Card Games.

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My eyelids are itching like Ke$ha’s crotch on a Saturday morning. Yesterday I treated myself to some nice amethyst colored eyeshadow, and today I am paying the consequences. You see, I have green eyes, and purple is really a great color for them. I religiously wore violet eyeliner for nearly two years, but had been simultaneously struggling with a weird eye infection. For several months, my eyelids had been swollen, red, irritated, and itchy. I couldn’t figure out what was going on. Eventually it was so bad, I couldn’t wear any eye makeup besides mascara. After a few days of not wearing eyeliner period, my eye irritation went away. I went back to bedazzling my eyelids, and the crazy swollen eye came back. As it turns out, I am allergic specifically to purple dye in makeups. This is very irritating. Allergic to purple? How does this happen. Anyway, my eyelids are freaking out today. I’m regretting my rebellion against my biology.

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Why is it when you pick up a greeting card off of the shelf at the store, its proper place completely vanishes from sight. Suddenly you can’t find where it goes. At all. Where the f-ck did this birthday card come from? you wonder, completely flabbergasted. You’ve engaged in an involuntary game of Where’s Waldo, except in this case “Waldo” is a birthday card that sings “I’m too sexy for my hair.” The cards go Houdini on your ass, just like that. It’s like you pick up the card, and in the few short seconds it takes you to read it, the rest of the cards play musical chairs and the slot that it came from goes MIA. Next thing you know, you’re stuffing “Happy 30th Birthday” behind “Sorry for your loss.” No one’s the wiser.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving. I’m going to be trying my hand in the kitchen. This pie is going to be a big win for me if I succeed. I love sweet potatoes. Sweet potatoes are the elixir of my life. I hope this pie rocks. If it does, I’ll be bragging until Christmas. Then I’ll make it for Christmas, and I’ll be bragging until next Thanksgiving. It’s the circle of life.

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^ Some weird guy.

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My dog is dropping fart bombs like Nagasaki. If I didn’t know he loved me so much, I would begin to suspect that he was trying to pull an Auschwitz and gas me to death. It’s just one after another. His bowels are relentless. I wish he would just take a poop and get it over with. I’ve taken him out twice since this fart-fest has begun, and he trots around for a minute and resists the poop. JUST DROP THE DEUECE, RALEIGH!!!! Stop resisting nature.

Well, I wish I had more things to share with you nice boys and girls, but I just don’t have anything else to say. So….I guess….I guess that’s it.

FOR YOUR HEALTH!

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C:   I keep singing Adele outloud.

B:   Who doesn’t.

C:   I want to carry her voice with me in my pocket at all times. And take it out whenever I want to hear it.  I just invented the iPod.

Panic room.

Hearing your phone ringing and trying desperately to find it in your purse is such a panicky feeling. You can hear it wailing away, louder, then quieter, then louder again as you dig through the mountain of junk in your purse, getting closer to it, then burying it under sixteen gas receipts and a pair of gloves again. You know time is running out the longer that ringing continues. It’s like trying to get a victim out of a burning building. You’re trying so hard, but the sand is quickly pouring out of that hour glass. Your window of success closing rapidly. And then it stops. 1 missed call. Your victim died of smoke inhalation and is now being swallowed in a fiery blaze in the elevator shaft. And you find that god forsaken phone two seconds after the person hangs up. Tragedy.

I guess you could always do what Lady Gaga does, and secure your phone to your head.

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I’m not recommending it though.

..

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So many things accumulate in one’s purse. When you first get a new handbag, you put just the bare necessities in it. You feel so pleased that everything is so neat. You simply have your keys, your wallet, your phone, a camera, chapstick, a pen, and a pair of sunglasses. Then a month later there’s deodorant, compact powder makeup, eleven pens, fourteen dollars in change, dog treats, lip gloss, perfume, a cold french fry, wadded up receipts, lotion, movie ticket stubs, Tylenol, crumbs, candy wrappers, free-floating pieces of gum, plastic silverware, water bottles, multiple pairs of sunglasses, babies, rodents. The list goes on. Really the only solution to this issue is buying a new purse. Cleaning it out is not an option. You simply must purchase a new handbag, and hand-pick the items out of your old purse that you wish to transfer into the new purse. The “necessities.” And so begins the cycle once again.

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I woke up today to snow falling. I was ecstatic. Two hours later after I emerged from my office building, the snow had quickly accumulated. Everything was covered in a thick blanket of white, and the snow continued to fall heavily. Out came the Christmas music, immediately. I jovially chimed along with “Sleigh Bells” and “Jingle Bell Rock” in my car, dancing and stuffing Dove milk chocolate into my pie-hole all the while. This is what I typically do in celebration of the coming winter months. It’s really the only way to appropriately ring in the frosty weather.

WELL, I would write about more stuff, except that I can’t locate my phone (ironically), and all my blogging ideas are on it. So…….sorry. Bye.

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B:   “What color towels are you going to get?”

A:   “I like the yellow….and I also like the red. I think I’m going to get McDonald’s colors.”

High life.

Ladies and cross-dressing males, have you noticed the phenomena with high heels recently? Suddenly they went from “hell yeah I can rock this” to “holy shit, I’m wearing circus stilts, someone get me down from here.”

What is the deal? All high heeled shoes went from a comfortable 2 or barely manageable 3 inch height to skyscraping 5 and 5 1/2 inches. It’s extremely unreasonable. I would break both of my ankles just trying to walk from my apartment to my car, assuming I could even make it down the front steps. I’m no circus freak. I can’t walk on stilts, Mr. Madden. I look stupid enough as it is stumbling around at the bars on a Friday night without wearing hazardous shoes that would make me hobble about like a newborn baby foal.

Is this some sort of practical joke the fashion industry is playing on us mortals?  “Lol, watch them try 2 walk in these. They’ll totes think it’s what everyone is doing. Lol.”  Even if I were able to manage taking more than 10 steps in these ridiculously tall pumps, there is no way in hell I could last an entire night in them. IT JUST DOESN’T MAKE ANY SENSE, YOU GUYS!!!!

Sometimes when I’m in a large room, I like to look around and scope out things I could use to defend myself in case of an unexpected attack. I pan the room and say to myself, what could I wield as a weapon if the need should arise? Lamps, scissors, chairs, etc. You know, just in case. Does anyone else do this? I can’t be the only one.

Today while I was in line at Wal-Mart, I got the displeasure of viewing this fat hag’s glowing white chub and glorious tattoo:

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Comic sans font. “Dave.” Nice and classy. Dave is a lucky dude, isn’t he. This is probably one of the worst tattoos I’ve ever seen. Classic Pennsylvanian. This cow isn’t even too fat to walk, yet she chose to buzz around on a motorized cart because just like almost everyone else in Pennsylvania, she’s a worthless piece of crap.

WELL, time to catch up on some Always Sunny. I am two episodes behind. I’m not sure how this happened.

BYE!

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A:   “I wonder what the actors from Hocus Pocus are doing right now.”

B:   “Meth.”

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.

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

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

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

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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.

Pillow talk.

I was driving down the road today when I thought of something funny to write about. Being that I was manning a sports utility vehicle at the time, I didn’t have the means, nor the opportunity to jot it down. “I’ll remember it later,” I said.

I didn’t.

Alright, Lauren Conrad. You have sucked at life on your annoying reality tv shows in good old California, and for that, you are on my shit list. However, your Kohl’s clothing line has nearly completely redeemed you. Great threads. Just great. So much lace and chiffon and lovely neutrals and dusty roses and OH the goods. I need six million dollars to spend on trendy clothes. Someone win me the lottery.

It was decided that our pillows were in need of replacing finally. What once were fluffy, springy, puffs of comfort are now flat, lumpy, lifeless sacks of sadness. We needed new ones. After drooling uncontrollably over Lauren Conrad’s clothing line at Kohl’s, I made my way back to the bedding and started looking at the pillows. I didn’t know where to start. Shopping for new pillows is a daunting task. You stand there trying to hunch down and rest your head on the pillow which is enclosed in a plastic bag, then you start squeezing it with your hands in an attempt to gauge the firmness, except that doesn’t work because no one ever squeezes their pillows between their palms. What does this pillow feel like?! You stress. How does it compare to my old faithful?! AHHH!!!!!

Frustrating.

I went with a medium and a firm. The medium was a mistake. It swallows my head like an angel food cake made of down. Should have gotten two firms. Good thing Kohl’s has a rockin’ return policy.

Can anybody tell me what the F-CK Nicole Scherzinger was thinking when she put freaking Dexter through on The X Factor? Are you kidding me? Dexter is a kooky old homeless black man that has critters living in his hair. He wears platform shoes, stumbles around like a drunk prostitute with prosthetic legs, lives in an air-brushed denim jacket, and just scowls and screams. The man doesn’t even sing. He’s a crazy bum. What is this, Boiling Points? Also, Nicole, your long, dramatic pauses and unnecessary “build-ups” are really making me want to stop watching. Don’t be so kitsch. You’re just annoying. I’m sorry. You’re mega hot, but you’re being f-cking annoying.

And SIMON? Lay off the liquor. I don’t know if you noticed, but you put stupid f-cking Simone through instead of hot, angelic voiced Caitlin Koch. Simone is an idiot. I hate her. And then MELANIE?! You’re lucky you redeemed yourself and brought her back, because I was enraged and ready to boycott the television show. Little chubby Rachel and Melanie hold it down. Their voices move mountains. Drew Xzyq40wicz is also just incredible.

I’m really glad LA Reid & Rihanna aren’t total morons and got rid of the Vanilla Ice imitating pest named Nick Voss and his hopeless, irritating Elvis persona. His jitter leg? I wanted to fire a cannon at him every time he jitterbugged and Parkinsoned his ass around the stage. Ugh.

Little rapping Brian makes my day. Little niglet really gets me going. He’s great. And then Marcus? Marcus has the voice of a g-ddamn angel.

Well, time to go watch more shows about serial killers. Investigation Discovery Channel has got me by the balls.

….Stop lookin’ at mah mom! Mah mom!

X Factor joke. Whatever. Bye.

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“That’s what she got me for my birthday. Like, I know almost everything came from the Dollar Store, because I’ve seen it there.”

Buzz worthy.

Bath & Body Works needs to stop seducing me with their fall collection. I am defenseless. The aromatic candles, yummy soaps, and delicious shower gels and lotions? Are you kidding me? I can’t say no. Recently added to my collection are the following mouth-watering items:

"Autumn."

"Autumn Apple."

"Salty Caramel."

"Apple Crumble."

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These candles? Pass me a fork and knife. I’m going to need an intervention if they keep coming out with these irresistibly scented things, because I will start consuming them and consequently be nominated for the television show “Strange Addictions.”  These soaps will also make you weep:

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"Creamy Pumpkin."

"Sweet Cinnamon Pumpkin."

"Caramel Apple."

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These are just a spoon away from becoming ice cream toppings. I will drizzle these soaps over my meals and desserts. How can something smell so good and not be edible? Somebody explain. I want these in my mouth.

Moving forward.

I found a hummingbird laying in my neighbor’s grass this morning. Just fanned out on the lawn, unable to fly. I picked it up and held it for a moment to see if it had maybe just flown into a window and had stunned itself momentarily, but several minutes passed and it still couldn’t do bird things. I got my Dr. DooLittle on and brought it home. After placing it securely in a box, I headed to Petco and got myself a little hummingbird feeder with nectar in it and brought it home. Howard sucked down a great portion of it. He’ll be pooping everywhere in 45 minutes, I’m sure. That’s what happens when I drink too much anyway.

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Between writing that last paragraph and now, I did some research on the hummingbird. Howard is a girl. Also, she most likely got attacked by a fellow hummingbird in competition for the sweet nectar of a feeder, as Ruby-throated hummingbirds fight over food during the months of August/September when they try to fatten up for their non-stop 525 mile flight south over the Gulf of Mexico. Poor thing. I hope it eats tons of this nectar and gets better so I can stop protecting it from my dog who wants to play with it. I don’t have time to be a parent.

Does anyone else feel like the subscription cards they stick into magazines procreate while inside the magazine so that they pour out of the pages endlessly, one after another? It is unbelievable. How many post cards do they put into these things? Just when you think there couldn’t possibly be another, out fall two more, nagging you to sign up for a 24-month subscription.

I really do need to sign up for those subscriptions though. I’m wasting a LOT of money buying these mags individually.

I guess 800 subscription ads weren’t enough.

WELL, time to nurse my new friend Howard. I hope I don’t become infested with microscopic mites from it. That would piss me off.

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“Look, you can make it wet—you can fold it—-it’s still there. It’s paper towels!”

Carbivore.

I need to eat more fruits and vegetables. But….I’d rather eat butter.

All day long while I am out and about doing roofing things, dealing with asshole Western Pennsylvanians, and working up an appetite, all I dream about and look forward to is the moment I get home and can sit down and binge eat. It’s what gets me through the day. At the beginning of each day, I have high hopes that today I will eat healthfully. Lots of veggies and liquids, I plan. Then the day goes on, and all I want to do is dive into a swimming pool full of macaroni and cheese and then eat my way out, because damnit, I deserve it.

By the time I finally get home at night, I tear into the kitchen in a carb-consuming rampage, shuffling around the kitchen with a Wheat Thins box clutched under my arm, up to my elbows in crackers as I boil water on the stove for my pending spaghetti. I storm the kitchen grazing aggressively, and by the time my pasta is actually done boiling, I’m nearly comatose from the carbohydrate overload I’ve forced up on myself.

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Today I came home and boiled noodles. I ate plain old noodles with just butter on them. Carbohydrate desperation is what you call that. I have no shame.

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Tropical storm “Lee” has brought on continuous rain for the rest of the week. I will be doing nothing this week in celebration. I wish to sleep, surf the ‘net, and snack myself half to death. Except tomorrow. Tomorrow I have to go buy a vacuum.

I need to befriend employees of shwaggy department stores so I can get and use their discount on various material goods. I guess I could always apply and get a job there for that reason, too. I’d work there for an hour, buy a bunch of shit, and then be like, “Peace out motherf-ckers.”  That seems like a lot of work though.

I wish to spend all of my money on denim and leather goods. I don’t think it is possible for me to get enough of these things. Won’t someone just give me six million dollars? I think that’s enough. I need a sugar daddy. I need to win the lottery. I need stuffs.

WELL, I’m going to watch fifteen episodes of Law & Order SVU. SVU really gets me through my evenings. I hope this series never ends. If they discover medicines or herbs that keep people alive forever, and there turns out to be an extremely limited amount of these elixirs, I am very okay with those rations being given to the Law & Order SVU cast so that they may stay alive and continue to make suspenseful, dramatic crime shows until the day that I die.

Ta ta.

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B:   What do you call a black person who flies a plane?

J:   I don’t know, a terrorist?

B:   A pilot, you racist.

J:   Maybe where you’re from. This is America, and if you’re not white and you’re flying a plane, you’re probably up to no good.

“You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on.”

What the f-ck does this mean? I just viewed a photo on Facebook of some drunk girls with “You’re only as strong as the tables you dance on (hearts/peace signs/other arbitrary symbols“ Picnik’ed across the top. This literally means nothing. It makes no sense of any kind. So…if I were to climb upon a weak table and do the macarena, I am a weakling? Looks like I had better find Arthur’s round table and bust a move to prove my strength.

m3, b3iN cUt3. ♥

^ Caption under some huge girl’s profile picture. Why.

It is a sad day in the world of social media.

Moving right along.

“2-in-1 conditioning shampoo” is bullshit. Hotels need to stop acting like putting a miniature bottle with two tablespoons of shampoo that supposedly simultaneously conditions your hair when you use it is going to fly. It’s not. Without 100% real, pure conditioner, my hair is a tangled, matted, impossible rat’s nest. If I shampooed my hair without following with conditioner and then attempted to comb through it, I would literally have to cut all of my hair off. Forcing a comb through the ratty mess would be like trying to force a cinder block down a bathtub drain. It would be like trying to comb a fork through a chain link fence. It wouldn’t happen.

I recently saw a commercial on television advertising Krazee Glue. It showed a man jumping off an enormous bridge with his bungee secured only with Krazee Glue. He survived, springing back into the air with a smile on his face. I’m ready to sue for false advertising. I recently tried to repair an earring with Krazee Glue, and it didn’t adhere the earring to the post for more than a few days before it fell apart again. And you’re trying to tell me that I can bungee jump off the Golden Gate Bridge secured with Krazee Glue and be just fine? Stop it. Super glue is good for gluing your fingers together by accident. That’s about it.

I woke up this morning to rumbling thunder and heavy rain. This continued until lunchtime when the skies cleared and the sun beamed down. A co-worker’s computer screen was open to the Weather Channel, and the hour-by-hour chance for precipitation said this:

1 pm – 10%

2 pm – 10%

3 pm – 100%

4 pm – 10%

5 pm – 10%

….How does the weather forecast go from a 10% chance of precipitation all the way up to a 100% chance, and directly back down to just a 10% chance in a single hour? Sure enough though, when 3 o’clock rolled around, thunder cracked overhead and it began to rain. Bizarre indeed.

WELL, time for me to go digest my wonton soup. Nom nom.

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“All I wish to do today is go metal detecting with you, followed by hardcore thrifting.

 

Haha….initially my phone auto corrected to ‘hardcore thrusting.’”

 

Yumblood.

I have been living in danger for the past week. There is no where for me to turn; there’s no escape. I can’t hide.

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It’s the gnats. The gnats! They’re out for blood. The gnat sheriff is in town, and he has a warrant out for me, dead or alive. There is an army of rabid gnats stalking me like a ravenous lion after its prey. I can’t stand outside without being ravaged by clouds of these terrible, tiny flies. They fly directly into my eyes, get into my eyelashes, try to enter my skull through my ears, make a beeline for my nostrils, attempt to get into my mouth—-it’s alarming. I begin to panic. I look like a paranoid schizophrenic, flailing about, swatting my hands wildly about my face in an attempt to prevent the gnat army from getting into my orifices. It’s so awful. I don’t know why they’re after me. I smell like shit.

Actually, that’s a lie. I recently purchased DKNY “Golden Delicious.”

Actually, that’s a lie too. I went into Macy’s intending to purchase DKNY “Golden Delicious,” but left with Marc Jacobs “Oh, Lola” after spraying it on my wrist and liking it, and testing the DKNY fragrance and thinking it smelled like cat urine.

After this exchange, I went to the theater across the street and watched 30 Minutes or Less, during which the Marc Jacobs fragrance started to smell more and more like baby powder, and the DKNY evolved into sweet, delicious appley goodness. The movie ended, and I returned directly to Macy’s and exchanged the Marc Jacobs for the DKNY.

The point is, I smell yummy. That is why the gnats are after me.

Maybe they’re after my money, I don’t know. I don’t know what gnats are into.

I was watching Legends of the Fall recently, and started shaking my head at their mode of written communication. I do not understand how snail mail actually worked back in Western times. There was no USPS. You gave a young boy a letter addressed to a person who was out roaming around the mountainside on a horse, and somehow it got to that person. How did this ever work? How did some child ever successfully deliver a letter to someone with no address who was literally traipsing around the countryside? I don’t understand.

Thank god for gmail.

Goodbye, all.

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C:  How was your day?

B:   8:21pm

Great!

Better than yours for sure.

C:  8:21pm

Definitely.

I think OJ Simpsons day was better than mine.

And he’s black.

B:  8:21pm

…He has assloads of money.

And he got away with murder.

His day is better than everyones.

Boob Tube.

Attention all ladies and overweight males:  the perfect bra has been found. The search for comfort, steadfast elasticity, and a seamless silhouette has finally been nailed. Victoria’s Secret has created the most incredible bra ever, cleverly named the “Incredible Bra.”

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I am not even messing around about this. I had barely even finished putting this thing on and I was already in disbelief at how awesome it was. My boobs were smiling. They were actually smiling. No pinching, no tightening required, it was snug, comfortable, and seamless. I have boobs the size of hamburger patties, but I am constantly struggling with bra straps that are trying desperately to migrate south for the winter. I’m constantly having to tighten them and pull them up. Plus, they need readjusting about fifty times a day. After I bought one (okay, I bought two), I went directly into the bathroom at the mall, ripped off my old bra, and donned the new one. I could not have been happier. Big breasted women and man-boobs males, get out there and get yourself an Incredible Bra. You’ll thank me.

So the other night, Trent and I tried a delicious Italian restaurant nearby called DeNunzio’s. It was superbly delicious, and I will be returning multiple times before I leave Pennsylvania. This is not the point. What I’m getting at is the company we kept while dining at this lovely Italian Ristorante. Keep in mind it was a pretty classy joint; like, there aren’t ketchup bottles sitting on the table, and there aren’t sticker producing quarter-slot machines for children to run around and get fake tattoos out of or anything. There aren’t french fries on the menu. It’s a nice restaurant. ANYway, I look to my right after we were seated, and see this man sitting at the table next to us:

Yeah.

Nice pixelated camouflage mesh spandex tank top, you freaking weirdo. Are you serious? I wouldn’t even wear this to a tractor pull. What was this man thinking? Who buys that shirt? Who manufactures that shirt? Would a polo have killed you, Steve? Would it have? This shirt, if you insist upon keeping it (and God only knows why you would), is only acceptable to wear if you are mowing the lawn or jogging. And if you are doing either of those activities in it, it had better be before 5 a.m. when it is dark, and no one is up and around to witness you in it.

That man could not possibly have teenagers. They would have ripped him (and it) to shreds. Unless of course they all have that shirt. Some families do that sort of stuff…you know, for pictures. Usually that’s in all denim though, not stretchy, cut-off spandex fatigues. So bad.

The other day I was browsing some apps for my phone in the Droid Market, when I came across an interesting one and started reading reviews. This was one review/comment left by someone:

“Itz ohk I thinx itt kan be betrr.”

….

I’m supposed to take advice from someone who spells 6 out of 8 words incorrectly?

WHY do people type like this? I’m so serious about exterminating people like this. It needs to be done. We cannot allow degenerates like this to populate our earth. It’s poison to society. Stupids. So many stupids.

Okay, time to plunge into a piping hot bowl of wonton soup.

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“I am so hung over. My head ache? I am never drinking again. Either Nick or I threw up in his kitchen sink last night. We will never know who.

….I just dropped my pizza in the sink. Suicide is in my not so distant future.”