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.

.

.

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.

.

.

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!!!”

.

.

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.

.

.

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.

 

.

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.

.

.

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.

.

.

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.

.

.

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.

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.

.

.

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.

.

.

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

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

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

.

.

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.

.

.

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!”

Polly Pocket.

.

Welp, Monday was spent recuperating from the previous three days at the SnowBall Music Festival. I spent 72 consecutive hours destroying my body, mind and spirit with alcohol and elicit drugs. I couldn’t be happier. What an insane f-cking time. There were bananas and champagne and glow sticks everywhere. Got about 30 solid hours in the onesie, circa 1986 (eBay gem), pillaged roughly $180 of merchandise including Snowball shirts, Burton tees, and Burton beanies, danced like an asshole and burned 150,000 calories (all the more reason to continue my daily carb-loading routine).

.

.

Top shows of the electronic music festival for me were:

• Ghostland Observatory
• DallasK
• Minnesota
• Bag Raiders
• Dada Life
• Bassnectar
• MiMOSA
• Boombox

Initially I mistyped “Boobmox” on Boombox. Everybody makes mistakes. Like I said, my brain is seizing. I’m lucky that my heart is still beating today. I cannot wait for next year.

I wish humans had built-in pockets. There are several things I like to always have on my person. Chapstick, tissues, my phone. I could really benefit from having the convenience of a built-in fanny pack. Basically I wish I were a marsupial.

.

.

I can’t stop feasting on the enormous batch of breakfast burritos Trent made last week. These delicious tortillas are filled with zesty chorizo, fluffy eggs, a fiesta blend of Mexican cheese, a river of Cholula (clutch), onions, and roasted potatoes. Mmm. I’m not really sure how burritos can actually qualify as a “breakfast” food, but then again, when have Americans ever really followed the rules. I like how we slap the word “breakfast” in front of various non-breakfast items and consider it perfectly acceptable. Breakfast pizza, breakfast burritos, breakfast casserole. Just put the word “breakfast” in front of it, then it’s healthy!

We’re fat.

Speaking of fat, Christina Aguilera needs to stop wearing hats. What the f-ck was she wearing on her head this week, a Bedazzled vinyl record?

.

.

Awful. What kind of drugs is she on, and why weren’t they available to me at the Snowball Music Festival this weekend? If it’s possible, she has gotten even more orange. I’m beginning to think it’s a biological thing, like she gets oranger with age, like a tangerine.

ANYway, time to go get more much needed REM. Adios, muchachos.

_________________________________________________________________

“Whiskey. Rum. Mali. Coke. Shrooms. Jager. Weed. Beer. Vodka.”

“This text message thread would be a gold mine for the police department.”

Lost & Hound

I just spent over an hour f-cking chasing my roommate’s dog down a f-cking river, screaming and sobbing. In my snowboarding boots. I’m livid. I was literally screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs, falling down in the snow, crying and cursing the gods. After sixty minutes, I left her for dead and she came back on her own ten minutes later. F-cking bitch.

I need one hundred beers.

In other news, last Saturday, a beautiful big white dog wandered into the apartment parking lot off the highway.

.

.

He appeared to be a white german shepherd/wolf hybrid. He was a little timid at first, but quickly started playing with Raleigh and Bella. He was very friendly, so I invited him inside. He didn’t have a collar on, so I immediately took photos and posted an ad on Craigslist, along with calling the local animal shelters, animal control, and the police department to see if anyone had reported a missing pet. Nothing. I couldn’t possibly let this guy roam around on the busy highway, so we decided to hang on to him until we could locate its owners.

.

.

Six days had passed, and no one seemed to be looking for this dog. We brought him in to a vet’s office to see if he had a microchip, but he had none. Ghost dog. He is the sweetest creature on earth. I love him. He loves me. I’ve been calling him “White Dog” this entire time and he responds to it now. Haha. He’s my shadow. Every  morning at 7:30 a.m., he sits on me. He’s such a lover. I desperately wanted to keep him.

.

.

“Unfortunately,” one of the animal shelters I had contacted the day I had found White Dog called me yesterday and said that the owner was in there looking for the dog. I was flabbergasted that this owner waited six days to contact these pounds to find out if their pet had been found or not, but gave the guy permission to have the man call me. A Mexican man named Juan calls and says he’ll be by around six o’clock to pick White Dog up, whose real name was “Spike” (stupid). He lived literally directly across the highway from us. White Dog obviously loved me more than Juan. He never once tried to run back home. Haha. Anyway, I gave Juan two rubber balls I had bought White Dog because he loved them so much, and told him to keep the collar I had purchased him as well. He tried to offer me $100, but I didn’t take it.

Then I remembered White Dog did break my MacBook by spilling an entire glass of water across my keyboard. Oops. Wish I would have accepted the dollars.

I am devastated to have to let him go. I love that mutt, and miss him terribly. So does Raleigh. Someday I’ll steal him back.

.

.

How is it that you’re always the only people in a Chinese restaurant? I have never been in an Asian restaurant that has been crowded, or even mildly occupied. It’s like, you and your mate walk in, and it’s a ghost town. Just you, all the employees, their children, and their children’s children. For some reason there are always still like eleven Asians working, and all of them rush to help you at once. How do these places stay open? I don’t even care. As long as they keep serving  delicious crab rangoon and fried rice, they can keep money laundering and drug selling in the back. I won’t ask questions.

I’ve been doing some traveling lately, and I’ve been observing the travel attire that people choose while flying. It pisses me off. I feel like I see more high heels at the airport than I do at the bars on a Friday night. You see people who dress up like they’re going to the prom in dresses, full hair and makeup like they’re about to meet the president. You’re flying to Tulsa, lady. Who are you trying to impress? Then there are the people that layer like they’re about to go watch the Iditarod with front row seats out in the open in great outdoor Alaska. Don’t you know you’re going to be stopped by TSA and asked to peel off your clothing layer by layer to ensure you aren’t concealing any weapons, you big stupid onion?

.

.

Speaking of airport security, I have a few things to say about it. One: I don’t understand why they harass, inspect, and strip us to no end before getting on an airplane, but take zero measures whatsoever when boarding a bus, boat, train, taxi, etc. I’m annoyed. Two: I feel like I am the slowest person on earth when it comes time to go through the scanners. I try to take off my shoes, remove my liquids, take out my laptop, and get my jacket off as fast as possible, but I always feel like I can’t do it quick enough. Worse is getting all those items packed back up. I’m standing there scrambling to get it all back together as those plastic bins begin to pile up and block the entire conveyor belt. I panic.

WELL, time to go hang out with the wolf pack. Bi.

_______________________________________________________

“Kids these days. Carrying guns, raping each other—I mean, we used to literally chase a wheel down the street with sticks. I mean we were poor obviously.”

.

Time flies when you’re an alcoholic.

I’m afraid I might start drinking this french vanilla coffee creamer straight out of the jug. I’m glad there aren’t any straws nearby, or I’d be in some serious trouble. At least this kind is sugar free. Fifteen calories a tablespoon is better than sixty calories a tablespoon I guess. Hopefully I can just get ahold of myself and put the jug back in the fridge where it belongs.

.

.

WELL, I apologize to all of you for not writing a single syllable for like 10 weeks. I have not been in this neck of the woods since the Jurassic Period. Contrary to popular theories out there, I have not been murdered, kidnapped, in a brain-damaging accident, or in Madagascar for the past month. I’ve just been drinking. A LOT. So sorry to keep you all biting your nails and staring longingly at your email accounts and mobile devices, waiting for a new fat steaming slice of Sheppard’s Pie to arrive. I’m back in action, boys and girls.

Let’s recap this gap in time:

1) Christmas happened.  I binge ate a holiday feast that would have made an Ameristar Casino buffet look like Tiny Tim’s Christmas dinner. For me, Christmas is about chugging 11 metric tons of gravy, shoveling sweet potatoes into my pie hole with my bare hands, stealing all the good parts of the turkey before anyone else has a chance to get to them, and consuming teeth-rotting amounts of Welch’s sparkling grape juice. I did all of those things and plunged deep into a coma afterward. It was good.

.

.

2) New Year’s didn’t happen.  I awoke on Saturday, New Year’s Eve, feeling unwell. At first I thought it was day two of my life-threatening hang over, as I had gotten Lindsay Lohan wasted the Thursday before. After spending all day Friday with a skull-shattering headache and a hurting liver that would have killed me if it had hands and a loaded weapon, I figured my vodka-soda holocaust was just spilling over from Friday into Saturday.

I was wrong. My throat was aflame, I was sore and achey, and had what I like to refer to as “sick breath.”  By high noon, I had full blown strep throat. My fever was extreme. I was flip-flopping back and forth between menopausal hot flashes, bursting into sweat and watching steam rise off of my forehead to becoming frigid, icy cold, shuddering with the chills and freezing half to death. I spent 22 hours laying in my bed or on the couch, with half a dozen blankets stacked on me, shivering my ass off and sobbing like a baby.

I have never had strep throat before. My throat was hurting like a bitch, but I was so ill all day on Saturday that I never bothered to get up and investigate my throat at all until Sunday when I woke up. I busted out the flashlight on my Droid and took a look. “HO-ly f*ck.” I shouted. My throat was DISGUSTING. I have pictures, but I’m afraid to post them on the world wide web in fear of losing readers, and also my readers losing their lunch. It was extremely swollen, bright red and black (BLACK!), and nauseating. I have never seen anything like it. I thought I would die. This lasted for about four or five days, and then I finally kicked it. Anyway, the point is, I couldn’t get drunk on New Year’s, and that was depressing.

3) I went to Cancun, Mexico.  This was a 7-day free company trip that I took with 18 other co-workers from the ol’ roofing outfit. I have been to Mexico twice before on company trips, and let me tell you, it is a trip made for raging alcoholics who like to party. The last two all-inclusive resorts I stayed at had four bottles of liquor on tap INSIDE my hotel room, mounted on the wall for easy access, plus a mini fridge filled with beer, soda, and water that was safe to drink. Room service ran 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, wherein you could request whatever you wanted whenever you wanted and it would be delivered to your room, stat. Sixteen Sol beers, four plates of nachos del grande, a Scrabble board, and a few extra towels at 4:15 a.m.? No problem. Eduardo would show up with a shiny cart within minutes to suit your drunken desires. It was fantastic.

Everyone was wasted. Beginning at 8 am, Enrique Iglesias and Ke$ha songs would be blaring from the bars, drunken hooligans were playing chicken in the pools, doing shots of flaming Dr. Peppers, dropping beer bongs in the hot tubs, screaming like assholes and speaking Spanglish to the resort staff. This continued well into the night until we would head to the clubs (conveniently located just a couple blocks from the resort) around 11 pm, where we would rage until 3 or 4 am at clubs the size of football arenas. Little Mexican girls would prance around shooting water-guns filled with tequila into your face, free Jello shots came around every few minutes, and music would pound into the night until the wee hours of the morning. It was insane.

Why would I expect anything different from this trip?

We showed up to the resort on Saturday afternoon. After getting settled in, we began strolling around the property to see what kind of mayhem we would encounter. Instead of half-naked hotties doing strike-outs and crazy twenty-somethings being crazy drunken lunatics, we saw a lot of Florida-retirees in Tommy Bahama shirts and socks with sandals. Something was a little off.

After exploring the pools, beach, and restaurants, we realized we were basically at a 55+ retirement resort. Olds everywhere. There were tits on the beach, but the kind that fell below the bellybutton (just ask Trent). A lot of the bars on site closed at 11 pm. There was practically no music.

Mistakes were made.

Instead of spending seven days drunker than David Hasselhoff in 2005, I spent seven days eating my weight in resort food, which was also fine. We made up for the lack of binge drinking with actual activities, including snorkeling,

.

deep sea fishing,

.

.

eating (a lot),

.

.

and the highlight of my trip, swimming with dolphins!

.

.

Don’t worry, I still got really drunk.

.

.

4) I had a baby.

Just kidding.

Anyway, that’s all for now. I will be posting more regularly again now that I’m back in the great state of Colorado and have nothing to do but snowboard and laze around like a bum. Ciao, folks.
__________________________________________________________________

Me:   “Do we have any ranch dressing?”
Mom:   “I’m sure there’s some in the fridge.”
Me:   “Let me clarify—ranch dressing that didn’t expire in year 2000.”
Mom:   “I’m sure there is!”
Me:   “Oh here’s some. Let’s see……….great, February 2010.”
Mom:   “That’s not that bad!”
Me:   “MOM. TWO-THOUSAND TEN.“

Fashion First.

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.

.

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.

.

.

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.

..

..

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:

..

.

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.

_________________________________________________________________

“You can’t pee in here, Wilfred.”

“Why? Everybody else is!”

Pennsylgaynia.

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

Things that are better than western Pennsylvania:

1.  The DMV

2.  Bear attacks

3.  Ovarian cysts

4.  Income taxes

5.  Unplanned pregnancies

6.  Polio outbreaks

7.  Amputation

8.  Hangovers

9.  Paul Giamatti

10.  Ke$ha

11.  Heart attacks

12.  Prison

13.  The line at the post office on Christmas Eve

14.  Heroin addiction

15.  Headlice

16.  Wildfires

17.  Scabies

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

19.  Jocelyn Wildenstein’s face

20.  Drawing blood

21.  Gas prices

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

23.  Marshall Mathers’ emotional stability

24.  This:

25.  ….and this:

.

That about sums it up.

Uncontrollable diarrhea > western Pennsylvania

The end.

_______________________________________________________________________

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