Holy humidity, batman.

 

 

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Why do doors that open automatically for you with zero action and 100% convenience on your part say “caution?”  You don’t need to caution me that there is convenience ahead. You need to warn me when doors are NOT going to open up magically for me so I don’t body-slam it, break my nose and lose my dignity.  There should be warnings for the opposite. “Caution: Manual Door. If you don’t take action on this door, you will slam into it face first, breaking your glasses, stubbing your toe, and embarrassing yourself publicly.” 

The heat will take my life. It’s hell on earth. I don’t know how much longer I can survive it. It has been above 100 degrees for 8 weeks straight now, many of those days reaching temperatures above 113, day in and day out with the exception of perhaps two days where it dipped into the low 90s. I don’t understand! Why does the earth need to get this hot? We already have ovens, God. We can bake our Tombstone pizzas and Pillsbury croissants in our GE Profiles, we don’t need to set them on our driveway to make the magic happen.

My weather app has just stopped giving me “sunny” or “partly cloudy” clipart to illustrate what it’s going to be like outside. Instead, it just shows this:

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There are just no words to describe how awful this heat wave is.

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You know it’s hotter than balls when the weather channel has to start using creative adjectives to describe how life-sucking the temperatures are.

The other day, the weather forecast predicted temperatures to actually dip below 100 for the first time in weeks, and it said this: “Monday: 94. Colder.”  COLDER? COLDER, AccuWeather?! Go wash your mouth out with soap. Unless I will be needing to don a cardigan, don’t tell me it’s going to be “colder” when it’s 94 f-cking degrees.

I have been sweating like a bitch. I get home from work everyday smelling like the gorilla complex at the zoo. I have never been sweatier. The humidity is thicker than Queen Latifa’s thighs. I feel like I need to start wearing goggles and flippers just to get through it. I’m so glad I’m not a plant right now. They are all just shriveling up and dying off.

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Missouri canceled all their 4th of July fireworks shows due to the extreme fire hazards flaming fireworks would pose. The grass is drier than Ben Stein’s sense of humor. One rogue roman candle would light this place up like Chicago in 1871. WHEN WILL IT END?!

Winter sounds like a myth now. It’s like Big Foot. Only rumors of it exist, supported weakly by vague recollections older people have of it that they are barely able to describe anymore with their faded memories. I can’t wait to be cold again. I’m starting to go to the grocery store just to hang out in the frozen meats section just to remember what goosebumps feel like. Give me autumn or give me death!

Well, time to go watch those athletic freaks of nature blow my mind in the Olympics.

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“I made a whole batch of those cupcakes, so if you like them and you want more, just say the word. But if you don’t like them….then just don’t say anything.”

 

The scent of a woman.

I keep snapping my head from left to right and nosing the air after catching whiffs of something really fresh and delicious smelling. *Sniff sniff*–what is that fantastic smell? I wonder. Then I realize it’s me. More specifically, it’s my shirt, because Tide laundry detergent + Febreze is the elixir of life and Proctor & Gamble’s gift to the world. Every article of clothing comes out smelling like what I imagine David Beckham smells like. My clothing emits a delightful, welcoming and comforting aroma of freshness like a field of wild flowers on a spring afternoon. I want to eat my shirt. It’s irresistible. I recommend it.

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Coincidentally, I just logged onto Yahoo News to find other shit to write about, and the first story that caught my eye was the following:

http://news.yahoo.com/blogs/trending-now/tide-detergent-being-stolen-stores-across-country-162253268.html;_ylt=Aiht5k2xXggiSp4Ij_KL3yKs0NUE;_ylu=X3oDMTNqbW1zNWxxBGNjb2RlA2N0LmMEcGtnA2IyNGRiMDM5LTBkYTAtM2M5Yi1iY2NjLTYxYTA4ZmIzMzQ3OQRwb3MDMgRzZWMDbW9zdF9wb3B1bGFyBHZlcgNjYTEwOTlhMC02ZGQ2LTExZTEtOGZhMy02YjdhZjM5NTU4MjM-;_ylg=X3oDMTFrM25vcXFyBGludGwDdXMEbGFuZwNlbi11cwRwc3RhaWQDBHBzdGNhdAMEcHQDc2VjdGlvbnMEdGVzdAM-;_ylv=3

^ People stealing Tide. Haha. It’s not about the drugs, Yahoo. It’s about the heavenly smelling Tide.

Tide + Downy is also orgasmic. Try them both, choose for yourself.

The Voice continues to grab me by the balls. I love this show. I also love Adam Levine’s face, eyes, mouth, and body. That is when I’m not so distracted by Christina Aguilera’s bazoongas to see it. What the f-ck is up with Cee Lo Green and his giant white cat?

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Am I watching The Voice or Austin Powers? The cat’s name is Mr. Purrfect. Unbelievable. One second I’m watching a very intense singing competition, and the next second I’m watching Cee Lo Green stroke his white cat in his red silk pajamas and make commentary on the show like it’s perfectly normal. He’s doing it to f-ck with everyone. Haha.

There is perhaps nothing more frightening than having a full bottle of soda erupt in your face while driving 80 miles per hour down the interstate in the winding, snowy mountains. The other day after five hours of intense snowboarding, my brother and I stopped at a 7/11 to get some garbage to put into our bodies to not help it recover from all the aggressive physical activity we put them through that day. We picked up some Doritos, Dr. Peppers, and Cadbury Eggs, gassed up the car and hit the road. About five minutes into the drive, I asked Richard to pass me my Dr. Pepper with much anticipation. With my knee on the steering wheel, I twisted the cap, and like Mt. St. Helens in 1980, it violently exploded all over the driver’s side of the car with the fury of a thousand volcanoes. I was literally dripping in Dr. Pepper from head to toe. I have no idea what happened. It was never shaken, bumped, or disturbed. Richard stared at me with his mouth agape. We were so confused.

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“I don’t even know what’s going on right now,” he said. Haha. I was pissed. My coat, pants, face, lap, seat, center console, door, and steering wheel were coated in sticky pop. What happened, Bill Nye? Did the cashier pull a prank on me? I did make her go through a bit of trouble with manufacturer’s coupons during the checkout……what a bitch.

Anyway, time for me to go paint my nails. I’m becoming a nail painting addict. It’s fine. Gotta keep my game tight, knowhadamsayne?

BYE!

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“Imagine your dick as a bus. Even a small bus is still a huuuge bus. You know?”

A cut above the rest.

Well, I trust you all enjoyed the Superbowl this past weekend. I didn’t. In case you’re wondering why, you can find a nicely arranged list of reasons here:  http://wp.me/pNzT7-ZJ

Superbowl Sunday does not give me a hard-on like most people. I despise football more than Lindsay Lohan apparently despises not being in jail. I did not watch the Superbowl, but I ate like I did. On Sunday I busted out a big ass block of Velveeta, a pound of chorizo, and a can of Ro-Tel and fired up the ol’ crockpot in preparation to whip up a nice fat pot of queso dip to enjoy for breakfast, lunch, and dinner until it ran out.

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After cubing the Velveeta and frying up the chorizo, I took the can opener to the Ro-Tel. Moments later, I stuck my finger under the lid of the Ro-Tel can to remove the top and dump out the zesty tomatoes and chillies, when -SLICE- , the stubborn aluminum lid sliced straight across my right thumb, leaving a deep cut that bled like a bitch.

“YYEEEEOOOOOWWWW!!!!”   I yelled (kidding, it was more profane). It was pretty deep, and bleeding profusely. Unfortunately, my father who usually stitches up my wounds is back in Iowa, and would be unable to tend to my gaping thumb cut. I had to act alone.

After applying pressure for about ten minutes with some tissues, I painted on some liquid bandage, and then tried to figure out what to do about the fact that my thumb was split wide open.

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I super glued it.

Duct tape is so 2011.

I am back in Colorado for a few weeks to enjoy some snowboarding. Unfortunately I have not  done any physical activity since March of last year. That’s eleven long months of being completely sedentary. Not even a jog. Not a single jumping jack.

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My body was not prepared. Day 1 was spent riding hard for six long hours at Breckenridge, followed by a three hour session at Beaver Creek the following morning. My body = destroyed. I need a wheelchair. My hamstrings, knees, and spine need some serious TLC. Won’t someone bring me a hot tub and some Percocet? I don’t think that’s too much to ask.

I hate it when people say  “slightly obsessed.”   Like,  “SoOoOo…I’m slightly obsessed with Glee.”   First of all, Glee sucks. Second, you can’t be slightly obsessed. That’s like saying you’re “slightly pregnant.”  Obsessed is an extreme. You’re either obsessed, or you’re not.

The Voice is back on television. I am absolutely jacked for a number of reasons. One, I love singing. Good singers give me a woody that could scrape the skies. Two, Adam Levine. Adam Levine is the sexiest man on planet Earth. He just is. I want to scream it from the top of a mountain. I love this show. Christina’s tits are as big as ever. They’re like beach balls. They have their own center gravity. They are just obnoxious. Blake Shelton, for some reason I like you, and I am happy to see you again. Cee-Lo, you have midget arms, but you say some funny shit.

Well, time to watch 11 more episodes of Dogtown. Talk to you fools later.

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“If I get strep throat, I’m gonna mail you some anthrax.”

Missed connections.

Listen everyone. I know you probably started to think that I had died or lost interest in writing or got into a horrific car accident damaging my brain so badly that I lost the ability to read, write, or eat solid foods, but I didn’t. The truth is….I’ve just been a lazy piece of shit. I am SO sorry. (For those of you who are reading this too quickly or who are stupid, that was seasoned heavily with sarcasm. In other words, I’m not sorry.)

Just kidding. I am sorry. I have dropped the ball and bored all of you readers who rely on this blog to make it through your shitty days at the office or your unstimulating college courses five days a week. Allow me to redeem myself. Nobody’s perfect, you guys.

ANYway, a lot has happened since the last time I blogged. I went shopping with Katie Holmes, I totaled my car, adopted a kitten, and was diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Just kidding. My car still sucks, I hate cats, and I’m healthy as a horse. I’m not kidding about the Katie Holmes part though. My good friend (yeah right, she’s a bitch) Alison and I were shopping in Southside, and who did we find ourselves shopping right alongside but Katie Holmes. Literally like right next to. Like, we could have touched her. Good thing we didn’t though, because there were two or three body guards roaming around pretending to be shoppers who would have electrocuted us with cattle prodders had we even looked at her queer.

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I’ve done a lot of clothes-buying this month. It’s bad. I moved out here to Pennsylgaynia this spring with like two shirts and a pair of pants (not kidding). Then suddenly I decided I needed more clothes since I left 98% of my wardrobe back in Iowa, so I “spruced up” the ol’ wardrobe. Actually I replaced my whole wardrobe. Meh. That’s what money’s for, right? I have a really hard time refusing autumn and winter wear, you guys. Sweaters, cardigans, jeans, boots, mittens, coats—IT’S SO GREAT!!!!! Anyway, I need to be invited to a bunch of parties and dinners and happy hours to show them all off now. Send invitations to 403 YEAH RIGHT LIKE I’M GOING TO GIVE YOU STALKERS MY ADDRESS!!!!!!

I’m out of control.

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So the holidays are HERE! I’m very excited. I am deeply saddened however that I will not be spending Thanksgiving at my parents’ house, being a glutton and stuffing my body with mountainous heaps of Thanksgiving fare.  😦   If I were back in glorious Iowa, I would currently be sitting at the kitchen table, blaring the Charlie Brown Christmas CD, chugging quarts of gravy, and consuming baked goods at an alarming rate. Oh boy. I have been whistling Anne Murray songs whilst traipsing up and down the grocery aisles, spreading Christmas cheer everywhere I go. I LOVE THE HOLIDAYS!

I’ve been using a lot of caps loc and exclamation points during this post. This is what happens when I let blogs build up inside me like this. Sorry for frightening those with heart conditions and/or pregnant or nursing women.

Anyway, since I am not going to be enjoying a Thanksgiving feast at the Sheppard residence this year, Trent and I are going to whip up some food ourselves. Granted, it won’t lay a finger on my mother’s gravy, but it’s better than eating Velveeta Shells & Cheese in celebration of the holiday. Our menu includes the following:

• Pheasant green bean casserole (….Trent went hunting last week)
• Chestnut stuffing
• Sweet potato pie
• Mashed potatoes
• Whatever else is on sale

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In case you aren’t aware, I have the biggest hard-on for yams. I love yams. I found this recipe that someone posted for this sweet potato pie, and drooled all over my keyboard and decided to try it:

PIE!

“Oh my gawd Becca, are you gluten intolerant? So cool that you’re trying to be healthy!”

Health has nothing to do with it, and I f-cking love gluten. This recipe just sounded dope. I used regular pre-made graham cracker crust, so there’s plenty of gluten to go around, folks.

Well, that’s all I’ve got in me for now. I will try to do this more often. OKAY?

Bye frans. Oh, and it’s not my birthday.

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T:   “I don’t think I want the dog getting on the bed anymore.”

B:   “Why!?!”

T:   “Because, babe. I watched him step in his own poop today. He stepped in his own poop.”

Home is where Taco John’s is.

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Only a few more short weeks until I can travel back to the Dirty Bluffs of Iowa and be reunited with the homies and skanks I grew up with. One of the first things I will be doing upon my arrival back in the Midwest is getting Taco John’s. Apparently they don’t believe in Taco John’s in the eastern hemisphere of the country. They don’t believe in a lot of things in this area of the country though. Politeness, courtesy, selling alcohol, using the left lane on the highway, gas pumps that stick so you don’t have to hold them with your hand the entire time you fill up, efficient road systems, Bank of America, pet friendly apartments, kindness, fun. The list goes on. There is really nothing here to miss when I leave. Except Sheetz. Sheetz is the one savior this dismal place has to offer.

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It’s like QuikTrip, but better. They have DELICIOUS french fries, fantastic milkshakes and other beverages, nachos, sandwiches galore, free air, perks, hilarious slogans, the cleanest bathrooms you’ve ever seen, AND it’s open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Sigh. This I will miss, and this alone.

Tonight’s going to be a great night. It’s Taco Tuesday, and the X Factor is on. That is unless baseball decides to so rudely stick its ugly head into my television schedule YET again, in which case I will be writing a very harshly worded letter to the MLB, mark my word.

I wish Facebook chat had away messages like AIM did back in the day. AOL had it all figured out. “Stepped out to lunch.”   “On the phone.”  “Be right back.”  They even let you make your own. “Dog just puked on the carpet – be back in 5.”  “Sprinting after the mailman.”   “I ate Peking Garden for lunch, now I’m exploding in the bathroom.”  I don’t like to have to log off of Facebook just because I need to go stir my pasta and I’m afraid someone might chat me up and I won’t be there to answer politely. Can’t I just leave an away message? This is such a simple addition to the already complex chat system they’ve created. What’s one more detail?

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It’s the time of year again where my hands are permanent frozen blocks of ice until the weather consistently reaches temperatures above 72 degrees. Shaking hands is super awkward. The person reaches in for a warm firm shake and is met with a deathly cold ice hand. They always jolt back, wide-eyed as if they just reached out and got an electric shock. It’s unavoidable. Someone get me battery operated heater-mittens, would you?

WELL, time to go.

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“What’s ‘Ron’s weed room?'”

“It’s a big room full of weed, and it’s Ron’s.”

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.

____________________________________________________________________

“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.”

The gift of giving.

Uh….Fox? First you put a friggin baseball game over The X Factor, and NOW you move X Factor to Sunday on top of DEXTER?!?!?!  Whoever is making the decisions up there needs to choke on a pickle and croak. To make matters worse, for some reason it is impossible to record The X Factor on the DVR. It gets all f-cked up. Looks like we’ll be watching The X Factor in real time, and watching Dexter immediately afterward. Sigh. Difficulties.

Last night before bed, my dog failed to take a dump. Meh, he’ll go in the morning, I shrugged. This morning when I took him out to do his business, he trotted to the end of the porch, realized it was pouring rain and gusting wind, and turned right around and marched back to the front door. I did manage to convince him to at least face the rain for a quick minute to take a pee, but he galloped back to the front door as fast as he could to get out of the driving rain (he’s a diva). Skipping two typical times to poop was unusual, but I figured he could wait until I got home after lunchtime to pinch one off.

My day dragged on, and by the time I finished my tasks at the office and ran to Wal-Mart to get some groceries, it was already 3:45 before I made it home. Trent had beat me there by no more than a minute. The front door opened, and out bounded Raleigh, followed by a displeased looking Trent. “Why don’t you go look at what your dog did,” he said distastefully.

I walked inside the apartment, stepping into the kitchen with a direct view into the living room. Trent’s birthday is on Monday, so there is a nice pile of festively wrapped birthday presents in the corner of the living room. They were all from me, except one. Looks like Raleigh left a “present” of his own. Directly next to the pile of presents was a big steaming pile of runny shit. Poor Raleigh had held his poop in for 18 hours longer than usual, and just couldn’t hold it any longer. When I didn’t get home until late afternoon, he had no choice but to let hell break loose on the living room carpet.

It was a bad one, too. Not just a tidy little dog log. This was a sloppy pile of mushy dog poo. Not ideal.

Anyway, that was my Friday afternoon.

Sorry about how gross that dog shit picture is by the way. Look how shiny it is.

….gross.

While I was at Wal-Mart today, I paused at a shelf at the end of the pet aisle and investigated this product:

“It’s a rain coat…..it’s a bandana…..it’s a…..rain bandana.”

…Is this the best they could do? That’s not even clever. They didn’t even give it a creative name. It’s meat…..it’s a loaf…..it’s a…..meatloaf.

Is anyone really going to buy their animal a rain coat? Is any animal actually going to wear a rain coat? I know my dog is a pussy about the precipitation, but I’m not about to slap a raincoat on him before he scurries outside to tinkle.

Well, that’s enough blasphemy for today I think. Time to bury my face in a million baked goods, compliments of my mother.

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“R is the most menacing of sounds. That’s why they call it MUR-der, and not muckduck.”

Feces Pieces.

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My dog rolled in shit again today. Right before I left for a nice fancy dinner at Red Lobster. He smelled like roadkill. Shit isn’t exactly Miss Dior Cherie. Terrible timing. I went back inside, squirted a hand towel with Dawn dish soap, and scrubbed his head and back with it, then left for my endless-shrimp meal. I wasn’t about to let a feces covered canine ruin my evening plans. After stuffing myself with seafood, I came home to my shit-fest dog, just ranking up the place. I had no choice but to give him an aggressive bathing.

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He knew. The little bastard tried to escape. For the first time ever he resisted the bath. He loves shit that much. Bird poop, cat poop, raccoon poop—he can’t wait to find it and rub his face in it. I’ve never known another creature to love the smell of shit as much as this dog. He did not want it to come off. I scooped his stinky carcass up and dumped him into the shower, where he received a very serious scrubbing with about half a liter of puppy shampoo. I almost had to use vinegar. Unreal.

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Tonight was the first time I ever ate at Red Lobster. I was suckered in by their endless shrimp special. Shrimp refills, as many as I want? Who can say no to that?

It was way too much. They served me enough shrimp to sink a shrimping vessel. I’m going to reek of garlic and butter and seafood until next Wednesday. Just like my dog. Except I smell like food, and he smells like diarrhea.

Red Lobster’s biscuits are a problem. They’re so delicious. I can see myself becoming physically dependent on them. They’re so buttery and soft and wonderful. I want to crawl inside one and hibernate for the winter, then eat my way out of it in the spring. Also, their mashed potatoes? Creamy heavenliness. Those two items alone would keep me coming back.

I like that they named the restaurant “Red” Lobster, as if we didn’t already realize that lobsters were red. Give me a “wet” water please, waiter. Redundancy.

Everyone in the restaurant was the size of a mini van. So many fats. They were there for the endless dishes too, obviously. Red Lobster is like a casino buffet for seafood. People who are eating there consider it a swanky meal because it has “lobster” in the name.

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I really love caesar salads. Nothing gets me going quite like a crispy, slightly anchovy, asiago and romano sprinkled caesar salad with crunchy croutons. Mmm. The issue that I have with salads however is that once I run out of croutons, it’s game over. I can’t keep eating just lettuce. It doesn’t work like that. I need some crunch in my lunch, you know?

I was really excited to get that to rhyme. It was anticlimactic.

Well, I hope you all had a wonderful weekend filled with whiskey, fast food, and shame. Until next time, I bid you adieu.

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“That’s what I’m talkin’ about.”