speaking of giraffes, what an unusual and exquisite animal. I mean, just look at them. They’re huge. They’re like dinosaurs. The modern-day brachiosaurus. And boy do I love their pattern.

WELL, I’m off to plunge into that wedding cake. I’ll let you know how it goes down.

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B:  It’s one billion degrees. That pool and I have a hot date. I hope there are no pubes, diapers, or bandaids floating about.

J:  Last night was swinger’s sex night in the pool but the filter has been running so it should be fine by now.

Stupid at an entirely new level.

on the kia commercial are those real hamsters

Oh. My. God. The above was yet another search term that some low-intelligence nimrod out there in the world wide web typed in their Google search bar that landed them at my blog. Are you serious? Are those real hamsters? Yes, Cesar Milan joined the marketing directors over there at the Kia dealership, slapped Raybans and basketball jerseys on a few human-sized hamsters, trained them to break dance, and taught them to drive a stick-shift.

Go kill yourself. Waste no more time.

Or air.

I’m tired of 5 Gum commercials trying to pretend that chewing their gum is like experiencing an acid trip. I am extremely doubtful that putting a piece of mint flavored chewing gum is going to make me see dragons appear in the night sky that spontaneously combust into IMAX screen sized butterflies. The last time I found myself laying naked on my back feeling like I was being covered in magnetic metal balls, it was Lalapalooza, and I was doing shrooms in the forest. The next closest non-illicit-drug related experience you can have to that is food poisoning at El Rancho Grande. Even then, you’re stretching it. 5 Gum is not equal to LSD.

The other night I watched the UFC fight between Rampage Jackson and Matt Hamill. This was really the first time I had ever really paid attention to one of these fights. I just don’t understand that people do this for sport. I mean, these guys just go out there and start beating the shit out of each other. It just seems so impolite. It’s like, what if you have nothing to be pissed at the other person for? You can’t just go into the ring and feel right about breaking the other person’s jaw and bruising their kidneys for sport, can you? I don’t get it.

I don’t understand how people eat super spicy foods and enjoy it. I have a hard time believing that people that do this genuinely “like” it. There’s almost nothing you can do to change my mind. People who eat habanero peppers and XXX devil’s hot wings are sadists. Sadists who crave attention. How can you even taste what you’re eating when your tongue is going up in flames? I am not interested in eating foods that make me feel like I took a blow torch to my esophagus, make me sweat like I’m running the mile inside a Hefty bag, and bring tears gushing forth through my eyes. I don’t like to have a fire extinguisher and 14 gallons of whole milk nearby when I sit down to enjoy a nice meal. That’s not eating. That’s suicide. Dragons were meant to breathe fire. Not human beings.

Well, I need to go digest the 11 pounds of macaroni and cheese I just consumed. Thanks for stopping by,

Rebecky.

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“Poop dolla!”

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.

Let’s talk about sex.

More specifically, let’s talk about Christina Aguilera’s boobs.

Let’s just say there’s nothing “D flat” about her as a singer.

They are HUGE. I have been tuning in to NBC’s new television show “The Voice” for the past couple of weeks, where singers compete to be a part of a famous artist’s coaching team amongst judges Cee Lo Green, Adam Levine (yum), Christina Aguilera, and Blake Shelton who I don’t care about because I am as interested in country music as I am in the Dow Jones. If you’ve seen the show, you’ve probably noticed that Christina is a little more….well…Miss Piggy-ish. The girl has packed on some pounds. She’s thick. Her jugs, however, are where a large amount of this new weight has gone.

Her bra? Her bra is absolutely bursting with boobs. It’s like a watermelon stand at the farmer’s market. I can’t look away. Her ta-ta’s are the size of medicine balls. They’re like giant jack-o-lanterns. They’re spilling forth like Niagra Falls, if Niagra Falls were made of knockers instead of billions of gallons of water. Babies everywhere are drooling uncontrollably at the site of these udders. Those are homogenized, pasteurized, Vitamin double-D jugs. I get so locked into her cleavage that I forget what I’m watching and find my mouth agape. Aren’t celebrities all

Marijuwhynot?

Number of deaths per year in the United States related to:

Smoking cigarettes:  444,000

Obesity:  400,000

Alcohol:  75,000

Automobile accidents:  40,000

Prescription drugs:  26,000

Tanning:  5,700

Lawn mower accidents:  406

Bee stings: 40

Marijuana:  0

Interesting.

Eating our weight seven days a week at China Buffet, smoking a pack of Marlboros daily, and slamming 11 Irish Car Bombs and then driving home are the leading causes of death annually. Smoking pot is about as harmful as reading the newspaper.

For a country and government that advocates abortion based on the slogan, “It’s your body, it’s your right,” it seems more than a little contradictory to disallow the use of a “drug” that not only doesn’t kill, but even harm a single human being every year under the same slogan.

Using tanning beds will

Pop Tards.

Listen, Kellogg. Don’t put two Pop Tarts in each package and then tell me that a serving is one pastry. That’s just not fair. You know I’m going to eat both. What am I going to do, tape up the little foil package and save the other one for later? I’m not. I’m not going to do that. Just say that it’s 420 calories instead of 210 and stop pretending that one Pop Tart is even feasible.

Also, unfrosted Pop Tarts are a joke. Why were they ever created? It’s widely known that children and adults alike tediously break off the tiny unfrosted edges of each pastry before consuming them. Unfrosted Pop Tarts are like un-milked bowls of cereal. It’s like mashed potatoes without gravy. It’s like chips with no dip. It’s like spaghetti without sauce.

You get the idea.

I don’t understand it when people have six variations of the exact same profile picture, but each one cropped just a little bit differently. Usually these are all in a consecutive row, right next to each other, to make matters even more annoying. Pick a crop you like, and stick with it. Don’t do this to me. I don’t have time.

My brother and I play this game called “The Onesie Game” while we’re out snowboarding on the mountain. Onesies are running rampant during gaper season in the spring. Olds bust out their neon and florescent uni’s and ski their little hearts out. The game consists of spotting people wearing one-piece snowsuits (“onesies”) and then calling them out. Example: “ONESIE!” Like so. You get 1 point for calling it, 5 points for touching it, and 10 points if you give the person wearing said onesie a hug.

I got 63 points today. I uh…I won.

You don’t want to call out a onesie though and then discover that it’s not a onesie. That’s a negative point. You have to look for the giveaway belt around the middle of the suit.

Hugging small, defenseless children is onesies is really the key to racking up the 10 pointers. They can’t do anything about it. If you’re a male participating in Mustache March, however, I would caution against going after the young ones in front of their parents or other family members, unless you want an Amber Alert called out immediately. Just a tip from the pro, that’s all.

Well, time to get weird. Peace.

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B: Butterfaces are the absolute worst. They’re such a disappointment.

R: There’s nothing worse. Sooo close, but no cigar.

B: Grenades.

R: Speaking of grenades, did you watch the roast of Donald Trump on comedy central? “The Situation” from Jersey Shore had a bit in it, and he was so horrible. He got booed. …Bood? People went “boo” at him.

Cool Beans.

I hate that phrase. What a stupid phrase.

What ever happened to Mr. Bean? What is he doing with his life? Cocaine? Is he fat? Is he gay? Married? Is he a scientologist? Did he make a rap album? Is he pregnant? Has he gone off the deep end with Sheen? I have so many questions.

There was his run with the television show, Mr. Bean, then he starred in one of my favorite movies of all time, Rat Race, apparently he was the voice of Zazu in The Lion King (who knew?).

Then there’s a laundry list of other random films like Johnny English, various James Bond parodies, Scooby Doo, and Love Actually. Why is he famous for being verbally challenged?

Holy shit. I just found out he was born in 1955. He’s probably dead. As you can see, I am Googling/Wikipedia-ing this information as I go along. I’m kind of disappointed to find out that his name isn’t actually “Mr. Bean.”  I would have found it perfectly reasonable to discover that his first name was really Mister and his last name really was Bean. I refuse to refer to him as “Rowan Atkinson.” He has to understand that he will only and can only be addressed as “Mr. Bean” for the rest of his life, assuming he isn’t rotting in the earth yet (I’ll find out).

I just realized that Bean being born in 1955 makes him just 56 years old. Haha. Never mind. When you’re born in 1988 like I am, anything before 1980 seems really, really ancient.

I’m stupid.

Do not post your relationship status as “complicated.”  Here’s what it means:  “I cry a lot.” No one wants to know you spend your nights weeping and listening to country songs about heartbreak and stalking your not-ex-but-not-current-boyfriend’s female friends online, waiting for booty call text messages at 2:13 a.m. on quarter-bowling night, and littering our news feed with lyrics about being lovesick. Basically all “complicated” eludes to is that you were once in a relationship, but now you just hook up when you’re 11 Irish Car Bombs deep and neither of you can do any better, but you haven’t cut the umbilical cord yet and realized the other person is a sleazy shitbag that doesn’t care about you or your feelings.

Just hide your relationship status. Please.

Alright. Bean is alive. He’s married to a half-Indian woman. Two kids, lives in London, worth 100 million pounds. He actually has a stutter in real life. That’s all I care to know. I was hoping for something a little more scandalous. You can’t always get what you want.

But sometimes, you get what you need.

Why is Velveeta so delicious? It’s so gross. It’s like a block of silicone with a hint of orange food coloring to it. It’s like a big melting rectangle of hot glue. It’s like a bunch of fake breast implants globbed together and then melted down to dip tortilla chips into. I can feel it sluggishly oozing through my veins like Elmer’s school glue. The marriage of Ro-Tel, Velveeta, and chorizo is one of the greater concoctions on the planet though. Can’t stop, won’t stop. Don’t care how radioactive it is.

Love, peace, and chorizo grease.

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“You can tell it’s an aspen tree because of the way it is.”

Dog pile.

There is so much dog shit in our front yard. Like, dump truck loads. We just kept leaving it all winter long because it kept snowing and getting covered up, so it was easy to just pretend it didn’t exist. Now spring has sprung, and the mild 55 degree weather is uncovering the rotting, stinking land-mines that are literally covering every square foot of the lawn. Something needs to be done. I feel that a controlled fire is the best solution.

Recently I watched a documentary on Netflix called “Dogs Decoded,” all about the dog-human connection and the domestication of dogs. There is little dispute that dogs seem to have evolved from wolves. Researchers began there to see how dogs became as compatible with humans as they are today. Beginning with a litter of wolf cubs, some people skilled with raising dogs house trained and raised the wolf cubs from birth, bottle feeding them, letting them sleep in their beds, treating them exactly like they would an indoor dog. Despite their best efforts, these young wolves never ended up acting like dogs, but instead remained wild and wolf-like in their behavior.

 

Next, they tried with foxes. At a farm where they had hundreds of caged black-colored Russian foxes, the researchers selected the tamest, mildest ones for breeding. They only allowed the best tempered foxes to mate. It turns out that these foxes produced tame babies as well. They continued the experiment, breeding tame foxes with only other tame foxes, and what they found was that tame foxes started producing different physical traits, even drastic ones such as completely white coats, grey coats, spotted coats, floppier ears, curly tails, and more. This discovery made the evolution and domestication of dogs a bit easier to understand.

 

As exciting as this discovery is, I still do not get how we started with wolves and foxes, and ended up with pugs, Great Danes, and Chinese Crested’s. Not to mention these f@#%ing things:

The canine breed “Puli.”  This thing did not come from a wolf. It came from a janitor’s closet. This is a mop with a face. I don’t care what kind of lasers, clay, drugs, or staples you’re using, you cannot turn a wolf into a Puli. Or a pug. Just stop joking around. Pugs came from amoebas and pigs. Great Danes? Horses. Chinese cresteds: Steve Buscemi.

You see, there are far better explanations for these breeds of canines than wolf descent. Show me some proof, Nye. Show me some proof.

 

….Okay, one more.

It makes me really uncomfortable when people consistently type in all capital letters. I have noticed that adults new to computers do this a lot. I have an aunt that does it. In addition she also disregards all necessary punctuation, which really intensifies the effect. She’ll leave me comments and messages that say things like, “REBECCA YOU HAVE GROWN UP SO MUCH I REMEMBER WHEN YOU WERE JUST A LITTLE GIRL RUNNING AROUND IN YOUR RAINBOOTS  WE LOVE AND MISS YOU XOXO.”

It’s exhausting.

Well, time to go to sleep. Tomorrow Trent and I leave for California to ride Heavenly for a few days. Whoop!  Adios.

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“I HAVE—-A MAS-ters—-IN COMMUNICATION!“