You know what my favorite part of Christmas is? My Christmas tree! Yup, it trumps presents and baby Jesus. It just does. Don’t hate.
For me, a Christmas tree embodies the spirit of the holidays. Everyone should have a tree—no matter what religion they practice. I mean hell, the meaning of Christmas has been lost on our overindulgent world of commercialism anyways! Why not decorate your own Chanukah tree, Buddha tree, or Kwanzaa tree? It’s all good! Have fun! ‘Tis the season to be jolly and decorate the shit out of things!
This is what I’m talkin about!
Anyways, shortly after Thanksgiving I begin obsessing with excitement –time to get the tree!! Grandiose dreams of bundling up, trucking through the forest and cutting down the perfect tree are soon lost on the 10% off coupon from Dave’s Christmas Trees. Think: (1) ten minutes away; (2) already cut; (3) no mud; and, (4) I have a cou-pon, yo!
Christmas tree death camp. Happy Holidays!
At Dave’s I examine the trees to find one that meets my specifications. It must be an eight foot Silvertip that displays a sense of harmonious and aesthetically pleasing proportionality. I ain’t down with no Charlie Brown tree. Not now, not ever. Once we have chosen “the one,” the red sea parts – ah, I mean husband’s wallet parts and the tree is ours! ALL
OURS MINE, muahhaahahhaahhaaaa!!!
Not gonna do it:
At home, husband puts the tree up. Thank you. Now step aside fool cause mama’s coming to town! I’m just a tad particular with my tree, that’s all. MY tree! And, as much as I would love to say that tree decorating is a family affair, it is not. It is mine alone. Got it? Don’t touch. :O)
I must concede though, this year I allocated the bottom fourth of the tree to toddler so he could participate in this most delightful tradition. Unfortunately, this concession resulted in the birth of a “Mullet Tree” (i.e. business up top, and party on the bottom). It wasn’t looking good.
But, don’t worry, there’s no need to despair; once toddler passed out I rearranged everything to obtain a greater sense of uniformity throughout the tree. What? It’s called OCD — it’s a
mental medical condition!
Paper, Christmas tree ornaments . . . it’s all the same.
Okay, now on to lights. Augh. I hate doing lights! That is the most suckiest part of tree decorating. Because, inevitably, once 75% of the lighting is complete, one-half of them will go out. This is most always the case.
So, I begin again. New lights strung — and, this time I doubled up just in case! Now ribbon. I haven’t quite mastered ribbon. It seems the outcome always ends up looking like my tree got t.p.’d, by an amateur. But it’s going up anyways.
Dude, someone’s got a good throwing arm!
Lastly, the ornaments. YAY! This is my fav!! Doot, da, do, doot, da, do, Fa, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, la, laaaaaa!! Red ornament here, gold ornament there. Ugly ornament on the bottom. Damn, how many ornaments do we have? Over it. I’ll finish tomorrow.
Excitement fades and procrastination takes hold. After about a week I wanna throw the E.L.F. soundtrack out the window and hire someone to put the remaining five ornaments on the damn tree. Then, finally, when I can’t take it no mo, I finally finish. Ta Duh!
This is MY tree in all it’s fiery glory!
This year, for the first time in many, many years, the husband and I decided to stray from the norms of Thanksgivings past and embark on a road trip to beautiful Southern California. There we would visit friends and family; it was going to be FUN!
Here are the highlights from our nine-day trip:
- On our almost eleven hour drive to San Diego (FAIL), our toddler began, and continued to, shit his britches with such vigor husband deemed it comparable to the sound of a milkshake being blown out of a tuba.
- Stopped at a Denny’s for dinner in the middle of nowhere. Was pretty sure there was going to be a zombie attack at any moment. It was fucking creepy. In the end though, it was toddler’s next blowout that had me hiding under the table. I wished for zombies.
- Eight hours in, why has toddler not passed out yet? I knew I should have brought the whiskey. For me.
- Aw, beautiful sunny wet, rainy, and dreary San Diego! Rain, rain go away. Don’t ever fucking come back when I’m on vacation!
- SUSHI! YAY! Saki bomb, Saki bomb, Saki bomb. Karaoke! YAY!
- Augh. Katie no feel good. Hangover? Wishful thinking. Try stomach flu. Thanks milkshake boy.
- In between puke sessions, attempted to “break” my friends’ cute-n-psycho Chihuahua (Bella).
me: Why you runnin? You come here!
Bella: Bitch you best stop frontin. I will beat cho ass in this cute ass
dress! Whhhaatt now? Huh, huh?
me: Nah, uh? No you di’nt!
Bella: Bitch, yes I did!
OUCH! She just bit me on my lip! And not even on the top lip – you
know, the one I want to get some injections in?!? Hated it!
- Twelfth hour of throwing up . . . what’s that? Oh, just cramps. On the bright side, at least I’m not pregnant.
- Bye bye San Diego! Rain and puke. It was fabulous.
- Hello L.A. Please don’t disappoint.
- YAY, I lost three pounds! Who loses any pounds on vacation! I love you stomach flu. I feel so skinny! Maybe I should reconsider the whole bulimia thing-I think I just trained for it.
- Staying with the in-laws.
- What’s this shit? SORE THROAT? You have got to be fucking kidding me!?!
- Head cold accelerating. Stressors high. Scotty, beam me mutha fuckin home.
- In-law’s dog thinks toddler is a chew toy.
- La Brea tar pits. Nothings more depressing than this:
- Mommy!! : (
- Then I found out there were GIANT sloths! Just imagine:
This little guy a million times bigger!! Awww!!
- I feel great today! If by “great” you mean “like shit.”
- Wow, Rodeo Drive is so awesome! Popped in to FENDI and blew .15 . . . after the police escorted me out. (F’n NyQuil.)
- Ah oh, somebody’s scoring points for hitting pedestrians! And I’m not talking about Grand Theft Auto or me!
- I’m going to bed now, but first I will cry my eyes out. Being sick and on vacation sucks.
- It’s a fucking miracle! I’m WELL!! Off to the happiest place on earth, the bar Disneyland!!
- Day seven is bomb.
- I heart day seven!!
- !!!♥ ♥ ♥ ♥ Day Seven ♥ ♥ ♥ ♥!!
- I almost died today. Twice.
- Did you say something? Can’t hear past the mucus party in my head. I wasn’t invited.
- Strolling through Old Pasadena and came upon a most awesome store – Gold Bug featuring an exhibition by:
“Insects at Home”
This shit is major!
- Low-fat Thanksgiving dinner, on a Friday. It’s magically DELICIOUS!
- Packin our shit. There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home. Click, click, click.
- Shouldn’t really count as a day, and neither should day one. Driving home.
Summary: Being sick sucks. Being sucker punched sick sucks more. Disneyland is bad ass. Home is best.
Does this shit only happen to me or what?
Press play for some monster truck voice inspiration!
Now that we’ve covered that . . . .
I am a huge fan of office supplies. In fact, I’ve grown quite dependent on them. From sticky notes to binder clips, I rely on these fascinating little inventions every day. In addition to using them in their traditional capacities, I sometimes utilize them in unconventional ways as well.
For instance, say I plan on going to happy hour. Inevitably happy hour ends up being a !!!HAPPY HOUR EXTRAVAGANZAAHH!!! lasting until the wee hours of the evening (okay, like ten). So, what’s that have to do with office supplies, right? Well my friends, I suffer from a serious memory disorder called “Have Two Chocolate Martinis, Forget Your ATM Code.” I am certifiable fo sho. This means that, at times, I may pretend like I know my way home, but in actuality, I end up sitting next to the bum with the most cardboard until I regain my senses. Then I steal that shit as I leave so I can use it to practice my break-dancing moves on later. I know, it’s jacked up.
I Have to Practice a Lot!
Anyways, I have found a way to eliminate this most embarrassing and yet rewarding practice with the utilization of a regular, commonly used RRUUBBBBEER BAND! Yes, my preciouses, a rubber band! With just a few minor modifiations, I have created a technologically superior piece of rubber that will transmit important data to me such as my name, home telephone number, and home address.
So you see, in addition to rubber banding, rubber bands play an integral part in ensuring our safety! As I believe anyone could fall victim to this memory disorder at any time, I urge you to visit my Etsy store and purchase one of these life-saving devices TOOODAAYAYAYAY!
And, in addition to providing you with essential personal security, they are also amazing pieces of jewelry for both men and women alike! Every piece is uniquely embellished with a variety of bedazzle razzle dazzles even the pickiest jewelry connoisseur will love! So awesome! Purchase yours today for only two payments of $14.99 plus a onetime shipping and handling fee of $25.00! Remember, You Can’t Put a Price on Your Safety!!
with these beautifully colored buttons! Soo fashionable!
Other office supplies I tend to favor are binder clips and sticky notes. I use these supplies concurrently to communicate important messages when I am unable to speak without flames of ultra hot dragon fire coming out of my mouth. I am convinced these little clampers, along with their sticky note companions, have saved many a lives, because, when one is warned of a potential threat, they tend to stay the fuck away.
Additionally, small binder clips assist in remedying my reoccurring battle with headaches. Some time ago I decided to hop on the “bangs are hecka cool” bandwagon. The slight hindrance in vision caused by said bangs triggers a negative reaction from the microscopic gnomes living inside my head. As their agitation rises, so does the pulsating behind my eyeballs. I’m convinced they have little jackhammers on standby—just waiting for the emergency signal to sound to begin a path of TOTAAALLLL DESTRUCTIIIIOOONNN BRAWHAHAAA!!!
Although one could surmise that a couple of Advil would do the trick, this is not the case. The gnomes cannot be fooled by this trickery! The only way to restore harmony is to remove the obstruction (my bangs) from the viewing portal (my eyeballs). This is where binder clips come in handy—because there’s not one f’n hair clippy to be found in my 20 pound purse which houses everything from bubblegum and binder clips to plastic dinosaurs. But no clippies, right? Riigghhtt.
Anyways, I’m convinced these jackhammering gnomes will pop out of my eye sockets and take over the world if I don’t take responsible action and remove my bangs from their viewing portal. So, voila:
Here’s a picture of a binder clip saving my life!
Lastly, I’m going to talk a little about staplers. They are a godsend. Just like Milton’s obsession with his red Swingline in Office Space, I too hold a special place for this superior piece of office equipment. Of course, staplers would be nothing without staples-so, throw’em up for those little pieces of wire ya’ll!! Whoot Whoot!!
I know I may seem overly enthused with this fine piece of office equipment, and, I am. A stapler once saved me from enduring a class action sexual harassment lawsuit and inevitably years behind bars. I owe my life to a stapler. Their sheer fastening power should never be underestimated. Ever.
So, it all went down about 13 years ago when I began working as an administrative assistant at a prestigious law office in San Diego. I was so excited–I was going to be Ally McBeal, except I wasn’t an attorney. Ya, um, anyways. Here I was this young thang, broke as a joke working with all these grown-ups in a beautiful office with views of the bay and Balboa Park! It was like, so fucking awesome.
it was the exterior that really compelled me to take the job.
Remember when I said I was broke? Well, I was really, really broke! And my clothes suffered. Scratch that, my work clothes suffered. I delegated any extra money to fund my “evening wear” purchases (e.g., hot pants and half shirts) so as to maintain my “groupie” status for one especially talented local band. I spent many a’nights shakin my ass to their jams – and hey, I ended up marrying the bass player so I guess it paid off! Ahhhh, those were the days . . .
Anyways! So I had a pair of black velvet pants that I classified as “day to evening wear.” Oh how I loooved those pants, I really did. And maybe, I wore them a little too often. Or maybe a lot too often. Either way, they didn’t have the wherewithal of say, a pair of Dickies that’s for sure.
So one day I’m wearing these favorite pants’o mine, lookin fly, shoot-winking (think Shooter McGavin) as I’m cruisin the halls. Eventually I find myself in the brightly lit copy/office supply room meticulously restocking office supplies. “Yellow pads here, blue pads here, red pens here, blue pens here.” Then, bending down to put, “copy paper reams here. . . .” I hear a most disturbing sound. [Insert soundbite of pants tearing] –right down the flat seam (i.e. butt seam) of my most coveted pair of multipurpose pants! Nice, right?
This guy and I were in the same support group.
Talk about the ultimate wardrobe malfunction!! I was freaking the fuck out!! So, what’s a girl to do? That shit needed to be handled and fast–before anyone got a good look at my jungle print underwear. That alone would be means for a sexual harassment lawsuit!! Or just harassment for that matter!
Luckily, after a preliminary check around the room, it was apparent that no one was privy to my unfortunate circumstances. Shaking off my “oh shit” face, I grabbed a ream of copy paper, held it behind my bottom and cautiously returned to my desk. I was safe, for the moment. But, I needed a plan. I couldn’t sit on my ass all day!!
. . . not in my case!
Urgently, I scanned my desk for a solution to this dire situation. Sticky tape? Naw, that shit wouldn’t hold and it’d make weird crunching noises when I walked around. Binder clips? Naw, then I’d look like I had some weird butt disfigurement and I wouldn’t be able to sit down for the remainder of the day. Hmm . . .
And then suddenly and if magically, there, right before my eyes, a golden light shineth upon the glorious and all powerful STAAAPLER!! I snatched it up along with five staple strips and my ninja mask. It was now time to execute my escape to the bathroom, undetected. Duhn, duhn, duhn!
“Must protect identity of jungle print underwear-wearer!”
Applying the ninja skills I learned as a teenager when sneaking out of the house, I stealthily slid under desks and climbed over file cabinets to reach my destination. Tah duh! I did it! I ran into the bathroom stall to prepare for emergency surgery on my beloved velvet pants. I pulled those suckers off and assessed the situation. It wasn’t looking good; but, I was determined to salvage them-at least for a few more hours.
I’m so ninja I bet you can’t even find me in this picture!
Pulling the seams together I began to staple with great precision and care. One strip of staples down. Staple, staple, staple. Two, three, four strips of staples down. Looking good, “I think you’re gonna make it fancy pants!!” I was readying to put the final touches on this seamstress’ nightmare when another woman suddenly entered the restroom. Great! *Seam repair now on hold.* How on earth would I explain the noises coming from my stall?
Not me, but an accurate representation.
I soon came to realize there was no need to fret; my bathroom-mate was none other than the STINNKKY LADY!! I could have been a jackhammering gnome in thur and that bitch still wouldn’t hear anything over the noises created by her ass eruption! Screw it! Staple, staple, staple. Done! Now, a quick look in the mirror before Stinky Lady’s stench took over. ______________________________________________________________________
Besides a little wedgie, I was looking pretty good!
Another lawsuit avoided thanks to a handy dandy stapler. Praise Jesus.
Recently I had the pleasure of attending my girlfriend’s bachelorette party where we celebrated her final days of joy before entering the long and arduous journey that is matrimony. I must say it was a bit unorthodox in that no one was downing Jäger shots while watching some hoochie gyrate around to the tune of Pour Some Sugar On Me. Okay, obviously I am referring to a bachelor party as us girls are clearly too refined to participate in that type of debauchery –we would much rather chat over tea and scrapbook.
For real though, this was not the typical night out on the town. In fact, the event began at 10:00 a.m. with Bloody Mary’s and bomb ass chorizo breakfast burritos. We were fueling up for a fun-filled day riding roller coasters and drinking booze at Six Flags Discovery Kingdom. Right about now I’m guessing you are probably thinking something similar to my thoughts that morning as I inhaled my burrito, “I will not morn your digestion chorizo burrito, as I am certain we will be seeing each other again very soon.” Or, how about this equation: burrito + booze + roller coasters = no bueno? Quite possibly, sí.
Done with breakfast we awaited the arrival of our limousine to carry us away to a day of chills and thrills at the most magnificent park EVER (at least according to their website). Our limo promptly arrived and our charismatic driver mouthed the word, “Hello.” And by “mouthed” I do mean:
form words silently: to form words with the tongue and lips without making a sound, usually in order to avoid being heard or to pretend to speak or sing something
“The limousine driver mouthed ‘hell no’ when picking up his next bachelorette party for delivery to some stupid fucking amusement park.”
So after our 10 mile walk through the snow with no shoes, we finally arrived at the park’s entrance. We then stood in our first line of the day waiting to pass through security. This is when I began to feel a bit anxious. I started sweatin—what if they didn’t let me in because they caught me flashing gang signs on the way in? (Throwin’em up for Sactown! HOLLA!!) Or, they noticed the riffle in my purse–you never know when your gonna need to pop a cap in some fool’s ass, you know? Oh geez. I just kept saying, “Act normal, act normal, act normal.” And it worked! We were in!
Then BAM we were all over the roller coasters. First one, Medusa. Bomb. Screamed our brains out. Second one, Kong. Line. Lots of weird people. Lots of weird people. Lots of weird people. This is when I first realized that I wasn’t security’s only exception—the security checkpoint was a bunch of bullshit. The park clearly did not enforce their dress code:
In keeping with our family-friendly atmosphere, and for health and safety reasons, Six Flags Discovery Kingdom strictly enforces a dress code. Proper attire must be worn in the park at all times, including shirts and appropriate footwear. Clothing with rude, vulgar or offensive language or graphics is not permitted at any time (shirts cannot be turned inside out as a solution). Park admission may be denied if clothing is deemed by management to be inappropriate.
I don’t know who management is, but there was some serious shit going down in the clothing department. In fact, one of the most blatant dress code violations I saw was a man wearing this shirt:
You like the shirt?
You shoulda seen the guy wearing it!
I am NOT kidding folks. I repeat, NOT KIDDING! Now, I’d had a few drinks, I was flying high from the last ride–what do you think I did when I saw that shit? Ya, I smiled. And so did all the bitches in my party. Apparentleh-well, I won’t state the obvious. Anyways, it was quite shocking and management should have been notified immediately. But, we were easily distracted by all of the other hot messes up in thur. And there were quite a lot. In fact, their advertised zombie Fright Fest was beginning to look more like an invasion of the People of Walmart! Add a dash of local street gangs, and a mobility scooter convention and you should have a pretty accurate depiction of the overall park atmosphere.
After our amusing stint in line, we eventually boarded the Kong ride. Big mistake. Point one seconds into it, I felt like King Kong himself had bitch slapped me about a thousand million gazillion times. My head was thrown from side to side, slamming into the padded shoulder restraints at each twist and turn. My ears were throbbing and tears began to form–Stop! STOP!! MAKE IT STOP YOU ASSHOLES!! It was seriously the longest one minute and 36 seconds of my entire life.
Kong can SUCK IT!
When it was done I retaliated by beating the shit out of it. Payback, bitch. Security had to pull me off but the woman of the hour, our bachelorette, distracted them with all of her flashing bachelorette paraphernalia—including one pin strategically placed approximately one-eighth of an inch above her boob. She just kept saying, “Lllloooookkkk into the flllassshhiinnnggg bbboooobbbb liiggghhttt, now yyyoouuuu are getting vveerrryyy ssllleepppyyy,” while my other friends ushered me away. In addition to the hypnotic effect on security, I can’t tell you how many teenage boys appreciated the placement of that button.
At this point we all have headaches and are beginning to experience alcohol withdrawals. So we hooked up some lunch and brewskis and began the alcohol stabilization process. After a team huddle, we decided to catch one of the donkey dolphin shows. This is where things really get interesting. We take our seats and notice a gentleman walking around asking for volunteers for the show. Of course, I coerce one of my friends into volunteering our bachelorette who quickly declined. Whatever. You scared of a little water? Pussy!!! So, I decided to fill in for her because I love dolphins and was secretly plotting to jump on one and go for a ride.
The dude then escorts me and one of my girls (for support) away to the other side of the amphitheater. It is then that he informs me and another victim volunteer of the contingencies placed on petting a fucking dolphin. These include, singing in front of 10,000 people, hula hooping in front of 10,000 people and getting completely soaked by dolphin diarrhea water in front of 10,000 people! Only after completing those tasks would we be allowed to pet a dolphin. Wha, Wha, WHAT?!?! I signed up to PET A FUCKING DOLPHIN. That’s it! Immediately I wanted to back out—but considering I had just called our bachelorette a pussy, entertaining a crowd of 10,000 looked more appealing than the backlash I would receive walking back to my friends with my tail between my legs.
Dolphins! They are cute.
I want to pet them.
All I have to say is thank god for liquid courage—although a Jäger shot would have been nice as I was about to get my gyration on while singing Def Leppard’s Pour Some Sugar On Me in front of a crowd of ONE MILLION people!! So it was just about time for my debut when I start having flashbacks to my last performance in a Tijuana discoteca. I had been ill-informed of the rules surrounding the “dance off” I was participating in. Belligerently dancing to the tune of my own drum, I began hearing heckles of boo’s as I busted out my best dance moves. What the fuck assholes, my moves are HOT! Coming out of my haze, I took a look around and all the bitches I was up against were butt ass naked. Apparently someone forgot to tell me it was a “dance off with your pants off” contest. I had forgotten to bring my clear plastic goldfish stilettos, so I had to bow out.
Although I was relatively certain I wasn’t going to have to get naked on this stage, my anxiety continued to grow. It was two minutes before I took the stage and I really wanted to sing Pour Some Sugar On Me; but, there was one major problem—I didn’t know enough of the lyrics. And, the lyrics I did know weren’t exactly family-friendly–although considering the audience, it probably would have been a big hit. I finally decided I would improvise and made up my own song called, “Congratulations to You” which I sang to the tune of Happy Birthday. This song would be a tribute to our bachelorette’s engagement.
I asked our host if I could give a shout out before I started singing to which he responded with an unequivocal, “No.” Whatever! I do what I want! Then he uttered a few words which would soon come back to haunt him. Those words were, “Just add your own Katie-flare to it.” Mwwahhaahahaahhaaa!!!
Finally on stage I enthusiastically executed various cheer claps and high kicks while screaming at the top of my lungs. Weeewww heeeewwwww!!! Then, dun, dun, dun, it was time. I quickly summoned my inner Britney Spears; but, unfortunately, all I could conjure up was a bit of Yoko Ono.
After giving a quick shout out to my girl (hahaha Mr. Host!!), I began to sing, terribly. Anyways, my singing may have sucked balls, but my hula hooping was BOMB!! It’s just a shame there’s no video. Schweew!! I was almost done, only one more task and then I got to pet the mutha fuckin dolphin! YAY!!
They had me standing with my tennis shoes in the water and instructed me to “DO NOT MOVE!” Awwww, here comes the dolphin!! He’s so cute! Then BAM its tail slams down into the water and my entire front gets soaked with dolphin diarrhea water. YAY! Now I get to pet the dolphin! But then, homie instructs me to “TURN AROUND and DO NOT MOVE.” WTF? I should have ran. I really, really should have ran. Then BAM Dolphy’s tail slams down again and I am equally covered with dolphin diarrhea water on my backside. Fuck Dolphins!
Dude! I look like a linebacker!! WTF?
Me Covered in Dolphin Diarrhea Water.
Now my tasks were finally complete! It was time to pet the dolphin! Dolphy gets comfy up on the platform and I lean down to give him some lovins. We were going to be best friends! All my girls were going to be soooooo jealous. But then, what? What’s going on? Who could possibly be tugging at my arm? I’ve only just begun my bonding with Dolphy! Could it be? SECURITY!! Foiled again!
Did I forget to tell you I was dressed up like a Furry?
P.S. No one puked.
Hey everybody guess what? Halloween is right around the corner! Are you as excited as me? Do you have your costume yet? Me neither. That’s why I’ve been on the hunt for some inspiration as this year I have chosen to go a different “direction” with my costume so as to avoid dressing up like a fucking hooker as in years past. I know I haven’t depleted all my resources in this regard, and don’t get me wrong, I have enjoyed wearing my fair share of less than conservative costumes, including an Alice in Wonderland-Hooker costume, Biker Chick-Hooker costume, Witch-Hooker costume, Cowgirl-Hooker costume and a Hooker-Hooker-every-day-wear costume.
However, I am toying with the notion that it may be time to begin wearing more age appropriate ensembles. Interestingly, there was a time, many moons ago, when I steered clear of such provocative costumes. In fact, I’m not entirely certain when my childhood wannabe punk rocker costumes evolved into these skank ass ho inspired get-ups. But, one could surmise that maybe, subconsciously, I have some uncanny desire to be a stripper. I have always wanted a pair of those clear plastic stripper stilettos with gold fish floating around in them. Those are sofa king RAD!
I had my own definition of punk rock.
Okay, I admit it. That’s not me.
To aid in my quest for inspiration, I thought it was important to reconnect with the roots of Halloween because, for my entire life, all I have really known is that I get to wear a costume, dye my hair pink, eat a shitload of candy, get a tummy ache, and in more recent years, pretend to be a stripper without the benefit of getting paid. No hundred dollah bills ya’ll! Boooo.
So, after months of research, I found that this holiday originated with the Celts way back in, I think, the early 1800s. It was a really long time ago, I know that much — maybe even before Christ. The Celts had their dates fucked up and celebrated New Years on November 1st (not the smartest tools in the shed). They believed that the night before the new year – October 31st – ghosts of the dead returned to earth to say “Whhhhaaaaattttzzzzz Upppppp Suuuccckkaasss?” and scare the shit out of everybody. To placate these spirits, the Celts celebrated a festival called Samhain during which they danced around huge bonfires in costumes made of animal heads and skins, and wore no underwear. Then, they would sacrifice shape shifters to the Celtic deities. Wait, ah, wasn’t that a True Blood episode? Anyways, that’s some fucked up shit, right?
So now I have a dilemma, because I ain’t trying to wear no goat carcass on my head and I’m not down wit free ballin vajayjayin or killing shape shifters. It’s just not cool, period. I was thinking maybe I could find an adult animal costume like a goat or pig or something to commemorate the origins of the holiday without feeling like Lady Gaga at the MTV Music Awards.
Lady KT! Aw Hell Nah!
Unfortunately, as I searched for adult animal costumes , it became abundantly clear that adults who wear that shit are very likely to be into some funky ass fetish shit. Like, funky funky, CSI Season IV, Episode 406 – Fur and Loathing funky fetish shit. I can’t say I’m even vaguely interested in exploring this anthropomorphic animal/human role play fanaticism or sporting its attire, even for the sake of Halloween. Sorry folks, but this Katie cat ain’t down with the furries (meow). So, although I have hit another dead end on the costume train, I have gained further insight to those fools who flaunt stuffed animal decorations in their car rear view windows.
And, NOW INTRODUCING:
* Things That Make You Go “Hmmmm” *
Bowling Furries? Indeed.
You guys should be freaking out right about now.
I’m freaking out right about now, funk soul brotha.
Now Furry is freaking out!!
Now Foxy is freaking out! Ahhhh!!!
Anyways, now I really don’t want to dress up as a goat, fox, cow, or anything animal related. So let’s see, ho-alicious is out, animal hides/heads are out, and adult animal costumes are out. Very ascary costumes are out too — I still have nightmares from looking at my parents’ Grateful Dead album covers as a kid. And, lastly, I don’t want to do anything boring like dress up like a Nun. Hey! What about a slutty Nun? Oh wait. SHHIIITTTT!!
To be continued . . .
P.S. After much thought, I believe I should have altered my Google search to exclude the word “adult” in “adult animal costumes.” Lesson learned. And remember people, Furries are people too. Don’t hate or discriminate.
P.S.S. If I ever do decide to dress up like a goat, I would definitely wear these heals — they are pretty sick.
First time here? I suggest you start here. :O)
#2 Workplace Facebook Blocking
Sometimes your job sucks and you must seek out new employment opportunities. For me, the whole application process can be a bit overwhelming and stressful—especially when it’s interview time. This is when I get all anxiety-ridden and require a few Xanax to counterbalance my crack addict-ish behavior. Once it kicks in then Iiii’mmm aallllll gggoooooooddd (wiping drool off chin) and ready to show’em what I got! Inevitably I get the job cause I’m the shit, and, clearly they’re buying what I’m selling (cough, Xanax, cough).
However, after a week or two at the new job (or in this case much sooner), I usually realize there were some serious questions I forgot to ask during my interview. Like, “Do I get a reserved parking space?” or “Is the co-worker I sit next to a fart ninja?” But the most important question you must ALWAYS ask is, “Does the Company block Facebook?” If so, this is most certainly a deal breaker. For me, Facebook is my lifeline, my social outlet, my love. The day I saw this message, I nearly gave my two weeks notice:
My life was RUINED!! Suddenly, I found myself engulfed in tears, cold sweats began setting in. I ran to the bathroom where a co-worker found me hours later locked in a stall swaying back and forth in the fetal position. She immediately ran out, grabbed some of my Xanax from her purse, came back, threw it at me and ran. WTF? A few minutes later I was finally able to resume work with a semblance of normalcy.
Still distraught though, I wrote the following poem—which ended up being a moment of great insight:
It was a sad, sad day when Facebook went away
I got a job; my bills to pay
They locked me out ev’ry mutha fuckin day
Sucks to have no right to say
But then I realized how much fuckin money they
must loose on that shit every year, especially the losses
associated with the decrease in productivity which can
be directly attributed to the highly addictive
engagement of social interaction facilitated
by that which is known as the “Great Facebook,” hey.
This poem really put things in perspective for me. It is true, employers are fucked if they allow employees access to this site. It’s a damn shame people aren’t I am not responsible enough to manage their my time more effectively. As proof, without Facebook, I soon found myself completing all my work. I had processed, cleared, dusted and disinfected everything on my desk, including all my pens in my little pen holder thingy. Facebook blocking had upped my productivity by one million percent! As it didn’t take long to complete all of my work-related duties, I soon found myself wandering aimlessly through the halls, dreaming up status updates that would never be.As the weeks passed, I began to notice co-workers ignoring me and several began giving me the stink eye. At first I thought they were just jealous – you know, here I am the new hot shot in town, showin’em up, showin’em how it’s done. All my shits done, I’m fast like lightening! Then one day during one of my many daily strolls, I caught a glimpse of something–something very familiar. Did I just see “Facebook” on her phone? Fuck ya I did! That’s why all them desks were piled high with paperwork!!! Hello techno-lame-o!! Get a god damn IPhone dummy!! This purchase alone would ensure workplace standards remained intact and would also aid in the prevention of further mean muggin incidents due to the notion that I am totally fucking AWESOME!! (P.S. I am not a fart ninja.)
As you can see Facebook blocking can be detrimental to workplace harmony. It disturbs the natural flow of productivity and can cause tensions towards co-workers who have not yet mastered the skill of inefficient time management. That said, it is my recommendation that all my readers strive to maintain the status quo. If you see an obstacle in your way (like Facebook blocking), seek new alternatives so as to maintain a harmonious workplace (e.g. buy a fucking IPhone). It is imperative you do so or there could be dire consequences.
For example, I recently read an article about a newly hired, overly enthusiastic postman. He was able to complete his route in 3 hours when it took his fellow postmen 8 hours to do the same. He was super fucking awesome right? WRONG! Upon reflection after his “accident,” Mr. Postman theorized a direct correlation existed between co-worker hostilities, the many tire slashing incidents to his mail truck, his most recent brake failure, and his lack of an IPhone for Facebook access. Workplace standards people. Keep’em up or you may die.
#1 Wham, Bam, No Thank You SPAM!
Because pet peeves are generally a bit fleeting, deciding on a number one peeve was an extremely difficult task. On any given day, a particular peeve can top the list thereby trumping all others as CHAMPION!! However, this peeve best not get too comfortable in its position for as easily as it gained notoriety, it can just as easily lose it—ending up buried in the pet peeve graveyard as another, more grating annoyance takes its place.
So, you know, I was really feeling like there was alot riding on this decision—I wanted to ensure the most deserving peeve was recognized for its contributions. As the pressure mounted, I became very aware of my unyielding power to make or break entire careers! The consequences could be devastating. Without this esteemed title, some peeves might choose to seek out fame in less than desirable means—like reality shows or even, SEX TAPES!!! AHHHH!!! It was then I decided I must focus on the positive. I couldn’t worry about all these schmucks that didn’t make the cut. I needed to focus on a winner! A winner who would not only be crowned with the prestigious title of “Biggest Fucking Annoyance, 2010,” but who would also receive a trophy and an all inclusive trip for one to Disneyland!! Fuck Oprah, look what Katie the Blog Lady can do for you!
At this point, I decided I was in need of a break–a little time to clear my head, this shit was starting to wear on me. A quick visit to my Facebook page would be refreshing. Maybe someone had commented on my recent post promoting “Willie Warmers” as holiday gifts. I found them when searching for “holiday presents” “penises” on Etsy and just had to share. I was a bit intrigued because I never knew penises got that cold—at least not here in California. I presume they’d serve a purpose if you’re up skiing and found yourself buried in snow, a victim of an avalanche—that is one limb you don’t want to lose! But, anyways. Upon logging into my page, I saw the most frightful sight–and I’m not referring to the Willie Warmers! What the fuck was going on.
P.S. Did you count 5 squares too?
Holy shit, I think MySpace threw up on my Facebook page!! Disconcerted, I reached out to my Facebook friends to inquire if they too were experiencing the same fucked up boob-fest like me. To my dismay, I received no response, nothing, nada. I have to admit, I was kind of scurred–what happen to my fucking page?!? I’ve got an abundance of suggestive girly ads, Russian bitches looking to get hitched, all kinds of ads promising to generate a fucked up picture of what my future baby would look like, IQ Tests, games, and interestingly enough a bunch of Twilight shit. I was pretty sure I was going to have a seizure with all the blinking, animation and sparkly shit flashing all over my screen. I was distraught. And to top it all off, I knew what all my friends were thinking:
Friends: “I know that bitch was looking at porn. She just posted that damn Willie Warmer shit—where do you think she found that? What a perve!”
Katie: “Thanks you assholes!!”
Friends: “Damn, did she just call us assholes?”
Katie: “No (assholes).”
Friends: “Have you been drinking?”
Katie: (Insert cricket sounds)
Ya, this shit definitely called for a bottle of wine! I had fallen victim to a mutha fuckin SPAM attack! I decided I’d better email Facebook and get this shit cleared up right away. It was late, and I probably should’ve gone to bed, but, I didn’t.
Sent: Wed, September 15, 2010 1:53 AM
I logged on t o may page tonight and I sawwww lotttssss of bboooobbbbiiiesss nad stuff. What the fffuucckkcc did u guyys di for my page ? Halp me pleasshh I am very upsett!!!!1
katie the Spam Lady
Fuckers have not even responded! And, I hate to admit it, but I’m kind of getting used to this shit all over my page. In fact, I feel like I’ve grown quite close with all the Svetlana’s—I’ve been emailing them daily encouraging them to stay in Russia away from all these mail order bride sickies. I even forwarded them pictures of what their future husbands really look like.
* THESE ARE THE MEN YOU ARE GOING TO MARRY! *
I also found that this SPAM was in fact very responsible in its efforts. I mean, you have all these boobies and mail order brides advocating sexy time, then all these fucked up looking morphed baby pictures advocating abstinence. I had to give them a little bit of credit. Plus, I have made a lot more friends, from Russia! So, I guess SPAM isn’t that bad, right? Decide for yourself and don’t forget to comment!!
Shout out to my new friends, Svetlana, Natalie, Svetlana,
Vyona, Natalie, and Vyona! Apparentlah they only have three
names to chose from in Russia . . .
Once you’ve married your hot Russian woman,
you can make some Wacky Babies!
Okay, these babies are not fucked up looking. But, then again these aren’t morphed pictures either. I once took a baby maker picture with my husband and it took the most fucked up features of both of us and combined them. We vowed that day to never ever have kids. Oops.
OTHER RANDOM SPAM (fo sheezy!!)
Holy fucking shit!! Is that for real? I think it is. But, I’m not sure. Augh, I guess make that “73% don’t know the answer!”
Yes, don’t let the dentist fool you!
Of course, there were many, many more wonderful SPAMertisements that I would love to share, but frankly I’m fucking sick of writing these god damned pet peeves. Time to scrub my teeth and pass out ya’ll. Until next time my friends! xoxo
#6 Stuffed Animal Car Decorations
I only have one word, “WHY?” Ahh, make that three, “WHAT. THE. FUCK.”
Toy Story 4 should be a documentary about how fucked up it is to be a toy stuffed up against a hot ass rear window in a piece of shit car with a bunch of lopsided bumper stickers. The end.
#5 Fart Ninjas
Let’s not sugar coat it, shall we? Fart ninjas are silent but deadly predators who prey on innocent victims. In seconds, they will unilaterally snatch your dignity whilst making a swift and stealthy escape–leaving you reeling in a stench of great proportions. These asshole ventriloquists feel no remorse for their actions. In fact, I’m quite certain their satisfaction runs deep. I think it’s the resulting perplexity which arouses such enjoyment; for when a fart ninja strikes, everyone is suspect—including you!
If you work in a high-rise like me, you will understand my irritation upon entering an elevator after a fart ninja has slipped out onto another floor. You are left with the remnants of their foul asshole liberation, and the realization that every person who enters the elevator from here on out will identify YOU as the fart ninja. You are then torn on whether to remain silent, or exclaim “It wasn’t me! I’m not the fart ninja! I swear it smelled like shit before I got in here!” Either way, you’re still a suspect—so keep your mouth shut so as to reduce further assfunk inhalation.
Now, you may think you can avoid fart ninjas, but identifying one is not easy. They don’t walk around wearing all black carrying samurai swords eating broccoli and beans, you know. I have, however, been able to identify two possible distinguishing features of a fart ninja: 1) Often they present with narcissistic personality traits. They are so confident in themselves they believe they can fuck shit up without being suspect because, of course, they are so fucking awesome one could only presume they don’t fart, ever, and 2) If you tap into your stalker like observation skills, you can identify a fart ninja by their covert fart ninja “arm-slice” move which in theory cuts off the fart so it doesn’t follow them and blow their cover. Although I can offer these helpful hints, they really don’t do much good. I mean seriously, are you really gonna yell out:
“It’s Him! He’s the Fart Ninja! He’s a Narcissistic,
Broccoli Lovin, Fart Slicin Mutha Fucka!”
#4 People That Steal My Non-Reserved
Look, I know I have no right to my space—it’s not reserved, it doesn’t have my name on it, or an assigned number, but damn, after parking there every day for a month I developed a connection with it. Then one day I show up and some asshole’s parked his car in MY spot! Mutha fucka! It’s not even a nice “place holder” car either, it’s some piece of shit with its paint peeling off, mismatched rims and a fucking scented tree air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. This shit sets me off. And, as it is just the beginning of the day, I am now convinced this is a sign of things to come–I might as well go home and pull the covers over my head. But, alas, this is not an alternative.
So inevitably, I make my way to the elevator which has already been rigged by a fart ninja for my entry. As other people board, they give me “crazy eyes” like, “What did this bitch eat this early to fuck it up so bad?” I want to scream, “I’m not the fart ninja you assholes!!” but I’m already feeling defeated. Of course, the elevator then stops on *every* *fucking* *floor* until finallllllly I reach my destination. Now, I wouldn’t want to bore you with the details, but let’s just say the remainder of the day doesn’t get much better. I decide I need to take action. I CANNOT have another day like this. So, I devise a plan.
My first idea is a letter of intent to the asshole and his piece of shit that parked in MY spot and ruined my day:
I respectfully request you refrain from parking your
piece of shit in MY unreserved parking spot OR ELSE!
However, after further contemplation I concluded that this asshole really doesn’t care about his piece of shit, so he’s probably not very intimated by my threat of “OR ELSE!” I could attempt to get to work even earlier and beat asshole to MY spot. But realistically, unless I start shooting up crack, my ass will not be getting up before the clock strikes six. So, after much deliberation, I have decided on a more appropriate means of securing my parking space–I hope it works!
#3 Bathroom Sink Sensors
Bathroom sink sensors are a sonofabitch. On one hand, they are awesome because you don’t have to touch some disgusting faucet handle covered in urine and feces (you know they are!). But, on the other hand, those fuckers NEVER WORK! You’ll be sitting there looking like a jackass swooshing your hands back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Then you try a different approach, up and down, up and down, up and down. Then, zig zag, zig zag, zig zag. Then BAM! in walks the stinky lady.
All you’re thinking now is, “work, Work, WORK MUTHA FUCKA!” Anxiety ridden, your karate chopping sink sensor rampage commences with great urgency. You MUST get the hell outta there before the stinky lady starts blowing it up. You are tempted to just say fuck it and use the hand sanitizer at your desk, but that just doesn’t seem right. So, you stop for a moment to collect yourself. You take one last deep breath before the assfunk starts seeping out of stinky lady’s bathroom stall. Then, before you can attempt another try, stinky lady EXPLODES! “Ffffffrrrrppppppp fffrrrrpppp ffrrpp ffffrrrrrrrppppp . . .”
[Instant revelation: Stinky lady is NOT a fart ninja!]
Holy shit!! Your exit has been predestined. Hand sanitizer it is. Mutha fuckin sink sensors.
Up Next: Part Tres! [ Keepin it trilingual up in hur!]
#10 Yo Pants Are Saggin . . .
Of course I’m referring to them fools walking around with their pants on the ground. The penguinesque hobble generated by this gangsta chic style evokes a vague familiarity to me—and yet I’ve never been to prison. Only after further contemplation am I finally able to determine the origins of this recognition. It lies in the stagger of my two year old when he’s sportin a fully loaded diaper. The kids already representin-whaaattt! Next thing you know he’ll be flashin me gang signs. Punk.
For real though, let me be clear, I ain’t tryin to hate on gangsta style here. My pet peeve really just revolves around the fact that when I see a fool walkin with his pants on the ground, I get a sudden urge to pull mine up. This is not good. If I succumb to such urges, it could result in a number of unpleasant visualizations for passersby. These include:
#9 Smiley Faces That Look Like This: :O)
What, is that some kind of fucked up clown smiley face? It makes me want to punch the person who typed it. Sorry to my friends who use these . . . .
#8 Lopsided Bumper Stickers
Just so you know, this peeve seriously triggers my OCD. No you di’nt ask your five year old honor student to put that shit on for you! Like, “honey, I am so proud of you, now be a good little girl and go ruin mommy’s car with your awesome stupid fucking sticker.” Seriously, how lazy do you have to be—you can’t put that shit on straight yourself? Every day I fight the urge to bust out my best ninja-wear, invest in a shitload of super glue and go on a sticker straightening rampage. Wwwwhhhhaaaattttt!
#7 Two Dogs and a Cat
Here I am one of the biggest animal lovers you will ever know, and yet my two dogs and a cat ring in at number 7 on my top ten pet peeve list. Why you may ask, or should I say “ass” because that may be more appropriate. Well let me tell you my friends, our two dogs Nacho and Buddy are senior doggies and, as such, have begun eating special geriatric dog food. This change in diet has initiated significant changes to their gastrointestinal functioning. Specifically, increased flatulence. To be even more specific, nasty, bringing down the house, throw-up in your mouth, fart ninja-esque gas that accelerates at ohhhh, say about 10:00 p.m.
It seems they patiently wait to launch their fart-funk attacks until after I have stumbled down the hall, performed my nightly bed time rituals, and plopped down into bed. Then, not a second after my head hits the pillow, silent assbombs start detonating all around me. It’s like a shock and awe campaign, except these days the “shock” has dispelled but the “awe” remains intact with every scream of “Awe man, you stinky mutha fuckas!!” It seems that after settling down in their respective doggy beds, relaxation takes hold and grants Messrs. Sphincters the authoratah to indulge in doggy stinkfest parties. As I lay there anticipating the next stink bomb attack, my mind begins blasting a remixed version of “Who let the Dogs Out,” with new lyrics of “Who let the Farts Out? Fffrrppp, Fffrrpp, Ffffrrpp, Ffrrrpp Ffrrpppp.” Damnit!!! Could it get any worse? Silly question.
So, as I lay in bed under a reverse covered wagon, trying not to breathe out of my nose or mouth—so basically suffocating—I hold out hope the stench will dissipate shortly and by the time the next round goes off I will be fast asleep. Ya right! Next thing you know I hear the sounds of litter being kicked up, and kicked up, kicked up, and kicked up. Then silence . . . . and more silence . . . . and, still, more silence. Ah oh. This is gonna be a doozy! Then the caca covering process begins. Just to let you know there’s not enough litter in that box to cover up yo stank, Momo kitty. At this point I’m scrambling for my lavender spray, have unscrewed the lid and tried snorting it up my nose. Can anyone say “HEADACHE!” – don’t try that at home kids! Meanwhile, my proud little Momolicious has finished her doody, jumped up on the bed and pranced over to receive her praise for successfully covering up the disgusting foulness released from “those heathen dogs” (her words, not mine). Thank you, Momo, thank you, for I am now painfully aware that cat shit always trumps dog farts.
Coming soon numbers 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!!
As I sat staring at my monitor in awe of the whole blogging process and all of its intricacies, I decided a test post was most certainly necessary. Instantaneously, “Check Baby, Check Baby One, Two, Three, Four” came to mind followed by a “Zoom Zoom Zoom and a Poom Poom” barreling in right behind it. Oh shit. Here we go. I remember that song! Who could forget as it was played on the radio like a billion times a day for forever! Not to mention MTV had it on repeat as they actually played music videos back then.
Makes me reminisce on those simpler times—lounging at the Peach Pit with Donna and that bitch Brenda, pulling out Amanda’s weave and pushing Sydney’s dumbass in the pool, and who could forget good’ol Stefano’s failed attempts to kill Marlena. These and so many other glorious memories erupt from the cavalcade of 90s characters who shaped my very existence. Yes, that is a lovely thought, isn’t it? But those were the days!
So, I’m thinking you need to join me on this wonderful stroll down memory lane. So voilà, I give you Wreckx-n-Effect’s “Rumpshaker” for your viewing enjoyment. And trust me, you will enjoy every fucking second of it. Get ready to get chur booty hopin!!
[WARNING: DO NOT WATCH MORE THAN ONCE]
You see! Straight up fabulocity! Let’s begin with the saxophone playin bikini wearing lady who is TOTALLY AWESOME!!! Obviously well trained in the musical arts, I was extremely impressed with her musical ability. Also impressive is the choreography which showcases complex moves such as the “booty shake” executed with precision and style. These dance moves are hella tight, just like all that spandex! Double score!!
Can we give a shout out to the stylist please? This video’s brilliant use of accessorizations* included not only the usual run of the mill gold chains, bandanas, and neon fabulocity, but also skeeza’s accessorizing with life jackets and homie’s forehead wearing swim goggles — both of which are not only extremely fashionable, but also very practical in the event the boat capsizes due to all the booty shakin (and movin all around). Smart! And if you’re still not convinced of the stylistic superiority presented here, I suggest you revisit 2.28 in the video –yes, homegirl is rocking a SEA SHELL BIKINI!! Now what?
Let’s not forget about those lyrics! With lyricism so deep and provocative, you have to stop and think, what is the deeper meaning here, what political statements are they trying to make? Booty shaking, zoom, zoom, zoomin in the poom poom are just façades for the real issues presented. For instance the second to last line, “Peace.” — obviously signifies their advocacy for world peace. And, little known fact, my boy Pharell wrote a verse for this masterpiece—it’s just a shame he wasn’t in the video. I’d like to see his booty shakin.
So, as you can see, this video accurately depicts a typical beach experience: 1) lots of booty shaking; 2) sand; 3) water; 4) more booty shaking; 5) saxophone player; and 6) more booty shaking and movin all around. With songs like this, who wouldn’t want to visit a quaint little beach community and set it off? Or at the very least, get chur freak on at da club. Unfortunately for me, I was busy celebrating proms instead of shakin my ass to this sweet little tune at the clubs. It’s a damn shame.
* Accessorization. Yes, I made up.
NEXT UP: KATIE THE BLOG LADY’S TOP TEN PET PEEVES!