“Save the fuel. I’m coming for you.”

Jason Statham is a badass. Sure, he plays the same character in every movie, but in every movie, he’s just an ass-beating, bonafide badass. And I’m fine with that. Mark Wahlberg gets me going in a similar manner, too, but then you remember that he’s Marky Mark – “Good Vibrations,” and the badass factor gets turned down a notch. Haha.

I still love you, Wahlberg.

Last night I went to AMC to see “Sinister.”  I would like my money back. This is the first movie I have ever actually almost walked out of. It was terrible. Part of me wants to go more into detail about the weak plot, the overdone acting, the forced and senseless dialogue, and the cliche “kids are scary so let’s make them say ‘shh’ which is supposed to be creepy but is actually gayer than AIDS” number they did 1039501 too many times. It was bad, that’s the point.

At 3 pm yesterday, I went inside a building for a seminar. It was 78 degrees. Two short hours later, I exited, and was slapped in the face with a brisk and blustery 31 degree temperature drop. Pretty drastic. What I was wearing in the 78 degrees was not appropriate for the now 47 degrees. Regrets.

ANYway, that being said, I love autumn. BOY do I. Nothing gets me going more than chilly weather, scented candles, baked goods, and holiday garb. Once September hits, I skip right over Halloween and Thanksgiving and charge straight into Christmas with the passion of a thousand burning suns. I’ve been making special, unimportant trips to Costco just to submerge myself in the extravagant holiday decor that fills the building. I’ve been privately enjoying Christmas carols in my car since mid August, but now I’m blaring my Trans-Siberian Orchestra Pandora station for the world to hear whether they like it or not. It’s joyful AND TRIUMPHANT!!!

What really has me by the balls during the autumn and winter months though are Bath & Body Works seasonal candles and soaps. Marshmallow Fireside gives me a nose boner than lasts for more than 4 hours, and from what I understand, that calls for medical attention. I love it. I have gone a little overboard with the room spray, several candles, and a car freshener, and I’m still thinking about going back for more. Why do good smells make me so jubilant? I don’t even know. My nose is smiling just thinking about it, though my bank account is not.

Today is Sunday, and on Sundays, I eat whatever the f-ck I want. To prepare, I exercise harder than normal so I don’t feel so bad. After boxing for an hour and then getting a quick 2.4 miler in, I whipped up a glorious bowl of mouth-watering guacamole, and then assembled the ingredients for an Oreo brownie recipe. The recipe uses cookies & cream ice cream, Oreos (I chose to use the birthday cake flavored special edition Oreos, BOOM), fudge topping, and fudge brownie mix. How could ANYTHING go wrong with that combination, right? The instructions said to bake them for 26 minutes. After 55 minutes, the brownies were still a pan of bubbling molten lava. I gave up. Hopefully they taste heavenly though they are misshapen. We will just have to see. I want to kick the oven door in though. Once again, if it’s not a cake, it’s not in my wheelhouse. 

White people problems. PEACE.

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J:   “So what do you guys like to do on the weekends?”

B:   “…..I go to Bath & Body Works.”

 

Two for me.

I’m not sure how this happens to me twice in a row, but last night after drafting up a big fat blog post, it vanished once again, without a trace. Argh! ARGH, I say. I forget everything I said yesterday, so I guess I’ll just let you know what’s going on today.

I bought a gigantic sack of candy bars for the trick-or-treaters on Halloween. The mistake I made was buying Twix bars. I’m not sure what I thought I was doing buying my biggest vice in the Mars candy world. Twix are my achilles heel. If the Romans built a prison of Twix bars around me, I could eat my way out in hours. I love Twix, okay? Anyway, to my surprise, I have so far been able to leave the giant sack of delicious chocolate covered caramel drizzled shortbread cookies alone for nearly a week. Six more days to go before Halloween, though. If I break, I’ll be handing out Milkbones. Stay strong, Switz.

When August arrived this summer, I was feeling like a lazy bum being sedentary and not doing anything active with my body. Unfortunately, it was 118 degrees all summer long, and running was simply out of the question for me. I’m just not that hardcore. Team sports and I go together about as well as dill pickles and chocolate syrup, so that was out. I looked into some martial arts, but the karate clubs nearby had weird schedules that wouldn’t work for me. Then I found a Title Boxing Club like 2 miles from my house. They have a free class for newbies to try, and I figured what the heck, let’s give it a go. I went in, and before even trying the free class, I decided I may as well go ahead and join. I signed myself up for a year-long membership, got my gloves and wraps, and took my place next to one of the 170 pound punching bags, ready for class to begin.

Class starts, and I’m already feeling like an energized badass. Montell Jordan immediately starts playing in my head, and I’m bopping around like Million Dollar Baby. We start off with some cardio—jumping jacks, mountain climbers, sprints. “Aw yeah,” I say to myself, “You got this shit.” Not five minutes later, I am going into cardiac arrest, feeling like throwing up all over my neighbors and myself, and yawning continually due to lack of oxygen to my brain. This was no joke. They were beating my ass. Inside my head I was saying things like, “Becca, you’re a lunatic—why did you ever sign up for this? A YEAR OF THIS? You’re going to die.” Regrets.

I had 55 long minutes left.

By the time class ended, I found myself laying face down on the floor, motionless, and in need of a stretcher to deliver my carcass to my vehicle. The next two days were absolutely brutal. My body was bitch slapped. They bitch slapped my entire body. I am not exaggerating when I say that I literally could not walk down the stairs. I could hardly put on my pants. I had trouble getting into my Jeep. It was rough.

THANK GOD! That’s what I signed up for after all. Boy do they whip you into shape up there. I am feeling and looking fit as a fiddle, you guys. If you have a Title Boxing Club near you, I highly recommend going. 

The only downside is that I’ve really torn up my poor knuckles. My hands are starting to look pretty haggard. People probably think I fight bums in the street for crack because of the way my knuckles look. Tradeoffs.

So I’ve been cooking a lot. The photos of my meals have been getting a lot of attention lately, so I think I might start throwing some easy recipes on here every couple of days. THOUGHTS? Tell me how you feel about it. They are all low calorie, super simple and delicious meals. 

Ok bye.

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B:  “YOLO!  ….I don’t even actually know what that means.”

C:  “You only live once.”

B:  “Oh. I thought it was some sort of salutation.”

Locks of Love.

I wiped out and ripped my left ass cheek off of my body today at Beaver Creek. I was laid out for a good minute or two, immobilized by pain in my better half. I do not wish to repeat it. Speaking of asset body parts,

.

.

I need Ted Gibson from TLC’s What Not To Wear to do my hair. I will pay him one thousand dollars. He can have complete control. Do what you want, Ted! He is a magician. He can turn Medusa into Jennifer Aniston. He can walk on water, you guys. What are the odds I can arrange this to happen? I’m going to start researching on the world wide web immediately.

…it’s probably a lot more than a thousand dollars.

.

.

Am I the only one who has noticed that Lady GaGa stole her persona from Party Monster starring Macaulay Culkin and Seth Green (2003)?  I mean…..drag, glamour, outrageous costumes (the meat dress?!), wild makeup—the tag word “monster” itself?

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Watch it and try to tell me you disagree.

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Sadly, Trent has left to go back to the depressing state of Pennsylvania for the next ten days. This leaves me in a greater state of boredom, as I won’t have my jobless snowboarding buddy to ride with on the daily. There is a lot of Netflix in my future. My television series diet is currently made up of the following:

1.  Dogtown.  Nothing gets me going more than canines.

2.  Portlandia.  I have already watched every episode twice. Fred Armisen and Carrie Brownstein REALLY get me going. If you haven’t watched this show yet, you should kill yourself.

3.  Workaholics.  Again, I have watched every episode more than once. I won’t stop.

4.  Reno 911.  Shenanigans.

Lots of shows. Call me Mrs. Couch Potato.

Won’t somebody purchase me an expensive, carpet raping vacuum cleaner? A Rainbow Vacuum? Maybe a Kirby? A Dyson Ball?  I would also like a hand-held Shark vacuum for the stairs, bed, etc. I don’t think this is too much to ask. My birthday is in July. I’ll be waiting.

WELL, time to keep watching television. Keep it real.

_______________________________________________________

“Did you bring weed? We’re gonna need a lot of weed.”

“Yeah, I got some.”

“Like, a pound?”

.

..

All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.

I was reflecting upon my childhood diet the other day. This is all I ate from ages 6 until 11:

• Cherry Pop-Tarts
• Fruit by the Foot
• Fruit Roll-Ups
• Spaghettios
• Cinnamon Toast Crunch
• Count Chocula
• Miracle Whip on white bread (it’s true)
• Kraft macaroni and cheese
  . 

 .

No wonder kids lose all their teeth. It’s not to make room for new permanent teeth, it’s because our diet is made completely up of sugar, salt, and nitrates. My mouth rebelled against me (along with the rest of my body). Good thing I ran around like an ape with ADHD 23 hours a day as a youngin’. Without my incessant need to constantly be running around catching snakes and toads, I would have weighed somewhere north of 200 pounds by the fourth grade.

I’m watching an exclusive interview with Piers Morgan and Motley Crue, and I’ve made a startling discovery:

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Mick Mars is:  Emperor Palpatine.

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Am I right? Let’s take another look.

Mick Mars….?
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.
…..or Emperor Palpatine?
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 .
I smell an identity theft case.

People need to stop shortening words. It’s not cute. It’s nauseating and stupid. SO STUPID! This includes, but is not limited to, “Presh, gorge, fab, adorbs, totes, fave, probs,” and “ridic.”  Yesterday I was reading reviews on a pair of boots, and this is the atrocity I came across:
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.

I had a half a mind to report it as inappropriate. Are you kidding me? Even the busiest person in the world has enough time to avoid looking like a stupid ass. This needs to stop.

Nicole Scherzinger needs to bury herself alive. At first I thought her mouthwatering good looks were enough to float her along, but this has just gone too far. Everything that comes out of her mouth on The X Factor is pointless, annoying, and retarded. Also, her dramatic faux emotions? Ugh. Stop pretending to be moved, stop crying, stop being a douche, Nicole. As a side note, as much as I love Marcus Canty, Rachel Crow earned her place in this competition with her save-me song. You suck, Scherzinger.
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 .

Well, I’m going to go digest my tacos. Remember that we are now in a new prize period! The next winner will be drawn on Sunday, December 18th. To become eligible for the drawings, all you have to do is 1) be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie, and 2) leave a comment or forty!  (Find out more here: PRIZES!) Every comment you leave puts your name in the drawing for the next prize, which is a totally bitchin’ convenient and brilliant invention: the union of the cozy mitten plus an ice scraper to help make your morning car-scraping ritual a little less painful this winter.

That’s right, folks. Be in it to win it.

Thanks for stopping by.

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“Nick’s roommate pulled the ol ‘slam your beer bottle on top of someone else’s beer to make it fizz up’ (mine) and like a jack ass, I stuck my thumb in it to make it spray everywhere in a retaliation attempt, which was great. Then I looked down and noticed glass sticking out of my thumb and blood was everywhere. The joke, once again, was on me.”

-Cole

illin’.

I just scraped a bunch of skin off my knuckles while carrying my laundry basket down the narrow cinder-block walled staircase that leads into the basement. It’s impossible to put bandaids all over these wounds. I feel like I might have to take a rubber glove, fill it with Neosporin, and then just wear it for a few days. I don’t know, I’m not a doctor.
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. 

Just this morning I said, “It’s about that time of year again….that time of year where I get sick.”  Not three hours later, I find myself sniffling, sneezing, and moaning with the oncoming symptoms of an annoying cold. I am rather stuffed up over here. Also, my noggin is a poundin’, and my energy is at a bare minimum. On top of that, I can’t seem to heat up my body no matter what I do. I just put a sheet of chocolate chip cookies in the oven, and I had to stop myself from crawling right on in there to get toasty. I feel like doing nothing but merely existing on my couch in my sweat pants with tissues dangling from my nostrils, watching What Not To Wear.

That show has got me by the balls. I forgot how great it was. Are these people serious? Some of these individuals need electroshock therapy because of the things they’ve been wearing. I just watched an episode where this woman wore nothing but turtle items. Turtle everything. Shirts with turtles on them, giant gaudy turtle necklaces, turtle pants, turtle bracelets—and on top of all this turtle paraphernalia, she wore Crocs and mens cargo shorts. Bad.
.

. 

I’m glad I avoided living in a generation where people still used folding paper road maps to navigate their way through the world. I have been lucky enough to be blessed in the era of Map Quest, quickly evolving into Google Maps directions, then the invention of the GPS, followed by turn-by-turn navigation on my smart phone. Thank God. Can you imagine having to try to use a map the size of a table cloth whilst driving throughout a busy city trying to locate a Bank of America? Big creases through entire cities, ketchup stains on toll road signs, rips through the legend. What a nightmare. Mapping and driving is more dangerous than texting and driving. I am so happy to be able to just fire up the ol’ cell phone and say, “Send me to Omaha, Phone,” and it does. It just does.

….Droid. Droid does. You get it.
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. 

I wish for someone to purchase me Hungry, Hungry Hippos for Christmas. I truly love that game. I also loved that game where the little fish went around the circular “pond” chomping their teeth together, and you had this tiny little fishing rod of sorts to catch them with. Memories. It’d be funny if they replaced the hippos in the game with really hungry people like Nicole Richie and Kate Moss and Mary-Kate Olsen. Except then the balls that the hippos chomp after wouldn’t be balls, they’d be diet pills.

Never mind.

SO, this week I will finally be returning to the glorious Midwest for the holidays. I can’t wait to see my fellow Council Bluffians and be a little irresponsible while donning Christmas sweaters on the reg. WHEW! I trust you all have delightful holiday plans this year. If not, maybe this will brighten your day:

I will be holding the next drawing on Sunday, December 18!

The next prize iiiiiis:
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This fantastic invention in which the classic puffy warm mitten meets the windshield ice scraper in a glorious marriage, keeping your extremities toasty while you scrape snow off your car in the frosty mornings this winter. The actual scraper-glove I’m giving away is even cooler than the one pictured above. This is a fantastic invention. To become eligible for prize drawings, all you have to do is 1) be subscribed to Sheppard’s Pie by email, and 2) leave comments! Every comment you leave puts your name into the drawing. Good luck!

Time to go. Bye now.

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B:   When do you think we’ll be hungry enough to eat our dessert?

A:   I hope soon.

Thankfull.

WHY HELLOOOOO!!!!!

I mean, oh, hey you guys. Sap?

Anyway, I trust you all had a filling Thanksgiving. I sure did. If you’re like most gluttonous Americans, you’re probably still digesting pecan pie and green bean casserole, and will be until Boxing Day. Trent and I whipped up a pretty braggable feast, and for all of you who were wondering if I could pull it off, I did successfully make a DELIGHTFUL sweet potato pie. In fact, it was such a hit that I am making two more this week. I should probably start jogging.

It’s really weird to me that female dogs have periods. Like….that’s not very fair. It’s not like they can just stick a tampon up there and take care of business. I’ve only ever owned male dogs, and I intend to keep it that way. I’m not interested in having an emotional, PMSing canine bleeding all over my living room, watching Lady & The Tramp, leaving empty ice cream pints on the coffee table five days a month. Slap a Kotex on that bitch.

I’m really pissed about people who are famous for having things like the “longest hair in the world” or the “longest nails in the world.” It’s so stupid. Having the longest (also see: most disgusting) fingernails in the world does not make you rich. It doesn’t make you more attractive, more desirable, envied, or of a higher social status. It just makes you gross. Cut your nails. They’re not making you any money.  “But I’m famous!!!”  You also can’t eat with a fork or wipe your ass. Cut your nails.
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CUT THEM!!!!

WELL, that’s about it for today. If you haven’t already, make sure you subscribe to Sheppard’s Pie (see right margin of the site to subscribe) and then start leaving comments in order to put yourself into the drawing for this month’s prize drawing!

(See more here: https://beccasheppard.wordpress.com/prizes/ )

This month I’m going to be sending one lucky reader a nice compilation of the rockin’est Christmas jingles you’ve ever heard, plus a few other Christmas surprises. Woo! None of those surprises is poop, I promise. Each comment you leave puts your name into the drawing. See the previous post for details! GOOD LUCK, LADS!

By the way, everyone. I know thankful is spelled “thankful.” It was a play on words. I am very “full” after Thanksgiving. Sigh. Don’t ever second guess my grammar like that again, or you’re OUT.

Toodles.

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B:   “An apple a day keeps the STDs away!”

S:   “I wish I woulda known that in college. I would’ve eaten ’em by the bushel!” 

Wok n Roll.

I am very frustrated. And lost. And hungry. I just attempted to order Chinese food from a joint called Chef Wong’s here in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania (my new home away from home). I literally could not understand a single word the Chinese woman on the other end of the line was saying.

“I need an order of crab rangoon, and can I have some extra sweet and sour sauce with that please?”

“Fwaaan cho dwaanoban ro-tan-bray soy sauce?”

“Uh….what? I need extra sweet and sour sauce—–for the crab rangoon.”

“Shoppa cow-tan fah deenah, soy sauce?”

“…..”

“Shoppa fwan wi????   Soy sauce?”

“….Yes.”

For all I know, I’ve got an entire duck and broccoli beef on the way.

….with soy sauce apparently.

Trent and I moved the majority of our belongings into our new apartment in Pennsylvania today. After bringing in all our boxes and bags, we decided to head to Goodwill and Wal-Mart to gather household items and appliances that we did not pack. On our way to the truck, we “met” our lesbian neighbors. Really we were assaulted by the less butch one screaming at her dogs, and I quote,

“THAT’S IT!!! THAT IS IT!!!!! I’VE HAD ABOUT ENOUGH OF THIS SHIT! SHE’S BEIN’ A NASTY LITTLE SHITBAG!! ….YA GRABASS!”

Really not sure what “ya grabass” meant at the end there. I didn’t have time to ask.

We headed to Goodwill, leaving the lesbians to bark at each other in privacy. That’s where Trent and I found the newest addition to our very sophisticated art collection:

Jackpot. Who would ever let this masterpiece go? Someone tell me. This oil pastel painting of the 90s sensation boy band The Backstreet Boys could easily put a child through college if sold on eBay. Am I right? Don’t worry, we nabbed it up.

“I just stared at a rabbit for two minutes waiting for it to move. Then I realized it was a football.”

-Jeremy

To blog or not to blog.

If a picture is taken of me mid-speech, it’s not pretty. Something about me vocalizing during a photographic moment is just not artful. Snapping a picture of me mid-sentence makes me look like I’m 200 pounds and retarded. Why is this? How are some people so photogenic? I wish I understood.

Coincidence? I think not.

I just came across something very, very peculiar. While saving all my past eight billion notes, I came across one and noticed something crazy:

Dream Works.

“So last night I had a dream that I was with Cory Duvall and we were trapped in Iran. My only way out was to sneak out wearing a zebra suit. I was too big for it but I had to fit in it anyway, so I squeezed into it. I wasn’t afraid it wasn’t going to work; my main concern was that I would overheat in it. So I