Thursday, September 28, 2006
IT WAS LIKE THIS
So, yesterday...
*
toothpastefordinner.com
*Also, her hair looks like poop and is way stupider than mine, but she makes fun of me, anyway.
|
IT WAS LIKE THIS
**Also, her hair looks like poop and is way stupider than mine, but she makes fun of me, anyway.
|
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
MY DELIGHTFUL NEIGHBOR
I just wrote two ranty e-mails to people who frequent this sh*t so I figured I might as well post it.
I thought perhaps you might like to hear about MY VERY OWN juvenile delinquent-! It is like a Pet Rock except obnoxious by reason of the fact that It is not an inanimate object! Although It looks kind of like one!
Unfortunately, It belongs to is my next door neighbor! Several tenants have been complaining about It, its girlfriend, Its mother's boyfriend, and the mother herself, a pre-rehab, Bobby-Brown-goes-down era Whitney Houston lookalike who is SUPPOSED to be the only one living there; I am just the only complainer who happens to live immediately next door. Aren't I just the lucky one?!
AWOL juvy scum offspring of my crack whore neighbor, i.e. It, is black and has a mohawk (WTF?) and a little juvy-jailbait girlfriend, who, with an identical blackhawk, looks like a cross between It and a potato, except sluttier. Its hobbies are: wearing Slayer and Iron Maiden t-shirts (bands which were on their way out, if not totally obsolete, by the time *I* graduated high school ca. 1993), hanging out in the garage with a container of what is either orange juice or Its own urine, looking homeless, and playing in the street by the bus stop on Wilshire, causing me almost to hit It with my car (and regret swerving to miss It soon afterward).
I try to tell myself not to freak out, that there is just no accounting for teenage taste in music or hairstyles; that I did similar things for shock value when I was Its age, and to just to ignore the letters from Juvenile Hall and the truancy office which get plastered to my fine, upstanding neighbor's door, which she (what a responsible parent!) marks as "not at this address" and returns to sender.
Granted, on a technicality, her evil spawn is NOT supposed to be living there, but thanks to my bleeding-heart landlady (who claims she's known ITs mother for 'a number of years', but I'm guessing who was actually a participant on a case study of crack babies for her masters of psych program), It is either there on the down-low or she just doesn't want to deal with It, is afraid of It, and/or doesn't think It actually lives there, but I am pretty sure It sometimes lives IN THE GARAGE, which is also freaky, especially when I come home late at night.
And yes, I know that It must be her kid because the former, blessedly quiet occupant of that apt. was a) blessedly childless, b) blessedly Korean, but never did once run over me with her car - how considerate! c) blessedly invisible -the only proof of her actual existence was left on our retardedly shared balcony in the form of three (3) mops; d) blessedly NEVER tromped past my kitchen and bathroom windows repeatedly at strange hours, never yelled at me through my exposed door and windows because she was high on painkillers (yeah, right - I was on painkillers for some time, and never once felt inspired to stand in HER doorway in my Aunt Jemima doo rag and holler at her), or spontaneously decided to start flower arranging on the balcony at midnight (an hour and a half past Bleeding-Heart Landlady-imposed Balcony Curfew) while loudly jangling all her damn wind chimes, like she did last night, and certainly was NOT eeee!) a black mohawed kid named "Korr".
I suppose I should just feel lucky that I don't live in Turdministan or that we are not related in some way, but still. To repeat: WTF?!
I would much rather live next door to the Pet Rock, even if it did play loud music that went, "FUCK YOUR DADDY! FUCK YOUR DADDY! FUCK YOUR DADDY! RAH, RAH, RAH!!!".
|
MY DELIGHTFUL NEIGHBORI thought perhaps you might like to hear about MY VERY OWN juvenile delinquent-! It is like a Pet Rock except obnoxious by reason of the fact that It is not an inanimate object! Although It looks kind of like one!
Unfortunately, It belongs to is my next door neighbor! Several tenants have been complaining about It, its girlfriend, Its mother's boyfriend, and the mother herself, a pre-rehab, Bobby-Brown-goes-down era Whitney Houston lookalike who is SUPPOSED to be the only one living there; I am just the only complainer who happens to live immediately next door. Aren't I just the lucky one?!
AWOL juvy scum offspring of my crack whore neighbor, i.e. It, is black and has a mohawk (WTF?) and a little juvy-jailbait girlfriend, who, with an identical blackhawk, looks like a cross between It and a potato, except sluttier. Its hobbies are: wearing Slayer and Iron Maiden t-shirts (bands which were on their way out, if not totally obsolete, by the time *I* graduated high school ca. 1993), hanging out in the garage with a container of what is either orange juice or Its own urine, looking homeless, and playing in the street by the bus stop on Wilshire, causing me almost to hit It with my car (and regret swerving to miss It soon afterward).
I try to tell myself not to freak out, that there is just no accounting for teenage taste in music or hairstyles; that I did similar things for shock value when I was Its age, and to just to ignore the letters from Juvenile Hall and the truancy office which get plastered to my fine, upstanding neighbor's door, which she (what a responsible parent!) marks as "not at this address" and returns to sender.
Granted, on a technicality, her evil spawn is NOT supposed to be living there, but thanks to my bleeding-heart landlady (who claims she's known ITs mother for 'a number of years', but I'm guessing who was actually a participant on a case study of crack babies for her masters of psych program), It is either there on the down-low or she just doesn't want to deal with It, is afraid of It, and/or doesn't think It actually lives there, but I am pretty sure It sometimes lives IN THE GARAGE, which is also freaky, especially when I come home late at night.
And yes, I know that It must be her kid because the former, blessedly quiet occupant of that apt. was a) blessedly childless, b) blessedly Korean, but never did once run over me with her car - how considerate! c) blessedly invisible -the only proof of her actual existence was left on our retardedly shared balcony in the form of three (3) mops; d) blessedly NEVER tromped past my kitchen and bathroom windows repeatedly at strange hours, never yelled at me through my exposed door and windows because she was high on painkillers (yeah, right - I was on painkillers for some time, and never once felt inspired to stand in HER doorway in my Aunt Jemima doo rag and holler at her), or spontaneously decided to start flower arranging on the balcony at midnight (an hour and a half past Bleeding-Heart Landlady-imposed Balcony Curfew) while loudly jangling all her damn wind chimes, like she did last night, and certainly was NOT eeee!) a black mohawed kid named "Korr".
I suppose I should just feel lucky that I don't live in Turdministan or that we are not related in some way, but still. To repeat: WTF?!
I would much rather live next door to the Pet Rock, even if it did play loud music that went, "FUCK YOUR DADDY! FUCK YOUR DADDY! FUCK YOUR DADDY! RAH, RAH, RAH!!!".
|
Monday, September 25, 2006
'K, I NEVER SAID THAT I COULD DRAW.
'K, I NEVER SAID THAT I COULD DRAW.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
DEVIL WITH A CORN DOG, CORN DOG, CORN DOG, DEVIL WITH A CORNDOG ON-!
(I have found that muttering "corn dog" to yourself repeatedly has mood-elevating effects similar to this.)
Food again...
1) The Devil. And here is the devil, fried. Genius. I mean, BAD CORN DOG! BAD!!!
2) I got three, count 'em, three, wedding invitations in the mail. Corn dog, corn dog, corn dog!!!
3) BAD BABY SPINACH. BAD!!! They found the culprit. By the way, this ain't stoppin' me from eating bagged greens, folks. I don't care if I get a little E. coli-induced case of mild death. I'm too lazy to re-wash my pre-washed, bagged spinach, aren't you? MAJORITY RULES! Singing, Baby, baby. Where did our salad go...? Don't you feed me, don't you feed me no more?...Taaainted spinaaach, whoooooa...touch me, baby, tainted greens.
4) "You will not find a finer Corn Dog on the market!" That is the Hinsdale Farms Quality Pledge...well, alrighty, then...I did not know that a hot dog had integrity, but I would like to put that in my wedding vows! (Do you, Pisser, promise to maintain the integrity of the hot dog? I do. And do you, Man Who Does Not Exist, realize that there is no finer corn dog on the market...? He'd better.)
I also did not know the finer things in life included corn dogs. Also, for the truly lazy, aspiring obese person on the go: sausage, wrapped in a pancake, on a stick. I am at a loss for words, this is so beautiful. (Del Taco also has this, but that's a whole 'nother thing of beauty deserving of its very own post.)
5) Look at this little happy fat bastid. Look at 'im! Remember that face, because you will see him again when you die after a failed triple bypass. Death, Thy Name is Corndog Boy.
6) I did not know there was a "corn dog industry." And even a mockumentary about the exploitation of girls in white slavery a la Thoroughly Modern Millie, except with corn dogs. And there's even a National Corn Dog Day! The Corndog Festival! A corn dog Paris Hilton (DO NOT EAT)! And in school cafeterias these days, kids can get Uncrustables and corn dogs, because, I think? Smuckers and the corporate giants of the Corn Dog Industry have up and bought our schools. YAY! I want to go to this skool, and am particularly interested in the "Frnehc Fries". But should you really have "Fun on the Run" with a hot dog? Isn't that a choking hazard...?
7) I once heard some comedian opine that they should put a sterilization agent into corn dogs, because the people who tend to eat corn dogs deserve to be sterilized. I am perfectly okay with this, as women who push baby carriages in the street, in front of my car, and probably also consume corn dogs, should not be allowed to reproduce, either. So he has my vote.
Well, white trash + white slavery = good old fashioned fun, but I don't think "corn dog" is gonna do it for me at this point...I think I need liquor. But I'll save that for later, corndog it.
CORN FUCKIN' DOG, man.
|
DEVIL WITH A CORN DOG, CORN DOG, CORN DOG, DEVIL WITH A CORNDOG ON-!Food again...
1) The Devil. And here is the devil, fried. Genius. I mean, BAD CORN DOG! BAD!!!
2) I got three, count 'em, three, wedding invitations in the mail. Corn dog, corn dog, corn dog!!!
3) BAD BABY SPINACH. BAD!!! They found the culprit. By the way, this ain't stoppin' me from eating bagged greens, folks. I don't care if I get a little E. coli-induced case of mild death. I'm too lazy to re-wash my pre-washed, bagged spinach, aren't you? MAJORITY RULES! Singing, Baby, baby. Where did our salad go...? Don't you feed me, don't you feed me no more?...Taaainted spinaaach, whoooooa...touch me, baby, tainted greens.
4) "You will not find a finer Corn Dog on the market!" That is the Hinsdale Farms Quality Pledge...well, alrighty, then...I did not know that a hot dog had integrity, but I would like to put that in my wedding vows! (Do you, Pisser, promise to maintain the integrity of the hot dog? I do. And do you, Man Who Does Not Exist, realize that there is no finer corn dog on the market...? He'd better.)
I also did not know the finer things in life included corn dogs. Also, for the truly lazy, aspiring obese person on the go: sausage, wrapped in a pancake, on a stick. I am at a loss for words, this is so beautiful. (Del Taco also has this, but that's a whole 'nother thing of beauty deserving of its very own post.)
5) Look at this little happy fat bastid. Look at 'im! Remember that face, because you will see him again when you die after a failed triple bypass. Death, Thy Name is Corndog Boy.
6) I did not know there was a "corn dog industry." And even a mockumentary about the exploitation of girls in white slavery a la Thoroughly Modern Millie, except with corn dogs. And there's even a National Corn Dog Day! The Corndog Festival! A corn dog Paris Hilton (DO NOT EAT)! And in school cafeterias these days, kids can get Uncrustables and corn dogs, because, I think? Smuckers and the corporate giants of the Corn Dog Industry have up and bought our schools. YAY! I want to go to this skool, and am particularly interested in the "Frnehc Fries". But should you really have "Fun on the Run" with a hot dog? Isn't that a choking hazard...?
7) I once heard some comedian opine that they should put a sterilization agent into corn dogs, because the people who tend to eat corn dogs deserve to be sterilized. I am perfectly okay with this, as women who push baby carriages in the street, in front of my car, and probably also consume corn dogs, should not be allowed to reproduce, either. So he has my vote.
Well, white trash + white slavery = good old fashioned fun, but I don't think "corn dog" is gonna do it for me at this point...I think I need liquor. But I'll save that for later, corndog it.
CORN FUCKIN' DOG, man.
|
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
POST OFFICE RULES
Because, I said so:
1) Everyone who is a working stiff goes to the post office at lunchtime. Do not go to the post office at lunchtime. Go in the morning or after work, if you can get away.
2) People who do not have to work for a living, such as stay-at-home moms with kids in tow, should not go to the post office at lunchtime. This is just stupid. The kids get cranky and whiny from having to stand and wait in line, which in turn makes everyone else in line cranky and shooty and stabby...not a good scene.
3) People have weird butts. Also, people do not necessarily wear the most flattering clothes for said butts, for example, if they are lumpy and wide? They wear pants which resemble a circus tent layered over a termite fumigation tent on top of a muumuu and make them appear even lumpier and wider.
My butt? Ranges from sad and flat to saggy and sad. I need a butt bra. Therefore, I try to find pants which either make it look less flat, less saggy, or at least give it an anti-depressant suppository. Or else, I roll in something, so that the smell will distract people from my depressing butt.
The moral of the story is: do not go to the post office unless absolutely necessary. If absolutely necessary, do not go at lunchtime. If you have to go at lunchtime, check first to make sure you have no kids. If you discover that you do have kids, tie them to the hitching post outside, and also, do not go. If you must go, do not wear depressing pants. And if you insist both on going and on wearing dangerously unflattering pantalones, please do not stand in front of me in line.
Thank you.
|
POST OFFICE RULES1) Everyone who is a working stiff goes to the post office at lunchtime. Do not go to the post office at lunchtime. Go in the morning or after work, if you can get away.
2) People who do not have to work for a living, such as stay-at-home moms with kids in tow, should not go to the post office at lunchtime. This is just stupid. The kids get cranky and whiny from having to stand and wait in line, which in turn makes everyone else in line cranky and shooty and stabby...not a good scene.
3) People have weird butts. Also, people do not necessarily wear the most flattering clothes for said butts, for example, if they are lumpy and wide? They wear pants which resemble a circus tent layered over a termite fumigation tent on top of a muumuu and make them appear even lumpier and wider.
My butt? Ranges from sad and flat to saggy and sad. I need a butt bra. Therefore, I try to find pants which either make it look less flat, less saggy, or at least give it an anti-depressant suppository. Or else, I roll in something, so that the smell will distract people from my depressing butt.
The moral of the story is: do not go to the post office unless absolutely necessary. If absolutely necessary, do not go at lunchtime. If you have to go at lunchtime, check first to make sure you have no kids. If you discover that you do have kids, tie them to the hitching post outside, and also, do not go. If you must go, do not wear depressing pants. And if you insist both on going and on wearing dangerously unflattering pantalones, please do not stand in front of me in line.
Thank you.
|
Friday, September 15, 2006
PULLING OUT THE BIG GUNS
When I am sad, googling "cone head weiner dog" and "cat muzzle" usually does it for me.
Or doing this this:
toothpastefordinner.com
Or looking at my stats:
penis bulge in cycling shorts
things to shove up a vagina for pleasure
leaving houseplants during holidays
bonky pantyhose party
blue hermaphodite lobster
www nachos killer pussy.com
sinus lift wallace 2005 (??!!?)
jessica alba feet pedicure
foot licker in WAL-MART
Lea Thompson cameltoe
bleach cat's asshole
piss up my ass
bloody pit bull stool and menstruation
raccoon excrement pictures
gerbil laxative
Or, I just lose my lunch.
I feel somewhat better now...you?
|
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
SEVEN DEGREES OF PARIS HILTON'S CROTCH ROT
The nightmare and devastation continues...and now, two weapons of self-destruction collide!
Sadly, one of them used to be hot, but now he's icky by association, and I'm only one degree away from The Ick. Too close for comfort.
I was just sleeping off the awfulness of last night's ABC "docudrama" (read: inaccurate horseshit)(okay, so somewhat touching inaccurate horseshit)(but do you really want to be touching horseshit?) about 9-11, when I woke up to a "news" bit on THIS.
Open Letter to Jay Mewes:
Oh, honey. Jay, say it ain't so. Sugar Tits? Is your career really that much in the toilet that you have to be kissing Pear-Ass HILTON?! Ohhh, that's so, so icky, even for you. Now you have the herp for sure (as if you didn't before, let alone de AIDS from all that heroin abuse...)
As punishment, I will not make out with you in a bar, EVER AGAIN-!
(Or maybe, as I've gained several years and many pounds since then, I should say, as punishment, I WILL make out with you, in a bar, again-!)
Plus that pot-smoking, coke-snorting* skank can't be good for your sobriety.
Anyway, I think there should be a new insult coined for Paris...instead of has-been, or never-was...she's a really-shouldn't-have-been. Or shouldn't-have, for short, as in Shouldn't Have. Even. Existed. Ever.
*You know why Paris Hilton does coke...? So she can look at herself in the mirror. I ain't shittin'...but you know she is. Loads.
|
SEVEN DEGREES OF PARIS HILTON'S CROTCH ROTSadly, one of them used to be hot, but now he's icky by association, and I'm only one degree away from The Ick. Too close for comfort.
I was just sleeping off the awfulness of last night's ABC "docudrama" (read: inaccurate horseshit)(okay, so somewhat touching inaccurate horseshit)(but do you really want to be touching horseshit?) about 9-11, when I woke up to a "news" bit on THIS.
Open Letter to Jay Mewes:
Oh, honey. Jay, say it ain't so. Sugar Tits? Is your career really that much in the toilet that you have to be kissing Pear-Ass HILTON?! Ohhh, that's so, so icky, even for you. Now you have the herp for sure (as if you didn't before, let alone de AIDS from all that heroin abuse...)
As punishment, I will not make out with you in a bar, EVER AGAIN-!
(Or maybe, as I've gained several years and many pounds since then, I should say, as punishment, I WILL make out with you, in a bar, again-!)
Plus that pot-smoking, coke-snorting* skank can't be good for your sobriety.
Anyway, I think there should be a new insult coined for Paris...instead of has-been, or never-was...she's a really-shouldn't-have-been. Or shouldn't-have, for short, as in Shouldn't Have. Even. Existed. Ever.
*You know why Paris Hilton does coke...? So she can look at herself in the mirror. I ain't shittin'...but you know she is. Loads.
|
Monday, September 11, 2006
IT IS A SAD, SAD DAY FOR...KITTENS!!!
Such a dismal day. I turned on the "news" this morning (Good Day L.A. hardly counts as news) wanting to tune in, turn on, or drop...something, but instead, I got the reading of the 9-11 victims' memorial. Sorry, you guys but I'm too big of a wuss to honor you like I should. These things scare the bejeesus out of me. I am truly a sorry excuse for a human being. This is why I need to just give to the Red Cross and shut up.
Even the entertainment news is sad...Anna Nicole's sweet son is dead, Irwin mourned, Sacha booed, John Leguizamo...is, Schwarzenegger...said something, and Lindsay Lohan got her "beloved bag" back. (Christ, give us levity, let the spoilt bitch lose her damn overpriced shit, rob the rich and give to the poor for once, OK?)
On top of that, we just found out someone here at work is terminally ill and has about two weeks. We're trying to visit him today but if my boss gets wind of it, he might not be too pleased because unfortunately our guy was one of the "little people," and it makes me angry that some are considered not important enough to take time off of work and visit.
Fortunately, KITTENS!!! Beeker enlightened me to the need for life-affirming living in the moment this morning by appearing, in person, completely covered head-to-toe in kitty litter, eyes all big, twitching and looking like, wha' hoppen?!
I think during one of his over-enthusiastic bouts of turd covering (his and everyone else's), he must have flipped the box.
(I think it was the party hat and the balloons that got me there.)
I think I owe the universe an apology.
|
IT IS A SAD, SAD DAY FOR...KITTENS!!!Even the entertainment news is sad...Anna Nicole's sweet son is dead, Irwin mourned, Sacha booed, John Leguizamo...is, Schwarzenegger...said something, and Lindsay Lohan got her "beloved bag" back. (Christ, give us levity, let the spoilt bitch lose her damn overpriced shit, rob the rich and give to the poor for once, OK?)
On top of that, we just found out someone here at work is terminally ill and has about two weeks. We're trying to visit him today but if my boss gets wind of it, he might not be too pleased because unfortunately our guy was one of the "little people," and it makes me angry that some are considered not important enough to take time off of work and visit.
Fortunately, KITTENS!!! Beeker enlightened me to the need for life-affirming living in the moment this morning by appearing, in person, completely covered head-to-toe in kitty litter, eyes all big, twitching and looking like, wha' hoppen?!
I think during one of his over-enthusiastic bouts of turd covering (his and everyone else's), he must have flipped the box.
(I think it was the party hat and the balloons that got me there.)
I think I owe the universe an apology.
|
Thursday, September 07, 2006
OH MY GOD! STOP THE PRESSES-!
Drug use among baby boomers, a.k.a. hippies, is increasing at a higher rate than that of these goddamn lazy non-pot-smoking whippersnappers of today.*
"Marijuana was by far their drug of choice."
Is it just me, or is this like saying, "Paris Hilton is a disease-infested, spoilt rich cooze who, if there were, in fact, a vengeful G_d, would have no right to exist on this Earth, but, as the end times are at hand, you stupid people have gone and made her your idol."
"She has devoted her entire adult life to appearing to be the princess of parties." -Paris's pube-lickist
Oh excuuuuuuuse moi...far be it for me to impede the smelly cunt from achieving such a lofty goal. Would someone please just give that tired jizz-hole the Nobel Piece Prize for Ass and so the rest of us can finally hear some real news, Katie Couric?!
This is not news; this is a flaming bag of poo.
*KIDS: GET WITH THE PROGRAM! GET ON THE STICK! STOP POSTING INANE 'OMG! ROTFL!' COMMENTS ON MYSPACE AND 'HOOKING UP' FOR ANAL (YOU FAUX VIRGINS, WHAT IS THAT SHIT?! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GONNA DO, GET DR. HEINIE MENGELE TO SEW YOUR RUPTURED BOWELS BACK TOGETHER WHEN YOUGET MARRIED SHACK UP WITH SOMEONE AND HAVE THEIR CHILD OUT OF WEDLOCK IN A PSEUDO-MONOGAMOUS BISEXUAL RELATIONSHIP SOMEDAY?!) AND START DOING DRUGS LIKE DECENT, SELF-RESPECTING RED-BLOODED AMERICAN KIDS, YOU COMMIE PINKO PSEUDO-VIRGIN PROLAPSED RECTUM MAGGOTS-!...which reminds me, it is my sister's birthday.
Thank you, and God bless us, America, every one of our red, white, black & blue magic buttholes. THESE COLORS DON'T RUN-!
|
OH MY GOD! STOP THE PRESSES-!"Marijuana was by far their drug of choice."
Is it just me, or is this like saying, "Paris Hilton is a disease-infested, spoilt rich cooze who, if there were, in fact, a vengeful G_d, would have no right to exist on this Earth, but, as the end times are at hand, you stupid people have gone and made her your idol."
"She has devoted her entire adult life to appearing to be the princess of parties." -Paris's pube-lickist
Oh excuuuuuuuse moi...far be it for me to impede the smelly cunt from achieving such a lofty goal. Would someone please just give that tired jizz-hole the Nobel Piece Prize for Ass and so the rest of us can finally hear some real news, Katie Couric?!
This is not news; this is a flaming bag of poo.
*KIDS: GET WITH THE PROGRAM! GET ON THE STICK! STOP POSTING INANE 'OMG! ROTFL!' COMMENTS ON MYSPACE AND 'HOOKING UP' FOR ANAL (YOU FAUX VIRGINS, WHAT IS THAT SHIT?! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GONNA DO, GET DR. HEINIE MENGELE TO SEW YOUR RUPTURED BOWELS BACK TOGETHER WHEN YOU
Thank you, and God bless us, America, every one of our red, white, black & blue magic buttholes. THESE COLORS DON'T RUN-!
|
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
EXCUSE-O-RAMA
I've been a bad, bad squirrel.
Here's some crap excuses if you care to know (sad, but true):
1) I've been working on this
2) and this
3) and this
4) I'm supposedly getting a new job. Cross phalanges.
5) Killy introduced me to this...daaaamn you, you and your cute pants...
6) It was Labor Day Weekend. I was laboring.
7) We went hiking at Joshua Tree, where bunnies nibbled Cranky's pants and coyotes will eat your sneakers...but no tampon-sniffing bears I guess
8) I 8 eight. And some bad clams. OU812?
9) Cramps.
10) Beverly Hills sucks, my car stalled in the permit-only (which is pretty much everything) zone, I was late for a doctor's appt. and I got a $40 parking ticket
11) It took me two hours to get there & back to work, because in order to keep us po' white trash out, Bev. Hills decided its streets should be numbered accordingly: 400 N. to 300 N. to 100 N. to 100 S. to 200 N. (Only non-residents don't know that this makes no sense, apparently.)
12) Dang back-to-school traffic...why should I have to suffer? I don't even have kids.
13) It's the plumber...he's come to fix thesink shower, which was leaking through the floor into my neighbor's apartment. Therefore, I no longer have a shower. Or hot water. I smell poorly. My apartment is not my own. Every morning, I literally have to herd cats so he doesn't let them out/step on them/flush them. When I come home, I can't even poop for fear of gassing us both out. He's been in there for a goddamn week, but do I get a rent reduction for the inconvenience? No.
Questions? Comments? Complaints?
|
EXCUSE-O-RAMAHere's some crap excuses if you care to know (sad, but true):
1) I've been working on this
2) and this
3) and this
4) I'm supposedly getting a new job. Cross phalanges.
5) Killy introduced me to this...daaaamn you, you and your cute pants...
6) It was Labor Day Weekend. I was laboring.
7) We went hiking at Joshua Tree, where bunnies nibbled Cranky's pants and coyotes will eat your sneakers...but no tampon-sniffing bears I guess
8) I 8 eight. And some bad clams. OU812?
9) Cramps.
10) Beverly Hills sucks, my car stalled in the permit-only (which is pretty much everything) zone, I was late for a doctor's appt. and I got a $40 parking ticket
11) It took me two hours to get there & back to work, because in order to keep us po' white trash out, Bev. Hills decided its streets should be numbered accordingly: 400 N. to 300 N. to 100 N. to 100 S. to 200 N. (Only non-residents don't know that this makes no sense, apparently.)
12) Dang back-to-school traffic...why should I have to suffer? I don't even have kids.
13) It's the plumber...he's come to fix the
Questions? Comments? Complaints?
|
