You know how naggy moms tell you to be home by midnight, because nothing good happens after 12:00 a.m.? Well, I disagree with that entirely.
Plenty of great things happen after 12. Sex, drugs, alcohol, late-night burritos and burgers– All these things are very healthy. What you really need to watch out for is what goes on past 7 a.m. No good happens between the hours of 7:00 a.m. to 12:00 p.m. Here’s why:
…Unless you count DayQuil.
1. I sang to my boyfriend’s cat, Shadow. I sang him a ballad entitled “Shadow” to the tune of Frère Jacques. The lyrics consisted of “Shadow, Shadow, Shadoooooooow”.
2. I performed a questionably seductive* dance with a small bottle of apple juice in the middle of Kroger.
What does pink zebra print have to do with family real estate?
The answer is absolutely nothing. So why does the Mercer family think a promotional van covered in pink zebra print is a good idea?
Mercer Family Realty serves Denton, TX. They’re there to help you sell a house, buy a house, and blind you with their eyesore of a van.
About two weeks ago, I was driving home from work and saw a black van covered in pink zebra print. I figured it was a promotional van for some kind of tween girl clothing store or “edgy” cake bakery. I was surprised to see that it was actually advertising real estate. It took me a while to regain my sight after it was taken from me by the uncomfortable juxtaposition of family realty and pink animal print.
A few days ago, I saw the van again, parked outside a grocery store. Sighting a van twice in roughly two weeks? Hardly seems coincidental.
I am convinced Mercer Family Realty is following me. But that’s not important. Maybe it’s important.
This Thing (see: above)—Made in the 80s, of course. But even with the outlandish things that decade provided, this is too creepy even for Madonna or 80s Ozzie. Cereal on ice cream tastes good and all, but freeze-dried “ice cream” chunks in cereal? Served by a poor soul who got abducted by aliens, probed and prodded, and sent back to Earth in an experimental ice cream cone body wearing a suit with Cheerio eyes? And he has a chip on his/its shoulder from having his human body stolen by aliens? So he’s on a killing spree by poisoning people with his cereal? No thanks. Why would he decide to poison people with his ice cream brethren, anyway? Then again, this mascot was brought to us by Kellogg, the folks who inexplicably gave us a chicken mascot for corn flakes. Also, the cereal’s name is “Kream Krunch”, which doesn’t bring to mind any sexual innuendos whatsoever.
Who woulda thought that the “forever” in Forever 21 was actually an acronym? Below, you can find the top secret meaning of the store’s title that the clerks don’t want you to know. For your convenience, I’ve attached links to the website in case you want to buy a present for that special shithead in your life.
- F stands for Fugly, as evidenced by this sweatshirt showcasing the retired Walmart smilie wearing a geezerish bowtie. His eyes have changed into hearts over time due to him relentlessly staring at little boys.
- O stands for Overseas. While I appreciate the fact that Forever 21 is desperately trying to be Takeshita Dori– and in Japan, Minnie Mouse is totally badass– in America, Minnie Mouse gear should be reserved for girls age 10 and under. If you are in your teen years or older and wear this, I will personally see to it that I punch you in the face. (more…)
After the final commercial break of the day, Bark was blinded by the stage lights when he stepped onto the Game Show Network stage. The synthesized theme song blared as the cameras swept over the crowd. Originally, VH1 was supposed to air America’s Next Top Billy Mays as a reality show over a period of six weeks, but when they opted to show season fifteen of Flavor of Love instead, the Game Show Network bought the rights to the program. Over a period of six days, men were tested on their Billy Mays-like qualities for a chance to win $10,000 and a contract with Church & Dwight, the makers of OxiClean.
“Bark Johnson!” the host announced through his skinny microphone.
Bark waved to the crowd holding signs saying things like, “Kaboom the Competition, Bark!” He had to remember to respond to the name Bark since it wasn’t his real name. Born Jaime Trevinelli, the producers said his name wasn’t butch enough, and they renamed him Bark Johnson. When he protested, they reminded him how lucky he was he looked white enough to even be considered for a spot in the show, because they knew America wasn’t going to replace Billy Mays with an Italian man.
As we all know, or rather, as all we surface-dwellers know (no offense, Underground Sewage Society, but you’re pretty disgusting), today is Friday the 13th. In honor of my favorite holiday—because as far as I’m concerned, it is a motherf*cking holiday, motherf*ckers—I am going to discuss the most terrifying thing threatening our planet right now: the last season of Oprah.
To take the wrong road to Sherman, Texas, is to take the right road, because there’s really only one road. On the off chance you take a wrong road that turns out to be a wrong road, you’re not on the Sherman road and this road will lead you to the middle of nowhere. Actually, this wrong wrong road may be the right road because Sherman is in the middle of nowhere, and two wrongs make a right, right? Unless the right road is a one-way road, of course, then the right road is the wrong road and you’re screwed because you should be on the wrong road because it’s right.
Maybe there will be a connecting road between the wrong road and the right road, but is this road right or wrong, or both? Is it the right wrong road or the wrong right road? Are you wrong or right for taking it? If you start on the wrong road but it turns out to be the right road, it’s the wrong road, but it’s the wrong wrong road so it’s the right road so you switch to the right wrong road and then realize you should be on the wrong right road, so you get on the right road by means of the right wrong road but it’s not the right road because it’s the right road, and you need to be on the wrong road but now you’re on the right wrong right right wrong road, will you ever get to Sherman?
1. Snakes on a Plane teaches us to put our children’s safety above all else with this cardinal rule: always carry a gun on a plane. This should be obvious. The threat of snakes, orangutans, piranha, and other wild animals on planes is no laughing matter. The only way to take down a lei-horny snake is to shoot it, despite the fact that you’ve probably already killed several others with homemade flamethrowers, knives, and broken bottles duck-taped to sticks. Remember parents: put your child’s wellbeing first. Carry a gun so you can shoot the snake before it shoots your child.
2. I bet before you saw Snakes on a Plane, you thought small children were the most susceptible to death by snakebite. Wrong! Snakes on a Plane teaches us that children have special black cobra antibodies, and these antibodies keep the small children alive for hours and hours while the bitten adults collapse and die around them. So next time Camp Counselor Willy takes them out for a tent-time adventure, don’t pack the snakebite kit. Instead, keep it close to you in your home, because snakes are 73% more likely to attack you in a residential area than in the woods. Of that 73%, they are 56% more likely to attack you indoors. Fact.
3. Stop playing fetch with your dog and start playing fetch with your dog. Snakes on a Plane demonstrates the fun of playing fetch with a snake, using your dog in place of a stick or ball. Children love this activity, and it’s completely G-rated. In fact, snake fetch was one of the most cherished family activities of Roman times, seconded only by BBB, baby booze binging. Take a cue from the Romans and round up your kiddos in the backyard for a game of snake fetch before dinner. You can even add to the fun by tossing your child at the snake instead of the dog!
I guess it all started when I got caught photocopying letters of recommendation. I mean, it’s not like they weren’t legit, they were real, but there were only two of them, one copy of each, and I was applying for like four different jobs that all required at least two letters of recommendation. It’s not like I had a lot of options, I’ve never been an MVP or brownnoser, so I only had those two precious letters from the local Sub Hub manager and my sympathetic fifth grade math teacher. Maybe the real trouble started when I sold the extra copies, then wrote fake ones and sold them to random people I met through Led. You know Led, right? The seedy guy who hangs around the back of the Piggly Wiggly and sells thirteen-year-olds bad weed? A couple years ago, when I was an assistant garbage man, I caught him in the middle of a deal and promised not to narc on him. It wasn’t like I wanted to protect him or anything, I just didn’t care, but he was so grateful he stalked through a thrown-out phone book and looked up my number and declared us best friends. Anyway, these random people who were as pathetic and desperate as I was were hounding me for letters of recommendation, so I did it. Made myself a nice little profit, too. The forged recommendation letter business was good. I put my phone number on the bottom, made up some fake name and title and bullshit about some company that didn’t exist. Then I’d write the letter about how Mr. _______ was a great employee and I was sad when he quit because he was destined for bigger things and blah blah blah. But then word got around that there was some guy faking recommendation letters, because even though I used a lot of different fake names, my phone number never changed, you know, so potential bosses reading the letter could call me and I could lie about how so-and-so was a good worker and the letter-reader could validate that I was a real person, and yes, PancakeLegoTronics was a real company, etc. But somebody connected the dots and noticed the same phone number was listed for Hymn Prayerer and Sylvester Stump, and come to think of it, Sylvester Stump just sounded like a fake name. I mean, I never said I was trying to be discreet about this stuff. In retrospect, though, maybe my names were a little outrageous and if I’d laid low I wouldn’t have been arrested for identity theft, because, as it turns out, Jesus Cross is actually a real guy, a big Mexican dude with deep pockets and a bad temper, and he sued my ass and got me incarcerated.
So, yeah. That’s why I have a so-called “criminal” background. So do I get the job?
I have broken it down into two categories: Reasons Why Stephanie Meyer Should Be Assassinated and Reasons Why Stephanie Meyer Should Not Be Assassinated.
Reasons Why Stephanie Meyer Should Be Assassinated:
1. Vampires Suck: This movie looks like the worst thing since Birdemic*. Why does it exist? Because Twilight exists. Therefore Stephanie Meyer is responsible for it.
2. Nordstrom: I no longer have any respect for Nordstrom’s juniors department. All the clothes are now Twilight-themed thanks to Meyer’s horrendous book, and if that wasn’t disturbing enough, they also sell life-size cardboard cut-outs of Twilight characters, which you can buy here. Times are tough, though, so I recommend pinching a few pennies by cutting your own firewood.
This is a short story I wrote for my creative writing class a couple semesters ago, but I never handed it in because I’m pretty sure my professor was gay.
“Good morning, Mr. Carole. Tell me your most disturbing experience,” Dr. Holland said while crossing his legs. He pulled out a notepad and pen from a nearby drawer and began recording the session.
Mr. Carole was slightly unnerved by his new doctor’s unorthodox greeting. “What?”
“Mr. Carole,” the psychotherapist stated matter-of-factly, “in order for me to understand the cause of your insomnia, I need you to recall a significantly disturbing memory.”
“Um, okay…” mumbled Mr. Carole as he slumped onto the chaise longue. He was uncertain about his most disturbing memory, for he led a normal, trauma-free life. “I guess my most disturbing experience was… the day my father died.”
“No, no, we’re not going to discuss that,” Dr. Holland said. “I never like to speak of death. It’s a bad omen.” He retrieved a small gong from the drawer and hit it with his pen. “Ohmmm.”
Mr. Carole was bemused, but open to discussing something else. “Alright…”
“Mr. Carole, visualize a disturbing memory and describe it to me with as much detail as you can,” Dr. Holland instructed.
“In high school, I asked four girls to the senior prom, and all four said ‘no’.”
“No, something else.”
“Ok, the only thing more disturbing than that was about 20 years ago, the day I found out my father used to be an underwear model for Calvin Klein. My sister and I were cleaning out the attic as part of our punishment for forgetting to clean out the attic, and we found an old cardboard box filled with photos and magazine clippings of some guy’s butt. We assumed it was our mom’s because underneath all the photos, we found several historical romance novels. My sister made gagging noises because they all had Fabio on the cover and she didn’t like men with long hair. I followed my sister down to the kitchen where my parents were making dinner, spaghetti and meatballs. My sister angrily confronted my mom as to why she was hoarding a box of butts when she was a happily married woman. Mom started giggling and smacked my father’s butt, which caused him to drop his stirring spoon into the spaghetti sauce. Christmas and I were both confused.”
7. The Plethora of Made-For-TV “ABC Family Original” Movies: Weighed against such gems as Revenge of the Bridesmaids, Pizza My Heart, and Karate Dog, Lindsay Lohan’s Labor Pains could actually be considered a good film. Except not.
6. The Secret Life of the American Teenager: Their lives are so secret that everyone knows everyone else’s secrets. Barely attractive, terrifyingly horrendous actors pretend to sleep around. Everyone is pregnant, including that one guy who looks oh so much like a girl. In fact, most of the stars look like they used to be the opposite gender of what they are allegedly now. I vote a title change to “The Secret Life of the American Tranny”.
From left to right: Pam, Jessica, Jaqueline, Gia, Amber, Courtnee, Leanne, Erica, Chrissy
Hi, I’m Sara, and I’m a VH1 reality show addict.
My latest shameful addiction is/was You’re Cut Off, the show where actresses desperate for a big break—I mean, girls who can’t control their spending—are “fooled” into living in a middle class house with boring/ugly décor and be all normal and stuff.
Erica: A Barbie who somehow came to life and escaped the Mattel factory despite her enormous breasts weighing her down. People think she’s dumb, but they don’t know the whole story. She acts like an airhead to avoid revealing top secret Mattel information and being hunted down by zombie Ruth Handler’s army, the Masters of the Universe.
Gia: A hookah junkie who won’t change her own daughter’s diapers. Her clothes are allegedly expensive, but it looks like she grabbed them out of the $3 bin at L’Patricia.
Jaqueline: Likeable, but a little ugly, so she’ll never really make it in the music industry, which she obviously went on the show for. Her voice isn’t good enough to make her some kind of Susan Boyle, either. Sorry, Jackie. Maybe you should try becoming a professional Bikini Blast workout trainer, even though your patented Bikini Blast workout, which must be done in stilettos, is only 20% likely to get you in shape as opposed to the whopping 80% chance of spraining your ankle.
I’ve always dreamt of owning a domesticated house chicken. A rooster, more specifically. Not those woman hens. They’re always laying eggs. It’s like they’re on their periods 24/7, but with high cholesterol, and women are just unbearable to be around during their time of the month. Then again, when are women ever bearable?*
My rooster, Dr. Ticklefeathers, would be the most handsome rooster in all the land, or my apartment complex. He would discover his love of music when our Italian neighbor, Vergiovessi, would play his piano at four in the morning because he’d be high on crack. Dr. Ticklefeathers would let the music gently caress the floppy red thing on top of his head and develop an intense desire to become a pop star.
Next thing I know, Dr. Ticklefeathers will start gelling the floppy red thing into a fauxhawk and wearing tight leather pants. He’d change his name to Cock, a bold, artsy name paying homage to his barnyard background while displaying just a hint of subtle sexuality.
He’d release a hit single, “Eggs”, and though it would be a thinly veiled remake of ZZ Top’s “Legs”, he’d become the star of the Squawk Rock genre overnight. McDonald’s would hit him up for an endorsement deal, and he’d go along with it until learning the main ingredient in McDonald’s chicken nuggets. Then he’d check himself into a mental hospital and start doing lines of cock coke off other patients’ buttocks.
It wouldn’t be long before his ego would get so huge he’d abandon me and I’d have to assassinate him for his own good. I would of course use Janet Jackson’s nipple ninja star to decapitate him while he’s performing at the superbowl.
The nation would mourn the loss of Cock (later changed to Coque), but along with other stars that die too young, he would be remembered forever, like Aaliyah (bet you don’t remember who that is, do you?).
*Note: I am a woman. That joke was sarcastic. Please stop threatening to beat me with your tampon. We both know it wouldn’t really hurt me anyway.