LEGO hurts the heart WAY more than it hurts your feet.

I have a friend coming in town for her birthday.  I am aware that her sole goal in life is to have Wil Wheaton's babies in a dirty, dirty way celebrate her birthday at LEGO Land.  I am a good friend, so I decided to do what I could to make magic happen... turns out magic is just for snotty nosed, jam hand spawn and soup:


To:LEGO Land
From: me

Hi LEGO Land!!!! 

I would like to inquire if you have any options for a birthday party for an adult at LEGO Land.  I have friend coming to visit from NY (where happiness does not exist) and would like to show her a great LEGO GOOD time for her birthday.  She LOVES LEGOs!!  This would be the best present ever.  (She once made a birthday cake out of LEGOs, it was red, green and blue and was pretty hard to chew).  Your website only shows child options for birthday's.  This is strange, since even your logo is only BIG letters.
Are there options for adults?
Thanks for any information,

To: Me
From: LEGO Land

Our facility is structured around children  3-12 years of age. Upon entering and exiting the center, all adults must be accompanied with a child and all children must be accompanied by an adult. I apologize if this may cause any inconvenience. Have a blessed day!

Lego Land Nazi

To: LEGO Land
From: Me

Dearest LEGO Land,

Well..... this is really sad news!  It sounds like you are saying that, as a LEGO Lover for over 3 decades, I can not enjoy the joys of LEGO Land if I have made a personal choice not to breed.  It should be noted that I made this personal choice solely based on the fact that I didn't want to share my LEGOs with any children. (I love Lego's THAT much!)
I once built a LEGO bird house that was big enough for a Pterodactyl, it made for the best front yard in the neighborhood, until a neighborhood kid came and dismantled it with his feet.  That is another reason I do not feel you should trust children. 
I would like to suggest that you change you policy and make LEGO Land an adult only playground where those of us that truly enjoy the plastic pieces of colored joy can come and be around like other like individuals.
While you are fixing your corporate policies, would it acceptable within your current policy, if I built a Lego child and brought it as my +1?

..... I am still awaiting a response. 


Putting the Ass in Classy, since 1978

It is slightly possible that would be a small exaggeration to call me the pinnacle of class and good decisions, but I try to keep it classy whenever I can.  I do not get nearly enough credit for the times when I make a good decisions.  Everyone always wants to focus on the time I wore rolled up jean shorts, a hot pink scrunchie, knee high purple argyle socks and a t-shirt that had a pig face on the front and a pig butt on the back when I lost my virginity on a job interview... and that time I got accused of a hate crime for throwing a My Size Barbie out the car window at that midget.... but even in that situation, I was classy enough to dress Barbie in her fanciest prom dress.... and that time I found a boyfriend in a Denny's parking lot... and that time I sang karaoke to "Ring of Fire" at a gay wedding.

Everyone wants to focus on the negatives, but I make AT LEAST 3 great decisions a day. For example, right now I am wearing my K*Mart tiara, eating squeeze cheese from the whip-it can and drinking the finest bottle of gas station Merlot.  That is 3 GREAT decisions I made back to back!!!  (We all know that wine and cheese is the way classy girls get shitfaced).   In fact, today....I did NOT make a fart joke in a meeting, I did not run into traffic wearing a superman cape, I did not join the Scott Baio fan club, I didn't punch anyone in the face and I didn't show my boobs to the homeless man at the gas station. That is a ton of good decisions I, very consciously, made today, but do I get credit for them?... NO!  This is the exact opposite OK, which, if my calculation is correct, equals bulls***.  I earn a "Good Decision Making" trophy daily, only I never get my trophy.  Everyone should recognize that ..... and spend their time focusing on the fact that Steve Sanders is now a  49 year old Chippendale Dancer


Rip Van Wrinkle was a Poser

I have always considered myself to be pretty self aware when it comes to my skills and talents.  I have never needed to try making soap sculptures with a chainsaw in order to prove that I suck at it.  I am fully aware that when I dress myself in the morning and put on hot pink, stripe socks with dress pants, that I am most likely doing it wrong.  I know that I need to fake clap at concerts because I can not carry the rhythm required to clap along with everyone else.  These things would make me feel bad about myself,  if I wasn't confident in all the things that I am an expert at.  This list involves, but is not limited to, eating, giving high fives, being awesome, doing the chicken dance, and (now that I have discovered spray foam) building living room forts.

Above everything on the list, I know that I am an expert sleeper.  I have been sleeping for 33 years and have always considered it to be one of my best talents.  Yesterday, I went to buy new sheets for all the awesome sleeping I do.  I walked into the store and  there was a huge, soul crushing sign that read:

"Performance Sheets: Sleep like a Pro!"
 I am not sure what type of performances these sheets do every night and it seems that it would be a little distracting to have your sheets putting on puppet shows or ballet routines while you were trying to sleep but what do I know, apparently I have been sleeping like an amateur all this time and I had no clue. 


My Elf Casts Magic Missles on the Wench's Book Club

On my list of "Things that are so Stupid, I must be missing something", Book Clubs rank right under Dungeons and Dragons. No matter how many times these things are explained to me, I still can not grasp why normal people need to engage in such things in order to socialize with other people. People that engage in such things, always have the enthusiasm of 15 Umpa Lumpa's when explaining it to you.

Them: It is SO much fun and there are endless possibilities so the game never gets boring. It is like collaborative story telling with dice.
Me: Why do you need dice to tell stories?
Them: So you know if your character succeeds or fails at whatever it is the Dungeon Master has told you to do.
Me: But if you are so bad at telling stories that you need a Master to direct you, maybe you should work on the craft a little more so you can work up to the point of telling a story without dice.
Them: You just don't understand!

Book Clubs
Them: We all read the same book and get together once a week to discuss what we have read.
Me: Why don't you just read whatever you want to on your own time and get together with friends once a week to, i don't know.... just hang out without having to complete an assignment first?
Them: It is a lot like hanging out. We generally drink wine and eat snacks...but the book gives us something to discuss. We are able to get each others perspectives on what happened in the part of the book we are reading.
Me: I hang out with my friends and drink wine all the time and we manage to have good conversations without having a specialized topic for the night.
Them: You just don't understand!

I think I do understand, though. Book Club people create an environment where everyone has the same experience in order to give them something to relate to others about. Right? What I don't understand is, why are their lives SO boring that they have nothing else to talk about.

It seems like it would be handy for a book club to only read Choose Your Own Adventure books. This way, they could all practice talking about different topics while still talking about one book. It is all about the baby steps.


Judge Judy is Bad For the Economy

It has been a  few years now that I have been hearing people complain about the unemployment rate and the fact that it is "literally impossible" to find a job.   I never understood this and here is why....

I have spent the last 5 years working with schizophrenics in a role where my main outcome of success was getting them to the point that they could understand and manage their symptoms enough to gain and maintain competitive employment.   A typical client would come to me with last weeks' Chinese food stuck in his unkempt beard, wearing 3 winter coats over his purple uni-tard in the summer time (none of which had been washed in the 10 years since they got them from Salvation Army).   It was normal for clients to randomly stand up in the middle of working on interviewing skills in order to belt out the most interesting rendition of "You're a Grand Old Flag" you have ever heard.

As far as it being "literally impossible" to find a job... MANY of these severely mentally ill people, with all kinds of abnormal characteristics, were able to find a job.  Not only a job, but one that lead to a sense of purpose and one that they enjoyed going to everyday.  I always judged fully functioning and capable humans that complained they couldn't work when I would see Mr. Crazy Pants getting and keeping a job..... Until now!

I have been unemployed since I moved from NYC to Atlanta. Almost a full 2 months.  I now fully understand what they mean when they say the economy is rough.  There are SO many obstacles to finding and securing a  job.  The following is a small (not by any means complete) list of obstacles I am encountering.

~ Court TV is on for 6 hours a day. Judge Joe Brown, Judge Alex, Judge Judy, People's Court, etc.  The cable company is clearly run by the 1%.  I can not think of a better way to hold the American people down then to put on a constant running stream of quality tv programming.  Everyone knows that very bad things happen when you don't listen to Judge Judy!

~ My back yard looks like a rainforest and that means that I need to spend probably another 4 hours a day designing an Ewok village for my back yard. Right now the design has 4 tree houses and 5 walking bridges between them all.  It would be completely irresponsible of me to not have a decent space for the Ewok invasion on 12/21/12. 
~  My Xbox gave me the "Red Ring of Death", which sounds like a blessing in disguise since I need to be looking for a job and not playing Xbox, but now I have about 50 games that need to be re-saved to the new hard drive.  This takes up the rest of the day.
~ Vodka- 'nuff said.

I am starting to learn that it might, in fact, be LITERALLY IMPOSSIBLE to find a job. 


Curiosity Blows Up and Covers The Cat With Toxic Glue While it Sleeps

I have successfully moved into my new home and am now starting to notice all the unique characteristics of my house. Mostly normal stuff, like how every bathroom has an air vent right next to the toilet so that you end up freezing while trying to piss or the super industrial springs in our 1950 windows that will occasionally propel the window open with no notice, leaving me scared for my life until I realize the noise was not me getting shot in a drive by, but just the window opening itself. Today I noticed a pile of saw dust that I had already cleaned up. It is a magical little hill that just keeps coming back under the window sill. I started to inspect the wall and there is no sign of where it is coming from except for a tiny little hole underneath the window. I am very familiar with Carpenter Bees, those are the ones that are the size of a dog and will chase you down the street threatening to sting you while flying kamikaze style into your head, attempting to give you a concussion, but we have not seen any of those bees around. I decided that I needed to ask the Google for advice. BIG MISTAKE!

I was able to quickly rule out killer whales, bats, Sasquatch, and midgets. I continued on with a false sense of security that with all those ruled out, the problem could not be too bad. I have not been this wrong since the time I diagnosed myself on WebMD with Foreign Accent Syndrome. The following discovery is proof that ignorance is bliss and you should by no means use the internet to educate yourself.

Turns out I have Carpenter Ants. At first, I got pretty excited because we have been paying a contractor to do a bunch of work on the house, and I had visions of saving money by training the ants to frame out the basement for us. I started doing research on how to train them and I discovered that not only are they untrainable, but they don't actually build anything either. In fact they eat holes through your walls in order to appease the queen by making her a bigger nest. Why is there ALWAYS a woman behind EVERYTHING evil?!!? Normally, I only read the top line of Wikipedia. I find that is normally enough info to claim that I am an expert on any given subject, but the bottom of the article caught my attention.

Also called, Exploding Ants: 'The Ants' feature greatly enlarged mandibular glands that run the entire length of the ant's body. They can release their contents suicidally, rupturing the ant's body and spraying toxic substance from the head, which gives these species the common name "exploding ants." The ant has an enormously enlarged mandibular gland, many times the size of a normal ant, which produces the glue. The glue bursts out and entangles and immobilizes all nearby victims -Wikipedia.
Like most people, I have spent hundreds, if not thousands, of hours thinking about what my defense mechanism would be if I had not been lucky enough to be born near the top of the food chain. When it comes to survival tactics, I have always wanted to function like a Sea Cucumber. They can make change forms from liquid to solid and even turn their bodies inside out in order to elude alien evasions, flesh eating bacteria, or being captured by terrorists. They are much like the Wonder Twins without the need of the pesky unitard. I have NEVER once thought about spontaneously blowing my body up in order to attack intruders. This might be the worst defense mechanism in the animal kingdom!

Screw Al Qaeda, I am living with the real terroists!


I didn't know it was possible to be this uncomfortable in these post Two Girl, One Cup times

A few weeks ago I was invited to see my friends daughter, Bri, do Stand-Up Comedy. I have always had a secret fantasy of doing stand-up but have been terrified that the audience would NOT actually have a sense of humor and would think I was stupid because they were too dumb to understand why kids hurting themselves was funny. I have visions of me telling my favorite abortion joke and someone standing up, glitter bombing me and yelling “I’m going home to look at cats on the internet!!!!! At least THAT is funny”. Since glitter is the herpes of the arts and crafts world, my glitter herpes would serve as my scarlet letter and be a constant reminder that everybody else in the world has no concept of funny and that I am truly alone in the world. I was curious to see someone go up on stage and seemingly not care about being glitter bombed. So.....

I agreed to go and after sitting in the audience of 8 people for 30 minutes hearing people ruin my night 4 minutes at a time, I realized my fear of doing stand-up was insane since I could go on stage and die, and it would be more funny that most of these people. The other “comics” were so bad that, I started getting nervous for Bri. Her father told me she was funny, but was that like the time my mom told me I was the best dancer in the recital even though I tripped 3 times and fell off the stage? Parents lie. Bri got up on stage and to my relief, she was actually funny. She is a cute white girl with an acoustic guitar and she sings about testicular caner, paraplegics, and Tim Tebow's imaginary friend. My fears about being the only one to understand life slipped away as she spoke about punching blind people in the face.

A few weeks later, I was told that Bri was booked for an 8 minute set and agreed she was funny enough to go watch again. I showed up to the bar early to maximize my consumption of alcohol work on my relationship with Vodka and when her and her family got there, she was told that the bar had double booked the stage with an Underground Hip Hop Open Mic night. I started looking around at the crowd and realized that 8 Mile had come to the Lower East Side. The 300lb woman in the skin tight, red, mostly sheer mini dress that was MC’ing all the “rappers”, agreed that Bri could still have the stage for her 8 minutes. Looking at the crowd, I figured no one in their right mind would put them selves through this.... UNTIL, Bri says “I’m gonna do it! This is going to be great experience of bombing on stage”.

It was at this point that I realized Bri had more testicle than anyone I had ever met in my life. It was equivalent to Steven Slater going to work and having the balls to quit his job by pulling the emergency slide on the plane, only looking back to grab the beer.

It was almost time for her to go on stage, so we all headed down to the basement. The room was packed and performers were on stage “rapping” about “Bitches sucking my dick”, over and over and over and over again. It was only slightly awkward being the only white people walking into the room, it was a little more awkward when someone in our party showed their whiteness by loudly saying “I have always seen these dresses in stores and wondered who the hell bought them, now I know”, but it was a level of awkwardness I had never experienced knowing that Bri was about to go on stage with an acoustic guitar to sing about Jesus not existing to a crowd of hyped up hip hop fans. I was nervous to watch the serious cultural differences that were about to play out.

The loud, monotonous beats stopped and Bri took the stage. Silence overtook room and Bri performed 2 songs while the audience yelled “Is she serious?”, “What is this white girl doing?”, “This is the craziest shit I have ever seen”. Even though there was a moment where she had some soul sisters singing the word “Paraplegic” with her, the whole experience was completely uncomfortable. She proceed to sing for the longest 8 minutes of all our lives while looking completely calm and cool. It was at that moment that I realized Bri would have balls the size of Chuck Norris', if Chuck Norris had elephantitis of the balls.

Bri is my hero and should be yours too.... Now go watch her video:

*This is not a video from that night, the people laughing in the background actually understand how funny she is.


...But I will NEVER feed the pigeons!!

After a rather long horrible day, I got on the bus to venture home. I go to the back of the bus and sit down in the back corner seat where I am expecting to be left alone. A man gets on at the next stop with 3 bags (1 with old Chinese food, a garbage bag that was full of, judging by the smell, 22 years of homeless love making and 1 with a 40oz of some gut-rot beer). He threw 2 of his bags down (I'll let you guess which 2) half on me and half on the seat next to me. He then leaned over 4 others and attempted to open the window. As he toke the stuff off the seat to sit down, he looked at all of us in the area and says "Sorry but you all need this window open. I am sorry in advance if I cough on you, but I have pneumonia". At this point, I stood up and went to the front of the bus. This is not an easy task on a NYC bus at 5:00pm.

I thought my day had reached finally reached rock bottom. And then......

At the next stop a woman with 2 kids get on the bus, followed by an old lady. One of the kids sits down in the only empty seat, at which point his mother screams at him to stand up.

Kid: WHY!?!?!
Mother: because there is a woman that needs the seat. These seats are for her, not you!
Kid: the sign says "Seats reserved for disabled, elderly, and children. I am 8 years old, so this seat is for me".

Now, I have never been one to think kids were capable of making intellectual arguments, but I felt his argument was well thought out and very timely delivered. I found myself giving the kid an affirming look. The kid saw me looking at him as his mother yanked him out of the seat and replied to my gesture by looking at me and saying,

"Apparently, I have to stand up because old ladies LIKE YOU get to steal the seats"

This kid is SO lucky that I am actually NOT an old lady!

I plan on being "Crazy Old Lady". I will wear tacky hats (preferably with HUGE sunflowers that I will puffy paint purple). I will wear sweaters with flamingos dressed in Santa suits with plaid pants. I will drink expensive wine from the bottle while driving to Wal*Mart. I will no longer use a filter for my thoughts when in public. I will jump in line at check outs. I will walk in the street if I feel compelled. I will scream at kids. I will run people over in my motorized chair. I plan on setting my ID free. People will be on the edge of their seats wondering what I am going to do next never go into public with me again.

Nobody will ever do anything about it. They will just look at my bad behavior and shrug their shoulders while saying "what can you do...she is just crazy-old-lady".

If I had, in fact been crazy-old-lady on that bus today, I would have broken that kids legs with my cane and offered his disabled ass my seat.


Pigeons, Midgets, and Old ladies... oh my.

I spent the Thankyouday holiday with Matt's family. This morning we found ourselves sitting in DC at Union Station waiting for our delayed train back to NYC. Amtrak fails to tell anyone what the delay is or how long it will be, and in times like these I tend to take matters into my own hands. I went and asked the customer service desk how long they thought it would be before our train would take me home. The man replied, "your train hit something about an hour away, it is moving and will be two hours late". Naturally, and out of full concern, I asked "was it a gang of midgets?!?!". He stared at me for a minute as if he was shocked that I somehow had insider information. He remained silent, so I finally said thanks, and as I turned to walk away, I assured him that I would pour out some of my vodka on the train for all the fallen midget homies.

I went back to my seat, between the Victoria's Secret and the McDonald's and patiently waited, while giggling at the irony of those two stores being next to each other. Once I got back to where Matt was sitting, we decided it was time for the game that he makes me play when ever we find ourselves in these situations. We call it, "Practice Patience" and it involves me challenging the all old ladies in the crowd on who can maintain patience longer. He implemented this rule after the now infamous "getting off a cruise ship incident". We decided that we would practice our patience by taking odds on who would would be shit on by the nasty pigeon that was flying around the station. (that is good luck you know) I was hoping someone on my train would would be the target so the train would come sooner. It was about an hour after the train was supposed to have left that a woman approached an Amtrak worker that was speaking to a female cop.

Lady: I am not sure you are aware, but there is a pigeon flying around in here and they carry disease!
Amtrak worker: yea, it's a train station lady
Lady: but there are kids here, and people eating at McDonalds....
Me: Oh No! You mean to tell me that McDonald's might be serving shit. I am appalled!!!!
Cop: listen lady, I tried to shoot it for the last lady that complained about it, but they gave me a week off without pay, so financially speaking, i can't offer to do that again.
Lady: *looking back at her husband with fumes coming out of her ears* I tried.
Cop: ...and thank you for that effort.

This is when I saw the fire in the old lady's eyes and looked at Matt and said "Aw Snap, she loses".


And the winner is.....

I just saw an ad for The Miss Universe Pageant for next Monday. I am not one to bet on things, but does anyone know a bookie willing to let me bet on this one?

I am almost positive Earth will win. The other universes don't even try.


Now You See Him, Now You Don't....Because He Ate Your Eyeballs

A few nights ago, I thought I had started hallucinating. It was different than the time Charlie Chaplin sat down next me and asked if I wanted to watch Mariah Carey's Glitter**. This was more like shadows in the corner of my eye. I kept it to myself since last time I was unemployed, I sat at home and convinced myself that I had some pretty serious issues. Finally, my aliments had escalated to the point I had to tell Matt that I had self diagnosed my Meningitis. His only reply to this serious news was "you need a job". (Don't worry, it turns out my neck was just sore due to sitting in the same position to watch court tv. Once I varied my seating positions, my Meningitis cleared right up). I saw the shadow a few times, but finally I happened to be looking at the wall when I saw the shadow materialize into a mouse.

Me: I am pretty sure we have a mouse or a REALLY fast tiny midget, his name is Houdini and he wants to eat my face off and make a victory flag out of my scalp!
Matt: Why can you not stay home from work without going crazy? You need a job.

I think we can all agree that Matt COMPLETELY overreacted to the situation.

It was 2 nights later that I see a shadow and see Matt jump up in his chair. Houdini had run along the wall and went behind the TV.

Matt: OMG, there he is!
Me: Hide your face!
Matt: I just need you to know that I might have jumped because he surprised me, but I am 86% sure that if it came to a head to head battle, I would win.

The problem now is that Matt gets up and goes to work and I am left home alone with Houdini. It wasn't long until I realized that the 80's had prepared me for this very moment. I spent the morning deconstructing my living room fort so I could use the extra pillows to form a walled walkway from the tv to door. I then sat on the couch and threw a bouncy ball at the wall to scare him out into the tunnel, where he would run out down the pillow tunnel, and out the front door. I am hoping it works soon, because stage 2 involves intimidating outfits and I have no clue where to get a cat costume in July.

** For the record I have never watched Glitter!


Don't worry, Radio Star... The Video Star will get his.

Here is a list of totally useless things I was forced to learn that are now just useless things I carry with me to make me feel old.

OMG, WTF!! No 1 spells wrds N-E-more. I haven't had to spell a word correctly on my own in 15 years. Why would I? There is an aggressive red line that shows up under any error I make. Isn't that gr8?

Phonics- It only took me 2 years of being hooked on phonics before I realized I was the only idiot speaking correctly.

"You have to work hard to get rewards"- I learned that there was one winner and a bunch of losers in every competition. I learned that I was not owed something, just because I showed up. I learned that I would have to follow a winner into an alley and beat them up and steal their trophy in order to own one. Now teachers just change grades to assure each kid passes, even the kid in out field picking his nose gets a trophy and everyone gets to eat the pizza on "Pizza Friday" whether they finished their BOOK IT list or not.

Writing Essays- They were ALWAYS more than 150 characters. I prove my point.

Dewey Decimal System- I had to know which tiny wooden drawer to open and then which one of the 500 index cards in it would lead me to information on forming my occult in 3rd grade. Not to mention, as soon as I found all the books I needed, I was allowed to play Oregon Trail. With only 3 computers for a class of 13, it was in my best interest to get good at locating books so I didn't have to stand on the side and scream "I hope you die of Dysentery!!!" at the 3 kids that proved better than me at finding the dictionary.

The art of writing has changed so much that schools are not even teaching how to write in cursive. Though I have not given up on this one, since when I am 85 years old and the world needs cursive writing translators, I will be able to have a little extra cash for the hookers and blow. (Don't judge, we all can make our own choices as how to spend our old age)

I can't imagine how old I am going to feel when I am actually old. It sucks that at 32 years old, I already have a "when I was in school ...." story.

Honorable mentions:

ROYGBIV- Yea, I get it.... there are lots of colors when light hits water, woohoo. I appreciate whom ever came up with this funky little acronym, however, I can not name a single time in my life that it was imperative that I knew how to put the colors in order.

Kingdom, Phylum, Class, Order, Family, Genus, Species- This wasn't hard to learn forever once I realized that King Phillip Came Over For Good Sex, but it is just one more thing I have never in my life needed to reference to make my point.

No matter how you score it "unemployed" is worth more points than "employed" in Scrabble. I win!

No matter how you score it, "unemployed" is worth more points than "Employed" in Scabble...I win.

There are only a few things more awkward than having the Grim Reaper tap your friend on the shoulder and say "hey you need to come with me" while you are trying to enjoy some adult beverages after work. Not only is it a bit awkward, but it is a total buzz kill.

I quit my job last week. I walked out in a blaze of glory... So I might not have used the classic style of Steven Slater, but in my defense, my job did not have an emergency chute to pull. But I did turn in my notice and was immediately walked to the door with my entire staff throwing slurs and insults to the HR lady that was acting as my escort. Quitting your job seriously frees up the schedule. I now have an extra 10 hours a day to clean, run errands, cook, watch court tv, or plan for my future hang out in bars all day.

The day after I quit, I was sitting at my bar with a friend and a guy with a service animal came and sat next to us. Now I have worked with people with disabilities for almost 10 years and I am slightly attune to disability etiquette. I have learned that you are not supposed to rip off someone's prosthetic leg and hit them with it. I have learned that you are not supposed to roll someone in a wheelchair down a bowling lane. I have learned that you are not supposed to ask a midget to dress up like a cowboy and dance. Most importantly, I have learned that you should never touch someones cane, wheelchair, service animal or other assistive device without permission. It was in the name of proper etiquette, that you can imagine my discomfort when I look up and see the Dog up on the bench licking my friend face. I told my friend that he should not be playing with the cute guy while he was working. I barely got the words out when I realized that he did not tell the dog to get up on the table. The owner of the dog spoke up and asked "Have you been to the hospital recently? This animal is trained to alert to disease."

It is awkward no matter how you replay it. We all sat there for a few minutes in uncomfortable silence thinking about how pathetic it is that even this dog had a job and I didn't.


Another One Rides the Short Bus

There is nothing wrong with coming home after a long, hard, day with a bottle of gas station Merlot, squeezing booty shorts over my fat @ss, crawling into bed and drinking the gas station nectar from the bottle while eating cold condensed Cream of Mushroom soup out of the can with a fork ...... I can't believe you actually believe that, that would be absurd.... of course I used a spoon.

But I do think it is wrong that, when I am in my comfy place and wallowing in my tears of discontent for what my life has become and I decide to take my mind off of things by starting an intellectual conversation about how unfortunate it is that the Accordion had ONE chance to be cool and Weird Al ruined it... and my conversation gets trumped by SSDP**, who starts listing off every song Weird Al ever recorded. (ALMOST every song... he forgot "I Think I'm a Clone Now", but who can blame him, that song was YEARS before it's time). He didn't even go to the internet. It was like his brain had been waiting for this moment since 1983 and had every song waiting in some horrible synapse queue just waiting to rapid fire.

You live with someone 7 years and think you have a firm grasp on who you think they are and *WHAM* one day you learn he is Weird Al's #1 fan. The only way I know to cope with this insanity is to open another can of soup.

**SSDP = Subliminally Silent Domestic Partner (he could use a shorter name)


All the good jokes are Argon

First, they tell me Pluto is not a planet, then the Food Pyramid turns into a plate and NOW there are 2 new elements on the Periodic Table. Next, they are going to find proof that Iowa exists.


I think midgets are dancing in my peripheral vision, but I can't be certain

Two days ago my eye decided to take on a life of its own. It was like it had been secretly working out with the Shake Weight while I was sleeping and became a huge, buff monster over night. I decided to do what any sane person would do in this situation, I went online and started diagnosing. I was able to immediately rule out meningitis, an Indonesian Parasite and the clap. To my horror, I was not able to rule out bugs laying eggs in my eye lid and pink eye. The internet became overwhelming with information as soon as I saw the words "lance" and "drain". Those are two words that should never be associated with the eyeball. I decided that I either have a Stye or the rapture actually happened last week and the plagues were starting.

I began getting worried that I would have to live the rest of my life in with Uni-Vision. The "camera one, camera two" game that I amuse my self with 8 hours a day every now and then, would be a thing of the past. I might have to answer to "cyclops" the rest of my life.

Thank goodness I work with such knowledgeable people that could not take another day looking at my grotesque eye truly wanted to help me.

Coworker: My mom used to use Boric Acid
Me: My mom always told me to keep things that ended in "acid" away from my eye.
CW: No seriously... she mixed it with water and it worked.
Me: The only thing I know to use Boric Acid for is to kill roaches, which I guess, without a proper diagnosis, could really take care of my 2 leading ideas.
CW: If you have bug eggs in your eye, I am not your friend anymore.
Me: You are trying to get me to put Acid in my eye (and not the fun kind)... sounds like you are already not my friend.

I lived in the south long enough to know that some things that sound crazy, can often be REALLY good advice. I spent my 20's standing on my head and I never once ended up pregnant. Regrettably, I stepped on a lot of cracks and my dad had back surgery 3 years ago. I spent 5 years eating Apple Jacks EVERYDAY and it really did keep the doctor away. Don't get me wrong.... I am not trying to make a case that I should be pouring Boric Acid in my eye, but thinking about all these Old Wives Tales does bring to question that whole myth about masturbation causing blindness. Given my current eye situation, maybe this is just how it starts. *just saying*


It is hard to respect the game when a light up jean jacket is involved.

It is Memorial Day and that can only mean one thing.... I am hanging out in my living room fort hiding from Lee Greenwood.

That's right, we all have our arch nemesis. USA has Celine Dione, Zack Morris had Mr. Belding, Cookie Monster had Vegetables, Inspector Gadget had the Claw and Sloth had Genetics. Mine has always been Lee Greenwood.

I have never once uttered the words "Man I wish we could find a Lee Greenwood concert", yet I have somehow been in the audience at least 25 times. It is as if 25 flash mobs have spontaneously formed around me. He always picks a 3 day weekend (usually July 4th, Memorial Day, or Veteran's Day) and he tricks me into being in public place and then, without out any warning, he appears in his American Flag Jean Jacket and serenades me with how proud he is to be an American. It is as if Lee Greenwood can craft a stage in 3 seconds flat. It is the equivalent to being on Nickelodeon and unknowing saying "I don't know", only Lee Greenwood uses the rhythmic beating of his patriotism as his green slime. He has foiled my plans in Georgia, Florida, Virgina, Boston, Alabama, Washington DC, South Carolina, AND North Carolina. It doesn't matter where I am, what time of day it is, who I am with, or what my level of sobriety is.

It has been 3 years since I last found myself at a Lee Greenwood concert. I do not want to speak too soon, but it is 7pm on another American holiday and I am still peacefully laying in my living room fort and Lee has not shown up yet. I am in no way saying that I think I have defeated my Nemesis, however, I feel like I have won another round. Until next time.....


3rd Grade Is NOT What It Used To Be


Sorry Stanley, we can't party like we are Charlie Sheen

Just when I thought no one wanted to come to NYC and hang out with me anymore, I came home and found Flat Stanley at my door waiting to start his NYC adventure. He came with instructions telling me to "take Stanley around my city while he is visiting and keep a journal of his exciting time". The instructions are quite ridiculous, since I very rarely, if ever, follow the instructions. I have decided to keep a photo journal, since I can not be bothered to write. I already had some great plans come to mind and thought I was going to show him a week he would never forget. Some early ideas:

~ Buying sex toys in the Village
~ Riding the mechanical bull at Johnny Utah's
~ a rousing game of "Poke the bum"
~ "Polar Bear swim" in the fountain at Washington Square Park
~ Drag Show
~ A historic trip to the Chelsea Hotel to see where Sid killed Nancy
~ Riding on the outside of the Subway car
~ Buying some heroin in Tompkins Square (don't judge, HE'S ON VACATION!!)
~ Going through the Phone Booth at Crif Dog (I bet he has never been to a Speakeasy)
~ Spitting off the Empire State Building
~ 5 words: NIGHT - CLUB - SWIM - UP - BAR in Time Square

Those were just the first ideas that came to mind. As I sat down to plan out his trip, I realized that the address to send Stanley off to is a...wait for it.... A CATHOLIC SCHOOL!!!!

Now being a prisoner product of Catholic School myself, I can see this being a vindication against the 13 years that institution robbed me of. I can't control my mind from thinking that maybe Stanley also needs to witness an abortion, attend a Gay marriage (and then covet the spouse), stand outside St. Peter's with a sign reading "Keep your Dogma on a leash"and get herpes from a hooker in the Bronx. However, the kid that sent this to me, also has a mother, and that mother trusted that her son would not be totally corrupted by Stanley's vacation has to show her face at PTA meetings.

Now I need help planning out Stanley's week. If the fun has to stay "Clean", I fear I know nothing about entertaining him. Please help, what would you do in NYC if you were as lame as the Catholic Church?


No silly, the Peep is NOT smoking Meth, he is having babies.

Maybe you haven't heard yet, but soon I will not be able to make cupcakes anymore. I haven't been this sad since NERF took all the fun out of the machine gun, which lets face it, ever since ammo turned to foam, we have all turned into a country of pussies. Kids no longer learn important lessons that can only be learned by a brutal game of Shoot the Freak....or wait, are we a nation of pussies because of the Snookie hair bump... no, no definitely because of NERF, and not because they ruined good American gun play, but because they spell there name in all caps which lead to the cap locks button being put on the keyboard, which led to old people YELLING EVERYTHING THEY TYPE ON FACEBOOK. NERF is probably to blame for Farmville, too. NERF is the devil!

I never thought my Easy Bake Oven would have "specialty parts" but now I have 10 months to collect as many 100-watt light bulbs as possible. (Beavis says: "hee hee, that's what the Meth addict said") My microwave and oven privileges have been removed ever since the Peeps Holocaust of 2008, which is still unfair since I REALLY thought that was how peeps made babies... It was an honest mistake that has ruined my dream of making the world's largest cake, because now I am stuck making only little teeny tiny cupcakes.... but now with this ban of 100 watt bulbs, I get NO cupcakes, not even my little tiny ones. Which is upsetting for 1 major reason: A cupcake's sole purpose in it's little life is to deliver mass amounts of rainbow sprinkles to my mouth. (It is kinda like how broccoli was made to deliver ranch)

Just another thing I am convinced NERF is responsible for.