pee pee everywhere a-pee

So my boyfriend’s brother wets the bed. It’s shameful family secret that I made up this xmas. Why? Dunno. Seemed like a good idea at the time. But I think it’s catching on. I just recently broke it to his new lady friend. I only just sent the email. But I imagine that she was shocked and also a little relived. You see, whenever she spent the night, they would wake up with soggy sheets and he would blame her. Or the cat. And really, he doesn’t have a cat, so that’s a bit weird. I mean, a cat just broke into his apt. and peed, not only on his bed, but burrowed under the sheets and peed underneath him? Mike, mike, mike. Such lies. Also mean that he blames her. Think of how embarrassing that would be. New man, you wake up in the morning and he blames the mass of pee on you. Although, perhaps she also wets the bed and it’s a match made in bedwetting heaven. Maybe by outing him, I’ve also outed her. Now they don’t need to lie or feel ashamed. They can live blissfully ever after in their soggy urine stained sheets. And I did that. In fact, they owe me. I mean, eventually they would have lied and deceived each other so much that it would have torn them apart. You know, as peeing and bedwetting tends to do. But by lying and starting this rumor, I fixed a situation that in no way ever needed fixing or saving. My awesomeness knows no bounds, my friends. Watch out, I’m coming for you next.

first post of the year bitches.

So everyone likes to point out how cute my dog is. And while that’s true, no one thinks of the work it took to get her that cute looking. And I don’t mean that I take her to the spa and get her fur done and nails buffed or shit like that. I’m talking about the amount of punching and berating it took to get her cute. When we first picked her up, her head was a different shape. I punched it into the adorably cute shape it is now. Her legs were quite a bit shorter as well. But I kept punching those until they were longer and more pleasing to my eye. Her fur? At first kind of straight and only one color. But I kept on punching until it was slightly curly and had some highlights. You see, a dog is an investment. They take work and effing amount of physical exhaustion to get them into the wonderfully trained and adorably shaped mass of fur they end up as. So you remember that the next time you see an impossibly cute dog shuffling toward you. If you look at their owners hand and see bruised knuckles or cuts, you know they’re trying to make the world a cuter place for us all. Heroes, really, is what we should call ourselves. No exaggeration.

the starbuckateer

outfit: all black ensemble including, tapered, too tight pants;over-sized and unflattering bulky black jacket; black beret; frizzy, too long for your face shape hair; and shiny block heeled shoes.
sigh. where to start? guess at the top and work my way down. the beret. really a beret? really? is it 1950 or have we all been transported back to france. is some gay waiter coming by to snottily ask if we want wine and cheese and to please put pants on while in their stupid snooty restaurant? no? then ditch the beret fatty. seriously. its not cool. no one envies your beret, and no one will come up to you ask where you got it. i'm sure you found it by a dumpster anyway. 'cause even the homeless wouldn't wear that shit.
i get it. you're fat. you were once slim and attractive and then middle age hit and whacked you with the fat stick. hard. and in many places including your hoo-hoo. you think that if one piece of black clothing will hide your fat ass then why not dress in all black. but a bulky jacket will make your fatness look even fatter. and those tight tapered black pants will only make your fat ass look wider and fatter. and those shiny, chunky block shoes. your 8th grade wiccan coven is calling - they want their shoes back.
other reason why i hated this lady. we saw her 2xs at starbucks. the first time she was yakking on her cell phone, all self important like, using an earpiece and shouting into the handset. idiot. the 2nd day she was in starbucks furiously typing away - with her nails, gah, my pettest peavest ever - trying to look like she has a job, or friends, or that she matters in some way. also, both days she wore the same outfit. lending credence to my theory of the dumpster diving beret.

originally posted oct18/07

how to: respectfully break up with someone

on the next big holiday/bday/anniversary/bar mitzvahs etc. tell your partner you are taking them out for dinner and that you have something really special to tell them. don't use phrases like "we have to talk" or "its important". these are red flag phrases - they'll figure it out. and as anyone knows, the best break-up is the surprise breakup. after you pull up to mcdonalds/wendy's/the hardees in home despot, laugh when they give a weird look like "i got all dressed up for this shit?", grab their hand and skip into the "restaurant". now you need to make sure there are people around you - close by too. so pick a table that is right in the middle of a crowd. have your partner save the table while you go order some food. after sitting down with the food, say "oh, did you want something too?" and act annoyed that you have to go back into line and order them food too. or you could skip that step and just let them pick at your fries a little. but don't let them eat too many - they are YOUR fries and your hard earned drug money paid for 'em. after you're done eating, take a final swig of your drink and belch. next, take their hand and look deep into their eyes. explain how you don't love them anymore/find them attractive/stand the sound of their voice etc. don't sugarcoat anything - be brutally honest. don't give your partner, well ex-partner now, a chance to respond. noisily push your chair back from the table, give a wry shrug to the horrified faces of the people sitting around you and quickly exit the store. oh, but before you leave, make sure you make it clear that you will not be giving them a ride home. after all, you're no longer dating. now, even tho you'll soon be sitting all warm and dry in your apt, possibly with a prostitute gobbling on your naughty bits, you can enjoy the image of your ex all sniffly and upset taking the bus home in the rain. oh - i forgot to mention - make sure its raining that day. happy break up!

originally published oct26/07

where da baby jebus at?

to the purple puffy coated assface cutting her nails on the bus: no one wants to walk on your gross nail leavings and possibly track them home. were you raised in a barn? or with a traveling pack of hobos? if i sat beside would you have gone all primate and checked my hair for ticks? people need to learn and start applying basic rules of etiquette. here's a handy list of dos and don't
1. don't cut your damn nail on the bus - already stated, but worth mentioning again
2. don't take your shoes off in public unless you're at the beach
3. if your shoes are off, do not pick at your feet
4. cover your mouth/nose when you cough/sneeze etc.
5. for the love of all things holy and otherwise, keep your muther effing finger out of your gd nose.
and finally,
6. don't fart in public. no one wants the particles inside your colon, in their lungs. seriously.

eff that muther-effer

dog owners are fucked up. maybe i should clarify - pet owners are fucked up. after my last post i decided to use the 'Next blog' feature and see what everyone else was doing. and after searching past a couple of sex blogs - these people did seriously not need to be naked ever. cause damn - tummy rolls, and muffins tops and tiny wangs, oh my. but anyway, i came across a blog from the UK. told in the voice of an airdale terrier 'mojo'. now this either the smartest fucking dog ever, or some retarded human has nothing better to do than to write a blog in the voice of their fucking dog. don't get me wrong, i love dogs, i have a dog - she's fantastic. but unless it was for a bit or for irony purposes, i would not ever write a blog for her. dogs are not children substitutes - they are companions, pets. they do not need clothes - magically, they are all born with clothes - its called fur, fucktards - nature's sweater. oh, and yoda costumes are totally exempt.

ps. if you hate horses, check out this blog http://horsehater.blogspot.com/
and if you wanna check out one of the lamest pet blogs i've come across so far, http://mojoairedale.blogspot.com/

cuppa soup, bitch

my last company thought paychecks were optional. so i got used to paying for things with my credit card. and cringing every time my statement popped up online. i think i even cried once when i saw what i owed. lousy body - needing to food to survive. and clothes to stay warm and unviolated in public. so i was a little weary starting my new job, where they promised to pay me. i even asked specifically "do you guys get paid here?" and they all answered yes. and even tho i didn't really know any of them at the time, i chose to believe. and how could i not? their earnest faces, eyes wide and glistening, nodding, reassuring that my hard work would result in what everyone ultimately looks for in a job, a paycheck. so yesterday was payday. i eagerly logged into my bank account to see if the magic fairy brought me cash. i squirmed with excitement, thinking about how much money would be there - this would be my first full paycheck here. but to my disappointment, and sadly i wasn't surprised - there was no money. i asked around, seeing if anyone else got paid - i was glared and struck. ok - people said they didn't know, that they didn't check. apparently when you get paid all the time, you don't really worry about when the money is coming - it'll get there when it gets there. so i sat at my desk cried. ok, no - that would be pathetic. but i was kind of wondering if i had signed on to another atimi-esque company. today, i came to work, put down my stuff, lunch in the fridge, and sat at my computer. should i check my bank account? i wasn't sure if i could handle another day of no money. so i waited. and waited. i lasted a whole 2 hrs, then i logged into my account. apprehensively, i looked at my bank balance. i swear i heard holy music and angels dancing around - the sun even shone through the shitty vancouver rain clouds and onto my balance. it was there; i had been paid - the magic fairy had visited me during the night. and instead of leaving a giant pile of credit card interest - like that bitch normally does - she left me a giant pile o' monetary happiness. the moral of this story is that money is everything. and if you're not getting paid, it means you work at atimi and therefore suck goat ass. except for kev.