yay spring!

fuck lettuce. fuck green lettuce. fuck purple lettuce. fuck baby lettuce. and don't look at me like I'M the asshole just 'cause i say i don't like lettuce. my choice. it's a useless effing non-vegetable. that's right. i don't even think of it as food. it's filler. what restaurants put on your sandwich or plate when they're too cheap to fill it with actual food. fuck you and your fucking lettuce fucking ways.

let the enslaughtery commence

not a huge easter fan. not a big jesus fan. but easter is my favorite holiday. why? its not the turkey. its not the family hoo-ha. its not the celebrating all the blah blah blah. its all about the eggs, my friends. easter is the one time of year you can get creme eggs. they are my first and foremost candied love. i crave creme eggs above all other candy. sorry licorice, i know that was hard to hear. you too, chocolate covered almonds. perhaps its the mystique, nay, the anticipation. all other candy is available year round. but not my easter creme eggs. last year was the first easter i spent with my boyfriend. he seemed thoroughly horrified when i came home with 9 boxes of creme eggs - i practiced some self control. i'm not some super glutton, polishing off all 27 eggs in one sitting. oh no, i relished every one. giving each sweetened orb the attention it so richly deserved. egg by delicious egg. gently, and with skillful hands and nimble fingers, peeling the foil - you have time, don't rush it. a first and exploratory bite off the top. letting the chocolate melt, swirling seductively around my taste buds, exciting them, taunting them, pleasuring them. the chocolate is superb, untouched, but the real gem is the filling. dual colored, the strands stretching, sweeping towards ecstasy. it's not hard work, and really, blasphemous to even think of it like that. it is effort, exertion. but more a struggle in self-restraint. hard to deny yourself the pleasure of auto creme-eggery. rush through and you feel spent, but not sated. linger too long and you're left with sticky hands, and unsatisfied urges. it is a fine line, and a journey you must satisfy on your own.

my dearest friend, i weep for thee

oh taco del mar, i hardly knew ye. your tasty burritos, so filling and fresh, are no more. your crazy fish tacos, which i never tried and now never will. your cheery decor, so bright and standardized, is now strewn across west broadway. your friendly staff, only slightly disgruntled, but mostly clean, are jobless, hopeless. i cry for you, taco del mar. the tear i shed for you, though solitary in number, is birthed with all my anger and confusion. it slides down my cheek and splashes on my shirt as your low calorie salsa and freshly made guacamole must have smattered the outside of the holiday inn. an artery of red; a byway of green; a corn-sect of yellow. a moment of silence for you, my fallen tortillian comrades, may you finally have the peace you could never find in your short, steam filled existence.

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