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Search and rescue.

17 Jun

Once again, I’d like to give you all a peek into the wide, sometimes scary but always funny  array of search terms that people out there search on Google to land them on my blog:

elephantiasis of the vagina

cucumber up arse

pies and weight loss

fattest ugliest girl ever

ugly douchebag

how do christina aguilera’s boobs stay in her dress on the voice

famous women with moles on there boobies

big fat man with small willy

old man falling off mountain

are teeth jewelry stupid

ugliest bitch on the planet

does having a baby ruin your vagina

fat f*ck sitting on someone

the fattest man in the world’s willy

ugly girl eating pie

fat willy and willy going into a vagina

ugly fat people that have poop on their face

how does the fattest man in the world put on pants

the fattest willy

short fat greasy people

sexy women with nice bums

girls peeing in stores on floor

the fattest person in the universe


When did the term “willy” become popular again?

Pies and weight loss.  Those two terms are not even related.

How DOES the fattest man in the world put on pants?

Are teeth jewelry stupid:  Yes.

Does having a baby ruin your vagina?   Uh….would throwing up a watermelon ruin your mouth? I don’t care what they say about post-birth vaginas, I don’t buy it. Never the same.

How do Christina Aguilera’s boobs stay in her dress on The Voice?   I wonder the same thing.

Someone out there is having a bit of a situation with a cucumber. Should I trace the ip address and find out who?

I need my hair done worse than Christina Aguilera needs her beach body back.


Seriously. It’s been many moons since I’ve had my highlights touched up. I’m a mess. I look like a poor trailer park girl. I’m one of those people that I make fun of. I need to see a stylist, stat.


You know what I love about Law & Order? It’s always on. Always. It doesn’t matter what time of day, day of the week, holidays, the Sabbath—it’s on. Law & Order is on like 4 different channels at all hours of the day in marathon-premiers. SVU gets me going. Sometimes I take hiatuses from Law & Order and forget how addicting it is. Then before you know it, I’m back to snorting Christopher Meloni and Mariska Hargitay up my nose for three hours a day. This is me not complaining about it.

WELL, time to go.

Your friend,



“My dad lived in Japan for a year, that’s how I learned to speak Japanese. Moo-shu pork, Melissa!”


Xenophag users unite!

9 Jun

Sometimes I forget about the small, pale population of Asian kids and introverted white boys whose life is made up 100% of Japanese gaming exist in the world. It’s easy to do, considering they don’t come out to see the daylight. After the debacle with that Xenophase plagiarism situation, naturally I posted the real link to my blog under Xenophase’s “Creative Writing” forum so that members could and would view the real original site. Xenophase is apparently a website that is basically a social networking site/forum for gamers. For those of you out there who have a sex life and don’t know what I’m talking about, it’s like MySpace, but for World of Warcraft. Yeah, it’s sexy. Apparently since my blog post did not include Pikachu, dragons, or guilds, the zitty gamers guild has joined forces (what few of them there are) to give me a nice wave of thumbs-down ratings on the ol’ Sheppard’s Pie post.

It’s fantastic. My blog traffic has tripled during the past two days. I guess these droids aren’t aware of it, but bad publicity is still good publicity. I mean, look at Justin Bieber. The kid has been called gay more times than Elton John at that Lady Gaga concert, and he’s a multimillionaire.

One particular user who dubbed himself “Promus” sent me a nice little message that read, quote,

“Please just stop posting. Everyone here hates you because you sent people here to make an accoutn just to piss people off. You think getting a -40 rating in one day means your welcome? Btw, you’re profile picture sort of looks like you have a cleft palate, which usually comes with some sort of brain deformity so I think we may just be picking on a handicap.”

This was “Promus”s photograph:

Naturally, I replied,

“Promus – ‘Everyone here hates me.’ You mean all 11 of you? Doesn’t look like you guys have much of an army. Thanks for driving all that traffic to my blog though. My ratings are through the roof today.

ps – Your picture kind of looks like you have bone knubs for arms and a tail. I guess you can’t judge a book by its cover.”

Promus replies yet again,

“My profile picture is a Cubone. My favourite pokemon. That comment was just really unfunny.”

Hahahahaha. Oh, nevermind then. Now it’s cool.

For further entertainment value, please read the commentary between Promus and I on my previous blog post, House(fly) Salad.

Anyway, I could not be happier about how this situation turned out. Keep it coming, Xenofags.

Peace out, girlscouts.


“F*ck you, Chuck! You’re extremely talented, but f*ck you.”

Stupid at an entirely new level.

5 Jun

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,



“Poop dolla!”

Circus freaks.

8 May

Meet the residents of western Pennsylvania:

People in Pennsylvania are gross. Really, really gross. I have been here for over a month now, and I am not exaggerating when I say that I have yet to see one single attractive human being, male or female, in the entire area. Every person within 100 miles is somewhere north of 250 pounds, white, lumpy, grumpy, and frumpy. It’s nauseating. Today, Trent, Randon and I walked out of the movie theater after watching Thor, and all of us paused, looked around with furrowed brows, and blurted out how f’ugly everyone around us was. We stood outside for a moment on the sidewalk just as a fat tripod exited the building, each one fatter than the one before. First the obese, greasy son, second the blubbery, knee-knocked mother, and last but certainly not least, the fat, bulbous father. Each of them moseyed single-file across the parking lot to their tiny Ford Tempo (the suspension on that vehicle must be destroyed).

“Oh, god. All that family needs to complete the picture is to connect trunk-to-tail and waddle to their car,” says Trent. We snorted with laughter, and shifted our gaze just in time to see two more fat women in tight white capri pants entering the theater, and a man with Tazmanian Devil tattoos on his shins. Quality.

On a totally opposite note, Chris Hemsworth is my new obsession. This man is the sexiest, most beautiful creature I have ever seen in my entire life. That facial hair, those piercing blue eyes, those luscious dark eyelashes, that long, golden hair—-his body? My, god. Chris Hemsworth can work me like a 9 to 5 if he wants. I would ride that man like an H2 Hummer through an obstacle course if he would let me. This man is hotter than Megan Fox on top of Natalie Portman in a kiddie pool filled with tabasco sauce. Name your price, Hemsworth. Name your price.

Besides drooling like a bloodhound on the 4th of July over Mr. Hemsworth’s face, body, mouth, eyes, and voice, Thor was a pretty good movie. I wished that there were more epic battle scenes/nudity, but overall I was satisfied with the film. Unfortunately, we were in the one theater out of fifteen that had the mentally retarded 10 year old in it.

This child wasn’t just challenged, he was loud. Every ten seconds, and this is not an exaggeration, he would let out a loud, husky grunt. This grunt quickly evolved into a half yell, half growling sound. It was like Tarzan calling out in the jungle. With each veloceraptor noise, the decibel increased. You can imagine what sort of distractions this caused during everyone else’s movie-watching experience. It never ended, either. I mean at first it’s like, “Okay, maybe the kid is just excited and he can’t help it. He’ll tone it down. No one in their right mind would bring an involuntarily-groaning child into a movie theater on purpose.” Wrong. The whole movie, this screeching continued. Every. Ten. Seconds.

Listen. I get it. The kid got the short end of the stick. I’m not saying you should lock him up somewhere where he can’t bother anyone. But a movie theater is not the place to bring a child who clearly cannot control their verbalization. Take him to the park. Go to the pool. Ride bikes. Play Skee Ball at Dave & Busters. Anywhere else where noise-making is not an issue. Don’t bring him to the library. Or the movie theater. Can’t you wait until the movie comes out on DVD and then watch it in the privacy of your own living room as to not disturb others? I feel that this falls under the same category of not silencing your cell phone during a movie. Like, I’m not going to bring a colicky infant to a violin concert. You know it’s going to make noise, so don’t have it in there. Think, people.

WELL, I’m off to write Chris some love letters. I hope he likes me.


C:  The bride’s adopted sister just sang Kelly Clarkson’s “A Moment Like This.”  It was literally the worst thing I have ever heard.

B:  Hahaha.

C:  If I were smart, I would have voice recorded it for you.

B:  Ask her to sing it again.

C:  I don’t think I can do that.

B:  Sure you can! She would be flattered. Adopted kids are always looking for extra attention.

Dirty Secrets.

12 Aug

I have to wait until September 27th for season five of Dexter to come back on. That’s too far away. I feel like I’ve been waiting for over a decade already. I don’t have cable, either, so that means I will be getting my fix streaming episodes off In other words, that means I will be spending 95 minutes trying to watch a 52 minute episode, where every four minutes is interrupted by “…BUFFERING..28%” repeatedly.

In the meantime, I’ve been trying to fill the void in my television diet with Six Feet Under. Things were going swimmingly until the show just started to get really weird.

Am I watching pornography, or Six Feet Under? Brenda just keeps sleeping with everyone she sees, spreading gonorrhea all over California and beyond, Keith keeps getting more and more annoying, less and less black, and more and more gay by the second, Claire keeps dating psychos and thinking they are her emotionally vulnerable and needy prince charmings, and Nate keeps screaming at people out of nowhere. Over and over. I need more substance than this, you guys. Mix things up. Kill somebody. Uncover somebody’s sex change. Turn somebody into a dinosaur. Surprise me!

The radio stations here in Pennsylvania are nothing short of broken records. I am not exaggerating when I say that every hour is just a repeating cycle of Ke$ha – Your Love Is My Drug, Travie McCoy – Billionaire, Eminem – Love The Way You Lie, and B.O.B – Airplanes. Over. And over.

And over.

It’s unreal. On two separate occasions yesterday I switched from 92.1 to 99.3 to escape hearing Ke$ha’s scratchy hooker voice rattle off about brushing her teeth with rum, only to find 99.3 playing the SAME song. It was a nightmare. I felt like I was in the Labyrinth. What is this, Boiling Points? Am I being Punk’d? Come out, Ashton.

In other news, after a short hiatus from the volcanic temperatures the northeast has experienced as of late, the fiery, hell-on-earth weather has returned to fry me like a slab of tilapia on a George Foreman grill. I actually became turbulently angry yesterday as I was working outside because of the escalating, blood-boiling heat that Mother Earth was smothering me with. The humidity was thicker than Lindsay Lohan’s pile of misdemeanors. I genuinely could have baked a rump roast on my doorstep. Why is this happening? What have I done to deserve this? I need to be locked inside a meat locker until October rolls around. I’m not built for this sort of climate.

Yesterday I did an inspection on a house for hail damage. After my inspection of the property, I asked the homeowner if we could go inside to discuss the damage and the insurance claim process. The overweight, white wife shot a panicky look to the fat, shirtless husband, and exchanged a concerned glance. “Uh….yeah….” she said, and slowly led me through the back door.

Once inside, I quickly realized what the hesitancy was about. I was jack-hammered in the face with the foul stench of cat urine. Boxes of miscellaneous junk were piled ceiling-high. Fur covered every inch of space. There was barely enough room for me to squeeze through the “hallway” into the living room. These people were hoarders of the worst kind. If I didn’t stink before (which I did), I certainly did now.

How do people live like this? “Excuse the mess…we’re in the middle of several…projects,” she said. Right. I know that most of the projects my family and I work on involve gallons upon gallons of cat piss, newspapers from 1992, and garbage piled so high it makes the Appalachian Mountains look like Kate Hudson’s boobs.

People with hoarding issues just need their family members to intervene by setting fire to their homes. This is really the only way to fully nip the problem in the bud, if you will. By destroying every item in their “collection” (for lack of better words) by fire, you effectively remove the emotional connection that would otherwise make it difficult for them to “let things go.” Unless their McDonald’s Mini Beanie Babies and expired canned tomatoes mean more to them than their skin, lips, and hair, there is no chance in hell that the hoarder can sprint into the fire to retrieve their worthless, space-consuming belongings, aka garbage. And if they do, just let them. They probably need to die.

Well, time to go.


Me: “These gross ugly people from high school keep requesting my friendship on Facebook, and every day I deny them. Haven’t they caught on?”

Cole: “Maybe you should include a message next time. ‘Look at my profile picture, and then look at yours. Can we really be friends. I don’t think so.’ “