I’m back.. sort of. I’ve been in a funk for the past few weeks–job rejections and weird personal stuff–good, bad and sad–have sidelined me for a bit.
Y’all ain’t rid of me yet, though. You’ll see soon enough.
First, some fun. Ahem.
Feast yer peepers at this impressive hunk of man-meat, then check out Mickey Rourke.
Question: When did he start looking like my dead great-grandmother?
Then, I found this.
I think the meaning of life is in this photo. I’ve figure it out, now let’s see what you can conjure up.
In the meantime, I’m in the early stages of developing a podcast of sorts with a few of my pals here in the Windy City, and well, beyond too. Since there ain’t shit in this town for work for a fab gal like myself, I gotta find other ways to fill my days that don’t entail booze, men, hooch and free Internet porn. I’ve got a damn fine brain and wicked sense of humor, I might as well put the two to good use. I also have smart, witty friends who I know would love to join in the fun.
So, please feel free to send me topic ideas and if you want to be a guest, well, we can discuss that too.
I can’t decide which hed I like better though, so I’ll post both.
I’ve bedded over 100 women… but I don’t have a penis
Andrew dreams of surgery to change his life
Thanks to the The Sun and The Inquistr. My god, to be a fly on those copy desks when the editors start brainstorming heds. I can almost hear ‘em now: “Ok, think penis, arm, sex…Hmm..a man who has had sex with over 100 woman but has no peen. Hmm..how ever shall we come up with a clever hed?”
Or something like that.
Here’s the tale of the peen, or of the arm, or of the arm-peen. Ugh. I don’t know. Just play along for shits and giggles.
Turns out, Andrew Wardle, 39, is quite the casanova for someone so young. He’s bright, funny AND good looking. He has various physical ailments–like an ectopic bladder–born with it formed on the outside–various kidney issues, berries but no twig, and a myriad of other, fun health problems.
In other words, he’s a trim magnet.
(courtesy 24Tanzania.com)
But here’s the rub (shut UP), he’s lacking one organ that is quite essential to the act of bumpin’ uglies: He is sans penis, and is so distraught about it, he never told his mates AND has contemplated suicide.
Huh?
Was he diddling blind women? I mean, I’m a woman and we do engage in such bawdy talk with our female friends. Think “Sex & The City” but much more graphic and grisly. Nothing is sacred, guys, remember that the next time you make a snide comment about a woman’s body because there is a VERY good chance she’s telling all of her friends at what a horrible lay you are.
OR, she’s being kind and raving about your enormous schvantz.
There’s no grey area here–it’s one, or the other, mmkay?
And to answer your question, I have no idea how that works. It’s a, um, head scratcher.
Back to the MIA peen. Looks like Mr. Wardle is having some sort of reconstruction surgery this summer, AND the surgeons are going to fashion something resembling a penis out of his arm.
Hang on, I gotta look at my arm for a sec.
Huh. I guess using a body part to fashion it into another body part makes sense, but if my arm was used, the results would be covered in freckles. And, that’s errs on the side of creepy because I don’t need a penis–I get mine on the outside–so why I checked out my arm as a possible candidate, I have no idea.
Anyhoo, here’s a little visual about how things are gonna go down for Mr. Wardle in a British operating theatre this summer.
(courtesy of The Inquistr)
Usually medical procedures, or certain painful events that only men can relate to (i.e. getting kicked in the balls) don’t cause me to wince because, really, I can’t relate to what it feels like to get a prostate exam.
However, this photo speaks for all of us when the idea of this operation finally sinks in.
During my unemployment tenure, I’ve been playing past job interviews on a loop in my head, and I’ve come to one main conclusion: They were all an amalgam of this infamous one from Monty Python:
Obviously, I am doing something wrong. Yes? I think so.
I’m too formal and stiff in my interviews. I wear interview clothes. I speak interview speak. I glop on interview makeup. I style my hair into interview goodness (read: I hide the purple highlights). I research the shit out of any position I’m up for as well as the company and the people with whom I’ll be meeting.
Yeaaaah….that tactic ain’t workin’ no mo’. So it’s time I change things up a scosch.
I’ve even perused all of the drab “How to Ace An Interview Without Shitting Yourself and Smacking the Crap Out of the Clueless Interviewer” vidyas the Internets. None of them are helpful and I swear a few of the ‘actors’ featured are ‘stars’ of some of the low-rent porn I’ve seen lurking around the web as of late.
I’ve found a few examples in my travels and could use some help. That’s where my three readers come in–I need y’all to help me figure out which example displayed below would work for me. Well, maybe not exactly the same as what I’m offering here, but perhaps a combo platter of several, or maybe you know of others I haven’t thought of yet.
Here’s Bachelor #1–from one of my fave movies “Trainspotting”. One caveat here–I won’t get stoned before an interview–not my style anymore. I mean, I’m not in Hollywood anymore. That’s a non-negotiable at this point. However, the accent is a possibility. I can do just about any accent too–but my personal faves are South Asian (Dot Head is NOT the preferred nomenclature I’ve been told) and Little Asian Girl.
This one is good too, but I don’t look good in a wife beater unless it’s wet and I’m dancing on a bar in Waco. But, I do like Gettin’ Jiggy Wif It’s attitude here. Works for me
This one is just too smarmy for the most part. Topsiders? Nope. But, Ben Affleck is wicked hawt all the time so that’s something to consider.
I actually called an interviewer Pam in an interview when her name was really Pan. True story. So, this scene flashed through my mind during that 2 hour-long snoozefest of an interview at California Psychics.
Don’t know if I’m as clever as Sacha Baron Coen. I’d never be able to keep a straight face or wear that type of Jewfro.
Arthur Spooner is a folk hero. He was deftly portrayed by Jerry Stiller, and when Stiller first joined the cast of “King of Queens”, I was half-expecting a Frank Costanza Redux, but Arthur Spooner quickly became his own character. He was the best part of “King of Queens.” So, in this episode where he offers Spence Olchin (Patton Oswalt), job interviewing advice, it almost made me wet my Costco knickers.
and this one because it’s funny ..
Then, there’s this one. It’s not exactly a job interview, I just love Red’s “Yeah, fuck you” attitude in this scene. To me, it’s the best scene in film that’s loaded with best scenes. Also, I’m not into using swears during a job interview. I think that sets a bad precedent because I believe if hired, I’d be expected to swear all the time. While that’s very easy for me to do (I’m fluent in Salty Language), I don’t think I’d be long for that job, you know what I mean? Anyhoo, I do like Red’s attitude. He has nothing to lose and I’d like to be more like that in my next interview.
So, folks. There you have ‘em. If you have nothing better to do, please feel free to drop me some advice. The winner will get a pony.
Insomnia sucks for the most part, but what it doesn’t suck at is getting me to gaze into the deep, dark crevasses that make up what’s left of my soul. Some nights I think of fluff — like fuzzy kittens, soap scum and sweaters made out of love, merino wool and sunshine.
Then, there are the nights when I can’t get the frightening images of acid wash jeans, people who insist on wearing PJs out in public, post-WW1 German porn and the Dave Matthews Band out of my noggin.
Tonight is no exception and here’s what’s rattling around in what’s left of my once-semi-brilliant mind.
1) When the first-time writer of a hit movie tells an interviewer that he/she just simply sat down with a “How To Write A Screenplay In One Weekend” book, and wrote that semi-literate–but funny celluloid sensation–they’re lying to you.
Here’s what really happened: The studio wanted to work with this person because they’re popular and funny. So, these clueless execs buttered them up, then asked them for an idea and maybe a rough draft of a script. Upon first the reading, the must-hire D-girl who’s fucking the junior exec, quickly learned that this particular popular person is much better at doing late-night sketch comedy. Ahem–mum’s the word, see. So, the studio then hires a team of script doctors (at about $200k a pop) et voila–hit movie!
2) While I’m on the Hollywood trip, here’s another tidbit: When an actor/actress/singer thanks their assistant in their Oscar/Golden Globes/Emmy/Grammy acceptance speech, they’re really thanking their drug dealer. True story.
3) Bulimia never, ever goes away–it just manifests itself in other forms–like the urge to dye one’s hair purple, or start a blog, or build the original Roman Empire out of unused tampons.
4) Naming your children the correct name is vital to their future. Adorning them with monikers like Brittany, Tiff’ny, Zephyr, Madison, Schylur/Skylar, or Savannah, well, they’re bound to grow up to be total assholes, and will either yank their puds for money or spend a lot of time spinning nekkid around a steel pole at a dank truckstop bar on the interstate. I can’t believe that unimaginative parents in this country feel the need to sully the awesome reputations of two of my favorite cities by naming their sub-mental spawn “Madison/Madysun” or “Savannah” because both names are “unusual.” Get over yourselves because you’re only doing your kids a disservice by bestowing them with awful names. Stick with the classics.
5) If you insist on naming one of your kids Marquis, at least have the fucking sense to pronounce it correctly–it’s “Markee” not “Markwiss.”
6) The more I think about it, the more I believe that Stalin was just misunderstood.
7) Write Yiddish and cast British. Never fails. Ever.
8) Once I deem you to be a douchebag, there’s no way to recover. It’s just best to move on and realize that me calling you a douchebag is actually a gift–a kick in the ass of sorts–to get you to fix your douchebagness. Trust me on this–I’m a damn good judge of character.
9) OJ did it.
10) I’ve said this before, but there is no such thing as a social media/content management guru. If you introduce yourself to me as a social media/content management guru–and say it with a straight face–well, you’re about to be called a word that rhymes with schmoucheschmag. Gurus can only be found in ashrams in India, by the way.
11) My god–I love peonies.
12) You know, that rug really DID pull the room together.
13) I can really see a future with this gentleman. He’s all sorts of secksy in his thong, and not to mention his pathway to adventure, which has me a-quivering by the way.
Is that a cat?
14) There’s nothing wrong with nom-nomming on chocolate cake with chocolate buttercream frosting for breakfast, lunch and dindin. But you must realize that stuffing your face with all that chocolate goodness will cause you to resemble a mutant hamhock after about a day of this diet. Never fear monkehs–that’s why god invented eating disorders.
15) Everyone should own this album.
For those of you who have difficulty reading the above image, it’s Ben Harper’s “Fight For Your Mind.” It’s haunting, sensual and beautifully produced.
One of my fave songs ever–
You’re welcome.
16) Elvis is king–Costello, not Presley. Puh-leeze–I’ve never cared for that drug-addled twat.
Don’t recognize them because of all the plastica and bondo work they’ve had done, eh? Hint: One had KNIFE tucked in his knickers, and played the babe-in-the-woods bit one too many times for a grown man. The other is a nice Polish ‘murican gal who hasn’t done jack shite since the 80s/early 90s (acting-wise), but has a nice rack, booty (I’ve been told) and a tastefully decorated abode.
This image should help … I hope.
(courtesy ContactMusic)
Still not gettin’ it? Ok, ok… I’ll play Captain Obvious now just for YOU.
Wait, that’s not EXACTLY the pic I was looking for. But you have to admit Hef and his latest Viagra pole dancer have some physical aspects in common.
This is the story of the year. I’m surprised y’all can’t hear me cackling because it.. it…is just so damn funny and RANDOM.
Monkey found roaming Toronto Ikea
Not that unusual, I know, especially in this day and age. Perhaps the Gawker hed is more telling:
Shearling Coat-Wearing Monkey Found Wandering Around Canadian Ikea
(courtesy gawker.com)
Turns out the monkeh was left in the car whilst his owners went into the Toronto Ikea to buy cheap-ass furniture and probably dine on Swedish meatballs for a dollar. I’m thinkin’ the critter got bored, and since monkeys are fuckloads smarter than most humans, he opened the car door whilst muttering obscenities under his monkeh breath, climbed out of the car and into the cold parking lot while pulling his coat tighter around him and hiking up his Huggehs for Monkehs to avoid drippage. He then followed the rest of the huddled masses into the country that is Ikea.
Fortunately for security cameras and folks with smartphones, his journey was caught for us to enjoy as well. The monkeh is fine, according to officials.
I have a feeling that the monkeh had an easier time of figuring out how to put Ikea furniture together than his owners did.
I would LURVE to resurrect From My Cold, Dead Hands from the, um, dead (you know he’s gonna come back, you just know it), then watch Marky Mark touch & lick him.
You know, sometimes I wish it would happen. Or something similar.
Maybe “The Food of the Gods” could come true and I’d be serving wench extraordinaire for huge chickens.
Hey, anything would be better than being stuck with Will and Holly Marshall. If I was stuck with them, I’d throw them to the Sleestaks, then make a coat out of Cha-ka.
But hey, that’s just me.
At this point, you’re probably wondering why I’m writing such a nonsensical post. Well, I learned today that it’s NaBloPoMo. It’s kind of along the lines of NaWriMo, and since I’m already balls-deep in writing a book, I’ll participate in the NaBloMe or AmBloU or … what’s it called? Oh yes, NaBloPoMo. What is it exactly? Here’s WP’s explanation:
It’s November 1st, and National Blog Posting Month–NaBloPoMo–is upon us. Time to put your thinking cap on, fire up the computer, chug some extra coffee, and get a-postin’! Bookmark these resources for days when you need a little something extra, and leave a link to your site in the comments so other NaBloPoMo participants on WordPress.com can find you.
I’ll give it a try and see where this journey takes me.
But I must warn y’all that when the revolution happens, I’ll have to destroy you all.
Sorry–it took me a while to dry my eyes and don some clean knickers. Ahem. Sometimes laughter ain’t the best medicine, and whoever said that needs to have their balls shaved with a dull, dirty razor. Then, that person needs to sit for a long, long time in a big pile of salt. Man oh man, I would be aces at torture.
Anyhoo, currently I’m staring at the dirty asshole of 21 months of unemployment. Yep. I’ve written about this before but now this sitch is getting mighty damn ridiculous. In the past 48 hours, I’ve receivedthreetears/sobs-producing rejections. I would’ve loved to work at any of these places, but once again, I was told in so many words that I suck shit. That I’m not worthy of employment at all, and that I should just give up.
Well, I have. Stick a fork in me folks because I’m done.
Over 500 carefully crafted resumes and cover letters have been sent, networking and ass-kissing has been accomplished (I deserve an Oscar) and I’ve “Linked In” up the whazoo. Stories I’ve pitched are ignored or given to someone else to write. I’ve even started this extreme diet because all of the places I’ve interviewed at are inhabited by uber-thin folks. Next up: Botox and skin-lightening treatments.
I’ve learned a lot, met a lot of good people, but not enough apparently.
Meanwhile, half-wit woman hater Todd Akin doesn’t know the difference between an abortion and a D&C and people want him to help lead this country? Oh, dearest Julia, surely you gest! No one can be that thick! See, this is what happens when you let God into politics. Or, when you think you know how God would rule on such matters.
Watch:
My plans? To lay low for the rest of the year because 2012 ain’t no longer worthy of my time.
It’s been a shit-fuck-ass mess of a year. Nothing has worked out and that just boggles me wee noggin. Now, normally I’m not one to wish my life away, but as for the rest of 2012, well, I ain’t participating. This year had a chance and it blew it. Big time. It’ll be interesting to see if I even decide my vote is worth it. The current POTUS hasn’t done shit for me so why should I even bother? Or, maybe this guy has the right idea?
After a night filled with crappy sleep, I woke up to this on the tee vee:
.. and now I worship all things Morey Amsterdam.
(courtesy of the latimes.com)
He’ll be my soul mate in the next life.
G’head and laugh, but you’ll be so jealous. Just watch and learn.
I imagine that writing a sitcom in this day and age doesn’t resemble anything like this image …
(courtesy timfowlar.com)
First, the writers are too old, and aren’t sporting the appropriate attire. Depending on the show, there’s probably more booze, hooch, porn, chocolate, juicing supplies and Larry Gelbart’s biography strewn about. Or Seth McFarlane’s. Or Tyler Perry’s. Not enough ironic facial hair either and there isn’t a MacBook Pro or iPad in sight because you know, you can’t write anything without either one of those tools. Fuck ideas, the tools will make you a great writer. Pffft.
Yesterday, I had a job interview for part-time, fill-in holiday work and believe it could go either way. In all honesty, I wasn’t looking forward to it because if you’ve been paying attention at all during the past year, “luck” and “job search” are two concepts that hate each other in my world. To quote Unfrozen Caveman Lawyer, those two ideas “frighten and confuse me”, so I don’t know how to react when confronted by either one. Sometimes I’m struck dumb when these two phenomena meet, and I just end up staring at a light switch for hours on end. What’s real sad is when I applaud said light switch–I can be heard yelling out “bravo” and tears can be seen streaming down my face in appreciation.
No video of this occurrence exists so don’t ask.
Imagine, if you will, not ever having to get up in the middle of the night to pee. Sweet Jesus, isn’t that an incredible thought? We’ve all peed during our slumber with gross results, right? But imagine if you could actually sleep n’ pee without the unpleasantness associated with it upon waking up in the morning?
Fortunately, the Japanese have once again invented something to help us be even morelazy. It’s a toilet and a bidet all rolled into one exciting sleep aid.
(courtesy of France24.com)
(courtesy of giantrobot.com)
I love how the Japanese get how fucking lazy we Americans really are. I wish we could admit to it, but we’re all too busy telling the rest of the world how fucking appreciative they should be of us and our obnoxious, holier-than-thou ways.
Of course, this invention has other uses than to help lazy sots, it can be used for those who are elderly and bed-ridden for whatever reason.
And to answer your next question, I’ve already ordered one for me and each of my friends.
I was alerted about this vidya earlier today by one of my sisters, and it still makes me cackle like a scary old broad who’s watching her mangy, rabid dog chase the neighborhood chirrun out of her damn yard.
This happened at a recent Chicago Cubs/Pittsburgh Pirates night game at Wrigley Field.
One caveat here — I am not a baseball fan. It’s not something I follow, but I will go to a game from time to time if the ticket is free and I’m plied with enough alcohol. Kidding about the alcohol part. Ok, ok …I’ll go if there’s an unlimited supply of ballpark hotdogs and Coolie Coos (or whatever they’re called) waiting for me at the park.
I do know this much about baseball: The Cubs blow donk and Wrigley Field is the world’s largest beer garden–but probably with more piss and puke strewn about, and guys with up-turned collars on their polo shirts and backwards baseball caps. Ew.
Plus, I used to live near Wrigley, and I grew weary of Cub fans from Schaumburg sullying my neighborhood with their shitty beer vomit and Schaumburgian ways. And the post-game puke on my car always killed my sunny disposition, and that memory is still knocking around the obsidian-like part of my soul.
However, this performance may restore my faith in America’s Game or whatever it’s called.
I think the meaning of life is in this photo. I’ve figure it out, now let’s see what you can conjure up.
