“OMFG AGAIN R U SERIOUS Y R U DOING THIS 2 ME” is what you’re probably thinking, if you’re a grammatically challenged 13-year-old girl. Yes, folks, I’m sorry to say it’s time for yet another shameless plug. I left out something important in my last post: I made two videos for Ishi, not one. As luck would have it, two is actually more than one in quantity (who knew?), so I’m spamming two blog posts instead of just one. Do me a favor and watch this video too (in HD, of course). If you do, I’ll hunt you down, wait outside your house dressed in all black, ring your doorbell and… give you a relaxing foot massage! What can I say, you scratch my back, I scratch your feet. Potato tomato. You can always hit that “like” button too… I heard if you click it, somewhere in the world, your enemies get shot in their faces. Think about it.
It’s Christmas time, so it only makes sense that I should write about last Halloween. Here’s a step-by-step guide of how to turn yourself into that herpes-infested pumpkin lady we all love to loathe so much.
“No! Don’t go in there! There’s poop!”
“What?” I asked.
“That’s The Poop Spot!” Dante screamed over the whir of his chainsaw.
“What?!” I yelled.
Dante shut off the saw and took off his goggles. He was covered in wood chips. “Kevin,” he said, “don’t go in that cave. That’s The Poop Spot.”
Today, as you fire up the grill and pop open that thirteenth beer, you may feel like reflecting on American history and saying a little prayer of thanks to the founding fathers. Don’t. The Fourth of July isn’t the holiday you think it is. I’m here to tell you the top secret history behind the Fourth that the government doesn’t want you to know.
As you may know, Benjamin Franklin was a man with syphilis who lived in America and sometimes ate dog treats. His face is on the $100 bill and he was well known for attempting to steal kites from children. But here’s something you didn’t know about Benjamin Franklin: he’s out to steal the Declaration of Independence.
Thrift stores aren’t known for having the trendiest, cleanest, or most hair-free clothes, but occasionally you can find some cool stuff in them. You can also find really ugly stuff, as evidenced by the following photos:
This negligee appears to be from Bill Cosby’s new lingerie collection, Space Pudding. It debuted at Fashion Week in the “No More Faking Headaches” tent.
Guess what, folks? Something amazing happened to me, aside from the free ounce of froyo I got at Yogurt Story the other day because I found a spider in it. (I put the spider there. SUCKAAAS!)
I got a Mac laptop!
As everyone knows, Mac is actually an acronym that stands for Magical And Cakewalk, which doesn’t make much sense, but the bottom line is that this computer is the shit (or should I say, the shit my cake says? Har-dee-har-har).
But how I came to acquire this beautiful piece of hardware is a tale of tragedy and terror.
Yesterday (or today, depending on how you look at it, since I’m writing this at 2:34 am Texas time) was Oprah’s last show. Her last hurrah. Last shebang. Last housewife lovefest. Last time to gaze at herself longingly in her dressing room mirror, which is the size of my house.
Actually, no, she’ll probably still be doing that last one.
I say good riddance, but many people are in mourning. I’d like to remind you of my past Friday the 13th post, in which I predicted the outcome of the world after this catastrophic event (hint: the outcome is destruction).
Go buy beans, batteries, baby dolls, or whatever else you’ll need to survive underground while housewives everywhere rampantly destroy the world. The Y2K stuff you never put to use will do.
You’ve been warned.
A couple weeks ago, I got a bruise so nasty it made Oprah’s face look like something that’s not disgusting. It happened when I was at work. I was outside telling my boss something (she was in her truck on a smoke break), and for whatever reason, when we were done chatting, I decided to run across the parking lot to get back into the building. I should probably mention that I was running on 4 hours of sleep for the past 48 hours. Sleep deprivation, clumsiness, my arm’s suicidal tendencies–whatever the reason, I rammed my arm into a brick column outside my workplace. And it hurt.
So that was how Shelby and I ended up walking home together, taking the back roads from the school to my neighborhood. Turned out that she didn’t live very far from me, only a few blocks away. With all the things I knew about her, I couldn’t believe I didn’t know that. Her house’s distance from mine created so many opportunities to… no, no. I was not a stalker.
Because I was the sexiest man alive, I managed to knock myself out twice in one day, and because I did this, I couldn’t drive. I had to wait for my mom to come pick me up while I watched everyone else in my class leave in their cars. Just call me Captain Lady-Killer. No… the ‘captain’ made me seem like a murderer instead of a sarcastic, self-deprecating dork.
I made this video for a school performance event (it was silent film-themed, sort of) to tell the audience to get the hell outta the room and go do something else for ten minutes, because it was time for intermission.
Today, I’d like to talk about something very serious. A health epidemic that has been sweeping the nation for years.
Shelby’s pre-cal class was about five feet from where we were standing, so the walk to her class was not a long one.
“Thanks for walking me all the way to my faraway class,” she said.
Loser, I thought to myself. What were you thinking? “Hey, Shelby, want me to walk you to your class that’s only a Verne Troyer and a half away from where we’re standing right now?”
“Look, what I was going to ask you earlier is if—”
“’Sup, Shelby,” Todd’s voice boomed, interrupting her. He put his meaty arm around her waist, and she immediately slinked away. He looked at me. “’Sup, Queer.”
I gulped so intensely I knew she could hear it. Stupid Adam’s apple.
“Hhhheh,” I croaked. That was loser for “hi”.
“Hi, Cavan,” she said. “I—”
“Shelby! What happened to your nose?” Emilio asked.
“Cavan punched her,” Andy said, French fries dropping out of his mouth.
After fourth period, I met up with Andy and we walked to lunch.
“Andy!” Christie screeched from down the hall. Andy cringed.
See, Christie was this annoying cheerleader who’d had a crush on Andy since, like, fourth grade. She was part of the Rice Kristies, a horrible pun and a group of three girls named “Kristie”—Christie, Kristie, and Criystee, the last of whom had parents who apparently never learned how to spell. All three members of the Rice Kristies (God, it pains me to even say those words) were cheerleaders, but Christie was the only brunette and, frankly, the only unattractive one. Kristie was dumb but hot, and Criystee defied her parents’ legacy by grasping the concept of phonetics. She was also cute and ranked number two in our class. Then there was Christie, who was both marginally ugly and painfully stupid, and boy did she love Andy.
A while ago, I made a list of a few bizarre search terms people used to find my blog. After seeing more weird words pop up over the last month or so, I selected my favorite search terms and categorized them by Misspellings, Monica Lewinsky, Questions, Creepy Fetishes, Whatever This Is, and Miscellaneous.
It’s my birthday. I’m 21 years old today. Therefore, I expect 21 birthday cakes on my doorstep by the end of the day, or else I’ll burn down Australia. You’ve been warned.
Here are some examples of acceptable cakes:
“How does someone even get knocked out twice in one day?” I heard Andy ask. Everything was black. I couldn’t see.
“I can’t see!” I wailed.
“Open your eyes, dumbass,” Andy said.
This is the part where I got a concussion. If Shelby didn’t think I was a total freak already, this definitely sealed the deal.
It’s Christmas Eve! You know what that means. Last-minute shopping! Many of you have yet to find that perfect gift for everyone on your list, but you’re in luck! There’s one universally loved gift that suits everyone: the cat sweater!
I’ve made a list of a few beautiful cat sweaters that everyone can appreciate. Your gift will touch the recipient so much, he or she might cry!
After a car ride engulfed in awkwardness, we pulled into St. Bartholomew’s Hospital of Beaver Falls, PA.
When Shelby had asked if we could listen to some music, I’d attempted the whole cliché as-she-reaches-for-the-radio-my-hand-will-brush-hers thing. Unfortunately, when we both reached for the radio, I stopped paying attention to the road and swerved into oncoming traffic.
Blasting car horns on all sides sounded as a sky blue Mercedes barely missed us. My tires screeched as I swerved us back into the right lane. Shelby looked like a scared rabbit, wide eyes and flared nostrils. When I caught my reflection in the rearview mirror, I looked like an even more scared rabbit.
“Whoops,” I said, trying to play if off like it was nothing, but I felt like she could hear me sweating.
She shot me a terrified glance, then turned on the radio.
“Trying to be my best, when I fall, it’s a mess!” screeched through my shoddy speakers.
WordPress allows me to check my blog’s stats. How many hits I get on my blog per day, which posts got the most views, what people click on, etc. It also allows me to see what you guys (or spammers) searched in Google to find my blog. I’ve compiled a list of the most WTF search terms that led people to Shit My Cake Says. Granted, the people who typed these particular keywords probably didn’t stick around to read anything, but for those of you who do, I give you this:
My Favorite Search Terms People Put in Google or Ask Jeeves (No, No One Uses Ask Jeeves Anymore) or Whatever to Find My Blog
We’ve all been plagued by nightmarish apparitions of teens wearing “Team Edward” and “Team Jacob” t-shirts, and we all want this headache of a franchise to die a fiery death. The only way to kill the Twilight phenomenon, though, is to solve the question everyone’s asking: Who’s hotter? Jacob or Edward?
I’d make a list of pros and cons, but neither candidate has any pros, so I’ll just weigh the cons: