Huh?!

It's December, the, twenny-fish. Wha' happen.

I am not done: not done shopping (not that I'm really doing any), not done doing cards, not even started doing cards...not even for work.

Plus I haven't managed to get my filthy little paws on the one gifty I planned on gifting: Mr. Poo.

Please do not ask me why I need to procure a Mr. Poo.

Mr. Poo is not for you. No, he is not. Noo noo noo.

Mr. Poo? Is a squeaky turd.

Don't ask.

Anyway, I called the pet store, and they are fresh out of squeeky turds.

I know they had squeeky turds, because I saw them there. I probably even made them go, SQuEEKY, SQuEEKY. Yet I foolishly declined to purchase them.

YOU try calling a store and asking if they have any more squeeky turds.

Go on, I double dog-turd dare you.

P.S. I attempted to Google "Mr. Poo" and "squeeky turd" with no success.

Christmas, 2007: a fruitless search for squeeky turds.

Boy am I glad I have not produced offspring, as they would, no doubt, be clamoring for squeeky turds, come Christmas Day. And, knowing my luck, that would be the year squeeky turds were all the rage. Because that is just the sort of perverse, alternate universe that would allow me to produce children.

What are you still looking for, like dumbass?

Tickle Me, Homo? Lego Porn?! What...?!?
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I heard something on the radio the other day that combined two of my great hates*

*my mom said I'm not allowed to hate things, I can only strongly dislike them.

...my great dislikes:

John Mayer (Meyer? Oscar-Meyer? Don't make me look it up)'s song, "Your Body is a Wonderland" (iccchhh) and Jennifer Love Hewitt (iccchhhhhhhh).

Apparently he wrote that about her (MEGA-icccchhhh and also, yack).

I hate (sorry Mom, it's too many letters to type) her, I hate her rat-like face, I hate the fact that her friends call her "Love," her alleged ginormous tatas which I never understood why people found so impressive, I mean, ANYTHING looks ginormous on a skinny midget chick) and the fact that for the past umpteen years, she's been sporting the same hairdo I wore in high school, I mean, wtf.

I call it "Heavy Metal Poodle," because she looks like a poodle with a disproportionately small head vs. the size of her hair doo.

And that song, just, retch. It's okay to have those kinds of feelings about someone, but for crissake, keep 'em to yourself. Nobody needs to hear that "room for two" is how you think of a vagina.

Specifically, Jennifer "Love" Hewlett-Packard's vagina.

Foul.
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Omit from your vocabulary anything that contains the words, "get your _____ on".

(Yes, I hate those McDonald's commercials. The ones that showcase a food stylist's wares accompanied by the VO of a woman faking orgasm over a freshly cracked egg. NO ONE gets that excited over an English muffin, motherfuckers.)

By the way, I was recently asked if I fake orgasm.

My answer: I am too old to care enough to fake it anymore.

Too harsh?

Well, it's true.

And this is my natural haircolor.

Ha, ha.
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