I had an epiphany. I’ve come to the conclusion that shitting yourself is potentially THE funniest thing that can happen to a person. Now, you can’t just go out and crap your pants and hope that everyone will think you’re a comic genius…there has to be a story.
I bought this book entitled “I hope they serve beer in hell” by Tucker Max. I saw it at Urban Outfitters and I though it looked interesting. Basically, he’s America’s biggest douche bag, and he goes around and gets unreasonably drunk, acts like an ass, and sleeps with inhumane amounts of women…and I mean, inhumane!!!!! amounts. We’re talking triple digits here. Furthermore, he went to Duke Law School, so he’s smart. He’s an intelligent dickhead, which makes me a little sick. Anyways, the book is ridiculous, and captivating at the same time. It’s like an anthropological study into the lives of those guys you hate. Anyways, I was reading the book one night and it comes to this story about how he got unreasonably drunk and shit himself. I thought I’d share the story... (also, I’ve got a case of writers block, so I figured I’d just allow someone else to be funny for me)
“I hadn't realized how supremely shit-housed I was until we stumbled into our room at the Embassy Suites. Have you ever been so drunk you forgot that you have to shit until the last minute? Well I was at that stage. I nearly had my pants completely off when SlingBlade snaked past me and got into the toilet first. Fine, I go get out of my bar clothes and change into a t-shirt and pink Gap boxers to sleep in. I wait patiently for about three minutes, then I start pounding on the door, screaming at him that I am going to shit on his bed if he doesn't get out of there.
A short time later he opens the door laughing his ass off, and says, "That was perhaps the most prodigious shit ever. I just put that toilet into therapy."
I take a gander into the bathroom. It looks like Revelations. The toilet is overflowing, brown shit water is spilling out all over the bathroom floor, and the tank is making demonic gurgling noises.
THE MOTHERFUCKER CLOGGED UP A HOTEL TOILET!
Hotel toilets are industrial size; they are designed to be able to accommodate repeated elephant-sized shits, and their ram-jet engine flushes generate enough force to suck down a human infant, yet skinny ass 170-pound SlingBlade completely killed ours.
I nearly panic. I let loose a flurry of unintelligible curse words at SlingBlade, punctuated by a "WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH YOU?!," and knock over the lamp in my dash out of the room. The turtle is sticking his head out, and he is coming whether I am on a toilet or not.
I figure that there must be a bathroom somewhere in the lobby, so I shoot down the hall and hop in the elevator. Once in the lobby I can't seem to spot a bathroom anywhere. So, I head around the corner to the front desk, which doesn't face the lobby. It's about 4am, and no one is at the desk. I furiously hit the bell for at least a minute--CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG CLANG --until some poor lady comes out with sleep lines all over her face and tells me that the bathroom in the corner of the lobby.
I turn the corner from the front desk into the lobby and realize I don't know which side of the triangular lobby she is talking about. I don't have time to go back and ask her, and I see a white door at the end of the left-hand side, so I quickly waddle towards it. Why am I waddling? Because I have to physically hold my butt cheeks together to prevent myself from crapping all over my pink Gap boxers. One of the prouder moments of my life.
I nearly bust the door off it's hinges as I plow through it. I hear a loud, "AYYYY!!," that almost literally scares the shit out of me. I jump back to see that this is a janitor's closet, complete with a small Mexican lady janitor. I momentarily contemplate taking a dump in the janitors bucket, but decide against that, mainly because of the presence of said female janitor.
I try to be as diplomatic as possible, considering that I am about to crap my pants:
Tucker "WHERE IS THE BATHROOM?"
Janitor "No, no se habla Ingles."
Tucker "WHAT?!? Huh, uh...DONDE ESTA FUCKING BANO?"
Janitor "AYA, AYA!"
She points across the lobby. About 60 yards from where I am standing, at the complete other end of the lobby, there is a set of doors that have a large "Restroom" sign over them. Right where the front desk lady said it would be, except on the opposite side of the lobby.
I have about half a second to make a crucial decision: I can either sprint and hope I make it there before I shit in my boxers, or I can stick my thumb up into my ass and shuffle the 60 yards to lavatory freedom. The decision is simple: I break into a full-on dead-ass sprint.
I am a decent athlete, I played football, baseball and basketball in high school, and I stay in good shape. I have run from cops before, I have run from guard dogs, from a legitimate drive-by shooting once while in Kentucky, but I don't think I have ever run that fast in my life. Nothing motivates like the prospect of being covered in human excrement.
Unfortunately, I was not fast enough. It went something like this:
-20 yards into the run I feel my boxers start to sag.
-30 yards into the run, about halfway, I feel my ass crack and legs get noticeably wet.
-40 yards into the run, my boxers have slid down to mid thigh. I am struggling to keep it together.
-50 yards into the run, I can feel wetness all over me and little specs of something hitting the back of my head and ears.
By the time I get to the bathroom door, the end of the 60 yards, I have completely lost it. I am shitting myself. Full on crapping in my pink Gap boxers.
I step out of my boxers as I crash through the door. Shit is puddled in the seat. I blindly hurl them away from me, and nearly break the door to the first stall. I plop down on the seat and immediately slide off, because my ass is covered in slimy, runny feces. All the while, my butt hole is spouting forth waste. I finally get situated on the toilet and lose perhaps 20 pounds in the next 2 minutes.
During a short respite in my nearly superhuman flow of crap, I notice that the toilet is almost completely full of shit, so I flush. Predictably, the toilet overflows. Great. I move to the next stall, and continue my little adventure, except this time I courtesy flush every few seconds.
By the time I finish, I am physically exhausted, completely dehydrated, and my eyes are tearing up from shitting so hard. I laugh at the inadequacy of toilet paper to clean my body. I take my shirt off and see that the back of it is completely covered in little specks of shit that my heels kicked up from the diarrhea that ran down my legs as I ran. I throw the shirt in the trash, and then see the mirror. My pink Gap boxers are crumpled in a ball on the sink, with a thick black streak leading from the top of the mirror down to them. This is their final resting place.
Completely naked and covered in my own poop, I chuckle, because at this point if I don't laugh I have to cry. As I open the bathroom door to the lobby, I think to myself, "Who else on earth could be having a worse night than me?"
My question is immediately answered.
I see a trail of shit, starting very wide at my feet, getting progressively smaller until it apexes at the chunky white shoes of none other than the small Mexican lady janitor.
Her eyes met mine. We may have been separated by numerous religious, language and socioeconomic barriers, but the "What the fuck just happened?" expression on her face crossed all boundaries.
Now really--picture this scene: I am butt-ass naked, crap plastered all over my ass, legs, back and head, standing about 20 yards away from a Mexican maid, with a trail of black liquid shit leading from her directly to me. What would you do? I wasn't sure. I don't think there is any defined etiquette for this situation.
I shrug my shoulders, say, "Uhh, sorry. I mean, uh--lo siento. Good night. Buenos noche--or whatever," and calmly walk to the elevator.
From the glass window in the elevator, I can see her sobbing. The rest of the lobby tells me why: Not only had my legs kicked shit up on the back of my ears and head, they had sprayed little specs of poop all over EVERYTHING. The couches, the walls, everywhere.
Come to think of it, she wasn't sobbing. I believe "hysterical crying" would be a better descriptive term. Oh well, someone has to clean up my messes, and it sure as shit isn't going to be me.
When I get back to the room, SlingBlade is already in bed. He rolls over, takes one look at me and, never one for sympathy, begins laughing uncontrollably. He literally has to stop laughing because he strains his abdominal muscle. It takes him five whole minutes before he can get the words out,
SlingBlade "Where--where the fuck are your pants?"
Tucker "FUCK YOU ASSHOLE. This is all your fault, Mr. Rhino Dump. If you hadn't had that miscarriage in our toilet I wouldn't be COVERED IN SHIT!"
He couldn"t stop laughing long enough to respond. I took what remained of my dignity and got in the shower. As I was cleaning the poop off my back, I could hear him yell out:
"This is clear proof that there is a God, and he is just!"
Saturday, October 4, 2008
Sunday, September 28, 2008
I'll call this one a picture blog.
Picture one.
I remember looking at this photo and thinking, “MY GOD Katie Holmes is a giant!!” Then I sulked around because I realized that I too feel her giantess pains. I think she just looks so gargantuan because she’s beside Tom Cruise, and well, he’s an asshole.
I hope I can find a suitable bachelor that’s over 5’11, because that way random people on the street won’t think I’m dating my younger brother.
Picture numero two
I laughed for a god 16 seconds when I saw this picture. Then I read the caption, which was for the MTV reality show 'true life', and that episode was about people who stutter. This woman has a stutter, and I, my friends, am an awful human being.
Picture Three
This isn't a picture so much as it is a book. I discovered it recently and wondered who might benefit from a book like this? Is it a children’s book? Do they want to teach children that bodily functions are a normal part of existence, and that we should not fear the poop? Then I thought, maybe this book is for people like myself, who can’t fathom the notion that celebrities poop. It's hard to entertain the idea, you know? I get this picture of Brad Pitt taking a crap and it’s highly unsettling. Though, the thought of anyone pooping is kinda gross.
Picture Four
Peter Patrelli would be an amazing boyfriend. He could fly me places! And he’d never die! And he could time travel! Though, last season he did abandon that marginally attractive Irish girl in the future. I can overlook that though.
Monday, September 22, 2008
I'm a Vampire (though this blog has nothing to do with that)
Do loud breathers know they’re breathing loud? There’s this dude that sits next to me in class sometimes who breathes like a freaking snow blower. Either he’s got inhumanly small nostrils, or it’s booger city up there. I think he should just consider breathing through his mouth from now on.
On a completely unrelated note...I’m really bored. For some reason when you have an extraordinary summer, and return to the sullen and pitiful urban landscape we like to call Calgary, everything seems really boring. And lame. And you spend your nights eating tiny Halloween chocolates, watching Party of 5, and thinking about how you can really relate to the characters. Sometimes you leave the house only to discover that your distaste for the city and its people is still there, and then you run back inside your apartment and begin reading one of the 3 novels you have on the go. That’s right, 3! They’re all collections of work, like essays, or short stories, so none really have a narrative sequence that needs your constant attention. What was I talking about? Oh, right, boredom. So yeah, my life is fairly boring right now. I’m thinking though that this is just one of those recessions in life...much like in economics. You can’t always be in a period of boom and prosperity; sometimes you have to recess. Is it boom and recession? No, it’s boom and bust right? But there’s gotta be another word for boom...?
Maybe I’ll write a self help book, something like “The booms and busts of life: understanding the rough times using simple economics.” It’s destined to be a best seller.
ANYWAYS. I thought I’d tell a story about a simpler time. I was talking to a certain friend today, and he reminded me of all the crazy shit I did as a teen. That’s right, I was once a rebellious, no-holds-barred, unruly teenage. My friend’s mom use to say we were “rebels without a clue.” You know, instead of “rebels without a cause.” – right – anyways, she was completely accurate; we were without a fucking clue. One night, after watching a lot of CKY and jackass, we decided it would be a great idea to play “fire in the hole.” Now the object of the game is to order a “litre of cola” at your local McDonalds drive thru and then upon receiving said “litre of cola” you throw it back in the window and then drive away…not too abruptly though, you need to ensure you see the pain on the face of the drive-thru worker. Oh, and you also have to scream, “FIRE IN THE HOLE” whilst chucking the cola through the window.
I always felt really bad, and was never the one to do the actual throwing, because I just knew that woman in the McDonalds window was working minimum wage just to put food on the table for her infant son, who had alzheimer's and whose father was wrongly convicted for stealing a television and is now serving 10 years in prison. We only managed to successfully do it once, and we watched in slow motion as the extra large coke flew through the window, and the small acne ridden worker looked down at the cup and then up at us with a look of sheer horror, and dismay, and probably thought “NO GOD! WHY! THAT LIMITED EDITION POKEMON JUST ISN’T WORTH THIS GRIEF!” We laughed for a good few days about it, but deep down we were all ridden with guilt. We never admitted it though, because, well, we were way too friggin cool for that shit.
On a completely unrelated note...I’m really bored. For some reason when you have an extraordinary summer, and return to the sullen and pitiful urban landscape we like to call Calgary, everything seems really boring. And lame. And you spend your nights eating tiny Halloween chocolates, watching Party of 5, and thinking about how you can really relate to the characters. Sometimes you leave the house only to discover that your distaste for the city and its people is still there, and then you run back inside your apartment and begin reading one of the 3 novels you have on the go. That’s right, 3! They’re all collections of work, like essays, or short stories, so none really have a narrative sequence that needs your constant attention. What was I talking about? Oh, right, boredom. So yeah, my life is fairly boring right now. I’m thinking though that this is just one of those recessions in life...much like in economics. You can’t always be in a period of boom and prosperity; sometimes you have to recess. Is it boom and recession? No, it’s boom and bust right? But there’s gotta be another word for boom...?
Maybe I’ll write a self help book, something like “The booms and busts of life: understanding the rough times using simple economics.” It’s destined to be a best seller.
ANYWAYS. I thought I’d tell a story about a simpler time. I was talking to a certain friend today, and he reminded me of all the crazy shit I did as a teen. That’s right, I was once a rebellious, no-holds-barred, unruly teenage. My friend’s mom use to say we were “rebels without a clue.” You know, instead of “rebels without a cause.” – right – anyways, she was completely accurate; we were without a fucking clue. One night, after watching a lot of CKY and jackass, we decided it would be a great idea to play “fire in the hole.” Now the object of the game is to order a “litre of cola” at your local McDonalds drive thru and then upon receiving said “litre of cola” you throw it back in the window and then drive away…not too abruptly though, you need to ensure you see the pain on the face of the drive-thru worker. Oh, and you also have to scream, “FIRE IN THE HOLE” whilst chucking the cola through the window.
I always felt really bad, and was never the one to do the actual throwing, because I just knew that woman in the McDonalds window was working minimum wage just to put food on the table for her infant son, who had alzheimer's and whose father was wrongly convicted for stealing a television and is now serving 10 years in prison. We only managed to successfully do it once, and we watched in slow motion as the extra large coke flew through the window, and the small acne ridden worker looked down at the cup and then up at us with a look of sheer horror, and dismay, and probably thought “NO GOD! WHY! THAT LIMITED EDITION POKEMON JUST ISN’T WORTH THIS GRIEF!” We laughed for a good few days about it, but deep down we were all ridden with guilt. We never admitted it though, because, well, we were way too friggin cool for that shit.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Whatever, like, you know?
I’m in a blog frenzy these last few days…apparently I’ve got a lot to say. Actually, it’s more that I hate doing actual work, so instead I just write a bunch of gobbledygook (what a flipping fantastic word!), and then post it for you to read. Oh, beloved readers, you make the sun shine brighter... all 4 of you!
I was on myspace the other day, and I know what you’re thinking, “myspace is totally 2 years ago, you weirdo!” And yeah, sure, maybe it is, but sometimes I like to check it. One day someone’s going to send me a message on myspace telling me how cool and awesome I am, and then if I don’t log on, I’ll never see it, and we’ll never be friends, and that would be a right friggen tragedy.
So while I was on myspace, I found a survey, and thought to myself, “god, surveys are, like, so 2 years ago…I’m, like, totally going to do one!” – you see, being on myspace MADE me talk like that.
So I stole the survey, and then got really fed up with all the lame balls questions, so I deleted most of them and just kept a few that I actually wanted to answer.
1. How do you feel about the person who texted you last?
It was jeff. I feel great things for Jeff.
2. How's your heart lately?
It’s beating quite nicely. No murmurs to report. If I were Mandy Moore in Chasing Liberty though, i'd have to say "it's a little bit broken" and then make this "i'm so cute and tragic face"
3. Where is your phone?
You mean where is my blackberry? God, freaking simple-minded cell phone users! You’re all no-good bags of trash!
4. Do you like country music?
3 words: Garth. Fucking. Brooks.
5. Are looks important?
Attraction is all relative. You know, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But there of course has to be a physical attraction or you’ve got nothing more than some ugly dude sitting in front of you.
6. Have you ever had someone sing to you?
Yes! I have actually. It was really cute and I just remembered about it right now. And, no, it wasn’t Taylor Hanson...but he did look deep and longingly into my eyes while he was singing, “mmmbop, dippadopppadooooboppp.” It was a beautiful moment in our blossoming relationship.
7. Do you believe in love?
Pshh, love’s overrated, just like Burger King and The Arcade Fire.
8. Will you get married?
I don’t know, why the hell don’t you tell me you lousy survey? Will I? Will I pop out some pesky rat children right after? Huh? You think I have all the damn answers! No! I don’t! And so what if I’m a spinster for the rest of my days??! Huh survey? What’s wrong with that?!!
7. Are you happy with yourself?
I’m awesome, why wouldn’t I be.
8. Who's the funniest drunk person you know?
Who wrote this survey? Seriously! Jump off a 3rd floor balcony!
9. When was your last encounter with the police?
Who's asking?! I’ve had a few actually. Why don’t I tell you about one. One time, in high school, after having a toga party, we took a venture on over to the local watering hole (swimming pool) where we were going to sneak in for a late night dip. On the way there, in a drunken mess of a state, my friend and I decided to moon this mini van. Funny, I know. Turns out said mini van was an off duty cop. He pulled over and yelled a bit, and showed us his badge, and then drove off. We then proceeded to illegally sneak into the public pool. I was some kind of awesome back then.
10. Do you regret some things you've done in 2008?
I figure, why regret anything? What you do makes you who you are, right? It’s stupid to dwell on things that you can never change. Just embrace them. One day you’ll look back at it and laugh... or cry... you know, whatever.
11. What did you want to be when you were a kid?
I wanted to be a few things. I first wanted to be Elizabeth Manly.
She was so awesome, but my mom told me I was too tall to be a figure skater. Sad, I know. Then I wanted to be a doctor. That dream was really short lived. And now, I want to be a retiree, and live the sweet life eating fig newtons in my 1986 Chieftain 26' Winnebago...
I was on myspace the other day, and I know what you’re thinking, “myspace is totally 2 years ago, you weirdo!” And yeah, sure, maybe it is, but sometimes I like to check it. One day someone’s going to send me a message on myspace telling me how cool and awesome I am, and then if I don’t log on, I’ll never see it, and we’ll never be friends, and that would be a right friggen tragedy.
So while I was on myspace, I found a survey, and thought to myself, “god, surveys are, like, so 2 years ago…I’m, like, totally going to do one!” – you see, being on myspace MADE me talk like that.
So I stole the survey, and then got really fed up with all the lame balls questions, so I deleted most of them and just kept a few that I actually wanted to answer.
1. How do you feel about the person who texted you last?
It was jeff. I feel great things for Jeff.
2. How's your heart lately?
It’s beating quite nicely. No murmurs to report. If I were Mandy Moore in Chasing Liberty though, i'd have to say "it's a little bit broken" and then make this "i'm so cute and tragic face"
3. Where is your phone?
You mean where is my blackberry? God, freaking simple-minded cell phone users! You’re all no-good bags of trash!
4. Do you like country music?
3 words: Garth. Fucking. Brooks.
5. Are looks important?
Attraction is all relative. You know, “beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” But there of course has to be a physical attraction or you’ve got nothing more than some ugly dude sitting in front of you.
6. Have you ever had someone sing to you?
Yes! I have actually. It was really cute and I just remembered about it right now. And, no, it wasn’t Taylor Hanson...but he did look deep and longingly into my eyes while he was singing, “mmmbop, dippadopppadooooboppp.” It was a beautiful moment in our blossoming relationship.
7. Do you believe in love?
Pshh, love’s overrated, just like Burger King and The Arcade Fire.
8. Will you get married?
I don’t know, why the hell don’t you tell me you lousy survey? Will I? Will I pop out some pesky rat children right after? Huh? You think I have all the damn answers! No! I don’t! And so what if I’m a spinster for the rest of my days??! Huh survey? What’s wrong with that?!!
7. Are you happy with yourself?
I’m awesome, why wouldn’t I be.
8. Who's the funniest drunk person you know?
Who wrote this survey? Seriously! Jump off a 3rd floor balcony!
9. When was your last encounter with the police?
Who's asking?! I’ve had a few actually. Why don’t I tell you about one. One time, in high school, after having a toga party, we took a venture on over to the local watering hole (swimming pool) where we were going to sneak in for a late night dip. On the way there, in a drunken mess of a state, my friend and I decided to moon this mini van. Funny, I know. Turns out said mini van was an off duty cop. He pulled over and yelled a bit, and showed us his badge, and then drove off. We then proceeded to illegally sneak into the public pool. I was some kind of awesome back then.
10. Do you regret some things you've done in 2008?
I figure, why regret anything? What you do makes you who you are, right? It’s stupid to dwell on things that you can never change. Just embrace them. One day you’ll look back at it and laugh... or cry... you know, whatever.
11. What did you want to be when you were a kid?
I wanted to be a few things. I first wanted to be Elizabeth Manly.
She was so awesome, but my mom told me I was too tall to be a figure skater. Sad, I know. Then I wanted to be a doctor. That dream was really short lived. And now, I want to be a retiree, and live the sweet life eating fig newtons in my 1986 Chieftain 26' Winnebago...
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Straight out of the recycle bin
After reading the adbusters article about hipsters, I had this immediate urge to write a response. I thought the article was true and hilarious, but the ending was pretty retarded. I figured I might as well post it, my response that is, because I’d just end up deleting it from my computer, and well, that’s no fun. There may be no logical insight to the whole thing, but I’m not too worried...read it if you please...
Hipsters just need to grow up and admit that they are in fact part of a group. So to get the ball rolling…MY NAME IS NICOLE, AND I, REGRETTABLY, MIGHT BE A HIPSTER. (except – I don’t think I’m doing anything really unique…I like to say that I like what I like because I just like it. Or maybe subliminally I think I should like this stuff so I’m always on the cusp of coolness. Clearly… I have no fucking clue.)
I guess it’s really going to come down to what the hipster will do for society? Are they going to be a self-denying subculture that vanishes in a few years with only a cloud of American Apparel cotton left in its wake? Or, will we fondly remember the hipsters as the group that made strides to progress our cultures ultimate coolness? Most other movements and subcultures are fondly remebered for inspiring, creating, and moving civilization along. The beats had the drugs and the literature; the hippies had the freedom, the protests, the love and the drugs; and the punks, well, the punks had their rebellion. Even grunge had its thing: uncleanliness.
I’m not sure that I believe that the hipster culture is going to be the cause of societal failure. Hipsters might not be advancing civilization, but who really is these days? Western civilization was already doomed, hipsters or no hipsters. We’re a culture of apathy, egocentrism and oblivion; we do nothing, we say nothing, and therefore, we really know nothing. We aren’t failing at the hands of wannabe artists and DJ’s adorned in thick rimmed glasses; we’re all failures. I get that we need a movement from a counterculture to try and shake the pot and change our ways, but hipsters just won’t be that group. We should just leave them to ride their fixed gear bikes, paint their art, and dance their dance.
Monday, September 15, 2008
I'm the queen of guilty pleasures...
I went to see Hanson.
Yes, the 90’s brother band that resembled girls is back, and back with a vengeance. They came here a few nights ago and it was pure magic. I got to relive all my childhood fantasies. Listening to mmmbop live was like eating buttered corn in a field made of daisies.
I spent a lot of my youth denying the fact that I liked Hanson because, well, it was largely uncool. But now, I'm not really prone to caring too much about what's cool and what's not. I like Hanson, and specifically, Taylor Hanson. He’s one fine specimen of a human being. It makes me swoon when he plays the grand piano with his supple skin and his golden locks tossing about.
What an effing dreamboat.
He’s mormon though, and has 4 kids and a wife. It’s a damn shame.
Yes, the 90’s brother band that resembled girls is back, and back with a vengeance. They came here a few nights ago and it was pure magic. I got to relive all my childhood fantasies. Listening to mmmbop live was like eating buttered corn in a field made of daisies.
I spent a lot of my youth denying the fact that I liked Hanson because, well, it was largely uncool. But now, I'm not really prone to caring too much about what's cool and what's not. I like Hanson, and specifically, Taylor Hanson. He’s one fine specimen of a human being. It makes me swoon when he plays the grand piano with his supple skin and his golden locks tossing about.
What an effing dreamboat.
He’s mormon though, and has 4 kids and a wife. It’s a damn shame.
Sunday, September 14, 2008
To whore or not to whore...
I was thinking about becoming a whore to the consumer world and completely selling myself out via my blog (I'm broke!). I’ve got to test the waters first just to make sure the whoring out market is right for me. My first client is Jeff. He’s not paying me anything, as of yet, but for right now I’m going to do it out of the goodness of my heart. He doesn’t have any products to sell, so I’m just going to have to sell him. So here’s to you JEFFY!
Why YOU should pick up your very own Jeff!
Jeff is awesome.
He likes Star Wars.
He has dreams of ponies and unicorns dancing together in jungles made of lollipops.
He always informs me that if he were born a girl he’d want to be just like me*. How sweet is that?
Jeff is a sweet boy.
Sometimes he drops his ice cream and cries jelly bean tears.
He likes pina colada’s and getting caught in the rain.
Jeff comes in 1 size….5’7 and ½.
Oh, and he really likes to read.
*He’s never actually said that specifically, but I just know that he’s thinking it! Am I right, or am I right?
If you, or anyone you know needs some promotion, contact me. I’m available to sell-out any day of the week.
Why YOU should pick up your very own Jeff!
Jeff is awesome.
He likes Star Wars.
He has dreams of ponies and unicorns dancing together in jungles made of lollipops.
He always informs me that if he were born a girl he’d want to be just like me*. How sweet is that?
Jeff is a sweet boy.
Sometimes he drops his ice cream and cries jelly bean tears.
He likes pina colada’s and getting caught in the rain.
Jeff comes in 1 size….5’7 and ½.
Oh, and he really likes to read.
*He’s never actually said that specifically, but I just know that he’s thinking it! Am I right, or am I right?
If you, or anyone you know needs some promotion, contact me. I’m available to sell-out any day of the week.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
This just isn't going to work out.
Summer’s almost over, and you can’t even believe how unhappy this makes me. I start school again on Tuesday, and that not only saddens me, but terrifies me, because in a mere 4 months, I will be what is know as a “graduate.” Eww! This is the point in your life when people start saying shit like “welcome to the real world” or “what are you going to do now that you’re in the real world.” You know what, screw you! AND your real world!
Anyways...A little while ago I was talking with my sister on the phone, and she was trying to tell me that I use far too many swear words in my blog. I told her that they were just there for emphasis, and not to make me sound like a potty mouth. You know, like instead of just saying “he was a douche bag” you say “he was a fucking douche bag” – it makes the individual sound that much more foul. Now, my sister is very much one of those “optimistic” “glass half full” “let’s be positive about things” type of person, so she suggested that I write an optimistic blog about things that I actually like, instead of constantly talking about shit…I mean…stuff I hate. So this one’s for my sister. And if it sucks balls...I mean...if it disappoints you, blame her and her awesome attitude!
After staring at the computer screen for a short while, and forcing myself to not write about the douche bags at the Oasis concert, I’ve decided to just write down a list of some things that I actually like...some I might even dare say I love. This is just to prove that I actually have positive feelings toward things, and people. But after this, I’m back to my regularly scheduled societal bashing.
Item #1
Pictures of pretty houses. Apartments that make you want to become all artsy and hipster and “escape to Paris and fall in love.” That phrase would never come out of my mouth though, because I hate Paris. Oh man...this whole optimistic thing is already proving to be challenging. Anyways. I like homes with chandeliers. Oh, and cute bikes...
Item #2
Sex and the City. I’ve decided to devote much of my spare time to watching the entire series. It’s pretty much amazing. And, because everyone always likes to decide which character they most resemble…I’m Miranda…bitter and sarcastic, yet still funny, compassionate, and intelligent. We both also have long necks.
Item #3
Bread. My logic is fairly simple: carbs = love.
Item #4
Cute couples...
Especially if they are over 70...
Item #5
Cute boys with nice beards.
I used the word “cute” far too much. I resent myself for that. I guess I’m still a girl though, and that gives me some kind of genetic urge to use awful words like “cute” “adorable” and “oh my goodness!"
Well, clearly I like more than 5 things. I like dogs too, and sushi, and my apartment, and orange juice, and notebooks, and mushrooms, and black and white movies...you know...but this isn’t a facebook profile...I was just trying to show you that I’m not just a crazy cynic... I like shit too.
Anyways...A little while ago I was talking with my sister on the phone, and she was trying to tell me that I use far too many swear words in my blog. I told her that they were just there for emphasis, and not to make me sound like a potty mouth. You know, like instead of just saying “he was a douche bag” you say “he was a fucking douche bag” – it makes the individual sound that much more foul. Now, my sister is very much one of those “optimistic” “glass half full” “let’s be positive about things” type of person, so she suggested that I write an optimistic blog about things that I actually like, instead of constantly talking about shit…I mean…stuff I hate. So this one’s for my sister. And if it sucks balls...I mean...if it disappoints you, blame her and her awesome attitude!
After staring at the computer screen for a short while, and forcing myself to not write about the douche bags at the Oasis concert, I’ve decided to just write down a list of some things that I actually like...some I might even dare say I love. This is just to prove that I actually have positive feelings toward things, and people. But after this, I’m back to my regularly scheduled societal bashing.
Item #1
Pictures of pretty houses. Apartments that make you want to become all artsy and hipster and “escape to Paris and fall in love.” That phrase would never come out of my mouth though, because I hate Paris. Oh man...this whole optimistic thing is already proving to be challenging. Anyways. I like homes with chandeliers. Oh, and cute bikes...
Item #2
Sex and the City. I’ve decided to devote much of my spare time to watching the entire series. It’s pretty much amazing. And, because everyone always likes to decide which character they most resemble…I’m Miranda…bitter and sarcastic, yet still funny, compassionate, and intelligent. We both also have long necks.
Item #3
Bread. My logic is fairly simple: carbs = love.
Item #4
Cute couples...
Especially if they are over 70...
Item #5
Cute boys with nice beards.
I used the word “cute” far too much. I resent myself for that. I guess I’m still a girl though, and that gives me some kind of genetic urge to use awful words like “cute” “adorable” and “oh my goodness!"
Well, clearly I like more than 5 things. I like dogs too, and sushi, and my apartment, and orange juice, and notebooks, and mushrooms, and black and white movies...you know...but this isn’t a facebook profile...I was just trying to show you that I’m not just a crazy cynic... I like shit too.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
FITY FOR A TEABAG!
This is a tale of male strippers, and it comes with a warning... If you dislike talk of penis, teabagging, and/or strippers, this blog is sure to offend you.
One fine night in Montreal, me and a few friends decided it would be funny to check out the male strippers in the local gay village. Now, I’ve seen male “dancers” before - you know - the ones that appear at the “ladies nights” and all they do is dance seductively, take off their shirts, and then rub their “pecks” down with some oil? These "dancers" never actually get naked, they just prance around in their tighty whities and make all the girls crazy. The point is they aren’t actually strippers. The strippers in Montreal actually get naked…and I mean, balls out naked.
The second we stepped into the bar we knew we’d entered an alternate universe where the men were now the objectified lifeless crack addicted whores, and the women were psycho sex fiends.
We sat at the back and took it all in. Before I went, I was told by a number of people who’d previously gone that all the strippers were actually really hot, but I have to say that I disagree. This is probably because I don’t find really built douche bags to be particularly good looking. Actually, I find them fairly unattractive. I can guarantee if I’d seen any of those men randomly walking down the street, I wouldn’t look twice... Or, I’d look twice, laugh, and think, “Shit, another idiot with a popped collar and a faux hawk.”
Anywho! Then they got naked! The part everyone has been waiting for! I have to tell you, I saw far too much flaccid penis for one lifetime. Some of the men just couldn’t get it up, and then danced around while their penis just hung limp, like a sad, sad puppy. I felt kind of sorry for those flaccid men...I’m not really sure why. Now, it’s not that I’m against the penis, but really, men shouldn’t be leaping around and dancing with no clothes on...it’s simply just not attractive.
There were the guys though that could get theirs up, and they got all the ladies. And these ladies were friggen lunatics! They’d put their 20-dollar bill in their mouth and lie down on the stage and let the gross naked stripper rub his balls all over her face. One stripper even took this chick, flipped her upside down, and stuck her face in his junk, presumably tea-bagging her. She probably had a fity in her mouth.
It was all very, very disturbing. And not to mention, the strippers looked like zombies on far to much cocaine. The way they danced was in no way attractive, and they were clearly dead inside, like most strippers I guess. I kind of wanted to put their clothes back on them, take them for a nice warm coffee, and tell them that they are better than this, and that someone, someday, somewhere, will love them.
There was this moment during the night where I had to go to the washroom. It was horrifying. I was holding my purse firmly with two hands, much like an old woman would when walking through a heard of fifteen year olds. On my way to the washroom, because I was concentrating more on hugging my bag then looking forward, I ran right into one of the strippers. Like, my forehead rammed into his enormous pecks, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He proceeded to give me this creepy look and then rubbed my back…I quickly lowered my head, let out a yelp and ran towards the washroom. On my quest to find the washroom I stumbled across the “secret rooms” where the women get their private dances from the strippers. That, or they just go into the room and pay 15 bucks to get tea-bagged. I’m going to conclude that’s what actually goes on.
To finish the night we ate some poutine. Mine had hot dogs in it. I’m only now realizing how gross that might appear...on all levels.
So, in closing, I’ve decided to use a timeless, tired, and overused cliché to create a new slogan for the male strip club:
Cover: 5 dollars
Cost of a single beer: $6.50
Seeing lunatic women get teabagged by male strippers: priceless
One fine night in Montreal, me and a few friends decided it would be funny to check out the male strippers in the local gay village. Now, I’ve seen male “dancers” before - you know - the ones that appear at the “ladies nights” and all they do is dance seductively, take off their shirts, and then rub their “pecks” down with some oil? These "dancers" never actually get naked, they just prance around in their tighty whities and make all the girls crazy. The point is they aren’t actually strippers. The strippers in Montreal actually get naked…and I mean, balls out naked.
The second we stepped into the bar we knew we’d entered an alternate universe where the men were now the objectified lifeless crack addicted whores, and the women were psycho sex fiends.
We sat at the back and took it all in. Before I went, I was told by a number of people who’d previously gone that all the strippers were actually really hot, but I have to say that I disagree. This is probably because I don’t find really built douche bags to be particularly good looking. Actually, I find them fairly unattractive. I can guarantee if I’d seen any of those men randomly walking down the street, I wouldn’t look twice... Or, I’d look twice, laugh, and think, “Shit, another idiot with a popped collar and a faux hawk.”
Anywho! Then they got naked! The part everyone has been waiting for! I have to tell you, I saw far too much flaccid penis for one lifetime. Some of the men just couldn’t get it up, and then danced around while their penis just hung limp, like a sad, sad puppy. I felt kind of sorry for those flaccid men...I’m not really sure why. Now, it’s not that I’m against the penis, but really, men shouldn’t be leaping around and dancing with no clothes on...it’s simply just not attractive.
There were the guys though that could get theirs up, and they got all the ladies. And these ladies were friggen lunatics! They’d put their 20-dollar bill in their mouth and lie down on the stage and let the gross naked stripper rub his balls all over her face. One stripper even took this chick, flipped her upside down, and stuck her face in his junk, presumably tea-bagging her. She probably had a fity in her mouth.
It was all very, very disturbing. And not to mention, the strippers looked like zombies on far to much cocaine. The way they danced was in no way attractive, and they were clearly dead inside, like most strippers I guess. I kind of wanted to put their clothes back on them, take them for a nice warm coffee, and tell them that they are better than this, and that someone, someday, somewhere, will love them.
There was this moment during the night where I had to go to the washroom. It was horrifying. I was holding my purse firmly with two hands, much like an old woman would when walking through a heard of fifteen year olds. On my way to the washroom, because I was concentrating more on hugging my bag then looking forward, I ran right into one of the strippers. Like, my forehead rammed into his enormous pecks, and he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He proceeded to give me this creepy look and then rubbed my back…I quickly lowered my head, let out a yelp and ran towards the washroom. On my quest to find the washroom I stumbled across the “secret rooms” where the women get their private dances from the strippers. That, or they just go into the room and pay 15 bucks to get tea-bagged. I’m going to conclude that’s what actually goes on.
To finish the night we ate some poutine. Mine had hot dogs in it. I’m only now realizing how gross that might appear...on all levels.
So, in closing, I’ve decided to use a timeless, tired, and overused cliché to create a new slogan for the male strip club:
Cover: 5 dollars
Cost of a single beer: $6.50
Seeing lunatic women get teabagged by male strippers: priceless
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
dolla dolla billzzz y'all.
Dear readers, friends and confidants,
I’m sorry for my absence. I’ve been in Montreal for the last 5 weeks, and I drank too many 40s. You might be asking yourself, “what does 40 drinking have to do with actually writing in your blog? Were you drunk all the time, you goddamn alcoholic!?” Well, no, I wasn’t drunk all the time, but I did loose a number of brain cells. It’s simple really; a litre and a bit of beer priced at a mere 4.67 can really affect your intelligence. It still hasn’t fully recovered. My intelligence that is. I probably should have said, “I haven’t fully recovered’, but that would've been far too grammatically correct, and right now, that’s not in my cards.
So, for now, I’ll give you this article I wrote about the reasons I hate the stampede…which isn’t a surprise, seeing as I hate everything and everyone… No! just joking! I like you!
http://www.glossmag.ca/issues/11/socialite/1-calgary-stampede.html
I’m going to stop writing now because I’m pretty certain I’m coming across as 6 year old with a speech impediment. Please check back in a while. I have many interesting stories to tell.
Sincerely yours,
Nicole
I’m sorry for my absence. I’ve been in Montreal for the last 5 weeks, and I drank too many 40s. You might be asking yourself, “what does 40 drinking have to do with actually writing in your blog? Were you drunk all the time, you goddamn alcoholic!?” Well, no, I wasn’t drunk all the time, but I did loose a number of brain cells. It’s simple really; a litre and a bit of beer priced at a mere 4.67 can really affect your intelligence. It still hasn’t fully recovered. My intelligence that is. I probably should have said, “I haven’t fully recovered’, but that would've been far too grammatically correct, and right now, that’s not in my cards.
So, for now, I’ll give you this article I wrote about the reasons I hate the stampede…which isn’t a surprise, seeing as I hate everything and everyone… No! just joking! I like you!
http://www.glossmag.ca/issues/11/socialite/1-calgary-stampede.html
I’m going to stop writing now because I’m pretty certain I’m coming across as 6 year old with a speech impediment. Please check back in a while. I have many interesting stories to tell.
Sincerely yours,
Nicole
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