Monday, January 26, 2009

F-U-C-K Me

La la la, lala LA LA LA. La la la, lala LA LA LA!

Britney's new single is apparently causing some controversy. Won't SOMEBODY think of the children?! Really though, how you can hate on a song that has 16 "la's" as part of the chorus is beyond me. Anyweave, throngs of Maude Flanders-esque mothers are losing their minds over the fact that the title - "If U Seek Amy" (um, what?) - sounds like "F-U-C-K ME" when you say it quickly. I have three things to say about this:

1. If you're going to be a twat about the lyrics, maybs you should get upset about the first line instead: "oh baby baby have you seen Amy tonight? Is she in the bathroom is she smoking up outside? (oh!)" which brings me to point number two:

2. If your kid is too retarded to catch this very clearly articulated line about drugs, then they're never going to notice that the chorus sounds like Fuck Me. Kids today are fucking retarded, hello! I spend half of my waking hours worshipping Ms. Spears and even I didn't notice until some bible-thumping butt-plug spelled it out (this is possibly because I've been smoking up outside, but still.)

3. Finally, I think everyone is losing sight of the bigger picture here: Britney made a funny! Bitch doesn't even have a high school edumacaysh, OK?! An international holiday should be declared when this shit is officially released because basically this is a miracle.

This is a woman who for months wore a pink wig and spoke in a fake English accent. This is a woman who married someone even more book-slow than she is and farted out two kids who, let's be honest, look a touch downs-y (bless their sweet cheeto-eatin' souls). This is a woman who went so bat-shit crazy over the past two years that she shaved her head, flashed her meat curtains about 28 times and befriended the 'razzi because she got sick of only talking to her stuffed animals all day.

So, boys and girls, let's embrace her attempt at cleverness, shall we? Forget the fact that she obviously didn't write the words to this shit and most likely has no fucking clue there's a double-entendre at all. She probably thinks the song is about pretty horsies or something. Whatever.

Assuming she DOES realize what she's singing, then it's fucking hot ("oh baby baby F-U-C-K me tonight....oh baby baby we'll do whatever you like" - yes.), and that's all her songs are supposed to be. Everyone knows this, even all the moms out there with crusted-over cock-tunnels who hate fun. This is Brit's role in our fucked up society! She sings something nasty while fingering herself in the video, and the rest of us have an excuse to release our inner sluts to the beat. It's a give-and-take that's been working pretty well for 10 GD years, so stop hating on this wench for the love of cheese grits! We don't want another "I'm not a girl, not yet a woman" situaysh. Just let her sing about double-sided dildos and shake your bits and pieces while singing your whorish face off. Because admit it - you know every trailer-parkin' word off by heart.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009

Can I get a Ride?

Does anyone have a dragon or maybe a fleet of carrier pigeons I can borrow to take me here:



Seriously, let's go! If we run fast enough we can make it in time for the big speech! Or at least in time to egg Bush's helicopter as it flies off into the sunset...forever. Let's get 'em! Also why does Bush get to leave in a helicopter? Shouldn't he ride off into the night on a blind mule or something? Exactly.

I heard B (as in Barack, not Bush. I will refer to Bush as "S" for "Satan") is going to spike a football onto the cold hard American soil at the end of his address while screaming "Who's ya daddy, Americaaaaaa!" Also, apparently every time he says "yes, we can!" 14 pristine white doves wearing red ribbons around their necks will fly out of his asshole. I know - I can't wait!! PS - Michelle looks hot, as per usual. She's wearing a yellow Isabel Toledo dress and matching jacket. Izzie is a Cuban-born American fashion designer based in The Greatest City in the World, aka New York. Nicely done, Mishka (I'm calling her that from now on). Also, she brought Laura B. a present! In a white box with a red bow (to match the doves, obvs). What could be inside??? I REALLY hope it's either a custom-made dildo that says "once you go black..."; a dead possum with a note around it's neck that says "stop calling me" or a shamwow. Best of all though would just be a little note with Mishka's perfect calligraphy that says "fuck you." Fuck she's cool.

So what do we think big O was doing this morning at 6 am while getting ready to make history and change the course of the natural world as we know it? I'm guessing he woke up to a wicked blow-j courtesy of our girl Mishka. After that he probably did 1000 sit ups, then 1000 push ups with his two girls sitting on his back. Next he probably watched 2 episodes of Planet Earth. D. Attenborough is his BOY. Then I'm thinking he changed his facebook status to "OMG!!!I'm totes almost the PREZ, BITCHEZZZ!" Finally, I believe he asked his family for some private time in his boudoir, stripped down to some tighty whities that say "HOPE" on the crotch, and blasted Britney's "Circus" while lip synching into the mirror. Seriously - picture it. He was totally like "All eyes on me I'm the centre of the ring just like a cir-cus!...when I crack that whip everybody gon' trip just like a cir-cus!" He knows all the words.

I wish we had a cool Prime Minister.

It's time.



Is anyone else out there creaming themselves in excitement? I was up all night last night throwing down what I like to call some "inauguration masterbation." Let's just say I can hardly walk today.

Also I had to buy a club pack of special edition "Obamamania" Depends at Costco because I am going to be shitting myself all morning in anticipaysh. Just typing that made me have to change my dipe again. I'll be right back.

Monday, January 19, 2009

You Shut Your Mouth When I'm Not Talking To You

I just got caught in an elevator alone with a straight man twice my age (read: we have nothing in common). For a few blissful moments, I thought I was going to be alone for the ride, which takes a good two minutes to travel the 60-odd floors to where my office is located. I fucking love being in the elevator alone. I can scratch myself inappropriately, see how far I can get burping the alphabet (so far I'm at "B"), do that thing where you either jump or crouch as the elevator comes to a stop (trust - that shit does NOT get old) or play Mission Impossible and throw my back against one of the walls and aim my fake silencer at the doors. Sometimes I even kick the doors for extra effect. Anyway, not today. Just as the doors are closing, in walks this suit. I recognize him but don't remember his name. Here is a transcript of the conversation that ensued:

Me: "Hello. How are you?"
Suit: "Great. You?"
M: "Oh you know. Just got some lunch to eat at my desk" (insert "aw shucks" arm move and knowing mom-smile)
S: "Ha. Yeah. Me too." (shows me his paper bag in case I think he's lying)
M: "Yeah. Lunch….is good. When you're hungry."
(awkward silence for 10 floors)
M: "So….um….good weekend?"
S: "Uh...yeah. You know. How 'bout that snow?"
M: "Oh I know - it totally snowed. Everywhere."
S: "Yeah it was so snowy. This weekend. After that snow…storm."
(Both check blackberries even though we both know there are no new emails. Why must we be getting off on the same floor.)
M: "Well, that's winter for ya. What can you do."
S: "Yep. Probably get some more."
M: "Oh, I don't doubt it! (hysterical laughter) Well, see you around."
(S walks away without looking back).

No.

Why must we play this ridiculous game? It's like when you ask someone "How are you?" in the hall. You don't give a rat's vagina! So why do we insist on upholding these social niceties? I'm over it.

Starting now, I'm not saying shit when faced with this type of scenario. If I'm caught in a situation where I have to be alone for some short span of time with another human being, I'll give them a quick smile and a nod, then look straight ahead in bone-chilling silence. If that person dares to utter something along the lines of "(sigh)..Mondays"; "Almost the weekend, eh?" or "seems like everyone's getting sick, doesn't it?" I will look them square in the face and utter one of the following responses:

- "Yep, I hate Mondays too! Don't you also hate A-rabs? I mean they are just the worst! Am I right?"
- "I know, I can't wait for the weekend. It's so annoying keeping my dick taped back all week. Mother always said I made a pretty girl, though."
- "I know…I feel bad. I knew I shouldn't have slept with the whole IT department but hey, it's been a slow winter."

Alternatively, maybe I'll just start the conversation with something that will hopefully lead to precious silence the moment it comes out of my talk-hole. For example:

- "Man oh man! What. A. Weekend. You think abortions would get easier the more you have 'em but fuck. It's like it's the first time every time."
- "Daaaamn I hope this elevator hurries up because I am feeling capital C-claustrophobic and I just want to stab one of you over and over. You know? Just stab-stab-stab-stab in and out till you stop screaming?"
- "Does anyone else hear the sound of clown laughter over and over in their head?"
- "Have you accepted our Lord and Saviour Jesus into your heart?"
- "Is it me or does semen taste different these days?"
- "Hey did you know it's illegal to have sex with someone who is under the age of 13? Pfft, news to me!"

People really just need to learn to shut the chode up and embrace the awkward, or else be prepared to embrace my knee with their crotch. If we work together, I'm confident we can stop small talk by 2012. So please, don't be a period squirt. Do your part. The next time someone says "How are you?" just laugh and say "Well, day 29 without a herpes flare up!" and wink at them. Later in the day, send them an email asking if they want to go to dinner. Repeat with every person you encounter. Soon everyone will be afraid to talk to you, and you'll be free to make blowjob gestures to the security cameras in the elevator in peace.

Saturday, January 17, 2009

Fuck you, red bull.

I told you last time, red bull - we're OVER! How can I make myself more clear? Stop calling me. Stop emailing. OK?? Just go away!

No, I will NOT sleep with you once more for old times' sake, so forget it. I said no! Stop looking at me like that!

Remember last time when you said we would just talk? And the next morning I woke up next to that dirty hipster who wore his socks to bed? Don't pretend you don't know what I'm talking about. It's all your fault! And remember the time before that when you told me I didn't need to wear pants in public and I believed you?? Yeah, thanks again for that one. Oh, and remember when you totally RUINED the radiohead concert for me? You buttered me up, told me I should keep drinking you because I was tired and you would help me? How does not remembering a second of the show help me, you deceitful shrew??

I know what you're going to say - "it wasn't me, it was grey goose." I'm sick of you always blaming old grey. We had plenty of good times that we can actually remember before you ever came around in the first place, you vile panty-removing beast!

Yet somehow, you weaseled your way down my throat once again last night. You were all "let's get it on" and I was like "no....no I can't!" and you were like "baby, you know you want it.....c'mon. You know I won't hurt you" and I was like "no....fuck....ok just the tip." We all know how that game ends.

And here we are again. It's 3 o'fucking clock in the afternoon and only now have you started to release me from your evil sugar-free grip. I'm tired. I'm irritable. I feel like a bag of dicks. I have shit to do you blood-stained taint! But I'm not getting any of it done, am I. No, because someone wouldn't stop coursing through my veins all GD night. I was so full of bull testosterone at 4 am that I sexually assaulted some poor unsuspecting sleeping victim. Now his life will never be the same. Did you think about THAT when you told me to have just two more sips?? No. After that I made 41 to-do lists, disinfected the entire house with bleach, wrote a "congrats, betch!" letter to Obama, mailed the shit, made 17 snow angels, organized all of my neighbours' recycling boxes alphabetically and gave myself a makeshift bikini wax by just tearing out all my hair with my own bare hands. Then I spent an hour hunting a recently escaped cougar from the Toronto zoo and took it down with a strangle-hold, which I didn't even know I knew how to do. I don't even know who I am anymore!!

So guess what. I'm NOT going to drink the other can of you that's in my fridge for tonight. That's right. We're done. This time I mean it, you traitorous whore!

I won't even have just a sip. Well....maybe just for second. Just to see how it feels!

Thursday, January 15, 2009

OMFG.

This post is mostly for the ladies (sorry, men-folk, I’ll talk about how big your dicks are later).

I need to vent about The Greatest Show of Our Time, aka Gossip Girl. I assure you I won’t be writing about Rufus’ greasy dad-bangs every week. There is already a far better source for recaps and rants, if you’re interested:

http://nymag.com/daily/intel/2009/01/gossip_girl_notices_it_has_a_p.html?f=most-commented-24h-5 (this past week’s analysis – check the archives – pure gold)

But seriously. WTFS (what the fucking shit) is up with this show lately? Season 1 was all argyle sweater vests and headbands and knee-high socks and cherry poppin’ and backstabbin’ and bitch slappin’ and cock teasin’ and other fun high school accessories and activities. All I want is some hair pulling followed by some making out with someone else’s boyfriend!! And more of Nate’s eyebrows and Chuck’s sneer and Blair’s demon-bitch-death-stare. Is that too much to fucking ask?

This season has been extraordinarily sub-par on all accounts, other than perhaps Chuck’s wardrobe, which still pales in comparison to the early days. I also enjoy the recent addition of the Twins (not one of the various pairs that Chuck bones – rather Serena’s lovely lady lumps. They’re totally prepping her for a real life boob job, you were right, K.). But the following people need to die, and soon: Rufus, Lily, Vanessa, Jenny, and possibly Dan. OK, definitely Dan. He’s so last season.

How can these 5 sewer rats be killed off in one fell swoop? I suggest that some kind of Cloverfield-like monster attack their Brooklyn loft (totally believable that the 5 of them would all be hanging out together – perf!) in a zany plot twist no one sees coming. Think of how good the previews alone would be:

[movie trailer guy voice]: “IN A WORLD WHERE EVERYTHING SEEMS PERFECT…. (montage of all the barf couples giggling at each other)….SOMETIMES….(quick shots of everyone’s confused / shocked / upset faces)…..IT’S NOT.”

Cut to lizard-tail slithering around the empire state building and everyone screaming. They can straight-up use footage FROM Cloverfield!! (They could use the money. Have you seen Cloverfield? Exactly.) Then the monster conveniently starts attacking the Humphrey residence first (Lily and Vanessa would be there and they’d all be having a 90s rock jam sesh).

Mid-attack, Serena, Chuck and Blair arrive at the scene. Serena waits till the monster eats Vanessa, then distracts it with her tatas while Chuck stabs it with a diamond-encrusted BassEmpire brand saber just once, causing it to burst into flames and disappear instantly, leading Chuck to scream “I am Chuck Baaaasss!” As a result, he gets his balls back and immediately drains their slimy innards into Blair’s waiting vag. She climaxes just before the credits roll. People will be so distracted by this moment which WE’VE ALL BEEN WAITING FOR that no one will even remember the tragic carnage that took place only seconds earlier.

Finally, to seal the deal, the next episode they all go to Harvard and all they need is one off-the-cuff conversation between S+B along the lines of:

Blair: “Ew, it was so gross when that dragon-creature thing got it’s death juice all over my new Alexander McQueen open toe booties. God.”

Serena (in her usual pouty voice): “B, please. Dan died, and so did my mom, ok? And the others. I’m just…not really ready to move on.”

Blair: “Oh please, those four Harvard jocks just totally checked out your rack when we walked by. Why dwell on the past when the future’s so hot? C’mon, I’ll get Dorota to get us some coke for our first day.” [Cue Serena’s giving-in smile and them holding hands and running towards campus]. Enter four new hot man-candy characters, aaaannd scene.

You know you love me…

xoxo

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Toothbrush = Whore?

I’ve been talking to some of my…colourful (read: slutty) friends lately about the One Night Stand (ONS). Let’s be real – everyone has had at least one. If you claim that you haven’t, you either have an excruciatingly boring sex life, or you just don’t remember being roofied. For the 99% of you who have woken up with a pounding headache in a pile of used condoms and discarded pubes, read on.

People engage in the ONS for a variety of reasons. Maybe you just got dumped by The One and you want to use your Vajessica as revenge. Maybe you’re having a January whore-a-thon with your roommates and the loser has to pay this month’s rent. Maybe whenever you get wasted you somehow always trip and land on a cock. Or maybe you just really like a little ass-to-mouth action but can never face the other person(s) the next morning. No matter. Even if you “weren’t planning” on some ONS action on a given night, you really can’t fool yourself into thinking that it wasn’t in the realm of possibility when you shaved your balls or put on your fuck-me heels and proceeded to make love to a bottle of Jack Daniel’s (or three) before hitting up that bar on the other side of town.

Fast forward to 2:39 am. You’ve just stumbled into your ONS partner’s house after carefully selecting him or her from the throngs of wilful participants in the crowd. And by “carefully selecting” I mean he or she was breathing, not puking on you (yet) and appeared to be a member of the human race. Anyskank, you get there, and with the last ounce of not-passing-out you can muster, you coyly and (you think) seductively whisper “I just need a minute in the bathroom to brush my teeth.” At this point, Captain ONS replies “oh, cool – do you need a toothbrush?” to which you demurely giggle “no, I brought one.” The standard reply: “Ooooh! Sommeeeonnne came prepared!” followed by an unsuccessful one-eyed wink and smarmy sex-smirk.

“Um…yeah. Well, I always carry one on me” you retort defensively.

“Hehe. Suuuuure you do.” Obnoxious eye brow up-and-down move.

In your head you were thinking “Thank sweet Jesus I thought to bring this – I’m such a fucking genius!!” So why does this ONS dirt-pig seem to be judging you? After all, you were just trying to ensure that after 19 jager bombs and an order of extra large nachos your mouth didn’t taste like dead babies. But all your randy partner-in-slime can do is drool and dive for your crotch in excitement. How is this improving your current situation? Since when did carrying a toothbrush become the International “My Gennies (new word) Have Taken a Serious Beating” signal?

Some of my recent polling results indicate that some people find it less “obvious” if the ONS party whose home (/car / elevator / parking lot / parents’ basement) you end up in has extra toothbrushes on hand to offer their mistake-in-the-making. This Humble Harlot doesn’t understand this reasoning. If I went to someone’s house and they whipped out a handful of extra toothbrushes I’d probably think I had about a 45 minute time slot before the next warm body rang the doorbell. Unless they were a dentist. Then I’d throw on a surgical mask, strap myself into that sexy chair and….I’ve said too much. Anygums, I guess that makes me a judgmental scunt too.

I suppose the moral of the whory is, next time you’re about to put a complete stranger’s junk in your mouth, use whatever toothbrush is at your disposal to at least brush your teeth afterwards. And don’t forget to rinse!

Tuesday, January 13, 2009

Brekfist

I need new breakfast ideas.


On a side note, I still remember when I learned what “breakfast” meant. It was in the second grade and my English teacher pulled me aside after she was marvelled that I actually spelled the word correctly. Most of the other kids had written “brekfist” or some other Britney Spears-esque mutilation of the term. In fairness, I went to a French first language school starting in pre-k, even though my parents didn’t speak a word of French. They’re cruel like that. Most of the other kids were in the same boat, so ironically we were all slightly ESL even though we were all EFL. Most of the kids in grade 2 and under sounded like Nell when they tried to speak proper English. At recess it was all ”Chicka, chicka, chickabee! T'ee an me an t'ee an me? Ressa, ressa, ressa me!” which usually meant something like “why the fuck did my asstard parents put me in French school and seal my fate as a short-bus kid??”


Anyfrog, our English teacher was obviously blown the fuck away when she saw that I knew how to spell. I still remember she was like “what the shit?” and I was all “I know.” Anyway, she explained that an easy way for me to remember how to spell it was that it meant “breaking the fast from the night before” and I was like “bitch, did you not just see that I ALREADY spelled it right?!”


I digress.


I’m so sick of cereal. Especially since I gave up cinnamon toast crunch to try to eat healthier shit like all bran buds. Now it feels like I’m eating a bowl of cat shit every morning. People are always like “ooh! I know! Jazz it up with some fresh berries! Or try vanilla soy milk – yum!” That’s when I close my eyes and exhale deeply for 10 seconds until they feel awkward and slowly back away. No. These things don’t make cat shit taste better.


I made the mistake of asking one of my healthy friends what she ate for brekkie. She told me to try these scones from the health food store downstairs, so I have been getting them for the past few weeks. They’re made out of like recycled newspaper, essence of wheat germ and whole wheat youth enhancers or something. They’re fucking disgusting. Every time I take a bite I want to vomit with rage. I gag like a 15 year old sampling a meat pole for the first time. Yet still I order them every morning because I’m trying to eat right. Also there are about 15 flavours, so every morning I’m like “THIS time…” and I try banana soy instead of carob celery or whateverthefuck. And every morning my eyes well up with bitter tears of hatred towards my hot and toned GF for being able to tolerate this disguised cardboard. They don’t even LOOK appetizing. Today my office mate remarked “that looks like something that came out of a large animal’s ass” while I was attempting to choke down a particularly dry yet diarrhea-y piece. No more.


So, help me out. And don’t suggest anything that involves me doing any kind of meal preparation at home. I can’t do anything in the morning other than be bitter and cunty, which takes all of my energy. And please don’t suggest I just chug coffee like all the other zombies I work with. Everyone knows that coffee alone on an empty stomach is a recipe for dark, watery ass puke. We all know this.

Dear Anonymous,

You mentioned in your own sharp-tongued way that the best thing about this blog so far is Jen's comment to my first post (Jen's comment = "clapping!" God love her).

After reading that I cried in the bathroom for about two, two and half hours, while muttering "you IDIOT (my name)"! Stupid! I TOLD you this was a bad idea! Idiot!" over and over under my alcohol-soaked breath. Finally, summoning the courage of J-Lo in "Enough", I rose, walked to my front porch and wailed "Damn you, Anonymous!" into the night. I think I used just the right amount of fist wavery. It felt real.

So listen, Anonymous (or as I like to call you, stupid-head) - I'm new to this extremely narcissistic and cut-throat game you savvy interwebians call "blogging." In an attempt to appease you and get my creative juices flowing, I did what any good writer does when faced with "the block" (that's wordsmith speak - no big deal). I spent the last hour sitting in complete darkness listening to a CD I have of the sound of a tap dripping which a friend recorded for me in case of such an emergency. After that I drew several elves and other woodland creatures on a piece of paper and then balled up the paper and swallowed it whole while punching myself repeatedly in the throat. Finally, I read "Are you There God, it's Me, Margaret" backwards while chain-smoking gauloises.

Nothing.

I'm sorry, Big A. I let you down. You, my only reader! I promise to devote all waking hours here on in to coming up with ways to cyber-ly entertain you. I have a pretty good picture of my boobs to post in case I don't come up with anything soon.

At least you like the background colour.



Monday, January 12, 2009

Shades of Effing Grey

And by grey I mean purple.

It seems *some* people - I call them racists - want me to change the background of my blog to either black or white. These colour-haters claim it's easier on the eyes; more traditional; safe. Well to them I say, this colour matches my new nano and also this awesome purple plasma ball:


Oh also - eat my purple shit (I'm really into beets this month).



But seriously - if the 4 people who read this hate the colour and it's driving you to certain madness, speak now or forever hold your purpley wine-soaked tongue.

What's in a Name?

Dear two people who might be reading this,

Let me start off by saying I really have no idea what the shart this blog is going to be about. Basically I'm starting it because I'm a super-nerd who enjoys spending time online (glayven), especially when I should be doing something more productive like, say, my job. Since I can't access porn at work, I figure this is the next best way to virtually kill strippers...I mean time.

Anytits, since I haven't decided whether this blog will be an outlet for my hatred of blogs, a space to post naked pictures of exes I've collected over the years, a venue for airing my ever increasing schizophrenic delusions of grandeur, or a place where I can make lists of people on whom I must seek revenge, I'm going to make this first post about alternative names I considered for the title of my new retarded baby.

I came up with several ideas and then let my friends (i.e. people who humour me out of pity) vote. In the end, I chose a name that wasn't even in the list of options I gave them, because sometimes I just like being a jerk. The top 5 picks were as follows:

1. We Can Outsmart Those Dolphins!
2. Can I Throw Up In Your Bathroom?
3. Tastes Like Burning
4. Smoke Yourself Thin
5. Wizard Sleeve

Other notable contestants included:

6. Stupid Babies Need the Most Attention
7. Milky White Throat
8. Release the Hounds!
9. I Heart Birth Control
10. Santa is a Liar
11. Hitting Is Fun
12. The Goggles Do Nothing!
13. Stupider Like a Fox!
14. Fight to the Death
15. See You in Hell, Dinner Plate!
16. Is it Supposed to Bleed Like That?
17. Slunts for Jesus

Some of you (i.e. maybe one of the two people reading this - aka mom or dad - hi guys) pointed out during the selection process that many of these are Simpsons quotes. Way to notice shit, assclown! It's true, though, so gold star for you (THIS time). I stuck to Simpsons territory because I was basically raised by this blessed show. My parents helped a bit, but let's be real. It helped make me the funny (sad?) asshole that I am today, so I figured it needed a little shout out. But then I thought, you're not taking the credit for my completely unoriginal humour, you cartoon bastards!! And so, Just The Tip was born (just for a sec, just to see how it feels).

Thus ends post the first. I can promise you one thing: it's all downhill from here. You should probably never come back. I understand.

And who am I? That's one secret I'll never tell...

...except that if you're reading this it's probably because I had to email you in a desperately lame attempt to build an audience that doesn't consist of my parents and the government. So...right. All the same, let's pretend you don't know who I am, so that when I talk about "my stupid friend who works at ___ and has been dating the biggest jack off for 5 years" we can both pretend it's not you. Deal? Excellent.

... m