Bitchelor Party.

I hate The Bachelor. I’ve actually never watched a single full episode (which is obvious, otherwise I would have hung myself from my shower curtain a while ago), but I’ve gathered enough from promos and commercials to give me a good enough understanding of the whole thing.

Tell me something: what are the odds of 20 women showing up to meet a random single man, and every single one of them liking, dare they even claim “loving” the random single man at first sight? Odds? Let me just say that I would rather bet on Charlie Sheen leading a Sunday school class than betting on every woman “falling in love” with rando-man on television.

The crying? There is so much crying on this show. Either these women are REALLY good actresses (doubt it), or they are stupider than Kate Gosselin and more unstable than Winona Ryder for getting that worked up over a man whose middle name and favorite color they don’t even know yet. My, god.

I almost threw up on a boat today. This had nothing to do with The Bachelor. This morning in Lake Tahoe, we arose early, geared up, and walked 3 blocks to the Heavenly gondola, only to find out it was going to be closed all day due to rowdy winds up to 100 miles per hour. Since we couldn’t ride, we decided to go blow a bunch of money on hoodies and t-shirts before our Lake Tahoe fishing excursion at 1 pm. We arrive at the marina around 12:30, and the captain warns us that if we choose to go out on the boat today, it was going to be rough, cold, windy, and probably not great for fishing. He offered us an out, but the other two men and Trent and I decided to “give it hell” and go out anyway.

The first hour out of four was pretty good. Mild/cool, mid-50s temperatures, a steady but not overbearing breeze blew across the lake, partial cloud cover broken up by breaks of sunshine, generally pleasant conditions, all things considered. I hooked three fish, all of which I lost (great). Then the wind shifted and started hauling ass out of the southwest, and things got rough.

The boat was aaaRRRROCKIN’ AND A-ROOOOOLLLIN’!!!! I spent the next three hours shifting my gaze from my quivering fishing pole, and the unmoving, landlocked, stationary and mountainous horizon in an effort to not fall victim to sea sickness and vomit all over the deck. It got colder and colder, dark, dismal, and the harsh winds drove the cold rain at us like tiny needles until we finally decided to call it a day and head back.

Oprah Winfrey’s eye-bags are large enough to park two Ford Excursions on, even under 9 pounds of foundation. Does she not know this? Does she not also know that she has enough money to give everyone in the entire Western Hemisphere face lifts if she so chooses? Someone get this woman some cucumber slices and some ice cubes. Get those puffies deflated, Op. You don’t have to be stuck looking like a haggard old woman if you don’t want to. Just ask Joan Rivers.

Alright, time to go.

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Q: How much cocaine did Charlie Sheen do?

A: Enough to kill two and a half men.

Easy as pie.

“Human pie.”

….yet another search term that landed someone out there in the universe at my blog. I’m actually afraid to even Google the term “human pie” in fear of what I might find. Someone else do it and tell me how it goes.

Noprah. That is to say I have never watched an episode of Oprah. I don’t know how I’ve managed to go this long throughout life without even accidentally witnessing a single snippet of Oprah’s Favorite Things or her infamous Book Club, but somehow I have. I’ve dodged the bullet. I’ve led the Oprah seeker-missile off course. It’s only time before government intelligence is after me for secrets on how to escape and divert enemies. I mean, the woman is taking over network television and I haven’t even accidentally caught 30 seconds of any of her shows. Maybe you aren’t trying hard enough, Oprah.

…Stay away from Netflix. That’s my domain.

I have been on probably 10 flights in the past year. I’m pissed. I absolutely loathe flying. “R u afraid of hites? lolz” No, idiots. I hate airport security more than anything in the world. “But they keep you safe from terrorists!” No they don’t. The last two flights I was on, I was seated directly next to wailing infants. Explain to me how they are any different from terrorists. It’s such a hassle. It’s 110 degrees in the terminal, they’ve got me taking off my shoes, bagging my liquids and gels, heckling me about what’s in or not inside my pockets, exposing my belongings to the world, scanning my tata’s. I’m over it. I actually got asked if I would allow my headband to be searched last time. My headband. What the f@#% am I going to hide in my headband that could harm another human being? Please. Please give me a reason why this type of inspection is valid.

Stop wasting my life. Stop wasting yours. Stop being all wasted.

Another thing I hate about flying is having to listen to the safety procedures prior to takeoff every single time. What’s funny about this, however, is that even though I have probably heard the word-for-word descriptions on aircraft safety over 100 times, I couldn’t tell you a single thing that it says. “…..flotation device……@#%#$……air mask….&%$#….oxygen is flowing.” That’s all I’ve got. Really. Don’t look to me for assistance if “in the unlikely event” we have a water-landing. I’ll be looking stupid next to the emergency exit with my Biscoff cookies.

I have a lot of beef with most, if not all of the airplane “safety regulations.” Where do I even begin. Seeing as airplane seats are indisputably the most uncomfortable apparatuses to ever be sat upon, I seek solace in tilting the chair back the measly 15 degrees that it will decline and attempting to go unconscious for the flight in order to not experience it fully. Every time I tilt that shitty chair back prior to takeoff, I get bitched at by the stewardesses. “Ma’am, I’m going to have to ask you to please put your seat in the upright position until after takeoff.”

Give me one good reason why I should do this. How in fack’s sake is my chair being tilted backward TWO inches going to prevent the plane from being able to lift off safely? Seriously. Tell me. I’ll give you a hint: IT ISN’T. Go fetch me a Diet Coke.

Seatbelts. Plane seatbelts are a joke. Are you trying to tell me that if our jet crashes into the crust of the earth going 500 miles an hour, that having that single, sad strap of nylon across my lap is going to save my life? It’s not. I may as well have a strand of spaghetti across my lap if we’re being realistic. In the words of the abortion activists, “It’s MY body!” Get off my back.

I also got bitched at by a stewardess on my last flight for not having my purse stored 100%, completely under the seat in front of me. I’m not talking about a handbag the size of a suitcase that douchebag girls carry four bichon frises in. I mean a small, compact, cross-body satchel that was literally sticking out maybe four inches from under the seat in front of me. How is that a hazard on the airplane? Does the placement of my purse really have that much of an impact on how safely the aircraft flies? I really, really doubt it. It’s on nobody’s toes but my own. Who gives a shit? Leave me alone. Get me another Diet Coke.

Alright, time to pass out. I have 11 pounds of shrimp and pasta in my belly. I need to make like a bear and hibernate. Peace out, girlscouts.

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“Bring it on you short-bearded faggot!”