Suckwad McSuckersons

The gal with the mostest moxy on WordPress, Madame Weebles, had a great post earlier this week. So, whilst I was getting my sweat on during Bikram, I decided to answer the call of this siren and play along.

I blow donk at the following:

Not holding my tongue (shut up, pervs). Now, a little history about yours truly here. I’m a WASP (doormat) and with that pedigree comes learning how to make good conversatin’ at a wee age, a wicked sense of humor, a good edumacation and the ability to hold a lot of liquor and still be a McCrabass.

In other words, I’m a youngish Ouiser Boudreaux.

I wish.

However, when I was younger, the rule was to not talk about yourself (doing so was considered selfish), be polite and not ruffle any feathers (once again=doormat) regardless of what was being uttered to ruffle said feathers. Same goes for the utterer….right. Be polite to that person, then rip them to shreds when you’re with the fam. As I’ve aged, I’ve switched those two rules. Simply put, I don’t suffer fools lightly–and it shows. Now, I don’t immediately jump down someone’s gullet when they start spewing stupid, but I do when what has been said is either a right-out falsehood or an insult to me or mine. When I do say something, it’s usually quick and sharp, and has been known to harbor a certain amount of acidity that was part of my kind and genteel demeanor a few years ago. This is where I get into trouble–and lots of it. But changing my ways would be bad to my mental health so I’ve learned how to take what I dish out at a relatively early age.

My laziness when it comes to taking care of myself. I’m a lazy ass–I just am. I eat well, but if no food is in sight, I won’t eat. I’ll just think about food and hope that it’ll magically appear. On the plus side, I do Bikram yoga, go for long walks and drink copious amounts of water — and that’s about it aside from the occasional box of wine and trough of chocolate.

I can’t play basketball — at all. I’m turrible, turrible at it. What’s real odd is I believe that I should be good at it–why? I grew up playing tennis, riding to the hounds and plunging off of 3 meter springboards at break-neck speeds–where does basketball fit in?

Tally ho!

I don’t even like basketball all that much–same goes for baseball–come to think of it. The sight of me attempting to play can cause blindness so I don’t even try anymore because I do care about my fellow citizens that much.

Even Stanley is better than I am.

Being employed. I’ve been job-free for almost 2 years now and have no idea as to why I’m still not working, and find it odd that I’m persona non grata in the Chicago media world. I don’t want to talk about it though.

Overthinking. Being too cerebral. Too much in my head. This horrid habit tends to paralyze me at times. Instead of just “going for it”, I sit back and think of every possible thing that could go wrong AND right! Then, by the time I decide to go for it, the moment is gone and then there I am–holding my limp dick, or a limp dick. Depends on the situation I guess.

This next one may come as a shock, but I’m not all sweetness & light. I’m a born cynic. I see pictures of fluffy kittehs, puppehs and other woodland creatures, and do they warm the deep, dark parts of my soul? Nah. In fact, they fill me with dread because I know those critters are being pimped out for their cuteness but will soon be put back in some horrid basement or animal shelter somewheres because folks are too fucking stoopid/macho to get their animals fixed. Those animals never had a shot, see, and that sucks.

Pretending to like popular music–both new and old. I can’t stand 90 percent of the music that’s out today. It’s just pure horror produced by no talent shitstains who got lucky–or had someone killed so they could succeed. Same goes for old(er) stuff like Paul McCartney & Wings, Elvis Presley, Edie Brickell, U2, Tracy Chapman, John Mayer, DMB — I could go on and on, but I don’t want this bad juju on my blog. Plus, I wanna see the comments flow in about my audacity of not liking someone’s precious U2 or DMB.

So, to the 3 readers of this blog, what do you absolutely suck at?

Swingin’ times in London town

The Games of the 30th Olympiad are plowing ahead, and we’re deep into the second week of stiff competition. Some competitors got off easy, while others went limp during their events. If you need to bone up on the results, check ‘em out here. Once you’re caught up, you’re ready to plunge headlong into the last weekend of competition. Enjoy.

Until next time, please enjoy some of the more memorable images from the games.

 

 

 

 

 

Why didn’t I think of that?

From time to time, I’ll spy a product or two in my journeys that stops me cold in my tracks and causes me to shout out to no one in particular: “Why the heck didn’t I think of that?” Then, due to my undiagnosed ADHD, my mind will shift to something like a fluffy cat or a lampshade.

But, back to the products I didn’t invent. Why, for instance, didn’t I come up with the Shamwow? Probably because I would’ve fallen ass over teakettle in love with their cannibal hooker-loving spokesman, Vince Shlomi. Yes, that’s his name.

Back in the day when I was into both springboard and platform diving, I used a chamois to dry off between dives since towels got too cumbersome and soaked. If you watch any diving competition on the tee vee, you’ll see divers using them to dry off between dives and after they get out of the whirlpool. They work great. So, it didn’t surprise me years later when some genius decided that ‘shammies’ could be used as a regular household tool to clean up everything from chocolate milk spills to detox vomit spewed all over the guest bathroom. Of course, they had to think of a kicky name and find an even kickier spokesman. Welcome home, Vince Shlomi — the Shamwow was birthed.

The Shamwow works ok, but it’s made a fortune for its inventors. So I missed the Shamwow boat. Damn.

I love the Japanese. They’re all about cute and being efficient. One of my new fave products they invented. Need I mention Hello Kitty?

This one, well, it just makes perfect sense. Think about it. You’re a new mom with little time to clean and don’t have the cash to hire a housekeeper. So what do you do? Put your wee bairn to work and teach him or her the importance of hard work at an early age.

Score one more for the Japanese.

Finally, the topic of this post. I’m going to let the images do the talking here. There are no words at the moment to describe the awesomeness of this.

Wait…there’s more.

One more …

These hirsute undergarments are the pride and joy of Nutty Tarts — a Finnish company that believes all of the waxing, plucking and shaving can get boring, but not boring enough to go back to growing a pubic forest. So, what does one do? Don whichever piece of clothing will bring you the peace of your college days in Madison, Wisconsin when you didn’t believe in waxing, plucking or shaving. Or bathing for that matter. Ahem. Patchouli and sandalwood worked as a great B. O. mask for some of us, err, I mean them.

I’m tempted to buy some of these products because yes, they are that attractive. And, I don’t look enough like a doofus as it is.

Enjoy.