We'll see how much it sucks, 'k?

http://thepissedkitty.today.com/

Labels: ramblin' ramblin'

|

EVIDENCE-!
Pt. I

Pt. II

Pt. III

Labels: unemployment

|

What did y'all get y'alls moms for Mother's Day. (Sorry if y'all don't know who y'all's moms are, and/or y'all's moms are dead. I have that same problem with Father's Day...)

Mine has every kitchen device known to man, so I thought I'd finally found one here which she didn't have, this very obscure, but absolutely essential, kitchen basic.

However, you can only buy it, like, at the aquarium? So I ordered some cookbooks online, instead, and told her if she wanted one, I would totally get it.

ME: Do you want an Octodog?
MOM: Octawha...? What is it? No.
ME: It's a device that cuts your hot dogs into octopi-shaped things.
MOM: Uh...no.
ME: Why not?
MOM: (...)
ME: Maybe little Octodog...?
MOM: NO NO I DO NOT WANT THAT THING
ME: Oh. I guess, if you wanted your hot dogs to be octupusses, you would, you know. Just eat an octopus.
MOM: Exactly. Right.
ME: Although, there may be, you know. Some octopus in your hot dog.
MOM: DO NOT ORDER ME THAT THING.
ME: Oh. Kay.
MOM: I MEAN IT. I DO NOT WANT ONE. DO NOT SEND ME THAT THING.
ME: Fine. Okay. I won't.
MOM: You're sending me that thing, aren't you.
ME: NO. Maybe. For self-defense.

You do not even need to have kids in the house - I am sure this octothinger has many other uses. Such as, making radish roses. Banana slugs. Indian deities. Chinese eggplant Cthulhus. And life-sized, anatomically correct models of Bret Michael's genitalia. Which every kitchen should have. And also, some PAM. And a lot of Lysol.

Dude. I am so not hungry anymore.

Labels: fear the octodog

|

Next time you try to smell an orchid, just remember the copious amounts of insect ejaculate that might be swimmin' around in there, ready to latch on to your nose hairs and attempt to impregnate your BRAIN, then causing you to start watching "Keeping Up with the Kardashians".

Not that most orchids really smell, I'm just saying,
you were warned.

By the way, maybe it's just me, or the fact that I've been working in a casting office for the past week, but I think this says a lot about attempting to date in general (and especially in L.A.) and also explains Daisy from ROCK OF LOVE (just replace "orchids" with "plastic boobs"):

Male pollinators can prefer orchids (plastic boobs) to real females, prematurely end a copulation with a real female to visit an orchid (plastic boobs), or be unable to find real female mates among false orchid signals (plastic boobs).

I think Prospective Mates should send half the women out here a nice big bouquet of bug spooge. Not that they could smell it anyway through their reconstructed Barbie noses...

Labels: airing the orchid

|

Bosco gives new meaning to "Petco: Where the Pets Go".
Ew.

Also, he hates, hates, HATES having his picture taken. I thought at first it was just the whirring sound the camera makes, but no. I have attempted even from quite a long way away using a telephoto lens and he still somehow senses the paparazzi. He hates it worse than the celebutards on TMZ.

Here he is, trying to leave:

-The general area
-A picnic
-Hiding under the table, wearing hoodie for disguise.

He even hates it at Christmas:
He even hates SANTA.

He hates it on Valentine's Day. In a boat. With a goat.
He hates it WITH A CUPCAKE, for crissake...
You can almost see his whiskers quivering with revulsion.

I'm going to stop taking pictures now, or else he might explode.

(The hedgehog is a live grenade.)

Labels: Boskee skee ska sko skoo skee ska skoo

|

So did y'all see Larry King Live...? I am. So. Horrified.

First of all, that these Fundamentalist Latter Day Saints would let an otherwise decent-looking person go through life with a monobrow. And a mustache.

What, is it Wax vs. Jesus? Can't they have both...?

That hairdo alone is grounds for child abuse.

No, really, I'm not here to make fun of these ladies. Or their religious convictions against superfluous hair removal. Or their inexplicably poufy hairdos. Or their shapeless-dress-and-lumberjack-boots combo.

Actually I am mostly scared of the obvious brainwashing as they each parrot the other's statements, almost verbatim. Of their scary baby books full of pictures of women and children with no apparent fathers ever involved. And they all swear they have only nine children, and weren't married until they were 20 or 21. Riiiiiight.

I have no quarrel with "religious freedom" if it only affects the koo koos involved, however, these kids are born into this whack job factory, are given no freedom to choose, AND THEY CANNOT GET OUT. That is, unless they're boys and get kicked off the ranch at a tender age for the crime of bringing their young hot weenuses around girls of their own age, which old guys named Orrin and Nephi find threatening.

Anyway, their mothers wear Army boots.

Labels: koo koo bananas for Cocoa Puffs and Jesus

|

I always thought it was screwed up that mothers of young children, other than those who require reconstructive surgery, decide that they need boob jobs. A reduction I would understand, but does Mommy really need to look like Plastic Surgery Barbie...?

Now this book attempts to justify and explain the unexplainable.

(I mean, couldn't one at least wait 'til the kid's older? Then they already know you're f*cked in the head. Like about the time you divorce Daddy (if you ever even bothered to marry him) and they catch you on the couch with Rahoolio, who has come to weed whack your bushes.)

Most disturbing to me is the idea of little boys growing up with circus tits and thinking this is the norm. Best possible outcome being that they are so repulsed that they turn gay. (I know, people don't spontaneously turn gay, I'm just saying...best possible outcome.) Not to mention that breastfeeding after such a procedure would be questionable at best. Enjoy your petrochemical-laced clown tit juice, kids-!

Kids shouldn't be scared because their mommy is having plastic surgery; kids should be scared that THAT IS THEIR MOMMY. Too bad, this book could have been useful, and included a chapter on legal emancipation. Kid has probably left Mom in the dust, IQ-wise, long ago.

I think they should change the title to My Plastic-Assed, Stripper Mommy. or, Mommy Cannot Hug You Because her Water Balloons Will Burst.

I also think I am a closet Republican. Wait, no, it's the Republican moms who are pulling this crap (thank you, Orange County.)

Labels: Bimbo City

|