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!”

Pizza face.

I’ve been putting a lot of thought into what I would wish for if I had 5 wishes, because I have tons of time to do that between working and just being a bitch all the time. Genies are cropping up everywhere nowadays. I think I would probably wish for the following:

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1. Thick, luscious, long, dark eyelashes.  Even as a child, I spent almost every single birthday cake candle blow-out wish on being blessed with beautiful, voluminous black eyelashes. It never happened. I think I am single-handedly supporting the mascara industry. If my home and all my belongings were lost in a fire, the first thing I would go out and purchase is a tube of Covergirl Volume Exact mascara in “very black.” Like, if I could only bring 3 items with me while stranded on an island, one of those items would be mascara. I need it. I NEED it.

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2. I would wish I were able to eat whatever I wanted while maintaining a solid 118 pounds.   Eating cheesy bean and rice burritos and cruising the China Buffet on the reg is not conducive to keeping a hot body in real life, unfortunately. If I were able to stuff my face with delicious, fattening, greasy, carb-loaded food on the daily, I so would. My diet would consist of the following:

McDonald’s double cheeseburgers & french fries.

Haagen Dazs.

Caramel sauce. On everything.

Taco Bel cheesy bean & rice burritos. I don’t care what it’s made of.

General tso chicken, fried rice, & crab rangoon.

A shit ton of pasta.

Entire cheese pizzas.

Pillsbury Funfetti cake.

French fries.

Gallons upon gallons of Dr. Pepper.

Brownies.

More french fries.

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I’m a real fatty on the inside. Of course, if these items made up the entirety of my regular diet in real life, I would be next in line to participate in gastric bypass surgery. People would volunteer me to be cast in the next season of The Biggest Loser. I’d swell up like Kirstie Alley in 2009. It wouldn’t be pretty.

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3. The ability to control the weather.   This would really make my day. I would have an unreasonable amount of snow days. The temperature would never exceed 75 degrees Fahrenheit. Wicked thunderstorms would rock my world weekly. I would direct the properties of people who I hated to maintain a smothering 115 degrees plus 99% humidity. Ah, the power.

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4. Hand-eye coordination.  I have none.

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A potato would have a better chance of catching a frisbee than I. I’m bad at arm-sports. Being able to hit a wiffle ball or serve a volleyball would have really helped me fit in better during middle school PE, and would also increase my chances of survival during the event of a zombie takeover in which I may be required to fire a handgun.

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5.  Be able to strike people with high voltage electric current when they deserve it.

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I would really take advantage of this power. There are so many people I would love to zap the shit out of. Rude people, people who don’t get over on the interstate when I’m barreling down the entrance ramp, people who say “I seen you”—imagine the problems and bad habits I could fix. Just like a dog shock collar, except way, way worse. We already know it works. Just give me lightning bolt fingers.

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I don’t think this is so much to ask. I’ll be rubbing my lamp in the privacy of my bedroom now.

(That’s what they’re calling them these days. Wink.)

Gross.

Love,

Becca.

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“China Town, picture taken about a block away from the site (sidewalk) I slept at due to a lack of funds for a hotel or hostel. Oh well, I ended up meeting a drunk homeless Mexican who gave me some good advice as to where to sleep if the police make me move… Then some guy came up to me with food and asked if I’d eaten that day which luckily I had because he thought I was a bum. Ha! Some people say NY is expensive, but it’s really not that bad if you just sleep on the streets.”

Fryday, Fryday, gonna get down on Fryday.

One of my friends took a picture of this poster ad on their cell phone in Philadelphia. A picture is worth a thousand words.

Yes, Jermaine. It is you “they” are looking for. “They” being the state police, of course. Creep.

Kidding. It’s Lionel Richie. Still.

As you may or may not know, I am a roof salesman. Therefore, I deal with several crews of roofers on the daily who build the jobs I sell. One of our newest crews is a bunch of guys from Kyrgyzstan which is in Central Asia. One of the main religions in Kyrgyzstan is Islam, so most of these guys are Muslim.

This particular crew of men has been working on the roof of the house that I currently rent and live in for the last couple of days, and I have noticed that when I take my dog outside and he goes near them, most of them avoid coming near him and act like he’s carrying the plague. They won’t pet him or play with him or give him any attention of any kind. I Googled “Muslims and dogs” out of curiosity. This is what I found.

Muhammad made strange and harsh statements about dogs and these edicts affect dogs in a tragic way. Muslims render dogs as unclean, “impure” and worse. Per Muhammad’s orders most dogs were to be killed and all dogs of a specific color (black) had to be killed. Then Allah’s apostle forbade their killing. He said: “It is your duty to kill the jet-black (dog) having two spots (on the eyes) for it is a devil.”

This is my dog:

.Raleigh = Satan.

You learn something new every day.

I watched Clash of the Titans last night. Imagine waking up with one of those gourd creatures in your bed after a night at the bars.

Vom.

I watched one single episode of Freaky Eaters on TLC, and I think that was enough. The particular episode I viewed was of Eric Willmann, “The Fry Guy.” Eric eats virtually nothing but french fries. He remains a normal weight. This is my dream come true. Sure, he’s got heart disease and cholesterol higher than teenagers at a Bob Marley concert, but if I could count how many times I’ve said, “I wish it were feasible for me to eat nothing but McDonald’s french fries for the rest of my life without morphing into Kirstie Alley,” I’d be driving a Rolls Royce.

Anyway, the point is, the show is unbelievably dramatic, the hosts are terrible, and Eric doesn’t understand the definition of “active.” He said, and I quote, “I’m very active. I skateboard at LEAST once a week, if not twice.”

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Okay, Eric. I’m VERY charitable. I’ve added a $1 donation to my PetSmart purchase at LEAST once, if not twice. Let’s not get carried away.

For those of who have been on edge, biting your nails, wondering how my hair fiasco is progressing, let me just say this: I just took a shower and shampooed the shit out of my hair not once, but twice, using at least a metric ton of Garnier Fructis, and even after the second rinse of shampoo AND rinsing out the conditioner that followed, the tub was filled with bright pink sudsy bubbles. It looked like someone sprayed the Pink Panther with a hose.

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So, that’s what’s going on with my noggin. Thanks for stopping by.

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“I want you to trim the fat.”

“What?”

“I want you to fire all the fat people.”

One is the loneliest number.

I don’t want to get McDonald’s by myself today, but I’m probably going to. Trent left for Pennsylvania to work a new storm a few days ago, and I will be following behind him in less than two weeks. We packed up 97% of our belongings including almost every article of clothing between us, nearly all of our remaining food, shoes, books, movies, bedding, bath towels, and he took them along with him. Therefore I am left with nothing but 4 t-shirts, a few pairs of socks, my fan (can’t sleep without it, get real), 5 rolls of Charmin Ultra, balsamic vinaigrette dressing, half a box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch, and remains of a package of dehydrated banana chips. I’m on the poverty diet over here. Yesterday, Richard and I finished off the rest of the frozen microwavable El Monterey chimichangas (yum), so today I’m going to have to come up with another solution.

Drive-thru is really the only self-preserving way to go order McDonald’s by yourself. It’s like, “Oh, she must be swinging through really quick on her lunch break and doesn’t have time to go home and make anything, that’s why she’s all alone.” Otherwise it’s, “Obviously she’s morbidly obese and this is her guilty pleasure. She tells everyone else she barely eats anything. It’s her dirty little secret.”

Unfortunately the only McDonald’s within 20 miles of here is one inside Wal-Mart. Drive-thru isn’t an option. Do I dare eat inside at a table, alone?

Probably not.

Then again, it’s Wal-Mart. There are a lot of other things to make fun of besides the girl eating fast food by herself.

For some reason, I get about ten times the amount of commentary on the link to each blog post on Facebook than I do on my actual blog. Have you droids not figured out that you can comment, “lol that was 2 funny” on the actual post on the website, instead of the ad link for it? I would appreciate it a lot more. It’s…better. You might notice the small, inconspicuous “comment” button near the title of each post. That’s…where you do it. It won’t email you a bunch of shit, don’t be afraid. Also, instead of “liking” the link on Facebook, you can pick how many shiny little stars you feel the post deserved at the bottom of each post. Just helping you out. Just helping you help me, really.

Short and sweet. Well, I guess salty. Bye.

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B: “You know what I find really delightful? Swinging.”

Z: “…Whoa!”

Gotta get up to get down.

I Hate It When People Capitalize Every Word In Their Sentences.

It makes me feel like I’m starting a new sentence with each word. Really throws me off. In my head “out loud” I’m raising my voice with every word as if I am beginning a new thought, up and down, up and down, up and down, as if I am making noise while riding a really fast-moving merry-go-round. Can’t people figure out that in no book, magazine, brochure, or any other type of literature is any sentence under any circumstance EVER has every word capitalized? Titles. That’s it. Last time I checked, “Michelle Branson Can’t Wait To Watch Lost And Bake Cookies Tonight With The Girls!” is not, was not, and never will be the title of a book or newspaper article. Please catch on.

Please.

Just because you order your sandwich as a “wrap” does not make it healthy. I don’t know where people got the idea that loading their fried chicken strips, thousand island dressing, bacon, cheese, lettuce, and mayonnaise into a 210 calorie flour tortilla made it the skinny option. It’s not. It’s actually, 9 times out of 10, more calories and fat than two slices of bread. I wish I didn’t have to be the one to let the cat out of the bag here, but someone has to. McDonald’s is still McDonald’s no matter what you serve it on.

But damnit I love McDonald’s.

Yesterday while snowboarding, my cherry flavored chapstick somehow escaped from my coat pocket, disappearing into the giant, endless, white abyss at Breckenridge. This quickly became a medical emergency, as my lips were thirstier than Whoopi Goldberg lost in the desert on Rat Race. On my way home, I stopped for gas, and while I filled my gas tank with liquid gold, I bolted into the convenience to store to find relief.

I scoured the store and couldn’t find any, so I scrambled up to the counter and asked the girl if they even had it. She pointed it out, over by the condoms and nail clippers. I went with the old faithful “Chapstick Classic Original” and made my purchase. I informed the cashier of my chapstick emergency, and she cut open the package with a key and handed it to me for immediate application. That’s when we both noticed what the package said:

“Limited edition design.”

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The wrapper. The wrapper is what they’re talking about. Better get it while you can, kids. This fancy wrapper design is a limited edition. It’s not going to be around forever. Is this a joke? I’d like to see them start doing “Pepsi-Coke challenge” with the two versions, see if people will notice. “Mmm….that’s—definitely the limited edition packaging, I can tell, because of the way it is. No doubt about it.”

WRONG! You’ve been duped. It was actually the original original.

That wrapper, it just makes all the difference in the world.

Okay, bye.

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Jacob: Dude, you need to tell me where the sushi is in City Market.

Richard: Oh, sure! When you go inside, take a left, go past the pharmacy, past the Redbox, then pass the bathrooms—-

Jacob: So like, past the bakery?

Richard: Yeah, but keep going—-

Jacob: Wait, in the bread and dairy?

Richard: ….No.

Jacob: Okay, you  need to tell me this again, but slower, and with less enthusiasm.

Dirty Secrets.

I have to wait until September 27th for season five of Dexter to come back on. That’s too far away. I feel like I’ve been waiting for over a decade already. I don’t have cable, either, so that means I will be getting my fix streaming episodes off Hulu.com. In other words, that means I will be spending 95 minutes trying to watch a 52 minute episode, where every four minutes is interrupted by “…BUFFERING..28%” repeatedly.

In the meantime, I’ve been trying to fill the void in my television diet with Six Feet Under. Things were going swimmingly until the show just started to get really weird.

Am I watching pornography, or Six Feet Under? Brenda just keeps sleeping with everyone she sees, spreading gonorrhea all over California and beyond, Keith keeps getting more and more annoying, less and less black, and more and more gay by the second, Claire keeps dating psychos and thinking they are her emotionally vulnerable and needy prince charmings, and Nate keeps screaming at people out of nowhere. Over and over. I need more substance than this, you guys. Mix things up. Kill somebody. Uncover somebody’s sex change. Turn somebody into a dinosaur. Surprise me!

The radio stations here in Pennsylvania are nothing short of broken records. I am not exaggerating when I say that every hour is just a repeating cycle of Ke$ha – Your Love Is My Drug, Travie McCoy – Billionaire, Eminem – Love The Way You Lie, and B.O.B – Airplanes. Over. And over.

And over.

It’s unreal. On two separate occasions yesterday I switched from 92.1 to 99.3 to escape hearing Ke$ha’s scratchy hooker voice rattle off about brushing her teeth with rum, only to find 99.3 playing the SAME song. It was a nightmare. I felt like I was in the Labyrinth. What is this, Boiling Points? Am I being Punk’d? Come out, Ashton.

In other news, after a short hiatus from the volcanic temperatures the northeast has experienced as of late, the fiery, hell-on-earth weather has returned to fry me like a slab of tilapia on a George Foreman grill. I actually became turbulently angry yesterday as I was working outside because of the escalating, blood-boiling heat that Mother Earth was smothering me with. The humidity was thicker than Lindsay Lohan’s pile of misdemeanors. I genuinely could have baked a rump roast on my doorstep. Why is this happening? What have I done to deserve this? I need to be locked inside a meat locker until October rolls around. I’m not built for this sort of climate.

Yesterday I did an inspection on a house for hail damage. After my inspection of the property, I asked the homeowner if we could go inside to discuss the damage and the insurance claim process. The overweight, white wife shot a panicky look to the fat, shirtless husband, and exchanged a concerned glance. “Uh….yeah….” she said, and slowly led me through the back door.

Once inside, I quickly realized what the hesitancy was about. I was jack-hammered in the face with the foul stench of cat urine. Boxes of miscellaneous junk were piled ceiling-high. Fur covered every inch of space. There was barely enough room for me to squeeze through the “hallway” into the living room. These people were hoarders of the worst kind. If I didn’t stink before (which I did), I certainly did now.

How do people live like this? “Excuse the mess…we’re in the middle of several…projects,” she said. Right. I know that most of the projects my family and I work on involve gallons upon gallons of cat piss, newspapers from 1992, and garbage piled so high it makes the Appalachian Mountains look like Kate Hudson’s boobs.

People with hoarding issues just need their family members to intervene by setting fire to their homes. This is really the only way to fully nip the problem in the bud, if you will. By destroying every item in their “collection” (for lack of better words) by fire, you effectively remove the emotional connection that would otherwise make it difficult for them to “let things go.” Unless their McDonald’s Mini Beanie Babies and expired canned tomatoes mean more to them than their skin, lips, and hair, there is no chance in hell that the hoarder can sprint into the fire to retrieve their worthless, space-consuming belongings, aka garbage. And if they do, just let them. They probably need to die.

Well, time to go.

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Me: “These gross ugly people from high school keep requesting my friendship on Facebook, and every day I deny them. Haven’t they caught on?”

Cole: “Maybe you should include a message next time. ‘Look at my profile picture, and then look at yours. Can we really be friends. I don’t think so.’ “