I have this giant bruise on my thigh and I have no idea where it came from. You know how certain inanimate objects can look angry? Like that fire is angry! Or the sea was angry that day my friends! Or that killer robot looks angry! Well this bruise looks angry. I guess you can’t say my bruise is necessarily an inanimate object since I have blood pumping through my body and I can’t be classified as a zombie, but this bruise is mindless and faceless and yet still manages to express emotion, much like my vagina.
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This weekend after I was driving home from a night of
mingling and overeating helping African refugees fill out their visa forms, I hit an innocent deer who presumably was on her way to read to some blind orphans. I tried to swerve, but this thing must have been part ninja, part statue because it came out of nowhere and promtly turned into a wax figure. Have you ever hit a deer before? It’s a completely shocking and helpless situation.
Luckily I only hit one part of it’s body, unfortunately that part was it’s brain. I was going 70 miles an hour on the express way and my front headlight directly hit it’s head so I’m pretty sure she died instantly. It’s the first time I’ve ever been responsible for killing one of God’s creatures, unless you count hookers
which I don’t so I was pretty shaken up about it.
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I angry blogged this last night and than quietly slipped into a peaceful hibernation full of dreams about Prince William and Kate Middleton watching the Lion King together before I could post it. It was probably God’s kind way of saying, “You sound like an asshole and should delete this immediately.”
Well, guy who wears jeans to the gym and has vigorous workouts is still unfortunately a major part of my life. I have given him the very original nickname of “jeans”. I refuse to capitalize the “j” in jeans because I hate him with every fiber of my face. For those who weren’t aware, my face is made of cotton and rayon and my grandfather is Eli Whitney’s butler.
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I don’t know why people even try to have “lunch meetings”. I’m putting that phrase in air quotes because it shouldn’t even be a thing! You can talk business at lunch, but let’s be honest I’m not really listening. Seriously, the moment we
sit down pull into the parking lot I’m like:
Food, food, food! Oh yes, the economy! And money! And grown up things! But BREADSTICKS!
In reality, “lunch meetings” are mythical creatures that listen to NPR while digesting the blood of stale bagels and clones of Tom Hanks. Doesn’t Tom Hanks just look like the guy who would love “lunch meetings”? I’d be shoveling spinach artichoke dip in my mouth while double fisting two tubs of salsa and be all like, “Tom! Tom! Can we talk about how You’ve Got Mail, literally, changed my life? Also, what happened to Meg Ryan’s face? She’s starting to resemble Billy Crystal from The Princesss Bride! Am I right Tom??” and he’d be all, “Hmm, I believe the Dow Jones Industrial average is peaking.” I don’t even know what that means Tom! When I think of Dow Jones peaking I think of a member of Lil’ Wayne’s entourage on meth.
This past weekend I had to take my dog Max to the groomer for his annual bath and shave. Taking Max to the groomers is always a fun experience, and by “fun” I mean I’d rather my gynecologist have hooks for hands than ever have to take Max anywhere. I know I’ve spoken about Max before here on my blog, but I can’t stress this enough: he is weird as hell. Don’t get me wrong, I love Max with all my heart and when I die I’ll probably leave all my early possessions to him, but he is so strange. My mom thinks his mental state is a result of inbreeding. Now as sexy as the incestuous image of Max’s trailer park aunt humping his cousin may be, I really think his state of mind is the result of inter-species breeding. Meaning that I think his mother mated with Forrest Gump. Life really is a box of chocolates, except for Max because if he ate any he’d die.
So, the only way I can get Max to the groomers is by tricking him into thinking we’re going to the dog park because I’m a terrible person who enjoys using trickery and deceit to get what she wants. I’m like Joan Crawford, except I love wire hangers. We pull up to the groomers and he immediately starts freaking out. I tell him its all going to be OK, but we both know I’m lying. He won’t get out of the car so I decide I need to physically carry him in. Since I have the upper body strength of Justin Bieber after an intense ping pong tournament, this was very difficult. Have you ever tried to carry a 50 pound unwilling creature towards it’s doom? The only previous experience I have doing such a thing was that one time I tried to carry a midget I met at a carnival towards the kissing both. Dammit, Stephanie that is so un-PC of you. By “midget” I mean little person and by “kissing booth” I mean S&M and extreme bondage in my basement.
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I don’t want this blog to be the place I come to when I need to bitch about life and things that annoy me. Because in reality, that’s the main reason I keep my various multiple personalities around. They understand me more than anybody else, and also smell fantastic. In all honesty, it’s a major pet peeve of mine when people bitch about their lives too much. It’s like, I get it! Waking up every morning and having to deal with the deformed baby arm that protrudes from your stomach sucks. But you need to think about the good things in life like girl scout cookies and Tom Hanks movies! Ya know what, screw you Tom Hanks! This is for Joe vs. the Volcano:
1. Girl Who Refuses to Hold Door Open for Me
I don’t understand you lady, and yes I’m using the term “lady” sarcastically because you were obviously born underneath railroad tracks and raised by stray cats since you don’t have any manners at all. You refuse to hold the door open for me even though I’m walking about two steps behind you. You seem to almost hurriedly try and and shut it behind you just so I can’t grab it before it closes. In the words of Stephanie Tanner, you’re a bitch. What if there were dragons chasing me and that door was my salvation? My blood would be on your hands.
Now I get it, you’re probably not a lesbian and you won’t want me to subconsciously think we’re in the 1800’s and you’re trying to court me and gain acceptance from my parents. I completely understand this, and have slammed doors in many people’s faces because of this fact alone. In all honesty, if you held the door open for me just once I’d probably immediately fall in love with you and ask you to go steady or visit the local malt shop with me. No, I wouldn’t because you’re mean! The only reason I’d ask you to the malt shop would be so I could call you a soda jerk! 1950’s humor! Rock and roll! Big Daddy! Michael J. Fox!
2. People Who Don’t Say “God Bless You!” After I sneeze
OK, maybe its the raging, repressed Catholic in me, but I can’t handle when people do this. Maybe you’re an atheist or the anti-christ, but please say something when I sneeze. When I was little, my mom told me my heart would explode unless somebody said “God bless you!” after I sneeze and I’ve NEVER forgotten. I believed her and I still do. If I sneeze and you don’t say anything, it makes me feel awkward and reek of death and spoiled cheese (I sweat Kraft singles when nervous). In fact, say anything after I sneeze! Like, “That’s gross!” or “Would you like to volunteer at an AIDS clinic with me?” or “You remind me of a young John Goodman.” Anything would be better than the awkward silence that follows while my sexy germs permeate your nostrils.