Monthly Fucked up

I like to think that I'm blessed with some of the utmost and inexplicably fucked up conversations. I usually write down the amusing conversations I've been lucky enough to be apart of, but now that I have this blog I feel it's best displayed here and not in my notebook. I like to share, what can I say.

Me: Congrats on being pregnant again!
Rachel: Fuck off.
Me: [blank stare]
Rachel: Don't look at me like that! We'll see how you feel when you get pregnant for the third time in less than two years. Christ, I'm never going t loose this baby weight and I am so not looking forward to getting so big again I can't wipe my own goddamn ass!
Me: [blank stare].

Dad: Things better with Nirel?
Levi: Still haven't talked.
Me: Just talk to her, already. Ask her what's wrong and that should open the floodgate?
Dad: She's right. Most relationship issues first come about as a lack of sex in the relationship.
Avery: If you don't want to know what her issues are, just guilt her into having sex with you. Works for me all the time.
Dad: Is that so?

Random Guy: It figures that the hottest girl in this complex is married.
Me: It figures the only person in this complex to ever talk to me can't seem to shift gears on his bike and pedals like a maniac to go two feet.
Random Guy: Hey, I just complimented you.
Me: Did I not just compliment you?

New Boss: Elaine, do you have those boards ready?
Me: It's Emanuelle, and yes I finished them. Let me get them for you.
New Boss: Great, thanks Elaine.
Me: It's Emanuelle.
New Boss: Wow, you certainly draw well. Keith, you didn't tell me we had a veritable artist here! Eleanor is quite the commodity.
Keith: Eleanor?
Me: She means me.
New Boss: Yes, Elaina.
Me: Emanuelle, my name is Emanuelle.
Keith: Not worth it. Let it go.

Me: Isn't it amazing how all this shit was built in ancient times?
Avery: I know. How the fuck do you build something like the Eiffel Tower without modern construction equipment?
Me: Please tell me you aren't serious.

Afoot, Afoul, Afloat, Denial.

Today is Alex's birthday! Sure, none of you care nor know who he is or anything about him, but think of me as a proud peacock with all my tail feathers showing because today I'm brimming with joy that my little boy is just a touch more grown up. Isn't he gorgeous?

3 weeks old

8 weeks old

1 year old

And, 'cause it's something to do:

The pen hit the paper with a leaky thud that was overshadowed by frantic drawing, and then the screams commenced.
“Hike!”
“Backpacking across Europe!”
“Um! Um! Explore!”
The artist shook his head, circled the bottom left corner of the large page, and allowed the pen to thud and ooze a few times before he continuing to draw.
“Bus number 11.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“You idiot, stand up and think about it.”
The artist, growing increasingly frustrated, circled something else on the page and looked at his team while the pen bled out on the page.
“Trek?”
“Are those stickman supposed to be anatomically correct, ‘cause that dude is seriously lacking!”
A voice from across the room announces that 20 seconds remain.
“Draw something else you douche! No one knows what that is!”
Five seconds
“Your mom!”
Time is up.
The artist erupts “Afoot, you morons! Afoot!”
“You draw a dude with a tiny shlong and a hill, and we’re supposed to guess 'afoot?'”
The artist sighs, shakes his head, and sits down.

Save The Queen

I happen to be one of those freaks of nature who has no idea they are stressed about things at all until their body completely shuts down and fucks up in every which way on them and only then do they sit down not to figure out what is so bothersome, but what in God’s name they did to their body to deserve such a mighty retaliation.

This time around my body skipped the pussy middle ground and went straight to business with a heavy weight punch that has rendered my unable to move my head in any which way or raise my arms slightly above shoulder level. This has lead to me being unable to do the most trivial of things; for instance, I actually had to use scissors to cut open my soy sauce packets because I couldn’t tear them open with my hands without cringing and/or writhing in pain. My body, the vengeful sod that it is, much like the soul that’s contained within, decided to make me into Quasimodo’s stunt double at the most inopportune time imaginable: menstruation time.

I’m sure you’re sitting there thinking that this happens to be the most inopportune time as a result of what would logically be my inability to use tampons, but, I assure you that this is a far worse fate and that I somehow manage to take a deep enough breath to get the job done without requiring a morphine drip afterwards. No, this is the most inopportune time imaginable because during this lovely time of the month I am the equivalent of a 12 year old boy who just discovered that hand + penis + stroke=amazing. I’m the walking female equivalent of a hard-on and simply breathing a certain way makes me moister than a Dunkin Heinz cake.

Naturally, Avery won’t touch me as a result of my gimp status other than to rub IcyHot on my back, and do you have any idea how hard it is to masturbate in this state? If you read an article in the newspaper tomorrow concerning a girl dying from the pain that resulted from her choice to hump a doorknob, that would be me.

Only I Could Love Him

You wake up to the sweet, sweet sounds of Imogen Heap, as you do every morning, and roll out of bed. You proceed to grace the toilet with not only its beloved and often misogynistically forgotten seat, but a personal tangy gift from you to the toilet that has a dash of the asparagus you ate with dinner last night. You look at the mirror; you see nothing but a large off-white splatter. The splatter is so overbearing that you completely fail to see the note taped on the right side of the mirror. You furrow your brow, you raise an eyebrow, and you immediately locate your two puppies and make sure that they aren’t having episodes of exorcist-like shitting, vomiting, or urinating, when the disgusting creature most often referred to as a “feline” meows at you and looks at her food dish. You scoff. That little bitch of a cat must have caused the off-white firework wannabe now gracing your mirror. She meows again. You roll your eyes and think about exactly how heart broken your significant other would be if they came home and their beloved cat accidentally was poisoned by the bleach you accidentally left out in a bowl with her food and treats in it, decide that they’re a complete pussy and would fall apart, and fill the useless creatures food dish just so she can continue her existence of doing nothing more than sleeping, eating, shitting, and making you want to vomit every time you see her.

You return to the scene of the explosion, Windex in hand, when you finally see the piece of notepaper taped to the right side of the mirror just as you’re about to unleash the bottles first frothy sneeze. You gently slide the piece of paper between your middle and index finger and rip with all the style, finesse, and professionalism of a Brazilian waxer, and you read:

“HEY LOVE!

PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE DON'T WIPE OFF THE MIRROR. YOU KNOW THAT GIANT ZIT I HAD IN MY ARMPIT? WELL, I FINALLY POPPED IT AND IT IS GLORIOUS! I NEED A PICTURE SO I CAN SHOW THE GUYS. PROMISE I'LL CLEAN IT UP WHEN I GET HOME. LOVE YOU!"

Stroke It!

Perhaps my work ethic isn’t as above and beyond as I once thought, but for the life of me I cannot understand why a woman showed up to work today presenting every possible symptom of impending stroke ever listed in any “So You May Have a Droopy Left Side” pamphlet or stroke resource. Now, I have come into work while I was just inches from officially knocking at death’s door, and I’ve done the requisite hacking up of a lung when the boss asks me if I'm sick, but I don’t think work would be my first stop in the morning if I was seemingly inches away from a stroke.

In her defense she’s up for a big promotion, but I’m willing to wager my years salary that no one would be sitting around discussing who’s best for the job and say, “Oh, yea, but she missed work that one morning because she thought she might have a stroke.” and take her out of the running.

Either way, pulling up to four ambulances with flashing lights and sirens going is a great way to start the week, don’t you think?

Oh, and this guy is my new hero. I have $20 on him being sued the minute she finds the article.

FiFi The Hut

I'd blame Finn for this. I'm an artist not a writer, but when boredom calls it calls.

        “Sebastian, are you going to go greet your table?” His manager tried her best to come off as a bitch, but she was country-fried in Southern goodness, which made her more cute than a royal bitch.
        “You’re kidding me! People, in my section, on a Saturday night, in the second most popular restaurant in this city? Why must you toy with me so, Carla? Why?”
        She smiled and shook her head. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite.”
        “I’m everyone’s favorite, baby! I’ll head over there in a minute, they should be going to commercial soon.”
        “You’re a number one fan now, aren’t you?”
        “Not everyday your baby sister could be the next American Idol. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I don’t have time to stand here and shoot the shit with you. I have a table to acquaint myself with.”
        “Context doesn’t matter, you’re still putting a dollar in the jar for that, Sebastian!” He took a dollar our of his pocket, placed it in the jar aptly labeled “Put Your Cash Here Or Have Your Mouth Washed Out With Soap”, and grabbed a pitcher of water.

        “Is that even English anymore? Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed…”
        “Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match. Looks like our little girl is in the middle of her own personal production of Fiddler on the Roof!”
        “More like matchmaker, matchmaker, give me a gun. Christ, at least the guys in that movie couldn’t be Jabba the Huts stunt double.”
        “Betrothed…betrothed…betrothed.”
        “Bella, shut up already. It’s English!”
        “Sorry, Yule. So, what are you going to do?”
        “She’s going to marry the fat pig and then suffocate under all the rolls while they consummate.”
        “You’re disgusting Marty, but I don’t expect anything less from a pre-op tranny.” Bella lifted her empty glass as if to make a toast.
“        I get my tits on the 20th, you bitches are jealous!”
        “Hey you!” Sebastian looked at Yule and pointed at himself, slightly perplexed. “Yea, you. Why don’t you actually step close enough to use that pitcher and fill our empty glasses, maybe tell us about your specials, and stop listening to our conversation. Goddamn nosy waiters! Do something useful, don’t just stand there and eavesdrop.”
        “I know it’s hard to believe that I wouldn’t want to stand around and listen to you girls talk about tampons, or clothing, or how fat you are, but I was actually looking at the TV over there.” He picked up Marty’s glass and began filling it. “My sister is on American Idol and since some of us have to work,” he began filling Bella’s glass, “I have to watch her while I’m here.” He grabbed Yule’s glass.
        Yule looked at him while she placed her head in her hand. “I’m sure she’s happy she got the talent of singing and not the talent of filling glassware. You win some you loose some.”
        Sebastian stared intently at her with a smirk. “That’s certainly true, but, coming from a girl sitting at a table with a man in drag who has probably done nothing more than mooch of mommy and daddy for a living, I’ll take it with a grain of salt.” He began to poor.
        “You fucking idiot,” Yule screamed as she leapt up from her seat, “my God, you can’t even poor water into a fucking glass correctly.”
        “It’s just water.”
        “Don’t ‘It’s just water’ me, my vagina feels like it should be the victim of global warming right now!”
        He laughed. “I’ll go get you some napkins.” As he walked toward the kitchen a wave of certainty bitch smacked him across the face. He was certain that it was fate’s hand that brought her into the restaurant that night, and that it was the divine hand of destiny that had her seated in his section. Sure, spilling water wasn’t the best way to get a woman’s attention, but attention is attention. If celebrity’s can believe it while they’re staring at a picture of their nostrils laced with Coke, he could believe it. He was approaching the table again, equipped with a stack of paper napkins and no less than four clothe napkins, when he honed in his highly tuned waiter ear to pick up what the ladies were talking about.
        “So, what are you doing this weekend?”
        “Work, and my parents just got a place at Bentley Square so, naturally, I have to help them move.”

        A week later, he was sitting on a bench across from Bentley Square watching her approach him. He knew she didn’t remember him, and he was determined to keep it that way. It’s not often the prongs of love-at-first-sight gouge out every ember of who you are and make you want to start anew so you can at least have a shot with this new found object of affection, but when it happens you best believe no one can resist, and that no one included Sebastian.

_____________

        Yule he said, and he repeated it to add some extra oomph to this whole situation, which, if you ask me, is just overkill. You’d be hard pressed to find more of an absolute wanker. Fydor took pompous narcissism to levels that not even Julius Caesar could ascertain. Don’t believe me? Well, lets just put it this way: At the age of six, when our families went on summer vacation together, he picked me up, waved me around, and wound up tossing me to my plummet of about sixty feet, all because there was a bee buzzing in his vicinity. Yes, even at the tender age of six years old this boy possessed a self-love that was incomprehensible and destructive to anyone who came near him. And now? Now I sit across from him at, what else, a Russian restaurant trying my hardest to explain to him why he and I will never work. Of course, he can’t comprehend why a woman wouldn’t want him and all his three-hundred twelve pounds of Gorbachev looking glory. He is his only fan.

        Yule. He says it one more time. Leave it to my father who can’t even read English, let alone write it, to change your name from Julia with a twist to the quintessential term for all things Christmas related. Happy birthday, Jesus, now stop ruining my goddamn name and giving people reasons to put disgusting decorations on everything they own.
        “I need to go.”
        “Go where?”
        “Somewhere else. I’m sure sitting here watching you get fatter is something most women delight in, but I’m two steps from vomiting and there’s no way to take two steps back.” I'm thinking 'cause opposites attract and you know! it ain't difference just a natural fact...
        “You’re so feisty, that’s why I adore you so.”
        “No, you adore me because my father promised your father that you and I would get married one day.”
        “It’s how things are, Yule.” I’m digging my nails through my jeans straight through to my thighs at the sound of him, yet again, saying my name.
        “Look Fifi, it may be how things are for you, your father, and my father, but it’s not how things are for me.”
        “My name is Fydor, not Fifi, and I just can’t understand how you can sit there and say you have no attachments to me. Don’t you remember being kids? We were inseparable.” Visions of him egg-tossing me sprang to the cinema scream of my memory.
        “Fifi, our parents are friends and live next door to each other. I think you’re confusing constantly having to be around each other with a genuine like and desire to be around each other.”
        “So you feel nothing for me? Not even sexually? How can this be?”
        “Okay, I’m leaving.”

        I’m somewhere in between realizing that these news shoes I just got are pretty comfortable and running through how many calories I’ve eaten today, when I realize I’m about two blocks from my parents house. I stop, already set up for the pivot and turn, and just as I’m about to flawlessly implement my bastard intuition starts whispering in my ear: You went this way for a reason, why not see what it is? Curiosity killed the cat, and now it’s going to kill my ability to even have a shot at living happily ever after. I’m not sure what I’m thinking. It’s not like this is something I can assume the position of daddy’s little girl for and combat every time I flutter my eyelashes. This isn’t like asking for twenty bucks. This is asking my dad to give the finger to tradition and let the family take on a new tradition-an American tradition.

        I’m approaching Bentley Square and all I can see is this guy staring at me. I do a subtle check and make sure no boobs are hanging out or camel toe is showing and I’m in the clear. So what is he staring at? I assume it’s just one of those things—like those paintings where no matter where you stand in a room, the eyes are always on you—and keep walking, but the closer and closer I get the more and more I realize that he’s blatantly staring at me. I’m about fifteen feet away from him and say “Unless there’s something gigantic hanging out of my nose that’s Technicolor I suggest you stop staring at me.”

        He blinks, finally, and I know I’ve seen this guy before. He’s voicing his apologies when I realize where I’ve seen him.
        “You’re a waiter at Fusion aren’t you?”
        “Yea, I am. Look, I didn’t mean to freak you out or anything. I saw you and I was trying to figure out where I’ve seen you before.”
        “Just tell me you didn’t bring any cold water with you so you can refresh your memory.”

        He smiled at me and at that same moment something inside me burst into flames.

My Horse is Really Coconuts

Just when you think that peoples self awareness has advanced to a level of never having this kind of thing happening again and just when you rest your mind at ease that, in the absence of any Europeans or Asian immigrants, you will never have to deal with explaining the ins and outs of not only personal hygiene, but hygiene out of common courtesy. Oh yes, you were wrong. Oh so very wrong.

For as you sit, water color pastels in hand, you are greeted by none other than the smell of what can only be described as old people. The pungent waft that strays from those people who have both feet in the grave, both hands, and are holding onto dear life literally by their nostrils that seem to be the only part of their body that refuses to give up and make a subterranean home. The stench is coming from a far off place, but it’s concentrated.

You wonder if the person actually uses mothballs in the place of breath mints, toothpaste, mouthwash, and dentist visits. And just as you think that things can’t progress into anything more vile, the smell of partially digested hot wings wafts your way, and you decide enough is enough. You declare war! You will find the root of all things effluvial and squash it! You will send it back to its source smelling like sweet summer rain and puppy breath. There is no if, there is no shall, this, now, is your destiny.

You saunter towards the stink, game face on. You knock, casually, mouthing the words you will use to mount your attack, starting with gentle and rapidly mounting into a full verbal assault of rhetoric fit for a Jerry Springer Episode. If only the Lord above could bleep out the choice words that will shortly come out of your mouth to help you save some grace.

There’s a pause, a reply from behind the door, and your hands clench into fists as the door is open and you are greeted by a blast of mothballs, hot wings, and death. You falter, but only for a moment, and remember that in war there is no weakness only victory. You choke back the vomit the funk’s assault has caused. Once the initial shock of the first strike subsides, you’re greeted with the innocent face of a boy not much older than you. He smiles. You notice his dimples. You retreat for a second, but then, as wave two of the macabre stink washes over you, you realize that you must stand your ground. You must prevail. You must.

You reach in your pocket and shiver with excitement at the thought of the strategic and well thought out foray you are about to implement. You reach farther into your pocket and pull out your weapon that rests in your fingers wrapped ever so gently in a flashy silver gown.

“Take this. You need it, among other things.” You hand him the cinnamon flavored goodness resting in your hand. “I’m not sure what is up with you, how horrible your diet must be, or how much you drank last night, but I can smell all of this,” your arms flail in the air wildly, “ALL of this ALL the way over at my drawing boards and I have to say at 9am I don’t even want to smell my own perfume, let alone all of your random bodily functions and the extent of your lack of oral hygiene. If Aloise asks where I went, tell him I went to the drug store to get some air freshener, then breath on him and I’m sure he’ll completely understand.”

You walk away.

Victory is yours.

Explosive

Gas is a pretty funny thing. I mean, it doesn’t take a stroke of comedic genius to know that farting and burping are tumultuously entertaining, especially when flames are involved. But, think outside of that. Think to those times when you’re so bloated and distended that you can’t decide if you’re having a heart attack or actually experiencing death, at it’s finest, and stop looking so coy! Everyone has gas, at least 200 ml at any given time to be exact, and you know exactly what I’m talking about. You’ve been there, you’ve done that, and you’ve sat there praying to Jesus in his sweet baby manger with little baby Einstein toys floating above {shout out to Love Bites on that one} to give you the power you need to just, well?, let ‘er rip.

That was me last night. I was sitting on the couch with a bulging belly outlined on its underside by my jeans and on the top by my tank top, both legs pointing straight out, my hands resting gently on my bulge, stoned out of my fucking mind.

At first I felt beyond nauseated, which led to me screaming at Avery to go to the drugstore and get me a pregnancy test before I actually did him bodily harm. I like to think that most women follow that logic: If you feel sick to your stomach at a completely random time and haven’t had any alcoholic beverages to cause a babbelas or anything to eat that is out of the ordinary, you flip and think you are pregnant. Before he left, Avery thought it would be a good idea to pack a bowl for me, so as to make me feel better. I love him dearly, he’s a phenomenal scientific mind, but he has a vagina for brains when it comes to anything medical, particularly when it comes to me. After all, this is the guy who, knowing full well I’m deathly allergic to pine nuts, made a meal in which every dish had pine nuts.

I was at the point of feeling so horrible that I would do anything just to feel better, so I hit the pipe, and then became much acquainted with the feeling of being completely subdued and feeling disgusting. It’s not pleasant. I don’t recommend it. I was laying on the couch staring at the wonders of our apartment ceiling and contemplating all the profound things that come to mind when one thinks of a ceiling, all the while praying to just vomit already so I can feel better, when things sort of shifted from that nauseated feeling to straight pain. Not just any pain, though. It was like I had too many things inside me and was going to burst. It was the pain of too much goddamn pressure inside me, and instead of my stomach hurting, my chest was killing me. Heart Attack! That’s all I could think, and I layed there thinking at the age of 22 I’m too young to die like this. Dying cause I tried something on my snowboard that I thought was death defying but obviously wasn’t, that’s fine, but a heart attack? Come now! How was God going to play me like that?

Avery came back, I told him how I felt, and he told me it sounds the same as when his Mom has really bad gas. Naturally, he had to go back to the drugstore to get me something for gas, and came back with GasX. I downed about 5 pills, and wallowed in the misery of how absolutely ghastly I felt, when I guess either my body gave into the mastery that is my mind control or the pills started to work. All of a sudden I turned into the ice cream man, if the ice cream man’s song was comprised of various alternating horns all playing a single flat note. They were the kind of farts that men gloat about. They were long, they were loud, they were full of force, and I even admit that I was rather impressed with myself at first. Avery sat on the other side of the couch just looking at me amazed, and all I could say was “At least they don’t smell.”

So, there I was, sitting on the couch, pants unbuttoned, shirt up to where my boobs would be if I had any, stoned out of my mind, so full of gas that I actually thought that at any minute I would actually take flight from the force of the gas coming out of me, with my boyfriend sitting near me laughing uncontrollably. He actually called our friends and held the phone up so they could hear me letting loose, and if they didn’t pick up, well I’m sure that’s an amazing voicemail to receive.

All-in-all, once the GasX started working, it wasn’t bad. Not only did I get to sleep in the bed all by myself because Avery was scared I’d fart all over him, which I think is absolutely ludicrous given he is the master of the Dutch oven in my world which is saying a lot since I have four brothers and a father who are all very open about their gas and spent 18 years of my life sharing a room with Mattai, but I was so cozy and warm all night.

Yum!

Queerest of the Queer

I’m not sure how to get people to read my own blog, or maybe my own blog is just so horrible people come, they see, and then flee. Either way, I do read quite a few peoples blogs and one of them had a cutesy wootsy little survey-ish thing called a meme, and because I’m sitting here at work with nothing to do on account of my boss being fired by her boss who was fired by his boss today, I’m desperately searching for things to occupy my time.

The rules are as follows: Each player starts with eight random facts/habits about themselves. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

Naturally, I have no one to tag.

1. Perhaps it’s not so much strange as proof-positive of the fact I’m a degenerate, but I’m the type of person who will hesitate, ponder, and actually do intensive research on something like mattresses, which lord knows Avery and I need a new one ‘cause ours sinks in the middle, before I’ll purchase it and even then I’ll hesitate because of the price; however, when it comes to clothing, shoes, art supplies, and music related things I have absolutely no reservations about dropping $1,000 and don’t see the big deal when I do.

2. It absolutely drives me nuts when the toilet paper dispenser is on the right side of the toilet, so much so that I don’t let Avery put toilet paper in any of the toilet paper dispensers in our apartment because they are all located on the right. Instead, we place them on a little table located on the left side of the toilet.

3. My natural hair color is dark brown and I have aqua-ish colored eyes. My twin brother is blonde and brown eyed. Figure that one out!

4. I can fake an American accent to the point of pure perfection except when it comes to words that have a long “A” sound, like talk. Not a huge deal, but it is amusing when I converse with people who don’t know I’m from South Af and they make a sort of perplexed face when I say such a word and you can tell they immediately dismiss it as something that is totally in their head.

5. Growing up, my pet was a black-backed jackal named Lars that I found as a puppy one day while walking home from primary. I gave him the remnants of my sandwich; he followed me home and never left my side. He even slept with me. If you don’t know what a black-backed jackal is, it’s similar to a fox and foxes, even those raised in captivity, are rarely comfortable around humans in their adult life. Not a far stretch that I’m now the Mum to a ¾ Wolf hybrid named Alex, ay?

6. I’ve been with Avery for five years. I’ve been in my band for six. Avery has never seen my band play.

7. I am a certified stunt driver. Think fast and the furious, except I drive a Honda Fit.

8. I can orgasm simply from someone biting my neck in the right spots.

Wedding Song

I don't care what Avery says, this is the song that will be played if we are ever to enter a room for the first time as Wife and My Bitch.

Sorry we broke up
Sorry I missed you
Sorry I only wanted to kiss you
Sorry I promised to love you forever
Made you feel guilty
Oh! When you left me

Sorry I showed up at your party
Sorry I drank up all the Bacardi
Sorry I puked up on your bedspread
Sorry I wanted to be your girlfriend again

What can I do?
It's over it's over it's over it's over
What can I do?
I am the loser

Sorry I saw you and I heard birds sing
Sorry I touched you and I heard bells ring
Sorry I jacked off outside of your window
While you were sleeping, I thought you'd never know

Sorry I showed up at your wedding
Sorry I tried so hard to get in
Sorry I screwed up your picture
Sorry I had sex with your sister

What can I do?
It's over, it's over, it's over, it's over
What can I do?
I am the loser

Sorry we broke up, sorry I missed you
Sorry I wanted only to kiss you
Sorry I promised to love you forever
Made you feel guilty oh when you left me

Sorry I showed up at your dinner
Sorry I said those things to your father
Sorry I crashed through your window on acid
Sorry I made a mess
Sorry I bled to death

What can I do?
It's over it's over it's over it's over
What can I do?
I am the loser

Em-Bare-Ass

Rachel: What's up?

Me: Nothing. I got some packages in the mail, and before you ask, yes! yes I did get the vibrator a few days ago. You really shouldn't have.

Rachel: Oh it was nothing.

Me: No really, you shouldn't have. I don't know what I'm going to do with it.

Rachel: Please tell me you aren't saying that after using it. Wait, you did use it right?

Me: Yea, I did.

Rachel: How can you not be in love? My lord, woman! I'm getting all gooey just thinking about how good that thing makes me feel. Fuck, I might go home for lunch now and use it.

Me: Yea, to each their own right? I'd rather just have Avery or use my own little hands, I guess.

Rachel: You didn't like it? How is that possible?

Me: Honestly? It, well, it hurt. I think it bruised my vagina, like severely bruised my vagina 'cause the pain made me nauseated.

Rachel: You're kidding me. How can it hurt?

Me: I don't know. The vibrator part is cool, but that one thing you got Avery and I is all I need 'cause that way he gets some, and I get some, and I get him.

Rachel: Yea, I'm sure Avery is great in bed, but honey! earth shattering orgasms are a toy away and you say it hurts! Maybe it's just touching places that have never been touched before and you thought it was pain. Maybe you finally hit your G-spot.

Me: I don't think so, doll. I couldn't even get it in 'cause it hurt.

Rachel: You couldn't get it in?

Me: Nope.

Rachel: Use lube? Relax? Deep breath?

Me: Yea, I know how to get something in my vagina. It was too big.

Rachel: Too big?

Me: Maybe my vagina is smaller than yours.

Rachel: Are you saying I have a gapping vagina?

Me: No, that's not what I'm saying!

Rachel: Oh, I think it is!

Me: No, I'm saying I have a special ed vagina which is why Avery's teeny tiny penis with a cock ring vibrator is enough to make me want to go home for lunch and fuck his brains out, but I can't 'cause Cinco De Fuckhead is over there probably going on and on about how he's Columbian to my poor dogs repeatedly in the hopes that maybe a butt sniffing dog will lick his butt about how wonderful being Columbian is.

Rachel: Wow, you need to get laid.

Me: That obvious?

Rachel: Oh yea. I see hate sex in your future.

Me: I don't hate Avery, I hate the jumping bean that's been living on my couch this week.

Rachel: You hate him for having the taco salad on your couch.

Me: He was clipping his nails at the kitchen table yesterday when I got home, while watching a marathon of Project Runway.

Rachel: Oh! What season? I loved season 3!

Me: Rachel, not the point. Toe nail clipping at the fucking kitchen table.

Rachel: Well, take that pent up anger out on the toy, love.

Me: My vagina is still bruised, no thanks.

Rachel. Right, I'll tell your brother we're better of in a hotel this weekend. You, Avery, and his teeny tiny penis need some alone time.

Nothing beats having a sister in law who is a sex maniac and has a sex store, ay? Bullocks!

ROY G BIV

To anyone who lives in the Portland area, I have an announcement to make.

If you have noticed an abundance of rainbows in the past few months and thought to yourself, much like I have, how wonderful, spectacular, and downright beautiful, while you smiled ever so gaily at the international symbol for gay pride and all things completely emasculating, I regret to inform you that the increased occurrence of rainbows is not a result of mother nature smiling down on you and spreading some of her glorious goodness.

No. I regret to inform you that the reason for the increase in rainbow sightings within the Portland metro area, though a direct result of nature or nurture depending on which school of thought you belong to, is the result of what can only be called “VW Homophile.”

For those who have not yet seen this stunning display of all things homoerotic, or, if you will, queerly female to the point of being a prototypical 5 year old girl enamored with all things pastel and fuzzy, then you are severely missing out, for in the midst of all the automobiles cruising along the roads of the 5, the 84, or the 205, amidst all the BMWs, Hondas, Toyotas, SUV’s, and disturbingly ugly hybrid vehicles, there lies a tiny jewel that emits rainbows at incomprehensible lengths, speeds, and voltage.

That tiny jewel is none other than a Gecko Green Volkswagen Bug complete with flowers in the flower holder, and bestowed with the added bonus of hundreds of beanie babies that are glued to the dashboard of the car, the rear window area between the seats and the actual window, and has choice beanie babies suction cupped to each window. This flying embodiment of all things nauseating is driven and owned by none other than a man of portly stature, who drives in total obliviousness to the stares, gawks, and homophobia he stirs in all those driving around him.

I’ve seen him four times now, each time more and more alarming than the previous.

It may seem unfathomable that a level of gayness can manifest itself in a car to such an extent that actual rainbows are diffusing from it into the sky; however, the trifecta of a Gecko Green Volkswagen Bug, a veritable zoo of bean babies residing in all visible areas of that Gecko Green Volkswagon Bug, and a man happily driving it along is a combination that defies logic, the bounds of human understanding, and resides in the compartment of life that shall remain a mystery.

Until further investigation can be done concerning this phenomenon, sit back, relax, and enjoy the exponential increase in rainbows this man has caused throughout the Portland Metro area.

Big Fucking Deal

A friend of Avery's, Alejandro, is visiting for the week, which I suppose via the avenues of association, he's my friend as well. Either way, I don't particularly care for him nor do I particularly enjoy the fact he's going to be on our couch for the next week. I do rather like the fact that he and Avery will be doing "their thing" for the week, leaving me to my own devices. Yes!

If you haven't figured it out by the name, Alejandro is of Latino origin. In fact, he's Colombian. Even more of a fact is the fact that he will not let you go an hour in his presence without mentioning this fact. So, I've taken to constantly bringing up the fact I'm South African every time he brings up the fact he's Colombian.

Anyway, he called in for a job interview the other evening, and rather than go into the office room or the bedroom he opted to stay right in the fucking kitchen so we could hear him. True to form he kept on repeating the fact that was, oh yes, Colombian. He actually uttered the phrase, "Did I mention that I'm Colombian?" to the person interviewing him as if to smack that interviewer over the head with the most likely unfilled quota of Latinos in the mechanical engineering field in which he's a member.

It literally took every ounce of restraint, as well as Avery's hand over my mouth-does that boy know me? or does he know me?-to not snap at him. I'm all for being proud of your origin, hell, I'm very proud of being South African; however, I don't bring it up every time I speak with someone, nor do I make it abundantly clear to people around me that I am South African. If someone assumes I'm from England or Australia, then I am more than okay with being British or an Aussie just so I can get on with my day. Alejandro is more than offended if you call him anything other than Colombian. The first time I met him I asked him if he was Mexican. Big mistake. As if I cared, he launched into this huge diatribe of what the fundamental differences are between Hispanics and Latinos, and how vastly different Colombians are from them all. In one ear, out the other, and I asked him what his favorite Taco stand was.

It's really no wonder he and I aren't buddy-buddy, huh? How do you not fuck with someone who takes himself so seriously though? On top of that, I find it absolutely obnoxious that he constantly is throwing his ethnicity at people as if they are supposed to be completely blown away by the fact they're in the presence of a real, live, Colombian. My father is Colombian, and I've never heard him say anything about that country other than how happy he was to get the fuck out of there. So, why does he make it into such a big deal? I mean what does he want, an award for being one of the few people to make it out of his country without being a drug mule?

I at least admit not everything about South Africa is glorious, and I do feel a bit ashamed of the apartheid issues we have, but if you ask Alejandro about anything negative in Columbia it's all the fault of the United States. I'm sure the booming cocaine industry is somehow correlated to the United States {or at least Lindsey Lohan}, but I'm really not so sure that the lack of any other booming industry within the confines of that nations territory has anything to do with the United States being around. If the United States is so awful, why is he here to begin with? If he's going to wave around his Colombian ethnicity as if it's something that makes him better than anyone else, why did he even apply for US Citizenship? If Columbia is so fucking wonderful, why doesn't he go back to be with his family rather than just sending them monthly checks and not even bothering to phone them?

Point Blank: If your country of ethnicity is so wonderful that you refuse to assimilate into the society and culture of America, why the fuck are you here?

No, that's not a cheap shot to Mexicans who insist on having Spanish be the second language of the country, meanwhile every other ethnic base with a different language that makes up this lovely melting pot of a country is left to learn English with no special accommodations whatsoever. It's just the opinion of an immigrant from another country whom accepted with open arms the prospect of becoming a US citizen and becoming a part of this society. Sure, arguably I already knew English, but I didn't move here with the expectation of all the comforts and things I adored back in South Africa and I certainly didn't expect any form of special treatment and babying in an effort to make me an asset and not a drain to this society, and it boggles my mind that other people come here with exactly those accommodations.

Okay fine. Maybe it is a cheap shot at Hispanics and Latinos, but for the life of me I can't understand how illegal immigrants are even an issue, nor can I understand how people can, with complete seriousness, point to the need for Spanish as a second language of the country so as to accommodate the mass influx of Spanish speaking immigrants. Maybe this stems from the fact I grew up in a different country, and am aware of how frighteningly hard it is to become a citizen of another country. My father is still not a citizen of South Africa, despite his living there for nearly 20 years, and there are some countries in Europe who won't even give an immigrant citizenship unless they can prove a blood lineage, like Germany who has Turkish people who have lived in Germany for generations and they are still not considered citizens because they don't have any German blood in them. Thus, when you get to a country like the United States, which pretty freely gives away the right to citizenship, it's a bit ludicrous that people aren't happy with just that. No, they want special accommodations by way of being able to keep their native language and be afforded all the rights of citizenship by living here illegally. Did anyone accommodate the Asians? The Indians? What about the Europeans who came over here? No, they all had to learn English and make something of themselves alone. Kind of begs the question, why do Latinos and Hispanics warrant any kind of helping hand, while no other immigrant sect does?