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.”

The Golden Age.

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don’t let anger ruin your life

^ Another search term that someone used that landed them on my blog. Clearly they came to the wrong place. If anger didn’t consume my life, I would have very little to talk about. You’re welcome.

Drove by (okay, through) McDonald’s today. Looks like the McRib is back. When are they going to stop crying wolf about the McRib? Every time it comes out, it’s “out for a limited time ONLY!”  McDonald’s is to the McRib as Brett Favre is to football. Either retire it or don’t, McFavre.

We only have 3 more days to play McDonald’s Monopoly, boys and girls. This means that I have a legitimate excuse to go overboard with large fries and medium Dr. Peppers this weekend other than “I’m fat” or “I deserve it.” My amigo Alison, myself, and my cross-country friend Mr. Kocourek decided to join forces to increase our odds of winning.

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I would like to win a million dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win fifty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win a car so I can sell it for twenty-thousand dollars. If that’s not possible, I’d like to win free McDonald’s french fries for the rest of my life. If that’s not possible, then this isn’t America.

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I am ghost-like. My tan is fading rapidly. I am beginning to resemble a person in hospice. All the colorful life draining out of my flesh, death slowly taking over. I need to start tanning. I am leery of sunless tanning lotion. A girl I know has been using it just on her face and neck, and she looks like a bronze goddess. The only problem is, I imagine that when she is not clothed, her tan head looks like a brown paper sack on a white ghost body. Then again, it’s not like I’m parading around in the nude for everyone to see my color progression. At least not on weekdays.

I recently dug through about a thousand old photo albums from my late high school/early college years. Boy are they something. I was fatter, drunker, and whiter, if you can believe it. I don’t understand how we all partied like we did back in those days. We were unstoppable binge drinking machines. Nothing could get us down. Not even a .34 blood alcohol content or the police.

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In those days we would start drinking at 2 pm, doing beer bongs in the shower while we got ready, and taking shots well into the night. Somewhere in the midst of blacking out and doing keg stands, we would rally a gang to go tearing through Taco Bell in a loud, drunken stupor, barfing all over their single stall bathroom and stealing an unnecessary amount of mild sauce packets. We would scream with disbelief when bar-close came around, complaining with excessive foul language that the night was still young, returning to our respective dorms/apartments and continue to throw booze down our pie holes, blaring DMX at an ungodly decibel until 3 or 4 in the morning when we finally decided to go to bed.

Now I have two drinks, I’m hammered, and I sneak away and go to bed. I even get hung over. How did this happen? Next thing you know, we’ll be applying for social security. Olds.

WELL, time to go. Goodbye everyone.

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“That’s the hot water, turn it off! TURN IT OFF!”

“I’m SORRY, I’m not used to using my foot as a HAND!”

Never trust a skinny chef.

My roommate (husband) has been watching Masterchef for the last couple of hours. Or should I say Masterdouche.  I’ve seen freshman cat fights that have been less dramatic. I would very much like to choke each and every person on that television show. More importantly, I would like to slaughter this man simply because of the way he looks.

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They say to never trust a skinny chef, but my personal policy is to never trust someone who is large enough to eat you. This man is a hog. Like, he might actually be a direct descendant of swine. He is such a fat bastard. Like, he could have guest starred in Saw III as one of the pigs that went through that giant destructive machine that turned all the dead piggies into a pig smoothie of sorts (gag).

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V – Uncanny resemblance.

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I went on an absolute cleaning rampage today. I went to bed with plans to go measure and inspect a few properties in the morning, but awoke to torrential rains and nonstop crackling thunder and lightning. Something came over me and I cleaned the shit out of our apartment. I turned into a Merry Maid in the blink of an eye. Apparently turning 23 put me into domestic housewife mode (temporarily). I mopped the kitchen floor, vacuumed the entire house, did two loads of laundry, washed the dishes, cleaned the toilets, scoured the shower, disinfected the counter tops, cleaned the sinks, took out the trash, organized the living room, and then topped off the extravaganza with a quart of Febreze, a Bath & Body Works Wallflower, and rubbed my dog down with a Downy dryer sheet for good measure.

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I won’t touch another Lysol wipe til Christmas.

I want you to go ahead and search images of “vacuuming” on Google right now.

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Oh my god, you lazy f–ks, here:  http://www.google.com/search?tbm=isch&hl=en&source=hp&biw=1108&bih=624&q=cleaning&gbv=2&oq=cleaning&aq=f&aqi=g10&aql=&gs_sm=e&gs_upl=1265l2097l0l2764l8l3l0l0l0l0l139l272l0.2l2#hl=en&gbv=2&tbm=isch&sa=1&q=vacuuming&oq=vacuuming&aq=f&aqi=g10&aql=&gs_sm=e&gs_upl=137056l138035l0l138092l9l3l0l0l0l0l536l768l1.1.5-1l3&bav=on.2,or.r_gc.r_pw.&fp=f065e8756ae6259d&biw=1108&bih=624

Just browse the photos. Why are all these people smiling? Nobody is traipsing around their living rooms having the time of their life whilst pushing around a bulky vacuum cleaner picking up pet hair and dead skin cells. Who are these people?

The vacuuming needed to be done so badly. I purchased a $32 Dirt Devil from Big Lots upon my arrival to Greensburg, and it worked for about 11 seconds before it turned into a useless hunk of plastic that clogged constantly. Had I been blindfolded and someone attached a dead cat to the end of a vacuum handle and had me run it back and forth across the carpet, I wouldn’t have known the difference. The Dirt Devil did nothing more than move carpet particles and tufts of dog hair around the room. My next door neighbor, Kathy, let me borrow her prehistoric vacuum cleaner that was probably made in 1985. It weighed about a hundred pounds. I was drenched in sweat by the time I finished. It looked like I had run the mile. Dammit it worked though.

Nothing ruins a delicious frozen fudgsicle treat like the wood stick it is frozen onto. I cannot stand the feeling of my teeth on that wooden stick, nor can I stomach the taste of the wood on my tongue. It is truly like nails-on-a-chalkboard feeling to me. Why don’t these companies put popsicles and things of the like on plastic sticks? This would solve the problem. It would also be recyclable that way. I am going to start boycotting wooden stick treats. You should all join me.

Sign up sheets are at the back of the room.

Ok, bye.

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“Did you ever play this game as a kid?  ‘The floor is lava!‘  They all meant the same thing. You were poor.”

Hot dog.

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.

Pennsylgaynia.

I have lived and visited many, many places in and out of the country in my 23 years on this round (or flat, depending on who you’re talking to) earth, and after my travel experience, I can say without a doubt that western Pennsylvania is one of the most dismal, grumpy, rude places in all the world. I despise it. The people here (with a few exceptions) blow. They just absolutely blow. They don’t know how to drive, they don’t understand common courtesy, they’re rude, ignorant, ugly, and impolite, they don’t sell alcohol in the grocery store—-the list goes on and on. Which brings me to the meaty portion of this post:

Things that are better than western Pennsylvania:

1.  The DMV

2.  Bear attacks

3.  Ovarian cysts

4.  Income taxes

5.  Unplanned pregnancies

6.  Polio outbreaks

7.  Amputation

8.  Hangovers

9.  Paul Giamatti

10.  Ke$ha

11.  Heart attacks

12.  Prison

13.  The line at the post office on Christmas Eve

14.  Heroin addiction

15.  Headlice

16.  Wildfires

17.  Scabies

18.  Britney Spears’ “Gimme More” performance at the 2007 VMAs

19.  Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face

20.  Drawing blood

21.  Gas prices

22.  Charlie Sheen’s ability to be a school teacher

23.  Marshall Mathers’ emotional stability

24.  This:

25.  ….and this:

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That about sums it up.

Uncontrollable diarrhea > western Pennsylvania

The end.

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“Clogging the toilet is the worst. I hate close calls. The feeling you get after you realize you DIDN’T clog the toilet is exhilarating, especially at someone else’s home.”

Larger than life.

Why do the fattest people drive the tiniest cars?

On too many occasions I have watched Free Willy waddle from the exit at Burger King to their tiny Chevy Cavalier, come crashing down into the driver’s seat, noticeably shifting the car into a deep driver’s side lunge of sorts. It’s like watching someone sit on a see-saw with no partner. The car is practically driving on two wheels. It is going to tip over. Is this safe? It’s like, you don’t put a bottle-nosed dolphin in a jacuzzi. You put it in an enormous whale tank at Sea World. You don’t put a German shepherd in a hamster cage. You don’t put Bruce Vilanch in a Hyundai Accent. I guess I thought this was just common sense.

UUUGGGHHHHH, I am dreading my 6 finals this semester.

JuSt KiDDiNg, I’m a college drop out. I always know when it’s finals time, because viewings of my blog spike dramatically. People would much rather read about my life and the things that I despise than bury their faces in their political science study guides. It’s not rocket science.

I’m not sure how the Asians do it, but they do not age like other human beings of different nationalities. Asians remain youthful looking for years and years, not showing a single telltale aging sign such as a wrinkle or grey hair as they creep upward in age. Then all of a sudden when they hit like 80 years old, it comes all at once. They lose 2 inches off their overall height, their hair turns white, and their eyelids sag down to their upper lip. They go from spry to nursing home in the blink of an eye.

Typical aging progression pattern of an Asian:

Age 20:

Age 35:

Age 50:

Age 65:

Age 80:

Age 81:

It’s weird.

This is all too familiar:

http://www.explosm.net/comics/2396/

I hate sitting down on the toilet to do my business and then realizing I’ve forgotten to grab my cell phone to entertain me for the long haul. At that point I’m already too committed to the deuce that I can’t just get up and waddle to the kitchen to grab my Blackberry off the counter. It’s too late. I’m stuck. I must lay in the bed I made for myself, as it were. Time seems to run on and on. I find myself grabbing at anything within arm’s reach that has words on it. Next thing I know, I’m reading the active ingredients in Degree Body Response deodorant like it’s the New York Times.

WELL, I’m off to probably do exactly what I just described. Goodbye.

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C:  Oh no. There is a ‘glitch’ in the restrooms at the wedding reception.

B:  Jesus take the wheel.