Fashion First.

I think instead of a “poke” button on Facebook, they should have a “pork” button.  Cole Martin porked Jessica Batten. Then everyone would know who was having sex with who.

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I ate an extra cheesy pizza Lunchable today. It reminded me of sitting in the back of the bus in overalls during a zoo field trip, attempting to stab a hole through an impenetrable Capri Sun. They used to make those things bullet proof. You basically needed a machine gun to get your straw into the container. You always had to pass your beverage around to your classmates to see if anyone could force entry into the foil pouch. By the time you got the straw in, you were exhausted and dehydrated and needed it pumped directly into your bloodstream.

The other thing about pizza Lunchables is that in the beginning as you assemble the first mini pizza, you feel like there is no possible way those two tiny piles of cheese are going to last you through the third pizza, so you do this cheese-reserve thing and your first pizza comes out like a food stamp ration. By the third pizza, you realize you have way over compensated. You’ve saved so much cheese you have too much to even fit on the third crust. That pizza is always the best one.

Anyway, back to the Lunchable.

A few months ago, the Lunchables caught my eye in the grocery store, and I thought, “Ooh! I could go for one of those.”  Then I remembered I didn’t own a microwave.

You’re confused. Listen, I microwave my Lunchables, and I don’t give a f-ck what you think about it. I like to melt the cheese and heat up the sauce. Is that a crime? It’s my life.

Recently, Trent looted a microwave that was on its way to the dumpster from a neighboring office, and now we finally have one. I went ahead and stocked up on a couple pizza Lunchables, and I couldn’t be happier.

I spent several hours in various airports last weekend in lieu of my trip back to Iowa, so I had a nice opportunity to see some real freaks. Let me start with the Asians. One of the Asians I saw was a young woman who appeared to be about 20 years old. She looked pretty normal at eye level, but then I looked down at her feet. She was wearing blue flip flops that had dozens of tiny pink and blue pastel colored inflated balloons that simulated bath bubbles, and each sandal had a tiny rubber duck on it.

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The next Asian I laid eyes on was a woman in her thirties. She was wearing a translucent red plastic sun visor that had a solar powered fan that was positioned on the bill of the cap, pointing toward her face. It was pretty bad. It got worse though when her four year old son appeared with a matching solar powered visor in black.

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Later I glanced down to see a man with “BORN TO F-CK” tattooed on his toes, each letter on a single toe. That was an interesting choice.

Lastly, good old SkyMall had some material to gawk at as well. How about this douche:

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Oh great! They make it in cadet style. I’m not sure which is worse—the hat, or the tool’s face in the ad.

Back to the Asians. What is wrong with them?  Their style is so rotten. They’ve lost their minds. Why can’t they stick to things that they’re good at like developing technology and making fried rice? Stay away from the fashion industry, zipperheads. You can’t do it right.

Boy do I like their food though.

I’m having a lovely time with my new Droid X2. It’s taking a little while to teach it all the cuss words, but it’s catching on quickly. I am a little sad about the battery life, although what can I expect from it when I’m playing with it 16 hours a day.

WELL, that’s all for now, gals and non-gals. Cheerio.

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“You can’t pee in here, Wilfred.”

“Why? Everybody else is!”

Grilling out.

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It’s nice to see that my fan base knows how to spell my name.

Also, apparently I am more popular plural.

I somehow caught a cold. I most likely gathered it from the enormous petri dish they call “United Airlines.” Airplanes are like being inside a virus capsule. So many germs floating around in such close quarters. It’s a shock more people don’t accidentally get pregnant on them.

I accidentally just napped for 3 hours. This is a problem, because when I get even so much as a 45 minute nap in during the day, it makes my attempt at falling asleep at nighttime futile. I lay on my back completely alert for like an hour, then start pestering Trent and rolling around and huffing and puffing out of boredom and frustration. Then Trent tries to convince me to get up and go do computer stuff, but I refuse, because I’d be on it until 4 a.m. and just perpetuate the no-sleeping cycle.

A lot of times I resort to playing endless games of Word Mole on my shit Blackberry, but the problem with laying on my back with my arms bent to hold my phone two inches from my face is that my biceps start to turn into cement and hurt like a biotch in no time. Then I have to alternate rounds of Word Mole with stretching my arms out straight in front of me for minutes at a time to counteract the cramps. It’s this whole…thing.

Tonight I will be taking sleeping pills. The only problem I have with those is that they make my arms feel like I have worms crawling through them. If I can get over that, I’ll be sleeping like a baby in no time.

I don’t know why that’s a phrase, “Sleeping like a baby.” Babies are the worst sleepers in the world. They’re fussy, they scream, they sleep in 30 minute intervals with screeching sessions in between, the beep of the microwave wakes them up and they scream some more. The phrase should be more like “sleeping like a blind, deaf, dead man.”

Something on me smells good. Really good. I can’t figure out what it is. Was it my face wash? My moisturizer? Did I put lotion on today? Is my shampoo particularly potent this evening? What is the source of this aphrodisiacal aroma I am producing? I did eat Taco Bell for lunch, but…that’s not it.

Well, maybe it is.

Lil Wayne’s teef bother me. A lot. That mouth, that crowded, jagged mouth (mouf, if I’m staying in character) of his is really frightening when he opens it. He should stop. He reminds me of the bully in A Christmas Story, but…darker.

Whose idea was it to put jewelry on peoples’ incisors? It’s stupid. How did that progression happen? Jewelry on necks, ears, fingers, bellybuttons, noses…….teeth? Bad idea, boss. There’s a reason children dread having braces. They’re hideous. Why would you ever make a more distracting, more conspicuous blingy version on purpose as an accessory? A proper, attractive mouth should be clean, straight, white, and bright. Not “bright” like, disco ball/rhinestone bangles bright. Like pearly, heavenly gates white-bright.

Well, that’s all for now folks. I’ve dragged this on long enough.

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” I’ve been spending so much money. It’s bad. But it’s like all on food! It’s not on anything bad. It’s like….I’ve GOT to have a lobster claw tonight. “

Easy as pie.

“Human pie.”

….yet another search term that landed someone out there in the universe at my blog. I’m actually afraid to even Google the term “human pie” in fear of what I might find. Someone else do it and tell me how it goes.

Noprah. That is to say I have never watched an episode of Oprah. I don’t know how I’ve managed to go this long throughout life without even accidentally witnessing a single snippet of Oprah’s Favorite Things or her infamous Book Club, but somehow I have. I’ve dodged the bullet. I’ve led the Oprah seeker-missile off course. It’s only time before government intelligence is after me for secrets on how to escape and divert enemies. I mean, the woman is taking over network television and I haven’t even accidentally caught 30 seconds of any of her shows. Maybe you aren’t trying hard enough, Oprah.

…Stay away from Netflix. That’s my domain.

I have been on probably 10 flights in the past year. I’m pissed. I absolutely loathe flying. “R u afraid of hites? lolz” No, idiots. I hate airport security more than anything in the world. “But they keep you safe from terrorists!” No they don’t. The last two flights I was on, I was seated directly next to wailing infants. Explain to me how they are any different from terrorists. It’s such a hassle. It’s 110 degrees in the terminal, they’ve got me taking off my shoes, bagging my liquids and gels, heckling me about what’s in or not inside my pockets, exposing my belongings to the world, scanning my tata’s. I’m over it. I actually got asked if I would allow my headband to be searched last time. My headband. What the f@#% am I going to hide in my headband that could harm another human being? Please. Please give me a reason why this type of inspection is valid.

Stop wasting my life. Stop wasting yours. Stop being all wasted.

Another thing I hate about flying is having to listen to the safety procedures prior to takeoff every single time. What’s funny about this, however, is that even though I have probably heard the word-for-word descriptions on aircraft safety over 100 times, I couldn’t tell you a single thing that it says. “…..flotation device……@#%#$……air mask….&%$#….oxygen is flowing.” That’s all I’ve got. Really. Don’t look to me for assistance if “in the unlikely event” we have a water-landing. I’ll be looking stupid next to the emergency exit with my Biscoff cookies.

I have a lot of beef with most, if not all of the airplane “safety regulations.” Where do I even begin. Seeing as airplane seats are indisputably the most uncomfortable apparatuses to ever be sat upon, I seek solace in tilting the chair back the measly 15 degrees that it will decline and attempting to go unconscious for the flight in order to not experience it fully. Every time I tilt that shitty chair back prior to takeoff, I get bitched at by the stewardesses. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to please put your seat in the upright position until after takeoff.”

Give me one good reason why I should do this. How in fack’s sake is my chair being tilted backward TWO inches going to prevent the plane from being able to lift off safely? Seriously. Tell me. I’ll give you a hint: IT ISN’T. Go fetch me a Diet Coke.

Seatbelts. Plane seatbelts are a joke. Are you trying to tell me that if our jet crashes into the crust of the earth going 500 miles an hour, that having that single, sad strap of nylon across my lap is going to save my life? It’s not. I may as well have a strand of spaghetti across my lap if we’re being realistic. In the words of the abortion activists, “It’s MY body!” Get off my back.

I also got bitched at by a stewardess on my last flight for not having my purse stored 100%, completely under the seat in front of me. I’m not talking about a handbag the size of a suitcase that douchebag girls carry four bichon frises in. I mean a small, compact, cross-body satchel that was literally sticking out maybe four inches from under the seat in front of me. How is that a hazard on the airplane? Does the placement of my purse really have that much of an impact on how safely the aircraft flies? I really, really doubt it. It’s on nobody’s toes but my own. Who gives a shit? Leave me alone. Get me another Diet Coke.

Alright, time to pass out. I have 11 pounds of shrimp and pasta in my belly. I need to make like a bear and hibernate. Peace out, girlscouts.

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“Bring it on you short-bearded faggot!”

¡Pura Vida!

Alright boys and girls.

…and whatever gender category people like Lady Gaga fall into.

I understand you’ve all been sweating profusely, having cardiac-arrest-inducing night terrors, and wretching in pain due to blog withdrawal, but don’t you worry, I’m back in the 66206 and ready to write your ears off again.

….of course when I say “ears” I mean “eyes.”

Anyway.

I have been making like Magellan, hop-scotching all over the western hemisphere for the past several weeks. Cabo San Lucas was a good time, although it would have been better if mi esposo futuro had been along for the trip (only moment of mushiness for the next month at least, don’t worry), but Costa Rica was a whole ‘nother animal, people. Let’s begin.