Something Serious

I'm not the most appropriate person I know. I'm not the most appropriate person you know, most likely (If I am I, want to meet your friends).That being said, what I'm about to talk about is serious. I urge you to pull yourself together and be serious, for once, GODDAMMIT!

I have a problem.

It's somewhat embarrassing.

I pee when I laugh or cough sometimes.

I hear this is a normal phenomenon for women who have given birth. I have a 5 year old son. Well step son actually. I didn't ACTUALLY give birth to him. To tell you the truth, I have never been pregnant.

It is also something that may occur in the elderly due to aging, although incontinence is not something that one has to live with, according to the doctors. I am 27 years old.

A great teacher of mine once said, "If peeing in your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis." Thank you Billy Madison. Well, the old lady in Billy Madison. Those are encouraging words, but I am not, nor will I ever be Miles Davis.

So here I am, a 27 year old piss pot who is just above Justin Beiber on the cool scale. I mean, what am I to do?

The logical ones of the bunch are all ready to point out the need for the involvement of a physician. I'll have you know I have learned quite a bit about incontinence in school. I'm pretty sure I can figure this out. It isn't like it happens everyday, just ocassionally. It's called stress incontinence. I don't even pee enough to be noticeable, unless you have a really strong sense of smell. (I drink a lot of coffee. No for real. When I smell coffee brewing I wonder why the room smells like piss).

The thought of wearing a diaper is ridiculous. My pants are just too tight for all that nonsense. Anyways, that would be like using a dump truck when you need a micro machine.

Then there's always the pantyliner, but I don't even use those when I'm menstruating. Plus, there is always the unfortunate possibility that my partner would start calling my "yellow wings." I have enough nicknames already.

I could run to the bathroom everytime I have to cough or sneeze, but due to the untimely nature of those almost involuntary actions, that just won't work.

Maybe I need to up my kegal count. It's funny how every time I mention kegal exercises I HAVE to start doing them. That's right folks, I have already done ten kegals while writing this line. If you don't know what kegals are, watch this:



I could always look at this as a blessing. I mean, at least I don't have to change my pants every hour. It barely happens. Really. Maybe once a month. I'm not lying. I could have an anovaginal fistula and live in a hovel outside of my parents house in Africa after being disowned from my husband who kept the dowry of 4 goats. That bastard!

Or I could take advantage of the fact that I have insurance and tell the doctor. I guess I'll do that. Remind me to make an appointment.







THIS POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY MY NEWEST JOKE:

What keeps a surfer upright?

wait for it...wait for it...

His verte-BRAH!

It's been too long, this is an apology

To whom it may concern: Dear meager readership,

You may have noticed that there has not been a post in awhile. I am sorry I have deprived you of borderline humor and subpar MS Paint drawings. Here is a beautiful bouquet of flowers for you so that each breath of air is filled with the perfume of love.

Don't worry. I know what you're thinking. Flowers are not near enough of an apology. You, my dear readers, are special. That is why I have also created a special gift for you. What is it, you ask? You are in mild suspense, aren't you? You just can't wait to see what has been created solely for your enjoyment. Well here it is!

That's right! A picture of a prototype for Ninjamallow action figures!

What? Not good enough for you? That's cool.

Have fun gettin' all stickified playing with ribbon and jet-puffed marshmallows from the grocery store. Loser.





This post brought to you by hairless rats

The Hunt of the Marshmallow

Ahhh, the unassuming marshmallow. Silent in its pillowy sweetness, it sits on a table, happy with the world. This peaceful kitchen scene is one that can be witnessed across the vast lands of human existence. Peaceful, yes. But for how long?

As feared, the peaceful life of the marshmallow is not part of the great circle of life. The human species is a grave predator. At times unrelenting, they have an inexplicabe hunger for melty sweetness. It wasn't so bad at first...

The humans stole the marshmallows from their natural habitats, but simply to observe. They were put through rigorous tests of strength and endurance. It appeared that the humans were looking for a new pet, or possibly a feature exhibit for the zoos across the world.

Some marshmallows even liked the idea. They were tired of the wilds. The idea of being put up in a human household and waited on hand a foot seemed like a blessing. No longer did they forage for glucose to amass their bodies. The humans hooked them up to sugar machines. Domesticated marshmallows grew fat and lazy, but they appeared to be happy.

It didn't take long for the humans to expose themselves for the cruel beings they truly were. They snarled their sweet-toothed cries of attack and hunted those who ran. What had once been a quick and resilient people, had been turned into a bunch of sarcoidosis ridden lumps of grotesqueness. They could barely run for their lives. But a choice few survived...

They met in secret, under tables, in dark corners. They were burned and beaten, but they were alive. They formed an elite league of marshmallows to battle the threat of human kind. There were unknown amounts of marshmallows still in captivity, being fattened for the slaughter. Marshmallow hunters were constantly seeking wild varieties of sweet sticky goodness.

Members of the elite league sacrificed their pure whiteness for camouflage, jumping through fire, and burning their flesh into thick carbon armor. They vowed to fight for al marshmallows until the siege of human kind extinguished. They called themselves: Ninjamallows.

Don't Cry Over Spilled Milk

Stop playing with your food and other imaginings

I am truly a child. This is a fact I know. In my infinite quest as a kid to be a mature adult I forgot to do one thing---grow up. While therapists will propagate the ideal of embracing one's inner child, it seems that this practice is best undertaken with moderation. I do not know moderation. I do not do things half-assed. Thus, my childishness borders on the lines of absurdity and, much to the embarassment of those who choose to be in my company, utter tactlesness.

I often think of things out of context. I know what things mean in context. I just don't think they're that much fun. I choose to play around and get creative with interpretation of everyday requests, like when my girlfriend tells me not to play with my food (it kinda sets a bad example for her kid). Most adults would realize the silliness of being a "grown-up" playing with their food and would simply stop. On the contrary, I look at her quizically, burst out laughing uncontrollably for twenty seconds, stifle my laughter, and continue playing. What is so funny you ask? I'll show you:

I mean imagine me playing a game of checkers with a chicken drumstick. Hilarious! Why wouldn't I laugh hysterically in her general direction. To further prove the hilarity of these out of context imaginings, I feel the desire to draw a picture, just like any child would. Of course I draw the picture weeks later so it is even further out of context. She asks me what I'm drawing.

HER: "Is that a drumstick?"

ME: Heeheheheheheeehehehehehe. "Yeeessssssss."

HER: "Of course it is. Stop playing with your food young lady."

ME: "You get it! See, it's me playing with a drumstick because I'm playing with my food and that's what I imagined the other day."

HER: Shakes head. "I love you."

I also run into "Oooh,shiny!" moments quite often. I'll be in the middle of a car-ride conversation, listening to the basics of organic chemistry or how recent social change is affecting the community, when seemingly out of nowhere I'll see a billboard, or a classic car, or a dead raccoon on the road. The topic has to change. I HAVE to let someone else no what I saw.

ME: "Did you see that?"

THEM: "See what?"

ME: "It was a billboard of a dead raccoon driving a 1920s Ford."

THEM: "What does that have to do with social change regarding organic chemistry?"

ME: "It was AWESOME! We should turn around."

THEM: "Dude, that's ridiculous. Now as I was saying..."

ME: "I think it would've made more sense if the raccoon was alive."

THEM: "What? I'm talking about something important here."

ME: "It would be important for the raccoon to be alive too. I mean he could wreck if he were dead. He wouldn't know what was going on at all."

THEM: "Raccoons can't drive cars! It was a fucking billboard, Dixie!"

ME: "Well maybe we should report them for false advertising."

THEM: "I don't think they were trying to sell anything. There is no false advertising. You are crazy."

ME: "I'm not crazy. You're the one who thinks social change is affected by organic chemistry. It is obviously affected much more by billboards."

THEM: "What the hell are you talking about?"

ME: "Oh my god! Did you see that guy's mohawk?"

THEM: "I give up."

I love the people in my life for putting up with me. They keep me in touch with reality and in return I provide them with exciting, though occasionally obnoxious, entertainment at no cost. It really says a lot to the quality of friend I choose. In fact...Hey, did you see that?




THIS POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY MY NEW TATTOO

Hilarious quotes from my life

A FRIEND'S BOYFRIEND:In reference to the 12", 5 lb black dildo dubbed "Big Boy" my girlfriend forced me to bring out at a party. "Is that what you wanted me to get you at the store?"
FRIEND: "I said I wanted a vibrator, not an elephant cock!"

ME: "[The Blogess] is awesome! She has a polydactyl kitten!"
CLAUDEGIRL: "Does that mean it can read minds?"

ME: "What cut of beef makes the most money?"
FRIENDS: "I dunno. What?"
ME: "Strip steak." Hehehehe. I made a funny.

COWORKER: "What? What?" In reference to yet another computer problem.
ME: "In the butt." I have no filter. At all.
ME AND CLAUDEGIRL: "BWAHAHAHAHAHA!!!"
If you don't know what that refers to, watch this:


LESBIAN COWORKER: After a discussion about transgender surgery and gag gifts."Have you ever seen fake nuts?"
ME: "Yeah. No. Yeah. Wait, what kind of fake nuts are you talking about?"
LESBIAN COWORKER: "You know, fake nuts."
ME: "You mean the toy kind or the dildo kind?" And then I blush.
LESBIAN COWORKER: "Um, the kind you get from surgery."
ME: "Riiiiiggggghhht."

ME: At my first baby shower ever. "What do you call poo flavored baby food?"
FRIEND'S SISTER "What?"
ME: "Two babies one cup! Heyo!" That is an original, thank you very much.
FRIEND'S SISTER: "Ew!" She calls her sister over. "I don't want to sit next to her anymore."

ME: "Hey honey, you want to hear a joke i just made up about you?"
GIRLFRIEND: "Sure."
ME: "Ok, here goes. My girlfriend loves bacon so much, going down on her violates kosher law."
GIRLFRIEND: Giggling. "That's why I love you."

CROATIAN COWORKER: In reference to the picture of a man holding a fawn.
"Is that a penguin?"
ME: Laughing hysterically. "Um, no. It's a fawn."
CROATIAN COWORKER: "You mean it's not a penguin. You know, the thing that jumps around on two legs?"
ME: "You mean a kangaroo?" Tears are forming in my eyes from laughter.
CROATIAN COWORKER: "No, I thought it's penguin."
ME: "Well it's a fawn. A baby deer. You know, like Bambi?"
CROATIAN COWORKER: "What is Bambi?"
ME: "Do they not have Disney where you're from?"
CROATIAN COWORKER: "They don't have this where I come from."
CLAUDEGIRL: "They don't have animals where you come from?"
CROATIAN COWORKER: "All we have is cow and bear."
T%ears are pouring down my air choked, reddened face as I cross my legs, fearing I will piss myself.
ME: "Here, they look like this when they grow up?" I point to an image of a full grown deer.
CROATIAN COWORKER: "Oh! I know this one. I hit this one with car!" She's beaming.
CLAUDEGIRL: "You hit Bambi?" how can she not be on the floor in a ball in hysterics like i am?
CROATIAN COWORKER: "You know, I was hit by truck."
CLAUDEGIRL: "Woah! Like a truck-truck?"
CROATIAN COWORKER: "By 18-wheeler. I was hit three times."
ME: Making the straightest trying-not-to-burst-into-a-laughing-puddle face as possible. "Were you hit by three 18-wheelers, or just one 18-wheeler three times?" Claudegirl hits me.
CROATIAN COWORKER: "It was same truck hit me three times. It was when I was sixteen. It ran over my head. I was in hospital long time."
ME: "That explains a lot." Oh. Shit. Damn you faulty brain-to-mouth filter!

After a million apologies speckled with uncontrollable laughter and Claudegirl hitting me several times, Croatian Coworker said it was cool. I don't think she was offended. Probably because she was run over so many time. Please don't hate me. A real life conversation like that is a gold mine. It would have been a waste not to let other people enjoy it.



THIS POST BROUGHT TO YOU BY THE WEIRDO THOUGHT BUBBLE

Sugar Cookies: INTENTION vs. REALITY----or----I'm Sorry My Dogs Run on Your Ceiling

I have 2 dogs. They are pretty cool. I like hanging out with them. They like to play fight, bark at passersby, and eat and stuff. Pretty much they are like most dogs I guess, but they are kind of loud and I live in an apartment complex. To add to their loudness, I keep odd hours and sometimes come home really late. They don't care if it's 5pm or 2am when I get home, they just care that I'm back and they have to reach deep into their doggy souls to let me know how excited they are that I'm home, and by-the-way-mom-we-have-to-pee-really-badly-so-let-us-out-bark-bark-BARK-BARK-TAZMANIAN-DEVIL-SOUNDS! That has to be annoying for my downstairs neighbor, but what am I to do?

To add to the chaos, when they get back inside after walking in several circles before finding the perfect place to drop a deuce, they take it upon themselves to run back and forth summoning the noises of elephant stampedes and drum and bass music. Apparently my neighbor had enough and told the leasing office staff at my apartment complex.

I wasn't angry. I actually feel pretty crappy about my dogs making so much noise, but I just haven't gotten to a point where I'm okay with duct taping their feet together and tying their mouths shut with zip ties. I decided that the best thing to do was to make homemade cookies and deliver them to #1204 with an apologetic smile and charm. This is how it was supposed to go.

Of course, that isn't how it went. We are talking about my life. This is what actually happened.

Then I mixed all the ingredients. Things seemed to be going well.

I put them in the preheated oven and waited. When I pulled out my delicious I'm-sorry-my-dogs-run-on-your-ceiling sugar cookies, they didn't look quite right. First of all, they hadn't risen. Secondly, some of them were brown instead of white, like normal sugar cookies. "Well I'm never using that recipe again," I thought. A normal person would have tried them to see if they were edible, but me and normal don't coincide often. Currently I'm on this sugar moderation kick that involves me only getting to eat sugar when my girlfriend gives it to me. On the plus side I limit my intake of sugar while simultaneously making my girlfriend appear to be even sweeter than she is. On the down side, I'm militant about the rule and thus could not taste test the cookies. They were warm and sweet and free. She woudn't complain, right? So I was off to deliver them and make my amends.

After knocking enough times that if she was trying to ignore me, I only made things worse, I considered placing the tin of cookies on her doorstep with a note of apology. I scratched that idea after I realized that the cookies might very well be eaten by a stray dog that liked to walk up stairs, or even worse, she would not know they were there and trip on them on her way out of the house, causing her to fall down the stairs, break her neck and die a slow painful death due to exposure in the cold conditions. I didn't need that on my conscience, so I decided to leave them with the apartment manager at the leasing office.

After leaving the leasing office, I was filled with that self satisfaction that only comes with doing something nice for someone expecting others to think you're a super person. You should have seen the look on the apartment manager's face as she held that tin, still warm and filling the office with the aroma of sweetness.

At this point, I was imagining receiving the Nobel Prize for superb neighbory, or at least special mention in the apartment newsletter. Throughout the day I mentioned my good deed to several people. Then, hours later, it hit me. I didn't put the egg in the batter. I DIDN'T PUT THE EGG IN THE BATTER!!!

No wonder the cookies didn't rise. Those eggless chips of burnt sugar were not going to win me points. What if she choked on the dry crumbs of my disgusting-to-the-point-of being-the-equivalent-of-rat-poison cookies? What if she chipped her tooth, vomited from disgust, or went missing for several days until the smell of death brought maintenence crashing through her door only to find a half eaten tin of cookies (aka poison) with my fingerprints on it?

I should've broken the rule! I should've eaten one! She could've been saved! Oh cruel, cruel world! Why must I suffer from such shame and guilt? I was just trying to apologize! I don't want to go to jail! I'M TOO PRETTY!!!! NOOOOOOOOO!!!!!

Wait. One. Second. Maybe she hasn't eaten them yet. I can go on YouTube and learn how to pick a lock, sneak into her kitchen and replace the scary cookies of death with some sweet apology cookies. Cookies of LIFE. Then if she really did pass into the netherworld I can bring her back, or I can just call 9-1-1 and be the hero who discovered the poor dead woman in #1204. I let you know how it turns out.