Homophone-ic Assholes

Ok.

First of all, sorry for not writing for two weeks. I'm a giant horse cock. I know I have disappointed you, 4 people reading this (zay!). I'll make it up to you with a little Tuesday afternoon flagellation while listening to Bryan Adams' "I'm ready" on repeat. Believe me - I'll learn my lesson.

After getting the 42nd "your welcome" email from my assistant this morning as a reply to me thanking her for something (she's a good ho), I pretty much snapped.

What.
The.
Shit.

When people molest the English language like this it makes me want to swim in a pool of Slumdog outhouse-style shit in protest. I'm not really sure if that's an effective way to protest but that's not the point! I'm thisclose to carving an apostrophe into my own forehead with a rusty spoon so I can point at it and say "you made me do this" while bitter tears of pain stream down my face the next time someone offends my eyes with this grammatical fuckery.

The only excuse you have for making this exceptionally dimwitted error is not passing the fourth grade. Shit, they probably taught us this in the SECOND grade, but I'm trying to be generous, because seriously.

I get that proofreading something like an email, text, bbm or facebook message is probably not high on your list of priorities. I mean, you're probably really busy and important, right? Plus you might be thinking "anything goes!" with these lesser forms of communication. Well fuckwad, you're wrong.

By all means, if you're comfortable being known as a walking blow-up doll, keep writing messages like "c u 2nite!!" That's fine. People will just assume you stopped trying on purpose and will at least feel a bit sorry for you. But if you write "See you tonight! Can't wait to get their and show you my new vibrator - your gonna think its awesome!!!" then it's (It's = Contraction of IT IS [or IT HAS] for the love of clit rings!) a whole new ball game.

Hey, I get that everyone has their (their = of or relating to them or themselves especially as possessors, agents, or objects of an action; his or her) occasional slip up. So you queef out the occasional "affect" when you mean "effect." But how, HOW I ask you, can you not just automatically remember that "you're" is the proper way to shorten YOU ARE?! 6-year-old ESL students know this shit. WHY DON'T YOU??

If you can't remember this stuff off by heart, then please do us all a favour and at least make an effort to read over your otherwise poetic words before you hit "send." If you can't even do this, just stop writing anything. Just...stop.

From now on you're going to have to rely on non-verbal communicaysh. Like Ursula said: "You've got your looks...your pretty face...and don't underestimate the importance of some body language!" You still have tons of options: An Arrested Development style chicken dance or bending over and pointing at your no-no hole are two perfect examples! YOU'RE WELCOME.

"25 Reasons Why I'm a Loser"

What the scrote is up with this latest trend on facebook?? For those fortunate souls still unfamiliar with this new virtual equivalent of a getting a face full of hot fart in the shower, let me explain: even the most inactive FB users across the world are are suddenly crawling out of left field and vomiting out a list of "25 Random Things" about themselves. You can try dick-slapping yourself in the mouth now, but it won't make you wake up from this writemare.

I don't even know where to begin. First of all, everyone who gives a tit about you clearly already knows these "random" things you're writing about yourself. Your grade 6 teacher really inspired you and you still think about her?? You used to dream you would be a fire fighter when you were a child?? You play the trumpet?!?!WOW! STOP THE FUCKING PRESS! Jesus.

Have you read the blog "Stuff White People Like"? If not, you're probably one of their primary sources of inspiration. Some of the most recent entries include "Ugly Sweater Parties", "Pea Coats", "Frisbee Sports" and "Hummus." It's like looking in the mirror and crying, right? One of the entries on that list will soon be "Filling out Ridiculous Surveys on Facebook." Truth.

Maybe there are one or two things people don't know about you, but there's probably a reason for that. No one is supposed to know that you had a crush on your uncle growing up, or that you used to drown kittens. People shouldn't know about your dick cheese fetish or the fact that you've kissed your sister. Some things should stay in the vault. Still, it's only your secret shame that, while disgusting, is remotely interesting to anyone. You're left with the choice of either a) revealing your inner demons and possibly (probably) going to jail; or b) writing about how you like kite-surfing and miss your dead dog. News flash: no one cares.

And so, since I totally fall into about 95 of the 121 "Stuff White People Like" categories, one of which I think has something to do with rampant hypocrisy, I shall now add my list to the steaming heap of pointless cat shit on the Internet.

25 THINGS YOU WILL PROBABLY REGRET KNOWING ABOUT ME:

1. I practice peeing standing up in the shower (so that one day I can aim it perfectly into your waiting mouth).

2. I'm scared of The Rabbit. Peni should not be purple. Nor should they have the power of a lawn-mower.

3. I cried after watching "Two Guys, One Horse." Then I masturbated.

4. I like biting lipstick, but I never do it because Chanel Rouge Allure costs 36 fucking dollars. But it would be so, so satisfying. So would squeezing poo through your fingers, I think. The good, meaty-but-soft kind.

5. I love peeling off other people's too-much-sun skin. My goal is to one day peel off an entire, unbroken sheet of discarded burnt flesh from someone's back so I can hold it out and watch it flap in the wind. Skin flap.

6. I love staring at my own sweater cows in the mirror. I give them the thumbs up every morning while slathering them in the finest lotions. When I'm rich I'm going to hire someone to do that for me.

7. I'm still waiting for my Hogwarts Letter in the Mail. Soon....soon (rubbing hands together with eyes closed). WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU WAITING FOR DUMBLEDORE?!

8. I often wish I was a lesbian. Girls are hotter and far more interesting (at least to other girls. Ok, to everyone).

9. I have zero desire to even make out with a chick, despite my best efforts at re-conditioning my brain via hours and hours of watching porn. We're talking, no desire. None. Like, I'm-worried-something's-wrong-with me none. Annoying.

10. At any given point in time, I'm plotting sweet and filthy revenge on someone, but I never carry it out because they're never worth it. Also, I still haven't figured out where to buy some pre-packaged ebola in Canada. Anyone?

11. If I wanted to, I could destroy you.

12. I want to punch my parents in the reproductive whore-gans for bestowing upon me the life long "gift" of kleenex-thin hair. Selfish! Couldn't they have brought in some hirsute stud and a turkey baster for the love of updos??! God.

13. When I was little I would only wear boy's underwear. For years. I loved how worried it made everyone!

14. Taking-the-pill-makes-me-feel-like-a-robot. I'm-talking-like-a-robot.

15. I can fit my whole fist in my mouth, but it makes me drool everywhere. But my drool can heal lepers so...yeah.

16. I would love to paint your teeth with nail polish. And your eyeballs. No, YOU'RE a fucking psychopath!

17. If I was a dude I'd be a huge slut. More so. I'd play just the tip all the time, and probably just the fist too. I'd also jerk off constantly. At work, in public washrooms, in the library, just fucking everywhere.

18. Giving birth terrifies me more than anything in the world. When I was 5 and my parents told me how the shit went down, I was like "is this some kind of fucking joke?!" And they were like "trust" and then I started punching myself in the stomach in advance, just to be safe.

19. I really, really want to push someone down the stairs. Or out of a plane. Or just over on the street. I used to push the other kids in pre-school. A lot. I also used to have an army of girls in grade 4 who would do my bidding, which mostly involved tackling and holding down the boys so I could step on their necks with my muddy shoes and let my spit hang over their face for minutes until I finally released it and watched it slide down their cheeks. God I miss being young.

20. OK, fuck. I'm quitting at 20 because THIS IS SO FUCKING BORING!!!!!!!!!!! See? Don't you feel like you've been molested by a relative after wasting 5 minutes of your precious time reading this? Do you not want to ram a coat hanger up my nose and out the back of my skull? Remember this when you're considering doing your own list on Facebook.

Ugh, I feel so dirty.

Jurassic Park Theme Song

Dearest scunts,

Please cut and paste this link (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D8zlUUrFK-M) into a separate window, close your office door, and get ready to listen to this shit full blast as soon as you're done reading this post. NOT YET. Wait for it.


Yes, it's the Jurassic Park Theme Song. Aka The Greatest Song Ever Composed. Aka The Song That Stops Me From Murdering People. For ser.

Every morning when I wake up, before I open my eyes, I hope that THIS time, THIS morning, I'm going to wake up in a lovely beach house in Thailand. I'll hear the waves crashing against the beautiful, soft white sand outside my window and feel the cool, salty breeze blow ever so gently over my naked body. As I sit up, I'll realize I'm not tired at all, because I slept for 12 solid, peaceful hours. I'll look in the mirror and see that my face actually looks more youthful, my eyes full of sparkling hope and excitement.

A few moments later, several gorgeous man servants will knock on the door to my beach hut, then come in, shirtless, and start massaging my feet and neck. One will hand me a smoothie and another one will hold up several bikini options, all of them coated in diamonds or pearls. I'll make my selection and they'll dress me while remarking how rock hard my body is, even after having two children. Just then, the children will burst in and jump on the bed giggling and attacking me with kisses. They'll be perfect cherubic bundles of soft skin and baby smell, and they'll only speak when spoken to. Every time one of them burps, rubies and emeralds fall out of their mouths, and I add them to the pile. After reciting some of the poetry they wrote just this morning (they're obviously ridiculously smart and articulate), they'll both give me grizzly bear hugs and scamper off. I won't see them again until they're sun kissed, scrubbed clean and dressed in white linen just in time for our 10-course dinner. I'll spend the day swimming and working on my 15th successful novel and having spontaneous orgasms about once an hour with little effort. I'll laugh so much my stomach will ache, and I'll soothe the pain with a honey-dipped joint that the children will have rolled for me.

Then I open my eyes.

Son. Of a fucking. bitch.

I'm still in my closet of a bedroom and I'm running late, again. I look around and dry heave for a few minutes, and wipe a single, perfect tear off my cheek. You know that scene in Home Alone when the parents wake up the morning they're supposed to fly to Paris? "WE SLEPT IN!!" And then there's that insanely fast and spastic nutcracker music as the whole family scrambles around the house like a band of savages trying to get ready? That's pretty much my morning routine, complete with that soundtrack playing in my head the entire time. I struggle to get ready in 25 mins even though I know it takes 45. I shave half of one leg, add scope to my coffee in an attempt to kill two birds with one stone, put my thong on inside out and inevitably create a run in my nylons as I will them onto my still wet legs.

Obviously I'm swearing like a trucker the whole time. I put on super bright lipstick in the hopes that it "brightens" the rest of my tired, pale face. It doesn't. When I finally make it out the door into the freezing morning air, the real fun begins. Usually I slip on our front porch or on the way down the stairs. I break the fall with my knees, prompting my male coworkers to exchange knowing looks and elbow jabs later in the day as they examine the bruises. What modern woman's day is complete without at least a little sexual harassment? After I scramble back onto my feet, the mad dash to the streetcar begins. This is often accompanied by more falling.

When I finally make it to the main street, 9 times out of 10 an empty streetcar whizzes past me mockingly and my eyes well up with tears of bitter rage, which then leak down my face and ruin my inexpertly applied makeup as I hobble to the streetcar stop, defeated. The next streetcar that comes is rammed with about 150 people even though the capacity is about 50. "Awesome" I mutter under my breath. Usually there's only enough room for me to squeeze onto the front steps, prompting the driver to yell something along the lines of "MIND THE DOORS!" Or "Get ya butt inSIDE the CAR!" (today's sermon).

I force myself to smile at the people around me. I have to admit that they share my pain. The next 20 minutes are a combination of trying not to barf as this prehistoric vehicle jerks to sudden stops every 10 seconds; seeing how long I can go without breathing since buddy standing next to me has either just smoked a pack of cigarettes or feasted on festering road kill and has decided to breathe through his mouth; and digging my nails into my thighs while I try to endure the Metallica blaring from the guy at the end of the car's headphones. Serenity now.

Once I reach my destination at the corner of Douche and Soulless, I stand in line at Starbucks for 15 minutes. Why. Oh yeah - because the office coffee tastes like chalky semen. Right. As I'm standing in line for my morning medicine, I can't help but look at all the suits around me and wonder how I became one of them. In true Scarlett O'Hara fashion, I tell myself I can't think about that now... I'll think about that tomorrow.... I pick up my coffee from the flamboyant barrista and start rushing towards the elevator (no one better talk to me...) which will rocket me to my office on the top floor of the tallest tower, where I will gaze out the dirty window at the polluted and boring city below like a sad Rapunzel until quittin' time.

I know, right? Gross. So how do I make it through this daily routine without spontaneously stabbing someone in the neck?

Jurassic Park Theme song, bitches.

You have no idea how much I'm not joking. This shit seriously keeps me alive.

Ever since one of my friends, the Dauphin (shout out) told me that his older brother and his friends used to serenade each other with this joyous melody on the way home from a night of drinking, I've been hooked. It's the perfect drunk song - no words, and everyone knows how it goes. You can test it out for yourself. Next time you find yourself sitting around circle jerking with your roommates or quietly waiting for a movie (porn) to start with your BF/GF, just start humming it. I promise that within 10 seconds, the other person will unconsciously join in. Then they'll be all "what IS that?" And you'll be like "Jurassic Pizzark, son!" And they'll be like "YES! I love that shit!" Trust.

I now listen to this glorious masterpiece on repeat when I'm on the streetcar and waiting in line at Starbs. It makes me so happy I feel like I'm going to burst into flames of passion. And you KNOW I hum that shit out loud. I don't care if people stare at me awkwardly. In time they start humming along too.

I wish this song would play from big-brothery loud speakers throughout the city. Everyone would be walking around with giant toothy smiles, doing air punches and Celine Dion power-fist moves. Yes! Note to those who know me: I want this shit to play on repeat at my funeral. Don't fuck with this.

I'm playing JP at my wedding FOR SHO - live and shit. And I want it blaring when my future spawn come tearing out of my love hole. Obviously this is the best soundtrack for bursting into this cruel world - I can't deny them this!

It's time - open that other browser window and press play, my friends.  If you're thinking "fuck, this song's going to be in my head forever now!!", you're right. And you know what? You're welcome.

You're my boy, John Williams!! You're my boy.

"You Look Tired."

WELL YOU LOOK LIKE A JERK!

Seriously. I hate when people tell you that shit. Everyone hates it! So who are these fucktards who continue to make this hateful observation? Assholes. That's who.

The best is when someone follows up this clever assessment with "did you not sleep well?" or "were you up late?" No. I slept for 17 hours in a bed made entirely of gentle massaging finger tips, surrounded by 14 gossamer pillows filled with the downy eye lashes of a million newborn babies. What the fuck.

Of course I didn't sleep well you skid mark! Believe it or not, I did look in the mirror this morning, and we both know it looks like I've been punched repeatedly in the eyes. So, a less obvious, more helpful statement would be "is someone beating you?" Then we can all have a laugh about domestic violence and move on. But noooo, instead you crumple your pig face into a "it's sad that you're so irresponsible" expression and say "You look tired."

You might as well just say "you look like an inside out scrotum" because we all know that's what you mean. Why not just go for it? I'd rather hear "wow, you look like a sack of anal drippings!" than the passive-aggressive alternative, since that way I can fucking own it or at least punch you in the face.

And so I offer some replies for those of you out there who will eventually fall victim to this unsolicited and hurtful remark:

- "I do? It's probably because I was up all night fucking your boyfriend."

- "I know...but it's so much easier to abduct and torture innocent women when they're walking home alone at night. "Pick your battles" that's what I always say!"

- "I stayed up all night thinking of ways to slowly but surely break you down and ruin your life. It's coming along nicely, I should add. Well, see you."

- "Oops! Busted! I stayed out all night partying backstage and then getting high and naked with a bunch of leggy blondes. So how was dinner with your in-laws anyway? Did Marge make ham again? That's nice."

- "Oh, I'm not tired. My face just freezes into this revolted mask whenever you talk to me. Sorry...I'm working on changing that."

- "Really? Well you look like the horrible result of a broken condom."

- "I know. But hey, at least I only look like this after a night of jager bombs. It must suck to have that face no matter how rested you are."

- "What a nice thing to say. Thank you. You really are a good person. Teach me your ways, please. The world needs more people like you."

- "Well, at least I don't have an ugly vagina! Yep - everyone knows about that."

Sorry for the anger. I'm tired.