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.

___________________________________________________________

“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.”

 

Time out.

The Voice is starting to piss me off. My rage is uncontrollable. I don’t know where to begin to express my discontent with the judges. Christina got rid of Jesse Campbell, quite possibly the best male vocalist on the show. RaeLynn was one of my least favorite in the beginning of the show, and quickly became one of my favorites. When she rocked out “She’s Country,” I fell in love. Then Blake’s stupid ass kicked her off! WHAT IS HAPPENING!??!?! I feel like I’m taking crazy pills. I still like you, Blake. But…but…!!

Also, Christina is being a total C-word. What, she lost five pounds so now she gets to be a bitch to everyone? Her negative criticism is always unwarranted and rude in general. She needs to be slapped in the tits.

Now it’s down to the wire though. I am saddened that Lindsey Pavao has left us. I think Juliet Simms will win this show. She’s a badass. Jermaine has a good voice, no doubt, but something about him bores me, same as Javier Colon last season. It’s like….they’re so powerful and good technically, but lack character in their singing. I don’t know, they don’t grab me as individuals like the others do.

My aspartame consumption is really causing my memory to debilitate, and I keep blacking out other parts of the show. I can’t remember who is left anymore. Go Juliet.

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The world has destroyed my attention span. I used to be able to wait for dial-up internet, and now I can’t wait for a 10 second YouTube commercial. I get pissed when it takes longer than 2 seconds for my email to load. I’m aggravated when the gas station pump takes 8 seconds to print a facking receipt. I feel like a six year old waiting for Christmas Eve when my oatmeal is in the microwave for 1:30. It can’t be reversed. Impatience is now ingrained in my generation.

I am finally the proud parent of a gloriously simple and sophisticated white iPhone 4s. I could not be happier. Deactivating my Droid was like getting ice cream on a 100 degree day. I was overjoyed. I am amazed I had the self control to not hurl my Droid at a brick wall up until this point. Siri and I are best friends. I asked her what I should wear this morning, and she said, “What’s wrong with what you’re wearing right now?”  I asked her again about an hour later and she responded with, “I’m sure whatever you wore yesterday would be fine.”  Haha. Attitude. Thanks Siri.

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Of course after receiving my new phone, I had to go peruse through the apps and get all my conveniences set up for myself, beginning with weather.  I’m a real freak about my weather updates. I want to know the real temperature, the “feels like” temperature, the chance of precipitation hour-by-hour, the 10-day forecast—I need to be in the know. Anyway, while I was deciding which app to choose for my weather updates, I read a few reviews. One particular weather app had a comment from a user that read,

“Cool app but isn’t always right.”

….No shit. Welcome to the WEATHER, kid. Weather forecasts are never “always right,” you nimrod. That’s like saying, “The Celtics are good but they don’t always win.”  Sigh.

WELL, time to do work things. Bi!

_________________________________________________________________

B:  “The bad thing about rice cakes is that I eat like six of them at a time.”

A:   “That’s because they’re filled with air.”

UFC you later.

I have been cooking a lot lately. My vegetable consumption has skyrocketed. My countertop is covered in fresh produce instead of a Jenga tower of Velveeta Shells & Cheese boxes. It used to be really tricky for me to buy fresh fruits and vegetables, because they would spoil and grow a toupee before I ever got around to eating them. Now I can barely keep my veggie stock full. I feel like I’m buying spinach, mushrooms, tomatoes and lemons nearly every day.

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I wish I had a garden. Then I wouldn’t have to watch my food go bad. I could just pluck things fresh off the vine. Strawberries, for example, get moldy before they even reach my home from the grocery store. This pisses me off. I like potatoes though. Potatoes don’t go bad. They just grow more potatoes. I wish the other vegetables would follow suit.

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I’m in a room full of people watching a UFC fight. The two fighters in the cage right now happen to be Canadian. People in the room keep saying, “Becca, these guys are Canadian! Don’t you want to watch?”  as I type away on my computer. No. I don’t know why everyone thinks just because I am from Canada that I should give a f-ck about other people doing things who also happen to be from Canada. If there was a quilting convention being broadcasted on television and the two geriatric women needling away were both from Missouri, would you give a shit about that, Greg? I didn’t think so.

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Speaking of the Canadian thing, when people find out I’m Canadian, it is not uncommon for them to say something like, “Hey, I went to school with a guy named Jordan who was from Canada! Maybe you know him?”  Canada is f-cking huge. It’s larger than the United States. What makes you think that I would just happen to know one of the 34 million people from there? Good lord.

These UFC fights are insane. This guy’s face is completely f-cked. His eyes are more swollen than a pregnant woman’s feet after a walk for heart disease. I don’t know how he can even see. It looks like he got hit in the face with a pumpkin. Like he was standing under a building and a pumpkin got dropped off the roof and hit him square in the face. I don’t know why people sign up for this. I generally like to avoid pain, and by generally I mean as a rule of my being at any and all costs. Four minutes later, this man’s face looks like he got slapped with a weed-whacker, and there are lemons beneath the surface of his skin. This is a bludgeoning. They just stopped and put a giant bag of ice on his face. There is no other option at this point. He looks like Quasimoto.

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I am typing this in real time as I watch this match. The other dude’s nose is a wreck. It is completely smashed. I would be bawling like a baby. At this point, my body would have taken over and forced me to pass out to protect me from any further suffering. Holy shit. His face looks like a steak that just got tenderized with a spiked mallet. His upper lip is so swollen, it looks like a chalkboard eraser. There is blood everywhere. It’s like he got sprayed in the face with hot sauce. This man is going to need 4 Vicodin, a shot of morphine, a bottle of Goldschlager, and several pounds of ice when he goes home. A coma is the only way to perservere through this beating. Put this man out of his misery. It looks like somebody dropped him off a house and he smacked his face on the curb.

Well, I guess…..that’s……it. That’s it. Bye.

____________________________________________________________________

B:   “Oh. T.I. has really nice teeth.”

T:   “T.I.’s got enough money to have any kind of teeth he wants.”

Car sick.

I have arrived in Pennsylgaynia. I knew I had entered the state when I passed an entrance ramp on the interstate and saw a car at a complete stop, waiting for all the assholes in the right lane refusing to move over and let him in finally pass by so they could try to go from 0 to 60 in three seconds and not get ass-reamed by the semi that would be rushing up on them immediately upon their entrance to the highway. GUUUHHH.

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On Tuesday morning before I left my hotel in Indiana to finish the drive to Pennsylvania, I stopped at a gas station to get caffeine and snacks. In the checkout line, I spied snack-size baggies of Cadbury Mini Eggs. I have had a hard time finding them the past couple of Easters, so I got excited and grabbed 3 or 4 packages of them. The clerk put them in the grocery sack along with my drinks, and I put them in the back seat and continued on my way down the road.

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Four hours pass, and I am now just ten short minutes away from my house in Greensburg. The end is in sight. Suddenly, Raleigh sits up in the front seat and begins to gag. He’s about to throw up. All over the leather seat in my brand new Jeep Grand Cherokee. Now, from experience, I know that once Raleigh has begun his gagging motion, you have a 10-15 second window before he throws up all over the g-ddamn place, so if you’re quick, you can grab something for him to throw up in or on so you have less of a mess. This is fine and well, except that I am driving an SUV 65 miles per hour down the EXTREMELY narrow interstate with cars and semis to my right, and four-foot high cement medians to my left. There is no room for error.

I frantically search for something to capture the vomit in. I have no leftover empty fast food bags, napkins, nothing. Then I remember the bag filled with Cadbury Mini Eggs in the back seat. There’s no time to save the Minis. I reach back and grab the bag, all the while trying to maintain my vehicle and not careen into a RAV-4 or a cement wall. Raleigh is still gagging, getting closer and closer to barfing all over the front seat of the car. A ticking time bomb. I desperately try to get the plastic grocery sack open and directed in front of his mouth with my one free hand while maintaining most of my attention to the high speed traffic I am in. I flap my hand around the plastic bag, trying in vain to position it in a way that would contain the puke when suddenly, “BLEEECHHH!!!”

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Hot liquid explodes all over my hand. Wide-eyed and mouth agape in terror, I look over. I was too late. I couldn’t get the bag in order before he threw up. My entire hand is covered in bright yellow, bubbly, hot, frothy throw up. None of the vomit made it inside the bag, but instead, all over it. It was f-cking disgusting. I had to get the bag out of the car immediately. I roll the driver’s side window down and motion to toss the bag out the window. Unfortunately when you are going sixty-something miles per hour down the interstate, a flimsy plastic sack covered in dog puke doesn’t fly out the window like a rock. The vomit-covered bag flew RIGHT back into the car and flung puke all over my face, shoulder, hair, and head rest. I continued to scream and struggle with the flapping bag for probably five or six long seconds until it finally exited the car. I glanced over my shoulder to see that it had also splattered the yellow barf all over the rear passenger window in the process. My entire vehicle now smelled like a stillbirth.

Ten minutes. I was just ten minutes away from my destination.

It literally could not have gone any worse than it did. I should have just let him puke on the seat.

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In positive news, my allergies have finally given me a f-cking break. Thank god. I was about to give up and just die. I have never been so clogged up in all my life. My sinuses felt like someone hit me in the face with a mallet and smashed my nose into my skull. My labored, impossible breathing was like what I imagine being a pug would be like. Terrible.

Please read this man’s blog about taking the SATs. I laughed out loud by myself in my living room like a mental patient for ten minutes. You will too. If you can read I mean.

http://deadspin.com/5893189/what-happens-when-a-35%20year%20old-man-retakes-the-sat

WELL, that’s all for now, folks. Keep calm and whiskey forward.

_________________________________________________________________________

B:   “What should I do with my hair? I have an appointment on Saturday.”

C:   “Don’t ask me for hair advice, Becca. I’m gay but I’m not that gay.”

Bed crumbs. Like ‘bread crumbs.’ You’ll get it later.

 

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I spent the last 10.5 hours driving eastbound across the United States, or shall I refer to it as the United Fields of Soybeans, because that’s all I saw for 700 miles. That and windmills. And dead coyotes. Boy were there are lot of roadkill coyotes. You’d think animals would be smarter. It’s like, you run into a deer in a field and it sprints away from you like you have polio and there’s a wildfire behind you. They approach a busy interstate with dozens of enormous steel machines barreling down the cement like roaring tanks, and they walk directly into them. I don’t understand.

I have finally arrived at the Comfort Inn in Richmond, Indiana; my midway point before finishing the long haul to Pennsylvania. I checked in, drove through McDonald’s, snuck my dog into the hotel, and have settled down for the night. I made the mistake of inhaling my McDonald’s value meal in my bed. There are crumbs all throughout the sheets. It feels like the bed is full of sand. Lucky for me there are two beds in this room.

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My canine counter part, Raleigh, is making the voyage with me like usual. He is my fellow traveler, and a great one at that. He sleeps literally the entire way, no matter how long we are in the car. The only issue with that is he turns into a ballistic psycho animal when we reach our destination because he is just bursting with energy. I just bring billions of toys I can stuff treats into and attempt to entertain him with food until we go to bed. Food = Entertainment. That’s how we do things in America.

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My allergies could not possibly be any worse than they have been for the past week. I am more congested than the streets of LA when it rains for more than four minutes. It literally feels like someone rolled up a sock and jammed it into my nasal passage. There is not a nook or cranny of space for air to squeeze through. I am losing my life. F-ck plants. F-ck all of the plants. I have a pile of balled up Kleenexes on the floor of my car that could stuff a pillow case from blowing my nose like a pissed off elephant all day long. Not that blowing my nose helps even in the slightest way. My sinuses feel like a bloated water-logged dead body. I don’t even want to speak because of how dumb I sound. Words with N’s in them are impossible. I have taken both a Zyrtec and a Mucinex today, to no avail. I’m still just a mouth-breathing, retarded-sounding son of a bitch.

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I had a dream last night that these huge fluffy clouds were freezing because of the cold weather, and essentially turning into big masses of snow in the sky, and they came crashing down and breaking into pieces on the ground. It didn’t make any sense. Thanks for listening.

WELL, this is short, but I am extremely tired and need to pass out in this bed. Tomorrow will be spent blitzing the continental breakfast, pumping some caffeine into my body, and then finishing my drive to the worst state in the entire country. Goodbye, all.

___________________________________________________________________

C:    This F-CKING dog won’t stop playing with her stuffed crab on my knees.

B:    Kill that thing already. Set a mouse trap.

C:    But she entertains me sometimes. If I were to kill her though, I think I would drown her. Or put her in my back pack and slam it against my wall.

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!

_______________________________________________________________

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

It’s a boy!

Sadly I have left the wonderous state of Colorado behind to once again travel to the dismal, vapid, grumpy east coast. There is nothing more painful than driving away from the mountains and seeing the hazy blue Rockies slowly disappear in your rear view mirror. Except maybe my right ass cheek after enduring the ten hour drive. That’s painful too. I got Taco John’s part-way through the drive to numb the pain. It worked.

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So my life continues to be a routine cycle of packing and unpacking. What sucks about this time is that I had to pack all of my stuff to leave Colorado, come home to Iowa and unpack it all, then re-pack for Pennsylvania, then unpack when I get there, then in two weeks when I’m called to the next storm somewhere else in the country, RE-pack all of that, and then unpack AGAIN when I reach my final destination. Somebody shoot me square in the face.

I am currently at Performance Chrysler-Jeep-Dodge in Omaha getting my leaking sunroof repaired, but you could convince me I’m at a Westin Hotel. The staff is incredibly welcoming and kind, and they have a waiting room fit for a king. There is a Goldfish dispenser, a trail mix dispenser, a popcorn machine, hot chocolate, coffee, lattes, tea, bottled water, chai (the list of hot drinks goes on for miles), plus a computer lab, televisions, magazines, and wireless internet. The only thing I need is a Heavenly Bed and I’m set.

Well, and for them to stop playing “Just Another Manic Monday” on the radio. Beggars can’t be choosers.

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I came home and immediately got pissed off at my full closet again. This thing is impossible. Six weeks ago when I arrived home, I gutted it out as much as I thought I could. I tried again yesterday. I am successfully getting rid of another pile of clothes. I was too lazy last time, but this time I am going to try to pawn some of it off at a consignment shop. My goal is to make some cash money and go purchase a Bose Sound Dock from Craigslist. I have wanted one for a long time. SPEAKING of things I’ve wanted for a long time, guess what we’ll be welcoming into the family soon!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!!!
!!!!!!
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!!!
!!
!

A brand new Dyson “DC 41 Animal” Ball Vacuum!!!

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Praise the Lord! I am so excited. I have never been this jacked over a household appliance in all of my life. Probably because we’ve never really owned real household appliances yet. I hope it sucks, in the most literal sense of the word. The last two vacuum cleaners we owned were completely f-cking useless. The first one was a Bissell that got clogged in 14 seconds by the grotesque cocktail of my long red hair + my dog’s shedding coat, and then I got another one off Craigslist that I thought would be better by leaps and bounds, but that one was even worse if that’s possible. I had resorted to periodically going to different neighbors and asking to borrow their vacuum cleaners. This was fine, except my closest neighbor’s vacuum was an 80 pound steel tank from the 1980s that required both a crane and a pro-wrestler on steroids to maneuver, and the other neighbor lived a block away. Inconveniences that make you say, “F-ck it,” and live in the filth.

But not anymore. OOOO WEEE!!!! I am going to be a vacuuming son of a bitch. There won’t be a hair, fur, dust particle, or crumb in sight after I get this beast. There might not even be furniture.

Things might get out of control.

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My Jeep is filthy. A drive through the melting mountains coated it in a baker’s dozen layers of dirt, salt, mud, sand, and oil. It needs to be seriously cleaned. Too bad I don’t already have my Dyson Vacuum or I could just SUCK ALL THE FILTH OFF!!!!

I think my perception of how this vacuum works may be becoming a little distorted.

The high for every single day this week is 79 degrees. SEVENTY-NINE.

…DEGREES.

It is early March in Iowa. What is going on? Bring on the storms. Anyway, the point is, I could just get out there and wash my car myself. But it’s just so much work. I’d rather have Jeff’s Riverside Car Wash do it. (They have a sign outside that says “We’ll detail ANYTHING!” I wonder if they mean that. Someone bring them a microwave). If you are from or are ever in Council Bluffs, Iowa, go ahead and bring your vehicle into this place. You won’t recognize it when you go back to pick it up. They clean it like there’s no tomorrow. A full interior and exterior detailing is like $70 or something. Pretty great for floor mats you could eat chicken pate off of afterward. I recommend it.

Anyway, time for me to go check out my leaking sunroof and hope it doesn’t cost me $400 to fix. I’ll keep you posted on how badass the Dyson Ball is. Bi.
__________________________________________________________________

“*GASP* – He took the pepporcini! GOOD LUCK!”

You’re as cold as ice.

Actually, I’M cold as ice. If I bumped my knee on the coffee table right now, it would shatter into a million pieces, because it is now a frozen solid block of ice.

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It is stupid cold today. The wind is gusting with a vengeance. It feels like a million tiny daggers ripping through my body. I need more pants. On. I need more pants on. It will take me at least one hour to thaw out. I brought No Balls Rals to the dog park today for some exercise so that I wouldn’t have to play with him myself at home later while I’m watching 14 consecutive episodes of Dr. 90210.

For the first time ever, we arrived and there was not a single other canine at the park. Probably because most people realized that glaciers were about to sail into Eagle County and hypothermia isn’t on most peoples’ agendas on a casual Sunday. After standing around waiting for about ten minutes and chattering my teeth like someone on too many prescription medications and a gallon of medium roast, a gaggle of dogs finally showed up and they ran their little hearts out. Meanwhile, I suffered from frostbite and lack of circulation to my frozen extremities.

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My creamer intake continues to escalate. I am spiraling out of control. I have bought two liter-size jugs of it within four days. This is not normal creamer consumption, I am almost sure of it. It has become my heroin. This French vanilla elixir of life has got me by the balls. I’m going to need an Intervention. (I’ll resist help 100% of the way).

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I spend a lot of time playing Zynga word games on my phone. Mainly Hanging With Friends and Words With Friends. Since I am a cheap ass and refuse to pay for these games in order to get ad-free playing time, I am continually bombarded with advertisements during my ass-whooping gaming sessions. I used to get a lot of ads for “increasing your battery life” and “Zynga Poker,” but lately it has strictly been online dating websites. Every time. What is Zynga trying to say? That because I play word games on my phone for so many hours a day, I couldn’t possibly have a life? Haha.

They’re right.

WELL, time to go hack my lungs up. I seem to have caught some sort of a cough. I’m not happy about it, but what can you do.

__________________________________________________

“What are those big jugs called that you put water in?  …Oh yeah, water jugs.”

 

 

 

Survival mode.

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I’ve been watching The Colony a little bit lately. If you are unfamiliar with the show, it is basically a reality show based on a social experiment (a la Survivor) in which people are placed in a simulated “end of times” scenario where there has been a giant disaster and people are left to fend for themselves: find food, shelter, create a safe environment, generate electricity, fight off marauders, etc. Basically they have to figure out how to survive and start over with little resources. The group consists of people who are experts in various fields. They have an electrician, a mechanic, a self-defense instructor, a nurse, a biologist, etc.

The point is, I would be useless in the end of times. I can’t do anything. If I were given the task of say, starting a fire, or wiring an electrical outlet, or gutting a fish, I would shit in my pants. What can I do? I mean….I could like, tell jokes. I wouldn’t be necessary to the survival or prosperity of the group. Basically they would kill me and eat me for food.

So I guess there’s that.

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I miraculously have to pee as soon as I get all of my gear on prior to snowboarding. It’s getting annoying. I purposely hydrate at night so that I don’t have to chug a half a gallon of liquids in the morning before I ride, causing me to pee one hundred and fifty times throughout the day, and just when I think I’ve emptied the tank and have put on my long-johns, socks, snowboard pants, Under Armour, thermal, fleece, and down coat, nature calls. Like clockwork. It’s irritating and inconvenient. I think my bladder is playing pranks on me. Can organs do that?

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I have progressed from just abusing the French vanilla coffee creamer in my tea by using unnecessary amounts of it to actually taking straight pulls from the bottle. Next thing you know, I’ll be doing beer bongs of vanilla creamer in the kitchen. This can only end badly. It’s just so damn delicious, you guys. How do they do it? WHY CAN’T ALL THINGS THAT ARE GOOD HAVE NO CALORIES?!?!?!?!?!?

Life’s not fair.

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I have started sending snail mail again lately. I love doing that. There’s just something about sending and receiving physical letters written with sparkly gel pens, covered in flamboyant stickers that really warms the heart, you know? Snail mail. So slow. They try to act like it’s not though. First class, priority—they all sound like the fastest one. It’s trickery.

In other news, the broken laptop situation turned out well, relatively speaking. I sold my broken computer to a dude who fixes computers for $300, and got the exact same 13″ Macbook that I had before for $700. Four hundred bucks to replace a computer isn’t so bad I guess. I’ll definitely be placing my computer on higher land from now on. No longer shall it share the same plane with liquids.

Well, time to go do other stuff. BYE!

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B:   “Are you gonna try that little jump?”

J:   “I don’t know, maybe.”

B:   “Even if you only get a couple inches, at least you’ll know what it feels like.”

J:   “That’s what she said.”

 

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.”