Tag Archives: Facebook

The dog days aren’t over.

4 Sep

The temperature outside reads 93 degrees. The heat index because of the inconceivable amount of humidity (96%) is 109. ONE HUNDRED AND NINE DEGREES!

It is September 4th.

I was very close to actually dying today from the heat. I have never experienced such oppressive humidity before in my life. It was so bad. I could see it. It looked like fog settling in over the entire city for miles and miles. I was sweating hand grenades. I held my Droid up to my ear for a few minutes while I spoke on the phone, and my arm was literally dripping with sweat. I am now in my living room sitting on my couch with an ice pack on my lap, and my computer on top of the ice pack, because it is too FACKING hot even to have my computer on my skin.

Good one, Mother Nature. You got us. Now stop being a jackass and drop the temperature by about fifty degrees. I could not possibly be more antsy for fall weather. All I want to do is be comfortable and snuggly in hoodies and jeans and not sweat my ass completely off of my body while riding in my un-air-conditioned vehicle.

A girl recently requested my friendship on Facebook. I clicked on her name to browse her profile before deciding to accept or not. This was her current profile picture:

This was the one after that:

Can you guess what the rest were like? I’ll give you a hint: they made up the Jurassic Park cast.

Different strokes for different folks, I guess.

My phone keeps auto correcting to stupid things. For example, it sends “Baghdad” instead of “hahaha” on a regular basis. Someone says something funny, and I reply, “Baghdad.”  It doesn’t make any sense. Why would anyone ever talk about the Middle East more often than they would laugh? I guess unless you’re a POW. Then again, most POWs probably don’t have cell phone privileges, so we’re back to Point A.

Recently I ended one of my posts with a quote from a television show that I found humorous, which was “And that is why you don’t get your money’s worth when you wear jeans to a strip club.”  Shortly after, I discovered on my blog info that tells me what search terms lead people to my blog that somebody out there in the world Googled “Why don’t you get your money’s worth when you wear jeans to a strip club?”   Baghdad. Someone didn’t get it and wanted to find out.

WELL, time for me to sweat to death. Bye bye.

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C:   “I’m drunk and watching Titanic in my bed.”

B:   “I am also watching Titanic. I am getting emotional. Such a sad love story. Leonardo just gets me.”

C:   “My emotions are knocking at the door, too. But when she blows that whistle, BOY is that uplifting. She really wants to go on, you know? Her heart wants to go on.”

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C-section.

27 Jul

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What if pineapples weren’t grown, but born? Imagine squeezing a prickly, thorny ass pineapple through a birth canal. The horror! How do porcupine mothers do it? Why don’t they just lay eggs? And why would anyone have sex with a pineapple?

I hate it when people post questions on Facebook like, “Does anyone have any extra tickets to the concert tonight?” and then fourteen douche bigalos reply with “no, sorry.”  Listen. The person is already anticipating that most people do not have them; don’t waste their time by telling them you don’t have what they want. They are looking for people who do.  Informing them that you do not have what they want is not going to help them even a little bit. Is this really something that has to be told to people? WHY CAN’T PEOPLE THIIIIINK!?!?!?

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I’m not sure what it is about old men over the age of 65, but they think that social rules do not apply to them. I know it’s 400 degrees, but being 70 years old does not give you special permission to putter around shirtless in public. I have seen so many saggy skinned, liver-spotted old farts strolling around outside without their shirts on this week. Nobody wants to see your tits, gramps. Put it away.

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My dog is laying on the kitchen floor woofing in his sleep. His lips and cheeks are flapping about with every whooping woof that escapes him. Now his legs are twitching. I wonder what this dog is dreaming about. What on earth DO dogs dream about? Chasing rabbits through grassy fields? Do they have weird senseless dreams like humans do, like being able to talk to whales and fly and trying to run from murderers but not being able to move? Do dogs have nightmares?

I’m losing it.

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I just saw a preview for a television show called Hillbilly Handfishin’. More commonly known as “noodling.” This is a fishing technique used to catch catfish where the fisherman reaches down into holes in riverbanks with their bare hands and waits for a man-eating catfish to latch down on their arm with their mouths, yanking the fish out of the bank and catching it.

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I could not do this. I would squeal like a pig that was on fire, covered in bats, and being chased by a lion. I would embarrass myself so badly that no one would ever want to speak to me again. I don’t understand how people do it. Doesn’t it hurt? It’s so gross.

I’ll leave you with another funny search term from this week from Jane Doe out there in the world wide web:

i am a woman why am i getting chin hair

Haha. That sucks.

Ok, bye.

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“Where do you work again?”

“It’s like a fancy bowling alley.”

” ‘Fancy bowling alley’ is an oxymoron.”

Making a comeblack.

22 Jul

I arrived at the home of an elderly man approaching his upper 80s this morning for a routine roof inspection. I informed him it would take me 15 minutes or so to scope everything out. He replied with, “Good, that gives me some time to check my Facebook.”

He wasn’t kidding. I checked.

Frank. 33 friends.

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Apparently Rebecca Black didn’t get it the first time. After an online backlash bludgeoning of Nagasaki-proportions, she still remained delusional enough of her imaginary talent to come out with yet another song for the world to mock. “My Moment” confirms what everyone in the world already knew; she sounds like indigestion, and looks like a downie.

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.“But guys, I can’t dance,” she says to the producers as they outline what they want for the video.

“Oh, that doesn’t matter,” they retort as they wave their hand. “We’ll do about 400 split second shots of you moving your arms and legs and then edit the shit out of it until it’s one big pixelated, choppy blur and no one can even tell what’s going on—-basically the same thing that we’re doing with your voice.”

“Oh, okay,” she says, and reapplies lipgloss.

“Oh yeah—and be sure to fake laugh a lot and smile like a lunatic so people think you’re unaffected by the violent hatred and suicide-encouraging negative feedback you got from the last song,” they add.

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Did they instruct her to constantly blink slowly and deliberately throughout the entire video, or did she do that on her own? She looks like an insane person. A crazed person who has just decided they’re going to eat someone.

I like that there are young children in the background wailing away on the guitar, when absolutely no guitar tracks are even heard. All I hear are synthesizers, keyboards, and autotune.

I wonder how much money they had to pay everyone to stage fake red carpet appearances and limo rides and pretend paparazzi for this video. I’d like to point out at this point the black man from her original “Friday” video making a cameo as a “paparazzi” at 3:06. Is that not enough of an indication that you’re not famous and talented that you have to stage and hire “fans” (relatives) because you don’t have any real ones? Sounds like a classic case of common sense to me. Then again, I’m not retarded. Black doesn’t have much to work with in that arena.

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Facebook stopped conveniently showing me when it was everyone’s birthday on the right margin of my home page. Thanks a shit ton, Facebook. You’re making me look like a bad friend.

Speaking of birthdays, mine is on Sunday. I will be celebrating by consuming an excessive amount of Italian cuisine, Funfetti birthday cake (is there any other kind?), and digging through my mother’s care package which is always full of delightful goodies. You may send $20s and $50s via mail or PayPal. Thanks.

Bye, fans.

Kidding. Bye “Hans.” My friend Hans likes to read my blogs.

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“I’ll tell you what you’re about to find is my foot in your ass!”

“I don’t think we have enough lotion for that.”

Hot dog.

9 Jul

A cat requested my friendship on Facebook today.

I wish I could say that it was the first time.

Today was another roaster. My vehicle clocked the earth at 93 degrees mid-afternoon. I was a raunchy, unpleasant carcass by noon. Seriously. I smelled like I cut an onion in half and rubbed it under my armpits, and then a child at a carnival vomited a lamb gyro on me. Nobody wants to be a part of that. All I want at this very moment is for it to be a brisk 40 degrees in autumn, up to my eyeballs in vodka-sodas donning University of Iowa gear, tailgating my day away and stealing cheesy brats from neighboring tailgates. Is that so much to ask?

On to this week’s strangest search terms:

i may be fat but you’re ugly and i can diet

does a cyclist look stupid with hair on their legs

people shitting themselves during marathons

صور ماكدونالدز

i have a double chin and im only 12

pooping cucumbers

do girls like chevy cavalier

The most baffling (next to the obvious, pooping cucumbers) has to be the Hebrew hieroglyphics. How on earth was someone led to my blog with that? I wouldn’t know how to make my keyboard produce those symbols if my life depended on it. Not even if I had a magic wand.

Well, maybe if I had a magic wand.

I would probably shit myself if someone forced me to run a marathon, too. I’m not real into exercise. I’m more into self-starvation as far as physique-preservation is concerned.

Does a cyclist look stupid with hair on their legs? Listen, Armstrong. When a bicyclist whizzes by me like a speeding rocket, the last thing I’m squinting to see is if said bicyclist has hairy legs or not.

To the 12 year old with the double chin: It only gets worse from here.

No, girls don’t like Chevy Cavaliers. They also don’t like boys who Google how they feel about Chevy Cavaliers. You lose.

My dog is bored. It’s 93 degrees outside. Sorry, dog. There is no amount of whining, coaxing, or sad-puppy-eyes-ing you can do to get me to go out into that dreadful, oppressive sticky heat to walk you, chase you, or play fetch with you.

You don’t even know how to play fetch anyway.

…or read.

Okay, I’m the idiot.

My kitchen sink smells like a dead body. I can’t determine the source. I do know that my sink does not double as a garbage disposal. Therefore, it is likely that the pipe is filled with grimy sour cream, scraps of meat, soggy macaroni noodles, and fourteen different species of mold. It smells like someone stuffed a raccoon carcass down there. One might mistake the malodorous stench for a beached whale decomposing on the shore. It’s so gross that I’m basically just banking on the germs themselves being so disgusted by it that they just move out and solve the problem on their own. We’ll see how that pans out.

Well, I’m off to shovel delicious Italian food into my pie hole, and then go see Horrible Bosses. I can’t wait. I hope to laugh myself silly. I hope to be the silliest sally in town after watching this movie.

Teehee,

Rebecca.

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R:  Let me flick you as hard as I can.

B:  No.

R:  Come on, just one solid flick.

B:  No, Randon.

R:  Just once—

B:  Randon, I’ll make you a deal. You can flick me if you chug the rest of that nail polish remover.

R:  What? How is that fair? You get flicked, and I die?

B:  You aren’t going to die. It’s extremely flammable. You might want to stay away from open flame.

R:  I would definitely die from that.

B:  It’s only half full. Stop being such a drama queen.

T:  “Harmful if ingested.” Doesn’t say kill.

Too much inforgaytion.

25 May

“Finishing up dinner.”

That is a status update I just read.

…….a mobile status update.

Was letting everyone know that you were almost done eating your supper that pressing of an announcement that you had to reach for your cell phone between bites of beef stroganoff, log on, and inform everyone via Facebook update? What is going on with the world?

I think it’s time to start creating some sort of guideline for status updates. There are certain announcements that need not be shared with everyone in your network. Here are a few unnecessary categories that you can skip out on informing the rest of us of:

Irrelevant updates. These are the status updates that do not matter to anyone else in the entire world. Examples:

“Jared Blake – ironing my bandanas!”

“Melissa Pierce is reading Twilight again lol. #obsessed.”

“Danielle Wright is tanning!!”

“Stephen Morris: just bought a power washer.”

Riveting information, guys, but idgaf.

Emotional updates. People don’t feel sorry for you when you post country song lyrics about heart break and abuse the ellipsis to express your discontent. Examples:

“I just don’t know what to do anymore…..”

“What happened to us….. </3”

“*sigh*”

“Thought it was gonna be a sigh of relief but now I just wanna scream. F*ck emotions sometimes. I hate that I care so much sometimes bc it hurts so bad.”

^ That one was actually real. Write this shit in your diary and stick it under your mattress. Nobody cares about what’s going on inside your teenage angst gripped heart.

Updates that are directed toward one individual person in particular. If you have something to say to someone, say it directly to them. Send them a text message. Call them. Send them a fax. I don’t care what you do, just don’t post it to everyone else in your network. If you’re going to yell at your ex-boyfriend for cheating on you, then yell at your ex-boyfriend for cheating on you. At him. Not at everyone else.

“Omg Travis, I can’t believe you would do that 2 me; I gave you everything! Such a prick, guys r all the same. Don’t talk to me ever again.”

“You really find out who your friends are….”

“You are SO annoying.”

Emoticons. These aren’t even updates.

😦.

😛.

I also hate seeing people comment on their friends’ Facebook walls things like, “Text me!” or  “Hey, I’m going to BBM you later.”  Just…do those things. Just “BBM” them. Don’t inform them via a different technological medium that you’re planning on doing it. Just do it. Why would you write on someone else’s Facebook wall that you would like them to text you? Why wouldn’t you just…text them? People are so, so special.

Get real, folks. Bye.

-Rebecca.

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“Don’t you love it when people in school are like, ‘I’m a bad test taker.’ You mean you’re stupid. Oh, you struggle with that part where we find out what you know? Oh, I can totally relate; I’m a brilliant painter, minus my god-awful brush stroke. Oh, how the masterpieces crystal up here, but once paint has hit canvas, I develop Parkinsons.”

Red hot.

15 May

We got Comcast cable for our apartment here in Greensburg last week. This is the first time I have had cable television in over three years. Er go, I am now finally able to be in the loop about the major current events and goings-on in our world;  terrorist attacks, who’s pregnant, who died, who got arrested for coke charges,  the weather forecast. Usually I find out about these things via peoples’ vague and unclear Facebook status updates.  Suddenly I start seeing statuses that say things like,  “Praying for the people in Japan,”  and,  “I can’t imagine what it would like to be living in Japan right now,”  and I’m sitting here going, “What happened in Japan? Polio outbreak? Did SARS make a comeback? Was there a tsunami? Earthquake?”  I try connecting the dots, making my own assumptions and gathering clues until I get some sort of idea of what might have happened in Japan. It takes me at least six days to get the story straight.

Is The Weather Channel trying to seduce me? I’m sitting here minding my own business on the couch with my laptop in front of me, and suddenly this sultry jazz music starts oozing from my television. The lights dim. Suddenly I can smell oil and rose petals. I look up to see The Weather Channel showing me a low pressure system shifting across the northeast. What are they trying to do, get me to take my pants off? “It’s getting hot and sticky out there,” it says. Now I’m uncomfortable.

Moving on.

I just saw “Bridesmaids” starring Kristen Wiig. I laughed out loud like a little delirious lunatic child. Pretty good characters. Lots of great one liners. No demon-possessed squawking boy in the theater this time, although I did sit next to a little porker who couldn’t have been more than 9 years old, and he kept repeating all the swear words the entire time. We went through the entire movie without him commenting on any of the sex scenes, blowjob jokes, or beaver references, and then at the very end of the movie when “Annie” and “Rhoades” kiss, he yelled, “EWWWW!”

Kids are so stupid.

My armpits smell like wild roses. I am not being sarcastic. I didn’t just come from the gym after 40 minutes on the elliptical and am now making a joke about smelling nice when in reality I smell like the underside of Chris Farley’s belly.

My armpits actually do smell like delicious, fresh, wild roses. Dove “Wild Roses” deodorant crossed my path, and I couldn’t resist the temptation. I’ve been sniffing my underarms like an inpatient all weekend. My underarms are irresistible. It’s as fragrant as perfume. I’m delighted.

Starbursts has really figured their shit out. I’m delighted to find that they have cut right to the chase and started selling the best flavors without all the stupid ones in the same package. The best flavors being all the red ones, of course. Anyone who knows anything understands that the only good flavors belong to the red palette. They call it the “FaveReds.” Cherry, strawberry, fruit punch, and watermelon. Nothing but reds in the entire pack. What a great move. It wasn’t economical for me to purchase an entire bag of Starbursts if I was only going to pick out the red pieces and leave all the rest. What if I get a shit bag and only even get four reds in the entire package? They’ve finally cut out the middleman. I’m not the biggest fan of the watermelon, but I’ll take 75% deliciousness over a gamble any day.

Alright, peace out.

Becca.

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“It must be so nice to be married and have a family! Your kids—“

“Listen. Last night, I was at home making a really nice dinner for my family. My son comes in and says, ‘I want to order pizza!’  I said, ‘No honey, Mommy’s making dinner tonight.’ He says to me, ‘Go f*ck yourself, Mom.’  He’s nine.”