Brain Sneezes and Thought Babies

Hey, so remember that A-Z challenge I was going to do?

I totally didn’t do it! Fuck yeah!

This is me. All damn day. Minus the coke and whores, of course.

Normally, I would feel bad about not doing something I said I would, but I surprisingly don’t in this case. Not even a little. I had every intention to do the challenge, and even had a few posts nearly ready to go, such as these little nuggets of wonder:

A-Achromatic Asshole. An uplifting and insightful look into the wild and wacky world of anal bleaching.
B-Bicyclist Bullshit- A wonderful piece about my hatred for the bicyclists I encounter on my morning commute and their lack of respect for drivers and long term effects of sudden death.
C- Corpulent Coffee- a look inside my fatty mug of caffeinated awesomeness.
D- Dorkin’ Diddles- … no clue where I was going with that one.

SO ON AND SO FORTH.
(I still have intentions of posting these at some point)

I have lots of reasons why I didn’t do it, none of which include anything awesome like being randomly selected to travel to Ireland where I got to explore neat castles and sight see and drink Guinness with leprechauns for a few weeks, and it certainly wasn’t due to a spontaneous scuba diving trip where I found an underwater portal that lead to the eighth dimension and I got lost but it’s cool because I saw some really neat spiritual shit and I’m very enlightened now. Of course these things didn’t happen. There’s no such thing as vacations leprechauns, though now that I think of it, I sort of wish they did exist. Especially ones that were down for a few pints of Irish brew, ’cause I bet they’d be hilarious to drink with. With their little hats, and high pitched voices and their magical shenanigans.. just THINK of the possibilities. Side note, I should totally befriend some ginger midgets so I can dress them up in little green outfits and top hats, then I could take them to bars with me and tell everyone that if they buy us drinks then they will have seven years good luck, and they would probably go for it because LOOK AT MY FUCKING LEPRECHAUN. Then I would never have to pay a bar tab again and people would automatically assume I’m a neat person because of the company I keep.

But I digress…

I have a few legitimate reasons for not doing the challenge:

1. I was really fucking tired.
Not in a “oh boy, it’s 9:04pm and I sure am sleepy! Time to hit the hay and get a respectable amount of sleep, ’cause I’m a grown up!”. Oh no. This was an, “excuse me while I take off my pants and slip into an afternoon coma followed by a short nap before I cook dinner then go to bed before I go to bed” tired. An “I don’t have the strength to pick up this hair brush and can someone please tell me what day it is” tired. A, “leave me alone, LIFE, I would like to go lay down for a month” tired. I get these awful bouts of fatigue from time to time, and they like to bludgeon me into a fuzzy-headed, unfunny pile of human mush. Seeing as how this has accidentally morphed into a sort of ‘humor blog’, I can’t very well be posting incoherent nonsense about sleeping a lot, because lets face it, there’s nothing funny about excessive napping.
I am feeling much better now, but it ruined a large chunk of my month. I tried to write as much as I could for the challenge, but didn’t get very far because:

2. Being structured sucks.
I fucking love writing. I write as often as I can. Sometimes it’s just little thought-sneezes onto a napkin or my mental chatter scribbled into a notebook. Those will, on occasion, morph into blog posts, so long as they’re not terribly dumb or personal. Other times it’s something akin to a brain-baby, birthed from the odd and brightly-colored womb that is my brain’s, um, uterus. Those are little bundles of literary joy that I keep hidden in my computer, saved for a book that I hope to write one day.
Whatever it is, be it a tiny blurb of mental nonsense spewed onto some paper or brilliance hatched from the deep, amusing, and slightly sticky no-no places of my brain, they are always random and never come out when I’m actually sitting in front of my computer with a few minutes of quiet time. Much like an actual sneeze, these sorts of things cannot be forced, I’m learning. Have you ever tried to force a sneeze? I have. Sneezing is a lot of fun and a very satisfying two-second pastime which NEVER occurs when you try to force that shit to happen. This can be incredibly frustrating when you feel that deep-in-your-sinuses tickle that you want oh-so-badly to relieve. SAME GOES FOR WRITING: The itch will be there and it’ll stay there and come out when it damn well pleases, which is usually when I’m at work or child-rearing or driving or at the grocery store or talking to normal people or some other terribly inconvenient time and place for projectile brain snot to occur.

3. I don’t like being told what to do.
Even when I’m the one telling myself what to do.

Here is an example of an actual conversation that took place entirely in my head:
Me: “Okay, April 1st is in a few days, lets get that anal bleaching post all filled in and polished so we can get on with the rest of the alphabet”

Brain: “How about… no? And fuck you.”

Me: “Erm, that’s not how this works. First of all, NO, fuck you, and second of all, we have agreed to do this challenge, and the rules are to follow the alphabet and post it on the day it corresponds with”

Brain: “I know how it works, I’m not a fucking moron. Plus, I didn’t agree to do the damn challenge, YOU did. Your bizarre need for mold yourself into a structured individual has no impact on what I do or how I will behave. Plus, I’ve been really itching to get balls deep into my thoughts on old ladies who wear zebra print. I would rather write about that instead, and I will keep flashing images of the elderly being sexy in zebra striped thongs until you give in”

Me: “Now that’s just terrible… and that would likely start with the letter Z and we need to do A first. We only have a limited amount of time to dedicate to writing each day and we should make sure we go in order so we can get them posted in a timely manner”.

Brain: “Screw your alphabet AND your timely manner. I want to write about old ladies wearing zebra print underwear. DON’T TELL ME WHAT TO DO.”

Me: “Can you please, for once in our many years of occupying life together, TRY and work with me? JUST ONCE?”

Brain: “Outlook hazy. Try again later. ELDERLY ZEBRA COOTER.”

In conclusion, my brain is a total fucking dick with it’s own agenda. I have little to no say in what gets accomplished when it comes to writing, or much else in life, for that matter.

Also, I might be crazy.

THE END.

 

No. I Do Not Want To Go To Your Weird Lady Party.

This is a copied and pasted message from my sister:

“Hey, can you please make it out to my wrap gathering? It’s maybe just like an hour and a half of your time. I am trying to sell these and I need four people at the party to try it to pay towards my start up. I PROMISE you that you will see a difference, especially since you are so concerned over your stomach area. This will help it. I tried it on my stomach and lost three inches…Cellulite lines are better, skin not so “dimply”. Will you try it????????”

This “wrap gathering” that she speaks of will consist of women gathering in a social fashion and putting some sticky, expensive paper on our sagging, flabby, or otherwise unfortunate parts.

I saw her facebook invite last week and quickly changed my screen to something else as though it never happened. Note, I WAS NOT PURPOSELY BEING A JERK AND IGNORING HER. I was merely putting myself in a state of denial that I had ever read it in order to avoid explaining why my RSVP was a giant “fuck no”.

I really should know better because I always wind up having to explain myself. It is just the way it is.

I love my sister. A lot. She is a very important person to me. We are quite different from each other, but still get along quite well, and have lots of neat talks all the time. Keep in mind, that by “different”, I mean something that surpasses comparing us to “night and day” or “black and white” or “steak and lettuce”. We are more like comparing a potato to a lamp, in that we are a completely different things all together.

Side note: I am the potato in this relationship because I go great with salt and butter.

Anyways, we have known each other for twenty-nine years, and she still forgets that these sorts of vaginal gatherings are just not my bag, ESPECIALLY one that involves us sitting in a room complaining about the semi-private areas on our body that we hate and covering them with magical sticky paper. She may be able to lure me in with some fancy dark chocolate and a bottle of red wine so long as I’m allowed to hide in the bathroom during the shenanigans and won’t be required to participate or buy anything, though something tells me that will not do.

After going back and forth with her for a bit as I was defending my “I don’t wanna” stance, I had a thought: I’ve been on a mission to do things that challenge my comfort zone. I resist these ”ladies getting together and buying shit” parties because I am not always a very social person and I think they’re really dumb. But WHAT IF this whole ordeal BLOWS MY MIND and winds up being one of the best experiences of my life and I miss out because I’m stubborn and hate everything? And, WHAT IF this magical sticky paper really is a truly amazing product that will transform me into a SPARKLING SEX-BEAST?

I decided to look up the product’s website to see what the fucking hoopla was about, and the more I read, the less I wanted to attend.

First of all, the product name is awful. It’s called “It Works”.

I’m glad I discovered that before asking my sister what it was called because that would have likely been a very frustrating conversation.

Me: “What’s it called?”

Her: “It works”

Me: “Yes, you mentioned that in the invite, but what is it called?”

Her: “IT WORKS”

Me: “WOULD YOU PLEASE STOP TRYING TO SELL IT I JUST WANT TO KNOW THE NAME OF THE PRODUCT”.

Her: “OMFG. It. Works.”

Me: “Fuck this, I’m telling Dad.”

Of course there are cliché pictures of tape measures and women smiling holding up a pair of fat pants next to their lucious skinny figures with quotes, ”It really works!”

So ‘It Works’ really works, eh? You don’t say.

It goes on about how it’s amazing and wonderful and magical and such. I’m automatically suspicious when companies use those sorts of hefty adjectives in hopes of selling their product, which is not helping me change my mind what so ever.

Then it gets to the part about the wrap parties, and shows this picture:

…..

………

……………….

………………………

………………………………

Even if you lure me with chocolate and a bottle of delicious fermented grape juice.

Even if I will transform into a sparkling sex-beast.

That shit is fucking terrifying.

And I do not want to go.

I have never been more sure of anything in my life.

The End.

PS: In my last post, I asked for help in picking out a sac that I will be stuck with for the unforeseeable future. I am most likely going to make my purchase tomorrow, so if you’re bored, do mosey on over and vote on which one is the least shitty.

Skin Wallets, A Terrible Hat, and a Decision That Is Ruining My Day

This is just a filler post to add some substance between my last post and the slew of posts that I am going to assault you with in April when I do the A-Z blogging challenge thing. I’ve had plenty of things to say but I’ve been busy playing Minecraft saving my stuff just in case I don’t have something to write.

I’m quite nervous about this challenge because:
A: Coming up content that’s actually worth reading is tough when it’s scheduled and structured, and
B: I have a tendency to make mountains tall enough to tickle heaven’s nut-sack out of mole-hills. Or something like that. I may have butchered that expressions a tad but you get my point and that’s all that matters.

Nervousness aside, I’m excited, too. Having a blog has rekindled my love affair with writing, and this will be a wonderful challenge. Not to mention, a handful of my favorite internet people are doing it too and this pleases me. WE SHOULD ALL WEAR MATCHING JACKETS, you guys. Or hats. Hats are cool, except for ones that suck, like this one:

Look, I am basically clueless when it comes to high fashion, but even I know this is a terrible to have on your head when you’re in public. JUST BECAUSE YOU’RE RICH AND FANCY DOESN’T MEAN YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO GET AWAY WITH THIS SHIT. Seriously, this kind of makes me want to punch her right in her horse teeth.

Aside from discussing blog activities and showing you a picture of hat fail, I once again need the your help make one of the biggest decisions I’ll have to make in a long time. I need to pick a new item transportation device, you see, and I don’t know which one to choose.

In other words, I NEED A NEW PURSE.

First, let me just say I fucking hate purses. Intensely. I know that purses are supposed to be a big deal to the lady-folk, but I have never understood why. They’re either heavy and awkward or light and annoying, and are ALWAYS uncomfortable and in the way. Plus, every time I try to find one that I can deal with, they are usually dumb looking with some sort of magical name or word on it that has the power to make the women around me lose all sense of reason and boundaries when they see it. This one time I had a “hobo bag” that had one of these magical words on it and I got assaulted regularly with wide-eyed, crazed enthusiasm as strange women would come up to me gushing over it’s fanciness and desires to touch it. After a while, I became annoyed and borderline frightened over the bag’s sorcery and decided to kill it with fire, because fuck that shit.

 I have learned that the older I get, the more necessary it is to have one with me when I need to leave the house, and this sucks. I would honestly rather take my needed items and wrap them in the loose skin that hangs around my abdomen and staple it shut like a skin wallet than carry a purse. Unfortunately, that would be ridiculous and awkward and I’d have to lift my shirt and rip open the staples every time I needed to get my debit card and I hate showing people my stomach. Plus I’d probably get blood all over my money and things and that would be a hassle. The purse I’m forced to use now is one that I’ve owned for three or five years and the time has come to find it’s replacement. I have been crawling all over Amazon trying to find one that suits my needs and isn’t unpleasant to my eyes, so I searched for purses that have skulls on them because I LIKE SKULLS A LOT. I’ve narrowed it down to two choices:

Purse #1:

Pros:
1. It’s black and has a skull on it.
2. It’s very practical for my days off.
3. It comes with an arm strap in case I don’t want to hold it making it versatile AND I LIKE HAVING OPTIONS.

Cons:
1. It’s only big enough to carry the basics: wallet, gum, cigarettes, keys, a few tampons, and face powder, which is fine for days that I’m off but not for days that I work.
2. The skull is making an “OMG I JUST FARTED I HOPE NO ONE KNOWS” face.
3. It’s sort of shaped like a doctor bag and I would hate to give anyone the wrong impression.

And here’s purse #2:

Pros:
1. It’s black and has a skull on it.
2. It’s very practical for days that I work.
3. Look at the neat chain.

Cons:
1. It can hold all of my basic items AND has room for my notebook, my entire makeup collection, a kitten, the whole tampon aisle at CVS, an extra outfit, a computer for when my smart phone goes dead, a defibrillator in case someone next to me in line at the grocery store collapses and needs a quick boost, a quart of oil, and a light snack to combat sudden onset hunger. In other words, it’s a little too fucking big.
2. The skull looks like it told a terrible pun and is waiting for people to laugh.
3. It sort of looks like an oversized bejazzled scrotal sac.

These both get a B- in purses which is about as high a grade as a purse can get from me, increasing the likeliness that I won’t hate using them too much.

Tabasco’s Red-Headed Step Child

Dear Trappey’s Red Devil Hot Sauce,

You deceitful fuck.

Out of all the hot sauces that were on display in the grocery store that day, I chose you. You, with your picture of a smiling devil who’s lower body is made out of fire. Seeing that fire-devil grinning like a school boy in a porn shop on your label lead me to believe that, upon soaking my food in your crimson, peppery fluid, IT WOULD BE MAGICALLY TRANSFORMED INTO A BITE FULL OF LAVA-LIKE GOODNESS. You, who appeared to be made out of cayenne peppers and awesomeness, two things that, when combined, make my mouth parts all happy and tingly in that SPECIAL WAY. You know, that way that makes me say, “fuck yeah, this spicy thing is happening inside me RIGHT NOW”.

But no. That didn’t happen. Instead, what happened was a bite full of vinegary disappointment that is still lingering on my tongue, taunting me with what could have been HAD I GONE WITH A LEGITIMATE HOT SAUCE. One that makes good on its promise to deliver a taste bud liquefying experience with every bite. One that doesn’t misuse and abuse pictures of cheeky devils and fire. THOSE ARE TWO OF MY FAVORITE THINGS, ASSHOLE. And you DEFILED these things by putting them on the label of your shitty shit-sauce. You should really consider changing your name to “Bitter Puppy Tears” or ”Tabasco’s Red-Headed Step Child” with the main ingredient being FAILURE, and second being SADNESS. Thanks to you, I’m going to have to abandon my food and my family during dinnertime to get something different because this shit is unacceptable and has no place in our cupboard. You were not worth the .99 cents I paid for you. I WOULDN’T EVEN TAKE YOU HOME IF YOU WERE FREE. That’s how lame and disappointing you are.

Thanks for ruining my chicken AND my day, ASSHOLE

The end.

PS: I’m just kidding. I don’t get that worked up food products.

But still, your hot sauce sucks dirty moose knuckle. You should consider quitting your day job or start making a line of fancy ketchup instead.

Seriously.

Lacy Sex-Pajamas And Some Other Things

My poor, poor blog. I’ve been sorely neglecting you.

Cerebral Milkshake turned one year old on January 26th, and I didn’t do shit to celebrate. I didn’t write, throw a party, NOTHING. In my defense, throwing a party for a blog would be really, really dumb, but I still want to make up for it, so here is this cake:

Fuck yeah, cake!

Happy birthday, blog. Cheers to another year of writing about vaginas, assholes, and hurling insults at the cats.
And, you know, whatever other nonsense that crosses my mind.

I highly encourage you to look at my first ever post, which is also a t-shirt available for purchasing once I get around to fancying up my zazzle store.

Speaking of cake, I did my boudoir photos.
It was AWESOME!

By awesome, I mean really fucking awkward and mildly damaging to my self-esteem.
Surprisingly, the actual photo session itself wasn’t all that bad. The photographer was sweeter than a plate full of Grandma’s snickerdoodles and empathetic to my obvious discomfort at getting all fancied up and having my picture taken.

The obtaining lingerie adventure that took place before the shoot, on the other hand, was pretty damn awful.

You regulars here know of my deep contempt for shopping. Shopping for lingerie takes that contempt to a level that should be reserved for the band Nickelback and terrorists. It’s that bad. So bad, in fact, that lingerie shopping is now my least favorite activity next to flushing out a homeless person’s eye socket that’s filled with puss in lieu of an eyeball (yes, I’ve done this in real life) and birthing a pineapple (no, I’ve never done this but I bet it’s TERRIBLE). I really tried to have fun with it for the sake of my well-being (and also so my sister would stop yelling at me for being a pain in the ass), but I couldn’t. I’ve come to terms with the fact that looking sexy with less clothing on went out the door for me shortly after incubating two children and a wild fling I had with obesity, therefore squeezing my misshapen body into lacy sex-pajamas is not fun. At all.  It just is what it is. Until the day comes when I stop giving a shit or I can afford surgery, I’ll stick with “giant, unflattering t-shirts that you can comfortably wear on top*”. Because fuck all that lacy nonsense.

*If you know what I mean. Wink wink.

You know what though? I’m kinda glad I did this. Life is getting a little ripe thanks to my insistence in keeping myself cozy and snug in my comfort zone. HIGH FIVE FOR UNCOMFORTABLE SITUATIONS TO ENCOURAGE GROWTH AS A PERSON, dear Reader.

Also, high-five for sharing a semi-naked, yet tasteful photo of yourself with the Internets because WHAT THE FUCK ELSE WOULD I DO WITH THESE PICTURES:

This is my “OMG I’m sort of naked and here is this blanket plz let this be over with soon I want french toast” pose

In other personal growth related news, I’ve decided to participate in the April A-Z Blog Challenge. This means, for the entire month of April (except Sundays), I’ll be spewing out one post a day with the theme following the order of the alphabet for each day. In the likely case that this explanation makes no sense, it’ll go something like this:
April 1st: A
April 2nd: B
April 3rd: C
and so on and so forth.

I am very nervous about this for a few reasons:

1. I’ll have to post almost every day, so they probably won’t all be winners which means you guys will read stuff you might not like and you’ll tell me I’m horrible and I’ll cry a lot
2. This challenge forces me to be structured and I don’t like being told what to do
3. WHAT IF I FORGET HOW THE ALPHABET GOES OMG I’D BE SO EMBARRASSED.

I realize these are ridiculous things to give a shit about which is why I need to do this. Plus, I LOVE WRITING. It’s the only creative outlet I have and this little disciplined activity may be just what I need to get back into it.

Or, I might give up after the letter B, have a cookie, and go about my life. Either way, LET’S DO THIS SHIT.

THE END

Zesty as Fuck

Is it still relevant to do a New Years post even though we are already seven days in?

The answer is probably not, but I’m going to anyways. A random picture of a cute kitten and a vagina joke would probably be more appropriate, seeing as I don’t really give a shit about New Years, but I still feel compelled to share my thoughts and stuff on the matter anyways.

But first, here is a picture of Potato wearing her fancy new hat. Also, a vagina walks into a bar. There isn’t a second part to that. I was just hoping you pictured a giant vagina with legs and a purse walking into a bar to have her some vodka sodas. NOT BEER THOUGH, for that will make her yeasty.

It is true. I don’t really care about New Years.
I’ve always celebrated it because I’m supposed to, but deep down I’ve never really understood the point. We’re just going to have to throw out our used calenders and buy a new one, why shout and get face to pavement drunk over it? Can’t we just pat each other on the back in the calender aisle and say “hooray” or something? Actually, no, fuck that. I don’t like it when strangers touch me. I also don’t like it when people say “hooray” and mean it. It’s all fine and well to show excitement over something, but do pick a different word. Maybe, “awesome!” or “this is terrific!”. Hooray just sounds dumb.

Did I make resolutions this year? I sure did. Only I didn’t make them on 01/01/____. I make resolutions on 12/12____, because that’s my birthday and the one time of the year that it feels right to do so, but even more so during times when I realize that I’m doing some horrible thing over and over and it’s affecting my life in a negative fashion. Those moments can happen at any time during the year.

This year, I’ve resolved to make 29 my bitch.

Why 29? Because that’s how old I turned. And it’s the final year of my twenties. Rumor has it that shortly after you turn thirty you start collecting cats while your boobs start making friends with your belly button, and all the while your ovum begin to rot and fall out of your uterus. Then you turn into this decrepit shuffling wrinkle-crotch who doesn’t bathe or have fun anymore, and you occasionally shit your pants. Or maybe all that happens when you’re sixty. Regardless, thirty is half way to sixty*, and I’m ONE YEAR AWAY FROM TURNING THIRTY, so I’m starting to get a little nervous about how I spend my time these days. There are a few things I’d like to accomplish before all of this happens. There’s the usual shit, like “stop snatcheling“ and “shit or get off the career pot” and become omnipotent learn a new skill, but overall, I wish to take steps to becoming a happier person who sucks a little less at life. Those are some good goals to have, I reckon.

*I am mostly kidding. I’ve known some very zesty sixty year old people that are active and healthy and don’t have issues with shitting their pants. I’ve also met some that hate cats.

I have to say, 28 was sort of a crappy year. It had it’s perks, like moving in with Caveman, and giving birth to this blog, but over all? I give it a 2.73 out of 10. I take full responsibility for such a low score and know what I need to do to make 29 better, but I won’t bore you with the details. Instead, I’ll change the subject completely and give you wrap up of “weird shit people googled that lead them to my blog” because I haven’t done that in a while and there’s some pretty impressive ones worth sharing.

HOORAY!

Note: a lot of these would likely make your boss frown at you if they were reading over your shoulder or if they keep tabs on what you do on the Internets when you should be working or meeting deadlines or whatever. Also, some of these contain thoughts and words that are MORE CRUDER than what you’ll normally find on here. Suffice to say, these are NSFA (not safe for anything).

“porn cheaper than dating”
I suppose it is. But dating is cheaper than therapy you’ll need when the soul-sucking loneliness becomes too much to bear. Unless you wind up getting married. Divorce Weddings are very expensive. So I’m told.

“things I can put in my pussy”
Let’s see, your car keys, debit card, a swiss army knife, some chapstick, a pen or two, some change for the pay phone in case you get stuck somewhere…
TOTALLY KIDDING… payphones aren’t a thing anymore. Everyone knows that.

“fifteen items”
lamp chair box thing mug skull book pencil foot coin candle artery nut candy rooster

“can I call my cat Megatron”
Fuck no, you can’t. Megatron was my cat, and he still has dibs even though he’s dead SO DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT IT, ASSHOLE.
Feel free to use Optimus Prime or GooGooKittyPurrFace though. Those are swell.

“I’m looking for the best granny porn”
Seriously? Who the fuck does that? Why would you actually type “I’m looking for” in front whatever it is you want to find on the internet? It’s a search engine. IT ALREADY KNOWS YOU’RE LOOKING FOR SOMETHING.

“horse cock flare masturbating”
…. yeah, I got nothin’.

“snickerdoodle cookie sex”
Gee, way to stick your dick in a tasty cookie treat, pal. Whatever happened to just looking for “free porn”? Why does everything have to be so damn weird all the time?

“am I pregnant I smell like stale cum”
Yes. You’re going to have stale little nose babies.

“should I fuck my cousin”

“is 30yr old chloroform any good”
So what, because it’s thirty it’s probably crap? Just because it’s not in it’s early twenties any more doesn’t mean it’s useless. Jerk.

“I have a huge fetish for sucking on the callous on the side of womens big toes”
Well, I suppose so long you don’t work in podiatry or at a nail salon, then you should be okay. You may want to consider therapy or staying away from people just in case.

“when all else fails just fuck them in the dick”
I don’t know what’s weirder, this sentence or that my first reaction was “well, at least they didn’t put ‘fuck them in the eye’ because that would be awful”.

“flame throwing vagina”
You may want to get that checked out. I’m sure there’s a cream or something for that. At the very least, consult an exorcist.

The end.

Vagina Fun Sticks Of Encouraging Things

This picture interrupted everything that I am currently working on right now:

First of all, HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

Second of all… really?

Thirdly… REALLY???

Do my eyes deceive me? Are these actual blurbs of girl-power nonsense printed on the side of tampon wrappers?

Holy shit. This is fucking brilliant.

And by brilliant, I mean WHAT IN THE DEEP FRIED FUCK IS THIS?

I will say it is rather funny but comedic value aside, these are so damn ridiculous that it’s causing me brain pain.

Does this actually work? Are there women out there who, upon inserting the magical expanding cotton into their lady-bits, look down and see “live fearlessly” on the tattered remains of the wrapper and think, “By golly-gum, this tampon wrapper is right! I WILL live fearlessly!” And they run off and do some courageous thing that they normally wouldn’t be brave enough to do in a million years, ALL THANKS TO A FUCKING TAMPON?? Is this why the fancy ones cost an extra three dollars a box? Because each stick is like you’re own personal life coach reminding you to be awesome? I bet there’s some in there that say, “you go girl” and “boys are dumb girls rule, lol”. That’s the sort of thing we need to see for empowerment when we’re on our periods, ammiright, ladies?

Yeah… didn’t think so.

On another note, when I originally shared this on Facebook, the ever-awesome Jeneral Insanity pointed out that “being unstoppable” was a rather ironic thing to put on a tampon, as stopping things is pretty much the whole point to tampons in the first place. Way to go, brand-name vagina fun sticks. You might as well throw “go with the flow” in there, or some bit about swimming with the stream or some shit. Because when I’m not looking to my lady-parts for encouragement while I’m dealing with my monthly panty-slaughter, I’m swimming in rivers and feeling quite content about it.

I would love to see what knock-off brands would come up with for their tampons.  I imagine it would go a little something like this:

1. Don’t get too excited, today will likely be mediocre at best

2. Well, look on the bright side, at least you’re not experiencing an unwanted pregnancy

3. Don’t do that one thing you’re thinking about doing, because you might do it wrong

4. Sing like no one’s listening. Unless you’re a bad singer. Cats have ears, too, you know.

5. Dance like no one’s watching. Unless you don’t have legs. That would be awkward.

6. Keeping your thoughts to yourself is the best way to avoid conflict

7. Thanks, that tampon really needed a hug

8. Good grief, get a hair cut (think about it)

If you have any more unmotivational tidbits that would go great on the side of a generic tampon I’d love to hear them. Remember, SHARING IS CARING.

I’m living freely! I’m walking courageously! My uterus is bleeding! Thanks, Tampon!

Marmalade, STUFF and the occasional bag of salad

 A belated “Merry (whatever you celebrate)mas!!”, dear Reader. I hope the week was festive and glorious and The Santa-Jesus Lord gave you and your family lots of really really cool shit.

Christmas was just fine in our household. The children got Furbys and a gratuitous amount of “STUFF” to go with the rest of the STUFF they already have. My beloved Caveman got  me some fancy new speakers for my computer and tickets for us to to see my comedic Jesus, Louis CK.

LOUIS FREAKING CK, you guys. OMG.

Words cannot describe how excited I am for this. I think I may have actually squealed like a small, very excited girl when I opened the tickets. Watching my favorite comedian LIVE with my favorite person ever? If happiness could make you sick, I just might die during the show. Or, you know, throw up or something.

MOVING ON…

Christmas is a time for love and family and good cheer and a lot of food and what not. It’s also a time of year that we’re forced to participate frequently in one of my least favorite activities EVER. An activity that is often done with enthusiasm and vigor by most normal, warm-blooded people, ESPECIALLY the lady-folk (oh yes, it’s Lady Fail time):

SHOPPING.

I. Fucking. Hate. Shopping.

“OMG SHOPPING! FUCK YEAH!!”~ something I’ll never say. Ever.

Yes. It’s true. I despise all forms of shopping. Food shopping, clothes shopping, makeup shopping, doctor shopping, coffee mug shopping, shoe shopping, ”window shopping”, whatever the fuck that is. It has the word “shopping” in it, therefore, I do not like it. Also, I’ve learned that it has NOTHING to do with buying windows, and that’s just ten shades of what the fuck.
I don’t even like shopping for awesome, non-mundane things that would add entertainment and/or meaning to my life. The whole ordeal of driving to the store, walking around to find said thing, standing in line with my thing, avoiding small talk with the cashier who is allowing me to take my thing in exchange for money, then leaving with my thing in a bag sucks horribly and I avoid it as much as humanly possible.

I have my reasons for this. Aside from the mild to moderate dizziness and disorientation that immediately sets in the moment I walk through the automatic doors of a place that sells items, stores are places where there’s people, and where there people, THERE IS INSUFFERABLE NONSENSE.

Example #1: The grocery store.
I have children. These children have mouths and stomachs. This causes me to frequent grocery stores more often than I care to. Sure, I need to eat, too, but my eating requirements would have me visit the food store three times a month TOPS. I can survive easily off of meat, coffee, cucumbers (FOR EATING, weirdo), and the occasional bag of salad*. Oh, and green olives. Those things are fucking amazing. My girls and part-time sort of step-boy, on the other hand, need things like milk and peanut butter jelly sandwiches and kiddie kibble cereal and school snacks and other various things that get depleted rapidly, forcing me to shop for food three or four times a week.

*and bacon

I have my top two food stores mapped out in my head which allows me to navigate through the aisles, get my shit to get the fuck on out of there MACHT HASTE. That means with a fucking quickness in German.  Yet, no matter how hard I plan, I always run into annoying obstacles that make each trip more lengthy and difficult than necessary. It’s either Chatty Cathy’s or rambunctious free-range children running amok, or  scooter-mooses blocking the aisles or elderly coupon enthusiasts holding up the check out line to save thirteen cents on english muffins, marmalade, and colace. ALL OF THESE THINGS complicate my mission, and I don’t like it one bit.
Don’t even get me started on the inconsiderate fucks who split their cartload into two so they can make their purchases in the “15 items or less” line. I don’t care for whatever clever math you did that makes you feel this is acceptable. FOLLOW THE RULES, ASSHOLE.

Fifteen items are THIS MANY, fucker.

Example #2: The clothing store
I have a healthy respect for the necessity of clothing. If it weren’t for clothes, we would all be naked, and let’s face it, there’s some folks that we would never want to see sans pants. As a female, I’m apparently supposed to have an understanding of lady fashions, and sadly, I don’t. My fashion consists of a dark shirt, jeans that don’t look terrible, and shoes. Preferably boots. The end. My simple tastes screw me royally if I’m in a situation where it’s required to look as though I give a shit or marginally above plain, however, and the confusion that comes with “what to wear?” coupled with soul-crushing body issues makes the whole buying clothes experience torturous.
I partially blame those dreadful fitting rooms. I honestly would rather douche with pickled jalapeno brine than enter those brightly lit mirrored stalls of  anguish and shame with an armful of shit to try on. To some folks, this apparently makes me an asshole, as I’ve actually been verbally scorned by a gang of giant women when they saw me fighting tears of frustration in front of a mirror wearing some fitted, pretty frock that I didn’t understand and was very uncomfortable in. Who knows, maybe I am a vain piece of shit for agonizing over whether the skirt I’m wearing furiously flaunts my unfortunate shape, but telling me to “get over myself” and “gee I wish I were fat like you” is highly unnecessary. Pardon me for not wanting to draw attention to areas of my body that are in dire need of a highly trained surgeon with a scalpel improvement. I have mad respect for the notion that not everyone wants to see the dimpling wad of sagging human dough that is MY ASS.

It’s such bullshit. Mark my words, if I ever become God of Everything I will write into scripture that jeans and boots are acceptable attire for ALL situations. To those of you that are with me on this one, when the time comes, you’re welcome.

Example #3: Walmart

If I had it my way, I would never ever ever step foot inside a Walmart. I do go there often because that place is a utopia of bargains on shit we use daily like toilet paper and cat products. What can I say, we poor bitches love bargains. Enabling my need to penny-pinch fails to compensate for how awful Walmart is. It has weird lighting. It’s dirty. The layout is often confusing. My IQ drops 16% for every fifteen minutes I’m in the damn place and that’s terrible because I like my IQ right where it’s at: AVERAGE AT BEST.

Not to mention all of the STUFF they sell. Walmart is 12% practical items, and 88% useless, bull-shit, nonsense STUFF. Need to pick up a monster-sized bag of kitty chow and a tube of cooter cream? Have fun navigating through aisle after aisle of mind-numbing STUFF to get it, and you know what? FUCK STUFF. STUFF equals CLUTTER, and clutter destroys my mental processes the same way chronic meth use or watching a twelve hour marathon of Jersey Shore would. Clutter has the ability to completely retard my mental capacity and ability to reason with my surroundings. I can’t tolerate that sort of thing

This is why I die a little on the inside when Caveman says he’s going to Walmart. Aside from buying stuff for day to day necessities,  a trip to Walmart means that  he is going to buy MORE FUCKING STUFF. Why? Because all of that useless STUFF is at an irresistible price and we may need it at some point or another. Never mind that we are three cereal boxes, two broken computer towers and a litter of dead kittens rotting under the couch away from starring on an episode of Hoarders. STUFF IS IMPORTANT AND WE MUST HAVE MORE OF IT. Apparently. New STUFF simply joins forces with all of the old STUFF, forming an army of nonsense that wages war with tattered remains of my sanity.
Not like I have much of it to begin with.
Fucking Walmart.
I could keep going on and on about my beefs with STUFF, but I’ll let my other comedic Jesus sum it up for me instead:

THE END.

Kiestering Bowling Balls and Ponytails. Alternate title, “Please Help Us Name Our Cat”

Hi! I’m back. Sort of.
Technically I never went anywhere. I’ve just been absent from the magical land of Blog due to having my head wedged firmly up Santa’s rectum.
Well, okay, that’s not entirely true, for a few reasons: one, if my head was actually up anyone’s ass, I would suffocate and die rendering me incapable of writing this, two: my head would never fit up anyone’s ass. It’s just not anatomically possible* and three: I have done nothing festive for the holiday season to render me “busy with holiday things”. Even still, I have just been absurdly busy lately, and by no means have I added any extra anything to my life. I think this time of year is by nature full of extra mundane chaos because Christmas is an asshole.

*I have no desire to be proven wrong on this, so please, for the love of everything, NO LINKS TO SOMEONE KIESTERING A BOWLING BALL. Thank you.

It’s true. No tree has been put up. No lights adorning the outside of our squatting nest. I haven’t even purchased a single present for any of the important folk in my life. Before you judge me, I did find this Frosty the Snowman statue thing that my dad gave me after he found it by a dumpster a while back and it’s now penetrating our living room with festiveness SO THERE.

So what has been keeping me busy? Well a few things:

1. The war on lice continues.
In a previous post, I talk about my kids bringing home nasty little fornicating parasites in their hair. Unfortunately, this has been an ongoing process that has consumed a lot of time, money, and sanity for the past two months. This is largely my youngest child’s fault. Observe:

Looks just like her mamma

This is an actual photo of my child. I’m sure you see the dilemma.
If not, then LOOK AT HER FUCKING HAIR. It has been next to impossible getting it thoroughly coated in pesticide and pulling the fine tooth nit comb through. Sadly, I had to cut off all of her beautiful locks with kitchen scissors as a last ditch effort to get control of this issue (then again by my dear hair dresser gal pal when it became apparent that I suck at hair). Now she has a much more manageable fro, so hopefully it’ll keep those blood sucking bastards at bay.  If not, then I’m going to get all V for Vendetta on those mother fuckers and shave her head.

No, I’m not kidding.

The interesting thing about having louse in the house (see what I did there) is that it’s a lot like being pregnant. Once people catch wind of it, they are up in your shit with advice and treating you like you lack common sense. So before you post a comment telling me what I should do keep in mind:
1. I love you and thank you
2. There’s a good chance I’ve already done that
3. Please don’t

To give you an idea of what I have been doing so far:

1. Classic over the counter lice shampoo
2. Classic over the counter nit combing gel (along with several torturous combing sessions)
3. Classic over the counter linen and upholstery anti-blood sucker spray
4. Stuffed animal quarantining
5. Washed all the things
6. Repeated steps 1-5 FIVE FUCKING TIMES
7.Formed an alliance with the Dark Lord of the Underworld (no, not Carl)
7a. Sold my soul to said Dark Lord after being promised a bug free existence
8. Gave the lice a firm talking to
9. Mayonnaise
10. Got really drunk and cried about it one night
11. Hugged a tree and thanked it for all of its oxygen, because why not
12. Hired a monkey to pick them out and eat them

Alright, I’m kidding on that last one. I wish I had that kind of money and resources. The good news is it looks like all of my efforts are FINALLY paying off as one of my doctor co-workers gave her the “all clear for now” stamp of approval. Though I will probably keep doing a few of the above things for a little while longer just as a precaution (and steps 7, 10, and 11 just for fun).

2. We have a new fur-baby

Meet our new kitty:

Oh hi.

She is painfully cute. So cute that I can’t NOT stop what I am doing to talk like a froo-froo poofy asshole to her every time I see her. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have a name yet, since no one in the house can agree on what it should be. I love the names “Prue”,* “Bast the Almighty Blood Drinker” and “Potato”, but nobody likes those names ’cause they’re jerks.
* This is a combination of “Prim” and “Rue” from The Hunger Games, because I’m nerding the fuck out over those books right now

3. I’ve been working on more poses for that photo thing I’m doing next month
If you’re new to my nonsense, I am having boudoir pictures done and I suck horribly at being sexy and having my pictures taken. I have been relentlessly scouring the internet for help and inspiration so that come photo time, I’ll be ready to whip out the sexy so hard that it hits people in the face.
Here’s a few more that I’ve nailed:

The “OMG I’m trying to ride this bike but I keep doing it wrong plz help” pose

And

The, “Boy, I sure hope I don’t get surprise butt sex from a pigeon right now” pose

And

The, “Over-Under Face Plant To Eat  The Grass” pose

And

The “Tee-Hee I’m making a pretend poop right now” pose

And finally,

The “Studies show that one out of every four women experience urinary discomfort and ponytails while standing next to chairs. If you or a loved one are currently experiencing these things, please grab the crotch and consult the internet” pose

I have more shit to write, but speaking of busy, I have to go do domestic shit now. So THE END.

Oh, before you go, please help us name the fur baby!

I’ve listed some of my favorites, as well as some that are liked by Caveman and my kids:

I will inject you with kindness

I’m going to share a little story with you.

This was originally a response to Oh Noa’s question at the end of her last post, but it became kind of long and awesome, so I decided to blog it instead.

I work at an urgent care, so as with any public service job, I am subjected to twat-mongrels on a regular basis. I am mostly stuck doing receptionist work, which sucks because RECEPTIONISTS GET TREATED LIKE SHIT and are often regarded as being on the bottom of the totem pole that is health care.

I’ve grown used to it through my acceptance that a lot of humans are scum, but some really manage to burrow under my skin. Like scabies.

There’s one particular instance that comes to mind when I think back to all the shit-bags I’ve had to deal with over the years. We were in the throes of flu and snow-bird season, so the waiting room was packed and the air was thick with discomfort and respiratory secretions. I was on the eighth hour or so of my twelve-hour shift. I hadn’t eaten. I needed to pee. I was in dire need to blow my nose, for I too was afflicted with the virus that was running around, ruining people’s’ day. No one else in the clinic was capable of covering my desk so I could take a break, which was unfortunate because I was giving them support when they were getting too backed up, thus tripling my job duties. Needless to say, I WAS WORN THE FUCK OUT. Thankfully, I’m awesome at my job and can rock it despite all of those things.
All was fine and well when suddenly a large, red-faced man hulked his way through the door and assholed his way up to my desk, cutting in front of at least three people who had been patiently waiting their turn to be helped.
“I need to get on the schedule NOW” he barked.
Calmly, I asked, “Are you having an emergency?”
He scoffed, “NO, I am a very busy man and I don’t have time to wait for you people to see me.”
After muscling down the bitter resentment that had crept up to the back of my throat, I replied, ”I’m sorry sir, I’m going to have to ask you to get in the back of the line. There are a few people ahead of you.”
He leaned over the counter, his face two inches from mine, forcibly penetrating my personal bubble in a way that only a horrid pig-fucker like him would know how to. “I don’t give a shit if there are people ahead of me, I need to get back there NOW”.
I recoiled as I felt myself slowly becoming unglued (and also because he reeked as though he had taken a bath in stale Dorito crumbs, cheap cologne and old semen). My hands began to tremble in waves of rage that I was being forced to swallow in order to avoid doing something awful that would land me in jail or (gulp) FIRED.
I took a deep breath to compose myself while I tried to figure out a way to reason with the unreasonable. I was willful at this point to do almost anything to get this stinky dick-wad out of my face.
“Okay, sir, I tell you what, why don’t you get a head start on one of those clip-boards and we’ll get you set to see the doctor.”
“I’M NOT FILLING OUT ANY OF YOUR DAMN PAPERWORK, MISSY!”
Of course you fucking won’t. What the fuck was I thinking.
“BLAH BLAH! BARK BARK BARK! I’M A FUCKING DICK AND YOU’RE A LOW LIFE IDIOT! MISSY MISSY! GARBLE GARBLE BARK BARK, YOU’RE JUST A DUMB RECEPTIONIST! I SMELL LIKE STALE SPERM AND I AM IMPORTANT! BARK BARK BARK…”
And he went on and on and on. Fast forward about thirty-five minutes of arguing and being the recipient to insults. I was click-clacking away on my computer, still vibrating with anger over the events that had taken place, trying to breathe my way to calmness while begging the Powers That Be to either destroy all of the assholes or present to me a better way to deal with them that wouldn’t crush my soul in the process.

The Gods must have been listening that day, and they were smiling, because the Gods have a delightful sense of humor.

My coworker suddenly bounced up to me and squatted next to my chair, her eyes glittering with excitement. “Guess what guess what guess what?!?!” her voice both hissed and twinkled like a malicious little fairy.

My energy and will to speak had been completely drained from my body at this point. Without answering, I turned to face her with a look that said,”this better be good because I want to die right now”.

She leaned in, “You know that mean guy that’s back there??”
No. I have no idea who you’re talking about. “Yeah, what about him?”
“The doctor ordered an injection for him!”
This peaked my interest as I had a slight suspicion as to where she was headed with this. “Go on..”
“It’s for torodol, AND he hates needles!”
(Torodol burns like a mother fucker)
I was smiling now, “Is that so? Well shucks, are you real busy back there? Do you need a hand with anything?”
She gave me an already-loaded syringe. “I sure am busy! He’s all yours!”~reason #429 of why I love most of my coworkers.

I was suddenly renewed.
With a spring in my step, I skipped merrily to his room, stopping first at the doctor’s desk. He was grinning ear to ear while giving me the, “Go for it” wink of approval.

I opened the door and smiled hard at Mr. VileMan*. “Well heeEEELLLLLLLOOOOoooo there!! You remember me, I’m sure! We’re a little backed up so I’m going to help out and give you the injection that the doctor ordered.”
His mouth dropped open ever so slightly as the color drained from his face. I asked him if he was allergic to anything and he barely moved his head side to side, never taking his eyes off me and my hand that was closed around the syringe. “Well alrighty then! I’ll need you to stand up and drop your pants, then bend over the table.”
He stammered, a line of sweat forming on his upper lip, “Y-you need me to do what?”

I smiled in a way that was so sweet that I probably gave him diabetes. “This is going in your butt-cheek, so I’ll need you to stand up and lower your pants. Then bend over the table. Please.” I then took out a pair of gloves from my pocket and maintained eye contact, still smiling, as I pulled them over my hands. He flinched as I made the last one snap against my wrist and began pleading, “Loo-ook, I’m s-s-sorry about wh-what ha-ha-happened out there and I…”
CUT OFF, MOTHER FUCKER, “I don’t have a clue to what you’re talking about! Okay, ready? One! T- *needle thrust*”

Assholes don’t get the luxury of a full three seconds to brace themselves. Ever.

Similar situations like this one have happened a countless number of times, but none have been quite as satisfying as this one.

The moral of this story? There really isn’t one, since there was no actual consequence, and I’m sure he was still an asshole when he left afterward.

Though I will end with this: don’t act like a self-important douche-nugget. That is all.

*Not his real name.