Texas Toast - I don't get it. It's just thick white bread w/ butter on it. I'm a thick whitebread, and I still don't get it.

Texas Toast is just regular toast, only bigger. Because everything's fatter, I mean, bigger in Texass.

Now don't get all, nuh-uh, we're not!! on me. I'm from there; why do you think I look this way?! And it's worse because I'm in Cali now, where homesickness and the stress of not being a giant professional toothpick drive me to eat even more, and then there's the fact that the food out here does not come in Small, Medium, and Bucket.

This just makes me sad.

Besides, isn't it arguably less trouble to buy fresh bread and toast it than to take it out of the freezer, de-thaw, then toast...?

And now, these hot dogs. The fuh!

Depressingly, these were being purchased by a man who was spouting off loudly to the checker about how he deserved to have custody of his kids. I, for one, don't think so.

What next, we'll be buying it pre-chewed?!

Labels: "food"

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Or, at least, that they didn't host swinger (of any race, gender, or orientation) parties in MY DAMN BABY GIRL BEDROOM.

I know this probably makes me racist, homophobic, anti-polyamorous mumbo jumbo, etc. But I'm only prejudiced against rich, married, gross old white people with big fat cottage cheese asses and kids who have sex with black guys while the Viagra-popping whiskey-dicked husband watches and then won't talk to poor Leroy afterwards, when they run into him at the mall. Really. That's all. (Poor, unmarried, gross old white people without kids and big fat cottage cheese asses are OK! #1! Thumbs up!)

This reminds me of when Eric Cartman said, "stop... dressing me up like a mailman... a-and making me dance for you... while you go and... smoke crack in your bedroom... and have sex with... some guy... I don't even know. On my dad's bed."

Hell, I didn't even want to think about my parents having sex with each other, let alone a "Mandingo" who calls himself "Art Hammer".

I mean, Art?!

Oh, and these orgy-havers are staunch Republicans, natch.

How disturbed.

Also, remind me not to participate in any interviews, for fear that the reporter will describe me as looking more like Kathy Bates than Kathy Ireland, or having "small eyes" and "a wide head" or exhibiting the "sag of victimhood" or being "a pudding of cellulite".

GO, JOURNALISM!! MAKE FUN OF THOSE FATTY FAT FATS!

(I would almost attend, you know. For the snax.)
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The homeless guy was right.

I am horrible and I smell.

Seriously, I have awful awful thoughts about everyone (and I will tell them to you momentarily, as soon as you all identify yourselves and I can be semi-sure it is not you about whom I am dishing.)

(Which one of you is checking me from your Yahoo page?)

(Please to identifying yourself, thank you.)

Anyway, I think and the awfulness is starting to seep out through my pores. Halp-!

So, does anyone know the name of some foofoo juice which does not:
-reek
-turn all funky after an hour or so
-make people go, what is that horrid stench?!
-smell like Tidy Cat & ammonia mixed with mothballs like the last (expensive!) stuff I got? Because I read somewhere that perfume contains bobcat pee, and I am starting to believe it.

I went to a department store with Cranky because he needed a new fat shirt and some shoes, so I shpritzed a different scent on each arm and asked him, "OK, which one reeks LESS?"

He is not a perfume person, and he told me, "that one smells like Play-Doh; the other one is...not as bad."

This is not helping.

What do you think does not smell completely like ass? Guys? Anybody...?!

It doesn't have to being a puffume; it can be a soap or lotion or anything that doesn't smell like your grandmother's panty drawer sachet.

Be assured, I will not steel your secret potion and seduce all your lovers, because everything breaks down on me like compost heap and I end up smelling like a somewhat gassy, rainbow-colored cloud hanging over a used maxi pad anyway, no matter how much dough I frivolously shilled out for the stink-water. My father says it's all man repellent, anyway.

But pleez to helping me not to smell all the time so bad, like cat box.
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This afternoon, I was innocently walking to the corner to mail some
paychecks; I was NOT walking to the corner to...well, stand on the
corner.

Apparently the bum walking by my workplace thought it
was the latter, because as he swung around sloppily to eyeball my shit,
I returned his drunken gaze with my customary, how dare you even...burning glare of hatred.

(Actually, that's just my face. My mother always told me it would stick this way.)

Ghetto Bro then proceeds to go OFF.

I usually try not to listen when crazies start ranting, but I was simply trying to get back into my illustrious place of work, not thirty feet away, without being molested. However:

Whatchoo don lookin' at? Don' act like you neva seen a brotha. Don' nobody want choo. I like 'em BLACK. I like 'em BLACK. Don' nobody want choo.

I actually smiled, because, the fuck? Who even asked him?! Jesus, like I need this from a homeless person. Cripes. Racist derelict.

I am now thinking I should have reacted by:

-driving by him and chucking a rock-hard, green St. Patrick's donut at his head (the sprinkles sting!!)

-responding with my own racist diatribe on how I don't exactly like his kind
either, on account of how he never shuts UP; besides, their massive members would make my "vazhïn hang like sleeve of wizard's robe" - Borat by way of Depthmarker

-begging him PLEEEZE to have me, I want him soooo bad, I need to spread for him in his cardboard box underneath the highway overpass; I long to pull down his soiled, saggy pants and deeply inhale the smell of used needles and poo while a broken bottle knives me in the back and I simultaneously contract hepatitis and fleas.

Going forward, I'm going to dispatch one of the guys to mail the mail.

Jesus F*ck.
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In homage to The Twat...go buy his girlfriend's book!

ME: uneasily eyeing shrinkage upon his emergence from shower When's it gonna come back out?!
CRANKY: When you go home.

Nice.
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1) Letter bomb
2) A rude missive to the parents of the bride explaining that they are idiots for pushing the happy (read: fuckdumb) couple into reserving a venue and etc. instead of letting them at least get used to the idea of their engagement (mistake).
3) A picture of another (older) couple I know, with an arrow indicating the gender-appropriate (bride or groom) half, asking, "why can't you find someone age/height/weight/income appropriate, like Brian/Anna, here?"
4) Hanta virus
5) Anthrax (good for reception!)
7) A copy of this
8) A death threat, in the form of gentle reminder that if she ever hurts him, utilizing a pair of pink pliers once given to me by a Snap-On-Tools salesman, I will pull out each and every one the teeth in her gleaming white sh*t-eating "I'm engaged!" grin and put them into the new blender I am purchasing for them along with her scalp, after donating her hair to Locks of Love, and make her hit "frappé" with her own manicured acrylics, after which I feed her uterus to the cat and make her browse the personals on ETardmoney.com
8) A gift certificate to Babies "R" Us
9) A gift certificate for an abortion
10) Screw the RSVP, I'll just show up at the wedding and casually remark to the bride, "oh yeah, he asked me to marry him, too."

I'm not a very nice person, I know.

But I'll have you know I bought the above mentioned couple a hand-mixer/marital aid AND the crème brûlée set from Bloodbath and Beyond.

I figure if it doesn't work out, they can blowtorch each other
and call it a "kitchen accident."
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P*ssycat Dolls Present: The Search for The Next Doll. I would not even watch Star(f*cker) Search for America's Next Old, Bottom, Wrinkly-Twatted, Somewhat Senile Pussycat Doll. Which would probably be a helluva lot more amusing.

I already somehow (the Devil?) got reeled into America's Next Top Model (Cycle 8)...hehe, they said cycle, how apropos - but mostly just to see if what they say about Tyra's looooong, pendulous TEATS and crotchless pantyhose-with-a-hole-cut-out-so-she-can-pee thing is true, but I know it is so why do I watch? It's a sickness. Also I hate, at minimum, two of the girls and just want to see them eliminated. I can quit anytime. I CAN, TOO.

I will, however, watch this thing I first saw advertised on the back of a bus: ¡Operación Repo! because a) I am, as ever, trying to finish learning Eespeenish, and b) it is funny as hell to watch people, especially men, getting their cars taken away. They squeal like little pigs and fight like big-pantied girls, screaming and kicking like their favorite toy - i.e. penis - just got taken away. Reeheeheehee.

Si no lo puedes pagar, no lo debes comprar, assholes.
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1) Land Rover owners are the worst, most entitled, biggest a-hole drivers on the planet. Yeh or neh...?

2) I wonder what is the technical difference between cake, cupcakes, and muffins.

3) I forgot (3). I want a muffin now, but a) only if it's blueberry, and I can have it b) toasted with c) butter. Otherwise cupcake unless it is a) not chocolate, or b) not chocolate, with non-chocolate icing. Then, red velvet cake.

4) Want to see my teets?

F--ed up, huh?

Labels: a-hole drivers, cake, see my teets

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Hm, I wonder if I got the hep from attending an awards show. Wouldn't that just be a bitch, all of us sitting there, bored off our overdressed asses, not having sexual relations, and getting an STD* from our Chicken A La Yuck. Bugger.

Thanks a lot, WoofGang Fluck.

In other bad news, I talked to my mom recently.

That isn't the bad news.

Okay, so I'm an asshole for talking on my cell in the grocery store, but the line was long and she is two hours ahead of me, time-wise, so I couldn't call her later and had fuck-all to do except wait for the cashier come back with a price check on my Grana Padano. So I asked what was going on, although I could only hear about every third word, when she told me someone had ____er.

ME: She has a HAMSTER?!
MA: No, she has CANCER.

I am officially going to hell now, if I don't die of the hep first.

*Bad news: I don't think Hep A can even be considered an STD. Good news: I learned a new word today: orofecal.

Yeah, I think some drunk guy tried to do that to me before.
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