Five Things, The Damaged Shoulder Edition: 1/15/14

So, I done gone and dislocated my right shoulder. I spent a few hours in a Chicago ER crying and writhing in pain–totally being ignored by ‘the best health care in the world.’ Not good. After a fentanyl drip, two batches of x-rays and being “out” when the docs jammed my shoulder back where it belongs, I finally went home. You’d think that would be it, but NO. It wasn’t until after I got home some 6 hours after I was wheeled into the busy ER, that I realized my left arm was seriously injured (have a bruise that looks like an eggplant), and I had contracted a nasty case of frost bite….yes, FROST BITE.. on my left hand.

Frost bite? Where am I? Mt. Everest?

Over the next few days, the shoulder pain turned into to a dull ache, and the pain of the frost bite and bruised arm came roaring in. Sure, I had good drugs, but I can’t handle the strong stuff. Hey, I have a hard enough time maintaining control of all four limbs without big pharma..why would I want to dull my senses and possibly bust my noggin?

While it is better, I am treating myself to an MRI on Friday, so when I meet with my bone doc next week, I’ll know if surgery is the answer or a bionic arm.

I’m going for the bionic arm because fuck yeah.

On with the show.

1) It’s 111 degrees on the Australian Open courts. 

Yaroslava Shvedova of Kazakhstan receives treatment by trainers during her first round match against Sloane Stephens of the U.S. at the Australian Open tennis championship in Melbourne, Australia, Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2014.(AP Photo/Aaron Favila)

Yaroslava Shvedova of Kazakhstan receives treatment by trainers at the Australian Open tennis championship, Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2014.(AP Photo/Aaron Favila)

2) While we’re on the subject of tennis, I’d be happy to de-crampify either of these gentlemen’s asses should they start to feel the heat down there.

The Ass Master: Roger Federer (via Men's Tennis Forum)

The Ass Master: Roger Federer (via Men’s Tennis Forum)

Screen shot 2014-01-15 at 10.30.53 PM

Rafa Nadal’s good side.

Even when Rafa’s picking his seat, it’s still sexy.

Screen shot 2014-01-15 at 10.34.12 PM

 

3) Folks, we gotta figure out a way to keep society from sliding down Crap Mountain.

Sadly, this ain’t helping.

“Men Want to Wear [Leggings], And That’s A Fact!” Say Meggings Man Owners

No, no they don’t. Men don’t want to wear something that’ll make them look like a Ken doll.

Screen shot 2014-01-15 at 10.53.24 PM

 

Unless you’re running down the … No. No. These aren’t appropriate ever.

 

4) She’s my idol.

Great Great Grandma Celebrates Turning 100 By Hiring a Stripper

(via Gawker)

(via Gawker)

She rolls hard. With a tiara.

Go Granny!

5) Here’s some food for thought: If an owl was really attacking you, you’d know it.

Multiple owl attacks reported in Springfield

Bored owls are fun owls!

Screen shot 2014-01-15 at 11.15.41 PM

 

 

February Can Blow Me

Well, February did blow but not in the way we all know and love.

I got nothing out of it except that I got to celebrate the 18th anniversary of my 29th birthday with some friends/family (got an iPad out of it–SCORE), learned that I’m a reporter/writer/editor and NOT a research editor. and was provided with even more evidence that I need to live in warmer climes and take bets on hermit crab races.

While I was reeling after the latest shit sandwich of a temp job that ended up with me ‘not being a good fit’ (whatever the fuck that means), a few awesome stories almost got past my radar.

The first is my fave. I don’t know how else to describe this particular yarn except, well, to wonder why I am not a drug addict after reading such a tale.

From Oddity Central.

Indian Sculptor Makes Creepy Bust of Favorite Politician from His Own Blood

My head hurts now.

(courtesy of FooYah.com)

(courtesy of FooYah.com)

Apparently, some loyal constituent in the world’s largest democracy, decided it would be neato to pay homage to his fab fave politico by sculpting a bust of said pol. Nice and not that unheard of in this day and age. However, busts of this sort are normally sculpted out fo marble, or stone or clay. Maybe even shit if certain materials are not abundant.

But, this particular bust was made out of … wait for it … BLOOD. (Thank god my gag reflex has calmed considerably after my years of being bulimic because my computer would be covered in puke right now)

Read on…

“An Indian man known only as Hussaini has recently unveiled a shocking work of art – a bust of J. Jayalalitha, Chief Minister of the Tamil Nadu state, made from 11 litres of frozen human blood, donated by him and 32 of his students.

Apparently, nothing shows admiration for a person like making a creepy sculpture of them from human blood. At least that’s what Hussaini, a sculptor and archery teacher from Chennai, must have thought when he got the idea to create a bust of Chief Minister J. Jayalalitha out of his own frozen blood, for her 65th birthday. The noted artist wanted to thank the politician for being the “most sports loving CM of India” and for her support to his archery association, and since he had a few liters of his own blood stored for special occasions, he decided to put it to good use. You see, Hussaini has had his blood drawn at three-month intervals, over the last eight years, waiting for an opportunity to use it as a medium for his sculpture. But he only had 6.5 liters of blood, and this special project required 11. Luckily, his 32 archery students were more than willing to donate the extra 4.5 liters needed to complete the project.”

Oh no, not just Hussaini’s blood is in this masterpiece, but the blood of his archery students too. There are so many jokes there that my mind can’t handle the overflow, and my stomach is starting to churn, so the need to down Maalox by the gallon starts NOW.

I know you’re all probably wondering how the entire fuck he did this, so grab a pen and paper and write it down. Or, to really get in the mood, you may want to write in your own blood.

“To create his blood sculpture, the artist first created a made one from clay. He then prepared a silicone mold, encased it in a hard outer shell and filled it with the 11 liters of blood. The mold was finally frozen at -27 degrees Celsius, for two months. On the day of the unveiling, Hussaini revealed the other big idea behind his plasma artwork – blood donation. “If I can organize 11 liters of blood, then every other citizen can follow suit and save many lives,” he said.”

I hope Hussaini realizes that donating blood to make art is not the same as donating blood to, you know, save lives.

(Courtesy of New India Express)

(Courtesy of New India Express)

I hope the recipient has proper storage for this since India is not exactly known for its mild climate and low humidities. Ahem. Craaaap–can’t get that image out of my noggin. Fuuuuck.

On a somewhat happy note, the Chief Minister was none too pleased with this tribute and advised Hussaini to never do this again.

I hope he heeds her advice.

The parade of weird continues in the south Pacific.

Indonesian mother kills son over ‘small penis’

From Raw Story.

Apparently, whilst mum was prepping her darling son for his circumcision, she said “Fuck it, I’ll just kill him because his peen is so wee, he’s in for a lifetime of hell because of it.”

And she did.

Nothing else can be said about it by your’s truly here.

According to one of my fave websites, The Sartorialist, these are the penny loafers to own. Of course, they can’t be bought stateside, so you have to wing on over to Milan to purchase them.

(Courtesty of The Sartorialist)

(Courtesty of The Sartorialist)

Not your style, eh? Well shit howdy, at least they ain’t made out of blood–that’s enough to get me to buy ’em and I don’t even wear penny loafers.

What $500 Worth of Crap Looks Like

Melissa sent me this earlier today with the following note: “We could create something like that!”

(courtesy Anthropologie.com)

(courtesy Anthropologie.com)

Ahhhh…Sweet Melissa, no we could not. No. In fact, I couldn’t give you a bigger NO on this one, dearest.

Seriously. If George Clooney showed up allllll nekkid at my skeezy apartment wearing ONLY THIS FUGLY AS FUCK “THING”, I’d have to kick the living shit out him for having such horrid taste. See, my three readers, that speaks volumes because in my sass-n-bitchified opinion, the Cloonster is about as hot as a man can possibly be.

Look–here’s some proof of the above statement–

(Courtesy Tailgate365.com)

(Courtesy Tailgate365.com)

Enough of the handsome man diversion and back to WHY we don’t do crap. Where was I? Oh, right…here..yeah…right THERE…yeah..that’s it..ooohh…yessss… a little to the left … yeah, you hit it…

Yeah..you WISH.

You know why? Because we can’t, don’t and won’t create crap. I’m not into making crap like this because it goes against every fiber of my McCrabass being. I know, I know…considering some of the stuff I’ve created on this here blog, creating this type of crap would probably be a step up for me. Ha! Y’all are the apex of clever, my monosyllabic critics. Gag me with $500 worth of crap.

Of course, someone or someTHING needs to be blamed for this circle of wire, rope, prayers and crap: Insecure broads with too much cash and little to no taste, and the crafting industry and places the promote crafty-crap like Pinterest and Etsy.

Crafters of the world, I have a message for you: Cut it out. Yes, Stop making crafts.

Why?

Because you SUCK at it. You SUCK OUT LOUD at it. No one wants to see it, feel it, love it, ooh & aaah over it, or buy it. They’re just being nice to you because, once upon a time, you were some sort of high-falutin’ exec with an expense account who heard via some oracle like Oprah that it’s ok to follow your dreams.

So you quit your day job, went to Bali for “inspiration”, bought some stencils, a glue gun, oddly colored feathers, and some vintage cashmere sweaters and decided to repurpose your life. Then, your life went down the shitter quick because even your family of hamfatters couldn’t fake liking your craptacular creations anymore, demanded that you get over it and for the love of PETE, get your fucking job back! But nooo…you didn’t listen because you’re following your dreams! Now because of your dreams, your husband is schtupping his assistant AND for good measure, her husband too. Oh and your kids, god love ’em, have followed in your footsteps in a way ,and are cooking meth in the trunks of their cars for lunch money and to pay for things like Girl Scouts.

In other words, Anthropologie is a twat for selling this.

Blah blah n’ shit

I understand that at least two of my three readers are wondering where I’ve been, so I thought I’d write a quick post to let you two know that I am alive, AND will start writing again once I roadtrip to the WordPress headquarters and kick the snot out of the person who decided it would be a good thing to change the home page. It’s annoying the fuck out of me.

Also, starting Monday, I’ll be covering this trial for Gaper’s Block. Once again, the Chicago Police Department fucked up and tried to hide it, and ONCE AGAIN, their horrible, choady behavior got their asses all caught n’ shit. The federal court room where this trial will take place will be a house of horrors for a few weeks. Also, why oh why the City of Chicago didn’t settle this case has me flummoxed.

So stay tuned, my friends, because this trial will certainly produce some ripping good yarns for me to pass onto you.

Finally …

Just a friendly reminder that this happened:

(Courtesy of HuffPo)

(Courtesy of HuffPo)

 

 

Purple Pain

I’m convinced that some male fashion designers absolutely abhor women. They make shit for, what they claim, is for art’s sake when in reality they fucking hate us.

Don’t believe me? Well, feast your peepers on these fab frocks and please, by all means, tell me what you think.

(courtesy of weirdomatic.com)

And, finally … nothing quite says art like a big, stank-ass ashtray with a smoldering cig in it that’s really a chapeau:

(courtesy of puppiesandflowers.com)

Once upon a time, actually it’s more like once upon many a-time, I puked up stuff resembling these threads. That was a time when I was knee-deep in a nasty-as-fuck eating disorder where refunding food was a common occurrence. So, it’s only natural that when I gaze upon such stuff, it’s like a bulimic ‘Nam PTSD flashback minus the “DIDI MAO!!”, rats eating through my tumtum to get out of the bamboo/water trap and Charlie. Thank dog that I no longer do such a thing. Instead, I prefer to showcase my self-loathing via this blog, and by committing petty crimes like flipping off truckers on the interstate and flashin’ mah boobs at the religious nutlies who dare to ring my bell.

All was well and good.
Then came you.

Fortunately, this didn’t cause me to stick my fingers down my throat, but it did give me one helluva chuckle. After watching it a few times, it reminded me of something. Long lead-in, but it’s worth the wait.

There. That’s much better.

What’s next?

Oh yeah. While I was shopping for various sundries and my weekly supply of box wine, I had a wee run-in with one of the neighborhood’s more colorful characters. I’ve seen this woman around from time to time–yelling at trees and fire hydrants–whatever object is harshing her mellow that day. She’s harmless–as far as I can tell–and she’s never said one word to me.

Until today.

After my reign of terror in Jewel, I was pushing my goods in a cart out to my car. I was in my own little McCrabass universe so I didn’t notice her quickly sidling up to me. By the time I spied her, it was too late. I turned just in time to catch some spit with my cheek and a dirty hand moving quickly to my head.

“WITCH! WITCH!”

I know, I was surprised too, but not really. I’ve been called worse and consider being called a “witch” a huge compliment, a badge of honor if you will. Unlike Christine O’Donnell, it would be easy for me to capitalize on this moniker.

Ruh-roh, I forgot to mention an important detail here. I had a layer of my chocolate-thunder brown hair dyed dark purple/blue. Also, the ends in the back look like they’ve been ‘dipped’ in the same color. It’s subtle, and looks good. Not outlandish at all, and considering what I’ve seen lurking on the streets of Chicago, my hair color is fucking Ann Romney-esque in comparison.

Not according to my touched little friend.

I grabbed her paw just as she was about to fondle my purple goods.

“Oh, no touch, dearest. You touch me and you’ll lose your hand, mmmkay?” I said, my eyes locked on hers.

I noticed then she looked an awful lot like Miles Davis and it gave me pause, but not for long. There was no time to ponder this similarity since her other hand was careening quickly toward my hair. This time, I slapped her hand away, put my hand up, palm facing her and raised my voice.

“You try this again and it ain’t gonna be pretty. I suggest you walk away before you get hurt.”

My heart was pounding by this point because this woman was big — bigger than me. I was scared shitless but my eyes never left hers. She finally backed down and started to wander off. I watched as she stomped off and was about to get into my car when it appeared she was at a safe distance, when she spun on her heels and screeched:

“I CURSE YOU AND YOUR PURPLE HAIR YOU FUCKING BITCH!!”

With that, I blew her a kiss, got in my car and drove home.

Of buttholes and bugs …

There are days when I can’t think of a thing to write — shocking but true.

To remedy this blockage, I search within my dark, snark-filled soul and usually a subject magically creeps its way up and out. This works most of the time. However, there are instances where no matter how much navel gazing I do, I end up staring at a blank computer screen.

Recently, the latter happened and it took all of my power to not collect more restraining orders.

Until these two gems were dumped into my RSS feed, and Mama has lots to say about both.

First, I don’t have a problem with tattoos. If you want to cover your body with whimsical artwork

(courtesy inkarttattoos.com)

or use your body as a resume …

… then who am I to judge?

There is very little in this society that has given me pause, until I read this.  Before I continue, you must watch the vidya below.

Such a delicate flower, idn’t she? I wonder which trailer park she rolled out of prior to her semi-sober stroll thru the 17th Annual South Florida (of COURSE) Tattoo Expo. Also, after spending time on the trailer park’s semen-stained community mattress out behind the outhouses with Jed, you’d think she’d have enough sense to, you know, maybe run a comb through her scraggly locks and maybe don some threads that fit.

But what about the tattoo on her ayyy-nooose? Actually, I’m trying not to think about it because it just makes me clench (yep) and sweat (you know it). No wonder she’s doing shots during the hole (oops) procedure. Shit (oh yes), you know you’d all do the same to push (uh huh) through the pain.

Why the anus? WHY? Maybe this is a question that should never be answered. It should remain a mystery. However, according to her, anal tats are gonna be the new thing. So, pucker-up, buttercups!

Meanwhile, over in Japan, things are a bit tamer, yet eye-brow raising.

I have no idea who Shoko “Shokotan” Nakagawa is.

(courtesy of your pervy father’s porn collection and keymochi.com)

I guess she’s some Anime chick who sings and pahfohms fah yew! Ok, fine. I get it, She’s Japan’s answer to Miley Cyrus, minus the creepy, mulletted peepaw. She’s cute — kinda like EVERYTHING in Japan.

Where was I going with this? Sorry, got distracted by the bento boxes shaped like panda bears and the fuzzy bikini Ms. Nakagawa swiped from my closet. Strumpet.

(courtesy of gawker.com)

She’s the Lady Gaga of Japan and I am now a fan. She’s taken Gaga-ness one step further and for that she gets my undying loyalty. She has bugs, not just ordinary bugs, but cicadas on her head and they look COOL. See, I think the cicada is the Cadillac of big-ass bugs. They’re not dirty like cockroaches, and they make a soul-calming sound –if you’re into high-pitched screeching. Plus, the whole 17-year routine they’ve got going is to be respected.

Also, we’re not creeped out enough as a society.

Conundrum

Help me out here please.

Which one is Donatella Versace and which one is Iggy Pop?

Any luck? No? Well, me neither.

Ok, here’s another.

Holy Former Heroin Addict. I still can’t tell.

Maybe it’ll help if I separate the two, study them individually then try again.

Here’s Mr. Pop:

Those photos don’t do dick for me.

Hang on….

Wow. Jennifer Aniston sure hasn’t aged well. Poor thing. Hon, if you want to look good as you age, you can’t be a dullard. Sadly, Ms. Aniston has the personality of a footstool–but that’s a possible future post.

Back to Mr. Pop — who I dig, by the way. One of the best performers ever — I suggest you spend the moola and see him. Totally worth every damn penny.

He was totally hot once — a total US–UGLY SEXY. Sidenote: We have the same hairstyle here.

Ok, now I’m beginning to see the difference. Iggy has less nose & facial hair –but probably not much –than Donatella. Also, Donatella has a teefus issue. You’d think she woulda taken some of the scratch she used to pay for her plastica to get her teefus fixed. They have doctors for that you know. Good ones too.

Now I’m really confused. My brain hurts.

I need a palate cleanser.

Oh that did it. Much better. Palate cleansed and then some. Thank you, Mr. Irrfan Khan. You’re so pretty.

Not QUITE done with him yet. Funny, he resembles someone with whom I’m closely yoked.

Well played, Bollywood, well played.

Digression can be a bad thing from time to time.

Ici Madame Versace — she’s been committed to memory. Ok. Got it. Good. Finally. Ready to move on.

Aaaaaaaaaand I’m back to square one.

 

 

Things not-so-mundane

I’ll be taking a little trip for a few days to defend my title.

So, until then, stay in the shallow end of the pool, don’t pick your nose in public and enjoy these fine tales I’ve highlighted below.

First, these are ugly, and I love Uggs. I just don’t wear them out in public because I don’t want to look like a hippo with suede legs and club feet. I don’t care how skinny you are — they aren’t flattering which is why I don’t get why any woman would want to wear something so unflattering on the most important day of her life. Suede cankles under silk. You may kiss the bride.

Um, nope. (photo courtesy of Clark+Walker Studio)

 

 

After reading this, I want a zebra and a drink. (from USAToday)

Iowa man with zebra, parrot arrested for DUI in bar lot

Breathe it in, folks. What about that hed stands out the most to you? I get the parrot and the zebra pairing since those are two species who might live in the wild together. DUI, man and Iowa, yep, kind of a no-brainer. However, when you put all those items together, you have a big bowl of wrong. It’s fun though.

“So, this man with a zebra and parrot walks out of a bar —

No, it’s not the set-up for a joke, but an intoxicatingly true story out of Dubuque, Iowa, according to news reports from the Hawkeye State.

Jerald Reiter, 55, of Cascade, Iowa, was backing his truck out of the Dog House Lounge parking lot Sunday night when police stopped him. His passengers? A small zebra in the back seat and a macaw parrot on his shoulder, the Telegraph Heraldreports.

Officers said Reiter’s blood-alcohol level was .14 (the limit is .08), so he was charged with driving drunk (officially, operating while intoxicated). He admits he was behind the wheel but was going to let his other passenger — his human buddy — do the driving, according to the local Gazette.

Reiter thinks someone in the crowd of gawkers called police to complain about the “welfare” of his novel pets, which often go for rides.

He said his local watering hole often allows pets, but not Sunday night, because the owner told him food was being served. TV station KCRG.com got a different story: no animals are ever allowed inside. (Will the bar owner be in the dog house if the alcohol and health inspectors stop by?)

Reiter’s girlfriend, Vicki Teter, told the Gazette that their animals “are a big part of the family,” and that she understands people’s reactions to their exotic pets.

“It’s not everyday you see somebody that’s got a zebra or a parrot in the house, and who knows tomorrow what might be in our house,” she said.”

I got nothing to add, except for the video….

Pennsylvania police officer broke into neighbor’s house, did laundry, cops say

I bet the homeowner wouldn’t have pressed charges had the officer done his clothes too. From the AP.

“AVALON, Pa. — Dirty clothes have a Pittsburgh-area police officer in hot water.
coplights.jpgView full sizeThe Patriot-News
Rankin police Officer Jason Rocco is charged with trespassing and criminal mischief for allegedly breaking into a neighbor’s home to wash his clothes.

Rocco was arraigned Saturday and released on his own recognizance.

WPXI-TV reports the home’s owner noticed his electric bill was unusually high, given that he hadn’t lived in the house for months. When the owner visited, investigators say he found the dryer running with Rocco’s clothes inside.

Avalon police who questioned Rocco say he told investigators the home’s back door was already broken and he “just had to do some laundry.”

A phone listing for Rocco could not be located Wednesday. A preliminary hearing is scheduled for Thursday.”

I don’t blame him for not going to a laundromat. The last time I blessed one of those establishments with my presence, I caught some slight-in-stature man trying to steal my knickers.

When I asked him why, he said, “The goat outside told me to.”

“That’s not a nice way to talk about your boyfriend.”

“Cunt.”

 

I want one of these t-shirts in every fucking color of the rainbow, then I’d give one to every woman I know. I’d wear this rag every damn day too. I don’t care if crewnecks are unflattering, or if they’ll start to fray after being worn day in and day out. It’s message is spot-on.

This has to do with an incident on an American Airlines flight where a woman was removed because she was wearing a t-shirt like this one. According to the airlines, the message on the shirt was offensive so she was told she either had to cover up the shirt or change into something more appropriate, or not fly. (I.E. something with no swears or offensive imagery on it.)

Now, had I been wearing this shirt and was asked to remove it, I would’ve. Sure. Why not? But, I’m gonna add a wrinkle — why replace the shirt? Why not just go topless? Shit howdy, I would. What’s the big deal? Seeing a nice pair of boobs isn’t the worst thing spied on a flight these days. We’ve all seen worse — from people travelling in pajama bottoms, (“the slobification of America” — thank you Tim Gunn), to this sassy gent.

When was it okay for American Airlines to make political statements by dictating what a passenger wears on her t-shirt? Like I stated earlier, I’ve seen much worse on flights — demeaning tattoos, over-pierced bodies, heinous t-shirts that are demeaning to women and minorities and I’ve never seen a member of a flight crew bat an eye — even after a fellow passenger complained about a sexist t-shirt that barely skimmed this other passenger’s ample tum-tum. All the flight attendant could do was shrug her shoulders. Funny, there’s a clause in an airline’s contract of carriage that the airline may refuse transport or remove a passenger from a flight if the passenger is “clothed in a manner that would cause discomfort or offense to other passengers” among other things. Most airlines’ contracts of carriage include such clauses, but the language may be different. I’ve rarely seen or heard of this rule being enforced.

Finally, this is my new favorite Tumblr. It’s replaced this blog.

Indifferent cats in amateur porn

It’s got cats, it’s got porn. What more could you possibly want?

Kitten with a whip

This past weekend was DomCon LA at Los Angeles.

Now, I’m not into fetish or S&M or bondage, and IF those things did whet my appetite, I sure as shit wouldn’t talk about them here. This is a family blog — with lots of swears and porn. And other material that is not welcome in polite society.

But, had I known about Dom Con, I woulda gone — as a journalist, an observer for the people if you will. You know, as a member of the 4th Estate — I could’ve dressed up as Mistress McCrabass — the Goddess of “Fact-checking” — you get something wrong, well, you get my red pen. *Ahem*….

Mistress McCrabass would’ve known what to do when chump Will Smith backhanded a reporter who tried to give him a big old wet one. Mr. Smith would been licking my boots had he tried that with me.

It’s ok — let your mind wander. And while you’re imagining me correcting you with my crop across your bare, oiled ass here are some pix from conventions — past and present.

Enjoy — you swine fucking assholes.

I