Tag Archives: food

Missed connections.

21 Nov

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:
“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.”

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Home is where Taco John’s is.

25 Oct

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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.”

The Golden Age.

21 Oct

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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!”

Souper hot.

11 Oct

There is a rogue mosquito flying around my living room. Nothing makes me more paranoid than an insect in my personal space. It keeps appearing and disappearing after I frantically and spastically wave it away. I will absolutely lose it if it sneaks up on me and sucks my blood. BOY do I hate mosquito bites.

My tomato soup is dead set on staying at a scorching 200 degrees. I feel like it’s been sitting in this bowl for at least 10 minutes. It’s still steaming like a river of molten lava. For all I know, someone switched my bowl of Campbell’s for a bowl of piping hot magma and sprinkled croutons on it as a cruel practical joke. “HA! Not soup, you have no tongue. Lol.” 

Tomato soup is made better by leaps and bounds with the simple addition of garlic croutons. It goes from elementary to gourmet in the blink of an eye. Unfortunately it makes your breath stink like ass. No pain no gain, though.

My amigo was just complaining about just now getting over the flu. “You didn’t get vaccinated?”  I inquired, as if I get vaccinated annually. (I don’t). I would rather endure four to five days of roller coaster chills/hot flashes, vomiting, and coughing like a SARS infested Asian than get pricked with a needle. BAH! I hate needles. Like, I really, really hate them. My father used to sometimes sneak up on me and stab me with a flu vaccine every now and again. I’ve become very weary and apprehensive of him lingering around during the holiday season. I’m all jumpy and uneasy. He grabs a pen and I karate chop him in the collar bone. You can’t be too careful. There’s nothing worse than the sneak attack needle stabbing. It’ll put you on the shit list straight away. Did you hear that, Dad?

…I’m onto you.

In other news, I have begun recording some makeshift at-home Garage Band songs on my computer. The quality blows, and sometimes it’s screaming loud and other times it’s quiet as a mouse, but take a gander if you wish. If you don’t like it, well…..my bad.

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That Adele, she really gets me going. P.s. – that is not me on the piano. The only thing I can play on the piano is “Deck The Halls,” and that’s with one finger.

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Hopefully I’m not just embarrassing myself on the world wide web. Only one way to find out.

WELLLLLL, time to go breathe my rank garlic mouth on others.

Kidding. That’s rude.

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R:   “Do you know this song?”

B:   “No.”

R:   “You don’t recognize this from prom?”

B:   “Randon, when you were at prom, I was in diapers shitting myself.”

Buzz worthy.

12 Sep

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!”

Feces Pieces.

11 Sep

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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.”

Never trust a skinny chef.

9 Aug

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.”

Pissing contest.

8 Aug

A 14 year old dog peed on my leg today. I was standing there minding my own business talking to its owner, and it lifted its leg and pissed on my foot. Stuck a flag of ownership right on my calf, as it were. I was pissed. You don’t just go around pissing on other people. This isn’t a party at R. Kelly’s house.

I spent the better part of the day dreaming about consuming a creamy, cheesy bowl of Velveeta Shells & Cheese and watching television up on my arrival home. The clock slowly ticked on, and as my long day finally came to an end, I made it back to my apartment and made a beeline for the kitchen cupboard. There, I was disappointed to find that all the boxes of Velveeta Shells & Cheese had been eaten. I was dismayed. I rummaged further to find that we did still have some off brand “Great Value” macaroni and cheese, and figured it wasn’t a terrible substitute.

I brought the pot to a rolling boil and dumped in the pasta. As the timer slowly crept downward, I made my way to the fridge to get out the milk and butter.

We were out of milk.

Bah! I exclaimed. I double and triple checked the fridge to make sure I wasn’t just a blind retard, but found nothing. Then I thought, aha! I’ll just call Sharon, the lady who lives in the apartment above me, and see if I can run up there really quick and grab a half a cup of milk. I called. Busy signal. I called again. Still busy.

I called three more times. STILL busy. Who doesn’t have call waiting these days? This isn’t the Stone Age.

I opened the fridge again. Still no milk. I sank to using water and sour cream.

As you can imagine, it wasn’t the same. I ended up using a lot of ketchup to mask the slightly off flavor of the cheesy/watery/sour creamy mixture.

I went into the living room with my bowl of macaroni and question mark and plopped down on the couch, switching the TV on, hoping E! or Comedy Central would have something interesting enough on the air to distract me from the weird macaroni.

….I couldn’t figure out how to get it to work. So here I am, alone in silence with my shitty bowl of water noodles.

All in all the macaroni thing didn’t work out for me as planned.

I think it’s also valid to add at this point that my day started by being awoken by the harsh, shrill, and invasive sound of construction workers jackhammering the concrete street directly in front of my house. Not exactly the best part of waking up.

Tomorrow will be better.

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….right?

Bye.

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[Words With Friends]

Z:  [gadi]

B:  What the hell is gadi? Bitch.

Z:  Zouk??? Everyone gets one.

Fashion First.

4 Aug

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

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

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

Anyway, back to the Lunchable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy do I like their food though.

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

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

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“You can’t pee in here, Wilfred.”

“Why? Everybody else is!”

Seeing double.

17 May


Zooey Deschanel and Katy Perry are identical, biological twins. When is Mythbusters going to go ahead and prove this? I want a DNA test. It’s the biggest conspiracy since JFK’s death. If they’re not twins, they’re clones. Somebody’s hiding something.

Speaking of twins, I would really like to see Jennifer Aniston’s. The gossip news had my hopes up, telling me her rack would be out on display for the world to see in her upcoming movie “Horrible Boss.” Unfortunately E! squashed that rumor and spoiled the fun. How does this woman stay so impossibly sexy all these years? I’d stick it to her.

I hope she reads this.

(She won’t).

Haagen-Dazs has really figured out how to nail their flavors over there at the ice cream factory. It’s like they have an ice cream laboratory where they’re breaking down the science of putting actual desserts into ice cream form, and they’re doing a REALLY fantastic job of it. Recently I have tried the bananas foster, the blueberry crumble, and the spiced peach crumble flavors, and MY god are they ever good. They absolutely put the original desserts to shame. The flavor descriptions they describe on the containers themselves are mouthwatering on their own. They describe the flavors like a fine wine. It gives me a woody just reading about how the ice cream is going to taste before I even get to taste it. Let me give you an idea; let’s use the blueberry crumble:


Simmered ripe blueberries folded into dense blueberry ice cream with rich, buttery cobbler crust crumbles.

Flavor top notes: Bright, ripe blueberries.

Finish notes: Sweet cream, tart fruit, buttery cobbler crust.

I just salivated on my space bar.

It’s more mind-blowing than your taste buds can possibly imagine. You need to experience this elixir of life. Don’t waste any more time. Your tongue will do the macarena in your mouth, and give your molars a lap dance. What I’m trying to say is, Haagen-Dazs is like your mouth on ecstasy.

Do yourself a favor and boost it to the nearest grocery store, STAT. I might go ahead and purchase an extra deep freezer unit so I can stock pile it top to bottom with these delicious, decadent flavors, just in case Haagen-Dazs means business with this “limited edition” stuff. You would be wise to do the same.

My dog went on poop strike for two entire days. This was frustrating because it was raining 80% of the time those two days, and I spent more than 10 minutes at a time on probably 6 or 7 separate occasions standing in the wet, cold down-pouring precipitation waiting for him to stop holding out and drop a deuce. “Surely he has to give in soon,” I thought. “I mean the dog usually poops 3 or 4 times a day. There’s no way he can just quit cold turkey for 48 straight hours,” I rationalized.  He did though. He refused to ‘do the 2’ from Friday afternoon until Sunday night. Hopefully he’s back on schedule, because this rain is not stopping for another 8 days it looks like. I don’t have time for this shit. (That pun was totally intended).

WELL, I’m off to stuff my face with more blueberry crumble. Adios, amigos.

Rebecca.

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“Don’t be angry just because I bought some kickass donuts.”