5 minutes of your life that you will never get back

I'm extremely vain.

2012-09-08T16:46:00.003-07:00

Because I'm awesome.

Fifty Shades of Brown

2012-05-07T08:46:00.000-07:00

Chapter One

I stare at myself in the mirror. Why did I cut my bangs like this, again? My hair is dark brown, bangs cut straight across. Eyes; deep brown, too large for my face, the colour of a BM. I look like a stereotypical anime character. My body; ruined from child birth. Pear shaped and bottom heavy, my father would often say I was "sturdy, like a boat". Don't worry dad, it only hurts my feelings every time I think of it.

"Chelsey, are you finished in the bathroom?" Joshua Jackson yells through the door, over the sound of my tasty jams.
"Give me a few minutes." I called back, "I drank too much coffee."

It's not a glamorous life, but it's mine.

I open the door to find Joshua Jackson pacing back and fourth. His green eyes gleaming. Slowly turning red and watery, as I sprayed too much air freshener.
"I need to run to the store, we ran out of coffee cream." I said in a dark, husky voice. "We also need garbage bags."
A smile danced across his lips.
"Take my debit card, I'm going to take a shower." he breathed heavily.
A shower, I thought to myself. I couldn't stop my mind from wandering. The bathroom hasn't been cleaned in weeks. The laundry piling up on the floor, a spider laying lifeless where I squished it with a shampoo bottle. Hair sprinkled on the sink from where he shaved.
I pushed up against him.
"Be careful with the faucet handle. It's been falling off."

I met Joshua Jackson when I was a rookie working for the FBI. We worked on a case together, involving people trapped in amber on a city bus. He has saved me from kidnapping, wandered through my mind (literally), been erased from time, and had a baby with my doppelganger. We fell elbow deep in love, and the rest is history.
That was in no way a rip off from the plot of Fringe.
_______________________________________

I make my way up the stairs of our two storey apartment, the sound of "Toopey and Bino" echoing off the walls. The smell of last night's fish tacos still lingering in the air.
"Get out of the garbage, IDIOT." I say lovingly to our stupid ginger cat Louie. He looks at me with indifference. He listens to no man. I have a quiet respect for him.
I putter around the kitchen, throwing out pop cans and cardboard, flicking giant ants off of the counter top from time to time.
"Chelsey, we need to talk." Joshua Jackson crept behind me and carefully brushed the hair off my shoulder, lightly drawing a circle on my skin with his fingers. My skin throbbed where he touched me.
"You have a discoloured mole here, I think maybe you should have it checked out." he whispered. "And I find you so incredibly irresistible when you don't recycle."
"Take me now, Joshua Jackson." I grabbed him by the pants and pulled him in. He breathed heavily with anticipation. I slipped my hand into his pocket and pulled out his car keys. "The walk-in clinic is open until 5."

Chelsey M Syndrome

2012-01-23T08:51:00.000-08:00

I'm pretty sure they should name a social anxiety disorder after me. Maybe call it Chelsey M Syndrome, Chuck Disorder, Chols Complex, Welby Condition, Chelferlane Sickness, Cholo Disease, Chunky Ailment (f u Kevin) or possibly even Chelper Problem. I'd be thrilled with any of these options.

I'm sure you all know and understand social anxiety. Terrible thing it is. For as long as I can remember, I have had social anxiety, though it was much worse when I was a child. My dad would say "Let's order pizza!" and I'd be all like "Hoorah! Pizza!" and then he would say "But you have to order it." Oh God no. You can't possibly be serious. Call them? And speak to them? You have GOTTA BE joking. I'd rather starve.
The rare times I would actually try to attempt to order the pizza, I would get so flustered that I would hang up the phone and cry a little.

"We can go to McDonalds, but you have to order your own." Nope. No f'ing way. I'll just have this glass of water and crusts of bread.

I remember when I was about 5 years old and I wanted to call my neighbour to play but she wasn't home. After several minutes of coaching on how to leave a message on her answering machine from my sister, I finally got the balls to do it.

"Hello Barbara? This is Barbara. UGH!" click.

I think I must have left about 15 messages not cluing in to the fact that they would probably know I called after the first 4 botched messages.

I'm still a mess when it comes to social interactions. If I'm out at the mall or grocery shopping and I see someone I knew in high school (someone I was friends with, even) a lot of the time I will a) pretend my shoe is untied, and I just can't manage to do that sucker up, b) stare the other way like something has really caught my eye, or c) intently read the nutrition facts on a box of crackers I have no intention of buying.
"I'm trying to calculate the percentage of calories from fat. What? I'm only eating things with less than 30% calories from fat!"
Calories, smalories.

When someone very rarely catches me in a good enough mood to say anything, I usually do something really stupid and embarrassing. A guy I knew in high school drives a bus and as I was exiting said bus he said "See ya later Chels." and I in turn, yelled "BYE!"
I immediately turned around and said "I have no idea why I just did that." and walked away.

Maybe I don't so much have social anxiety as much as I dread the awkward conversation. 9 times out of 10 with me, you're going to have an awkward conversation. I'll mostly just stare at you and make weird facial expressions. It's honestly not something I can control.

These days when I have to phone someone, I will rehearse a thousand times over. I'll even pause for laughter at something witty I said. Yeah, that never happens. Instead, my palms get really sweaty, my voice gets caught in my throat and they think I'm rude because they have never spoken to anyone who says "Thanks, bye." so many times in one conversation.

"Hi, may I speak to Chelsey?"
"Speaking."
"Hi, I'm calling from the medical clinic as a reminder about your appointment tomorrow?"
"Thanks, bye."
"...So you'll be there?"
"Yepthanksbye."

How do I fix this? How do I escape this crippling fear of having a simple conversation? I don't have any idea, I'm sure I'd have to speak to someone to find out. Thanks, bye.

"Shit. The phone is ringing. I can't answer it, it's ringing!"

Wanna know how much I hate my cat? This many.

2012-01-20T20:25:00.000-08:00

Question: Louie, why are you such a dick?

10 months old and this asshole has accumulated more hate than any one person can in a lifetime.

What's that? Louie pee'd all over the clothes in the bathroom? And in the bedroom? And in a laundry basket of my clean clothes? And on a box of cheerios? And on my face? And ON MY LIFE? And then he took a shit in front of my bedroom door? And then I stepped in it? And then he ate the plant and threw up all over the place?
"Surely you'll understand, that bath mat looks just like my litter box."
"You mean to tell me that your pillow ISN'T supposed to be shit on?"
"Oh sorry, was this yours? What, you don't like the smell of my piss? Yikes, I guess that's my bad."
"I'm gonna have to plead the fifth, here."

Here's a little anagrammatic poem I wrote just for the occasion;

L- Louie, I hate you.

O- Oh man, I hate you so much.

U- Urine.

I- I hate you.

E- ...I hate you.

This is what I wanted:

This is what I got:

Look at you, your beady little eyes, too close together. Laying around like you don't have a care in the world. Little do you know, as soon as you fall asleep, I'm going to spray you in the face with the "Louie's a dick" water bottle. Not just once. No, no. Each and every time you fall asleep. Me? I don't need sleep. This is more important. You can hide, but I'm going to find you. In the chair, or on the back of the couch, or underneath the kitchen table, or against the wall downstairs, or on the bottom stair where you lay purposely trying to kill me, or in your litter box... Wait, what am I saying? You and I both know that I won't find you in your litter box.

You'll get yours.

Chelsey Sparkle (ne Martin) no longer MIA!

2011-05-13T17:41:00.000-07:00

Hush, I'm here now. This is the part where you rest your head on my bosom, I stroke your hair, and you take in my every smell. Lucky for you, I'm wearing deodorant.

So, how in the H-E-double hockey sticks have you been, my friends? I'll take your silence as a positive response. Me? How have I been? Well. Let me give you a brief run down of the past 2 and a half months in the world of Chelsey Sparkle (ne Martin).

Early March 2011, I moved to exciting Boston, Ontario. Population: 7. And we happen to be 4 of those 7. Home to a church, an elementary school and a general store (which is open until 11 pm, holla!), there's usually a whole mess of nothing afoot. We have been living (myself with no mode of transportation) without telephone, internet and cable. That's right, I'm a certified Mennonite. You know, without any of the manual labour, churning butter or wearing dresses. I'm still a big advocate for pants.
At first it was like "Okay, I'm stuck out in Boston without a car, but let's be honest here. How often did I leave the house anyway, right? Gotta make the best of every situation."
to
"Okay, I'm stuck out in Boston without a car, and I can't watch any tv. But that's alright, I didn't watch much tv before anyway. This will be a good time to catch up on reading."
to
"Okay, I'm stuck out in Boston without a car, I can't watch tv and I have no phone to get ahold of anyone. Not ideal, and I'm starting to get pretty bored."
to
"I'm stuck in lame-o fucking Boston with no car, tv, phone or internet. I might take up bulimia as a hobby."

A few of my favoured activities in my early days of Boston, included staring at the wall, crying, and staring at the wall while crying. On occasion, I would put on Toy Story 3 for background noise, and attempt to put my head through a window based on the fact alone, that I had to watch Toy Story 3 for the six thousand, nine hundred and eighty seventh time. Good movie though.

So, approximately 75 days later, things are definitely looking up. I have channelled all of that negative wall staring energy into more productive things, like doing the dishes once a week, or reading a book I've already read about a dozen times. My tear ducts have seen an improvement, that's for certain.
Why cry, when you can sleep?

You're probably wondering "Jesus H. Christ, Chelsey Sparkle (ne Martin), you've had so much time on your hands, why haven't you been writing up a tropical storm of sorts? And what does the 'H' in 'Jesus H. Christ' stand for?"
The answer to that is easy. It stands for Helen.
I know my writing already comes off as depressing, self loathing, and self deprecating to the max, and that's on a good day when I'm not so depressed and stuck in oblivion that I find myself counting the hair follicles on the back of my hand.
I have zero by the way, because a real lady doesn't have any hair on her hands.
So yes, I was doing some writing. It got a little hard to read between tear drop smudges and big rips in the paper where I decided to jam my pen in and pull.

But I would like you all to rest assured that my funk is now a thing of the past. I was all like... "Hey you funk, get the funk out of here." I would say it was nice knowing you, but let's be honest, it wasn't even!
Here's to positive attitudes, lots of writing and pants!
I look forward to writing to you soon, friends. If you could see my face, you would see that it's a happy one. Or at least that's what it feels like. It might look a little like I don't like your hair cut.

This is my friend Dave. His favourite colour is sienna.

2011-03-01T15:38:00.000-08:00

He's baaaaack

And ready to chomp on your soul. I'm sure most of you remember little Dave People Eater, but for those of you who don't, take a hop, skip and a jump over to http://whatthechell.blogspot.com/2010/11/these-are-daves-i-know-i-know-these-are.html and get better acquainted with the many Daves that I know. Despite the terrifying face and tiny evil idle hands, Dave "Plus I'm hungry for flesh" Pointy Eyebrows, turned out to be not such a bad kid after all.

A while back, I decided it would be fun to interview friends of mine. But then being extremely lazy got in the way, and I put it off for about three months. Like I do. Hey, it's better late than never, isn't it? Get off my case.

Please friends, welcome Dave with open arms.

Dave People Eater

I'm using a sock I just found (a clean sock) to wipe my nose. How do you feel about that?

I find my disgust level is lower than expected. It's there. But it hovers around a 6. I was expecting high 7's, low 8's.

If you could be Indiana Jones, what would be your first order of business?

Get the best Monkey Helper money could buy. Like a Monkey Butler, but with more personal freedom for him. Like he can go out and pick up dames if he wants, but during the day he needs to do my bidding. Step 2: Take out the Nazis.

Very admirable, Dave.

How attractive do you find Harrison Ford?

Han Solo Harrison Ford...9
NOW Harrison Ford....2

What's your favourite flavour of jam?

I know this isn't the question, but marmalade is fucking disgusting and whoever invented it should be put down like a dog with rabies.
Strawlsberry.

Is that a typo, or is that just your favourite kind?

Zero percent typo.

Team Edward or Team Jacob?

Twilight is so gay.

That's all you have to say?

Team Edward, because he's super white like me, and that other guy looks like an Indian.

If you could have a 5 person famous people dinner party, alive or dead, who would be invited?

2Pac...obviously. Albert Einstein, Sigmund Freud, Bill Clinton and Dana White.
Disregard females, acquire currency.

Who did you vote for on the last season of Canadian Idol?

I have no connection with Canadian [Idol] beyond that my sister went when Lionel Ritchie was there and made signs. I have never voted in Canadian Idol. I feel shame.

Would you rather be cheese grated to death, or have your head run over by a roller skate until you die?

That's tough. But fair. Is someone wearing the roller skate or it's just like the roller skate itself? Cheese grating sounds way to horrific for me to be able to do, either way I'm going with the roller skate.

Marry one - Boff one - Kill one - Kate Goslin, Chelsea Clinton, Kathy Bates

Tough. Chelsea Clinton is way less gross then she was as a teenager and she's an earner so I'm gonna marry her. Kate Goslin is a fucking toolbag, but I could hate fuck her something fierce, Kathy Bates was disgusting in her prime and her prime was 30 years ago, so I'm sorry Delores Claiborne but you're getting killed.

One word to describe yourself

Awesome.

One word to describe me

Jaunty.

What would you do if you were at the bar macking on some chick, you go to the bathroom and when you come back, Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino is humping her against the wall?

Try for the Devils 3 Way (2 Dudes \|/ ) For sure. Imagine the story. We'd Eiffel Tower.
___________________________________________________

For all of those who aren't in the know, \|/ are devil horns. I myself was at one point, not in the know. And thus concludes my interview with the wonderful Dave People Eater. I would like to send you off with a few of my personal favourite DPE moments.

"What is IRL?"
"In Real Life. We just went through this. You said you were going to work on your internetting. You clearly didn't."

"My mom just brought me groceries because she heard I was sick. This included juice boxes, beef broth, blueberries and C Plus pop because it's got 25% fruit juice. The combination of sweetness and ignorance washes over me like a wave."

Encouraging me to get my blog out there...

"You have to be out there, adding links to every website.
Going on forums, and adding links.
reddit.com
fark.com
digg.com
And you need to do this every single day.
Enter writing contests.
Take nudes.
Send them to me.
Links.
All over the world.
Find other blogs.
Don't read them.
Place a link."

Me + You = Not friends unless I can bully you

2011-02-23T15:29:00.000-08:00

Today is "Stop bullying day" or some shit along those lines. Everyone wears a pink shirt to support anti-bullying. Yeah. That's cool. If you're a chick. If I see a man wearing a pink anti-bullying shirt, I'm going to bully him.

I made a joke about bullying children on a certain social network that shalt not be named, and a woman got on the defense because she has children who are bullied. Yes, maybe the joke was in poor taste. Let's face it, most of my jokes are in poor taste. Does it make them any less funny? GOD no. It makes them funnier.

Listen here, Lady. I'm going to bully you if you don't get off my case.

I was bullied in school. Everyone was bullied in school. I'm not advocating bullying and I know there are terrible things happening (kids committing suicide, setting schools ablaze with gun fire, etc) but come on. Just let me make the jokes I want to make. I don't tell you not to make the crappy knock knock jokes you probably make. I wouldn't do that, because I'm just such a nice person.

Everyone needs to quit being so sensitive. I'll call you fat, you'll say my eyes are too far apart, we'll have a good chuckle, and then we'll call it a day. How does that sound, Nancy?
Either you agree with me, or you're too scared to say anything because you're living in crippling fear of me bullying you. Both completely acceptable answers.

You. Your panties. Untwist them. Thank you.

Wanna know how much I love you? This many.

2011-02-14T14:06:00.000-08:00

Valentine's Day is for lovers and fools alike. A day to throw caution to the wind and profess your love to the one you adore. Exchanges of sweets, doilie covered cards and french kisses. These things are wonderful, aren't they? But, like most things, there's a catch. Sure, these things are wonderful, but wonderful to whom? Me? Well, this year I'm pretty impartial. Surprising, I know. When there's something to be hated, I usually jump on the bandwagon pretty quickly. Being a neutral party, I've decided to analyze the situation they call "Saint Valentine".

Again, I myself am not pro-Valentine's Day, nor am I bitter about it either. I'm not the most romantic gal in the world, so even if I was head-over-heels in love with my soul mate, I still probably wouldn't be pro-Valentine's Day. But don't worry, I'm not. Cupid had more important things to do like fundraising for MS and fixing his mother's garbage disposal. No worries, Cupid. Catchya next year maybe?

Now, I was racking my brain trying to figure out what to get you. You mean a lot to me, having been there for me these past few months. Reading my ridiculous ramblings and still liking me for it. So I took a trip to Walmart and this just jumped out at me...

And then I thought, "If one is this awesome... What would happen if..."

"...I got you a whole bunch?"

Maybe you'll appreciate (in unison) 12 dancing and singing Valentine's Day dogs more than Walmart employees do.

After much deliberation, I decided against the dogs and settled on something everyone can enjoy. A homemade, straight from the heart, construction paper Valentine.

You're welcome.

Now, whether you're happy in a relationship, happy alone, or miserable in either situation, I wish you a happy day.

HEART CHELS! XOXO

Welcome to Gingertown

2011-01-26T18:05:00.000-08:00

My name is Chelsey, and I am a proud Ginger. You'd think I wouldn't toss around this highly offensive term, but it is now a word we use affectionately between Gingers. Kind of like the "N" word for black people.
Thanks for stopping by, but remember, don't get too comfortable because this is a Ginger only zone.

While you're here, I'd like to give you a brief history on Gingertown. Get you a little more acquainted. This is all fact.

The year was 1965 and Ginger bullying was at an all time high. Tired of roundhouse kicking everyone in the face, morning, noon and night, Chuck Norris decided something had to give. But what?
One night he settled into his rocking chair made of cobras, grabbed the sand paper blanket he's had since he was a tot and munched on his favourite snack of nails and needles. While channel surfing from 2-5 over and over again, he came across this sad looking Ginger boy on the television.
"3 year old Axl Rose, fetch me the telephone. I have to make an important telephone call to Hollywood."
You might think it's strange that Chuck Norris' slave child was Axl Rose. I think so too.

A week passed, and a small Ginger boy knock came at Chuck's front door. Big eared, freckle faced Ron Howard stood in the door way. Eyes wide with a toothy grin and his hand out stretched. "We have a lot of important work to do, friend."

Thus, the original Ginger alliance was formed. Chuck and Ron brainstormed into the wee hours of the morning. "What can we do to make people accept us for who we are, not for what colour our hair is?" Ron asked.
"There's nothing we can do." Chuck answered. "Everyone hates us. But we can start a new civilization, all our own. We can call it Gingertown."
Chuck and Ron super Ginger high fived and Axl had a turd in his diaper.
"Change my diaper, pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pleeeeeaaase? Pleeeeaaase?"

So there you have it, the origin of Gingertown. We are sitting at a cool 140, 000, 000 Gingers world wide, with a Gingertown population of about 500, 000. That's about the size of Hamilton, Ontario.

Old Papa Chuck is still active in the crimson community, participating in things like potato sack races and policing the entire city. You don't get thrown in jail here, you get a swift kick in the nuts. But by Chuck's standards, you're only going to learn your lesson if the end result is your testicles in your mouth. Crime is at an all time low.

I don't know why I associate bad eye sight with red hair. Oh wait, yes I do.

I was elected mayor of Gingertown on January 21, 2011. What a joyous occasion that was. Molly Ringwald danced barefoot doing ribbon gymnastics, while Tiffany and Reba McEntire sang their own rendition of "Red red wine". Danny Bonaduce and Lindsey Lohan got drunk on more than just the lyrics, and ended up making public whoopee. Yes, it was definitely as gross as it sounds. Chuck gave them both a knee to the fire crotch.

We like things simple here in Gingertown. We enjoy collecting glass figurines of all types, shapes and sizes. Cats, dolphins, salt and pepper shakers, dragons, roosters, people dancing ballet, unicorns, etc. You name it, chances are, we collect it.

For the most part, our town is virtually the same as yours, with some small differences. Our grocery stores sell hot dogs in packs of 12 as per usual, but hot dog buns also come in packs of 12. Barbecues go a little smoother here. Instead of the many possible choices of orange juice that you have, we have one. Nothing but pulp. The general consensus shows that the favoured food of Gingers is saltine crackers topped with ketchup and processed cheese slices. Fashion is a bit behind, but it's hardly noticable. Right now, the biggest trend among the ladies is high waisted jean shorts that go to your knee. You know, the kind that make your butt look about two feet long. And bandanas. We still think those are cool.

One of the downsides of living in Gingertown and being of Flaming decent is, we have a severe (almost critical) shortage of One A Day Soul Supplement pills. But I think I'm going to have a chat with the pharmaceutical company we deal with, because they taste an awful lot like brown sugar mixed with cod liver oil. I think they might be yanking my chain.
We live in a dome because the sun burns our skin and nobody likes us very much, but the overall quality of life is pretty good.
So if you like orange juice with nothing but pulp, bandanas and having no one like you, join us. Seriously. We need more friends.

Hey, at least I'm not bitter

2011-01-20T00:19:00.000-08:00

To all of the people with their shit together, (ie. school, relationships, jobs, marriage, home ownership, children, you get up before noon) congratulations! On opposite day. Go fuck yourselves, is what I really meant. I'm a realist. I've accepted the fact that I'm not going to find the perfect job, or marry my best friend and soul mate. Chances are slim to none on having a big house with a nice lawn and a moron shaggy dog named Artie, chasing after his ass. I probably won't have 2.5 wonderfully spoken children, or go to an evening yoga class with the rest of the modern working mothers in my neighborhood. I won't drive a hybrid, be a part of a book club, or watch Sunday night HBO with my white collared husband.

What's in the cards for me, you ask? Well, I'm just ball parking here, but I have a feeling it's going to be something along the lines of a dingy apartment, furnished with milk crates, my grandma's old tv with a line through the top of the picture, a twin mattress, plastic forks, and not enough toilet paper. I'll start internet dating, meeting guys who are 40 years old, balding, who take care of their elderly mothers. I'll eat copious amounts of Chinese food and my fridge will be 90% condiments and vinegar packets. 9 times out of 10, my fortune cookie will tell me to “Lighten up, and enjoy life.” Dear fortune cookie; don't tell me my fucking business, is what I'll say. My cat Little Jerry Seinfeld with be the light of my life.

I'll turn 30, maybe have a one night stand and get promoted to battering onion rings. I'll upgrade my tv box with the red digits, and grandma tv with the pull knob, to a 28 incher from Cash Converters. Sans line through the top of the picture. All in all, it'll be a good year for me. I'll take up scrapbooking and maybe jogging for a couple weeks, but then I'll remember how much I hate people who scrapbook, and how I especially hate running.

I'll run into you at the grocery store while buying cat food and one ply toilet paper, your recyclable bags in hand. Your t-shirt will have a witty comic about your lack of a carbon foot print and you'll try to catch up on the last 6 years. The “Old ball and chain” (you'll laugh) is doing well, your bilingual 2.5 children are growing like weeds, little Jimmy just got a medal for track and field, and the new job is great! Company car and everything. You'll ask me what I've been up to, all this time. Chances are, I'll call you a hippie fag, poke a hole in your bag of milk and then yell “MARTIN RULES! Medal THIS, Jimmy!” and I will grab my crotch. I'm hoping they will have invented rocket skates by then, so I can make a quick getaway. If not, I'll rip open a bag of peas and throw them on the ground, in hopes you will slip on them like a Scoobie Doo cartoon. If there is any poetic justice in this world, you will.

I will be living proof that God has a sense of humour. But hey, at least I'm not bitter.

Despite popular belief, a contest is for entering. Dicks.

2011-01-18T11:03:00.000-08:00

So, since you people suck major testicles at life, the winner and only fucking entry, is Alex! Thank you Alex, for being so wonderful and not as ball sucky as everyone else.

Here's a little about Alex:

Alex, born Alex Rodriguez Pasquel on June 9th, in the smallest town in the world called Hum, located in the central part of Istria, Northwest Croatia. Population: 23. At 14, Alex decided he no longer wanted to be a goat farmer with parents Lynn and Richard, so he opted for a good education. So he pillaged the small town of Hum, collecting every kuna (Croatian currency) and putting it in his travel to Canada jar. His travel to Canada jar being the skull of the last guy who told him he wasn't allowed to steal his kunas. So, he raped and pillaged for about 6 years, earning the name "Alex the raper and pillager". Sure enough, his perseverance paid off, and by 20 he finally arrived at his long sought after destination; The Great White North. But then he said "Screw education." and decided to work at a grocery store.
You're my boy, Alex. Without further adieu, Alex's funnies...

"Saying cheers instead of thanks is for retards and British people"

Fads piss me off. I hate the double down, I hate Suzanne Somers thighs, and I hated when people felt the need to call everyone "Boss" for 14 months of time. Unfortunately, the "boss" nonsense has toned itself down, but I still hear people using "cheers" instead of thanks. It makes no sense, it sounds retarded, and it really pisses me off.

When you are at the bar, drunk off your ass and you order another pitcher of Labatt fifty between incoherent pick up attempts of the waitress, you can let it slide when she brings the beer, likely infiltrated with three stds and six CCs of urine, and says "cheers". Alcohol is involved, so cheers makes sense.

Likewise when you are in Easter Gwillumburyfordshireton, England, and the jolly ol bar keep gives you some deep fried pig ears and a warm beer, and says "cheers" when you pay him, it is acceptable. Food is involved, alcohol, albeit poorly climately controlled, is involved, and you're in fucking Britain.

However. When you are in Brantford Ontario, and someone holds the door open for you, you do NOT say cheers. If I hold the door open for you, and you say cheers, you have 3.7 seconds to hand me a beer, or I will pick your ass up, place you back outside of the establishment, and reslam the door in your face.

Fads piss me off, and word-fads are the gnarly tentacled pude covered grandmothers of all fads. I fucking hate them. I would humbly plead that all people please end the cheers fad. It would make 2011 the most amazing year by having the double whammy of losing an unnecessary word-fad, as well as hopefully, and I pray to shit I don't jinx it, the first calendar year in almost a decade where I won't have to hear another shitty song by fucking Fallout Boy. Fat guys with lesbian haircuts hidden under military hats make me vomit fire.

Thanks for reading,

Horace G Rockafeller,

Cheers.

Aw fuck, delete that. My backspace button is broken or I'd do myself.
God dammit. If you see me running toward you with a pipe in the next 16 hours, it is because I'm banking on your having not read this yet, and I can knock you out and steal your computer, again banking on you still being logged into facebook, so I can delete this message and resend it Cheers-free.

Alex, you are delightful. Delightful, and you smell nice. If, like me, you would like to read more of Alex Rodriguez Pasquel's quirky humour, shoot over to Uncle Chunkle's Words of Wisdom http://chunkle.blogspot.com/

Sparkle Out.

"Learn to shave your legs for yourself" The female equivalent of "Be your own man"

2011-01-10T23:36:00.000-08:00

I recognize that the majority of my readers are of the male persuasion, so instead of reading about lady problems and periods (Or Chuck Sauce as I like to write down on my Chuck Norris calendar), you can go ahead and scroll down and read the alternate I have prepared for my hairier, thicker brow'd friends. So, what do you say we crack a beer, scratch our balls (I'll substitute with scratchin' my cleav) and fart. All in unison, maybe the world will blow up.

Single now for almost a year and for the first time since I was 15, it's been quite the ride. You get so used to doing things for a joint cause that once that's over, you're left hanging. Like catching your belt loop on a nail, dangling 2 inches from the ground. You know you want to get down, and for once in your life, you actually wish your jeans would just give up and rip. Who reinforces their fucking belt loops, anyways? You're so close that your toes are scraping the ground. Getting down seems easy enough. But how does one unhook their belt loop from the nail of limbo?

You might have to scrap some of the things that you thought you knew about yourself. Chelsey, meet Chelsey. She likes cartoons, your mom jokes, pina coladas, and getting caught in the rain.
Hey, I had no idea that I liked pina coladas. This makes me happy to be me.
See? I told you it works.
It also helps to laugh a lot, love your friends a lot, dance a lot, sing a lot, watch movies by yourself a lot, drink a lot, throw up a lot, high five a lot, low five some (I wouldn't recommend going too crazy with those) and I promise, slowly but surely, that pesky little 'self loathing because you're single' problem will dissipate.

Here's our biggest problem. There are 3 instances why most women shave their legs.
1. It's summer, there might be men around, and we plan to wear shorts.
2. There's a special occasion, there might be men around, and we plan to wear a dress.
3. There might be men around and there is a possibility of getting up to some frisky business.
If none of these things are going on in our lives, and there aren't any prospects of a member of the opposite sex catching a glimpse, chances are we won't do it.

Would you like to know the real secret to being happy with yourself, by yourself? You have to shave your legs for yourself. I know we've all had dry spells which of course are depressing. But doesn't it make it even more depressing when you lift up your pant leg and you look like you've gone straight up Amazon? God forbid we should look unappealing to a man (Or woman, I know I don't seem lesbian friendly, but I am) so why is it okay to knowingly look and feel sub par for ourselves? Make yourself happy, and the rest will all fall into place, eventually.

Be your own man, ladies. And just remember; Shave your legs for yourself.

POUR HOMME

Boobs, ass, beer. Burp, fishing and wet tshirt contests! Titties, greasy food, hair in the sink? Mud wrestling... sex. Cigars and football. And I said nacho cheese! Pornography, changing channels, Chatelaine. Oh wait, that's not right. I meant Hustler. Mike "The Situation" Sorrentino! Masturbation? Well, that's just sports. Sports and dutch ovens. Bacon wrapped boobies. Can I get an amen?

Please God, if you love me, make life more like Footloose

2011-01-06T23:49:00.000-08:00

If I had one wish, it would be for real life to be like Glee. Or maybe Footloose. What I wouldn't give to sing my problems at someone (“What the hell am I doing drinking in LA at twenty-si-hiiix”) or to dance out my frustrations in an old warehouse with a series of pelvic thrusts, shoulder rolls and no handed cartwheels; all while cursing John Lithgow's name. Not saying I couldn't actually do these things. But, let's face it. If you saw me gaying around a warehouse like Kevin Pigface, singing Bran Van 3000, wouldn't you question my sanity? Or at the very least, my song choice?

Real life sucks. As I grow older, I realize this. A little more each day. If a certain “buddy” who resides upstairs would like to to make it up to me, I would settle for a studio audience. A laugh track is as little as I would accept. He can be a real stickler sometimes. Just think, in my new and improved life, you make a funny, everyone laughs. You meet some crazy old guy who thinks dancing is the devil, and you bang his daughter. Is that how Footloose goes? I don't know, I've never actually seen the whole thing. On account of it being extremely gay. Anyway, after an hour and a half, tops, everything will have worked itself out. You will probably have gained a few friends, some life experience, and most importantly, you'll have some sweet dance moves under your belt. Seriously. Jason Derulo would be jealous. But don't worry, he's not invited.

The more I write and brainstorm about my new and improved life, the more I'm thinking of throwing caution to the wind and starting up a new world. A new world where if you have a problem, you don't have to stab each other, all you have to do is have a rap or singing battle. A new world, where when you're out at the bar and your girlfriend dumps you, when you start to sing “Love Hurts” by Nazareth, no one will look at you weird. In fact, everyone will know all of the words. And surprise surprise, it's choreographed! Everything will move in slow motion, there might possibly be a glitter explosion, and like I said, everything will work out just fine. Your now ex-girlfriend will later get hit by a car.

It will be called “Life: The Chelsey Edition”. I'll make flyers with my phone number on the tabs. If you see one on a telephone pole or at your local laundromat, make sure you snag yourself a tab. Spaces are limited.

Well friends, I'm late for a pep rally at East High. My sometime boyfriend Zac Efron and I have plans to hold hands and sing to each other while committing hate crimes. That school is way too PC if you ask me. Hey, it's my world, mother fuckers. You don't get to ask questions.

So, you guys like contests?

2011-01-03T16:40:00.000-08:00

I know some of you have some really funny stuff to say, and I'm almost positive the rest of you think you have funny stuff to say. In an effort to get more readers and followers, I would like to start a contest. Write and send me something you think will make people laugh. If I think it's good, not only will I publish what you've written, I will also write about you. Chances are, I will make something up, like you're a prostitute, drug trafficker, tranny, etc. There is one catch. You must sign up to gmail and become one of my followers. I only have 4. I look like a fucking tool box. So get to writing, my friends. Don't forget, if you submit something to me and you have not become one of my followers, you are disqualified! That's a lie, I'd just be all like... "Follow me, dick." Racist jokes and swears welcome. Contest closes Friday, January 14^th .

Send to whatthechell@gmail.com

New Year's Resolutions are for suckers and Mexican people

2011-01-01T12:28:00.000-08:00

Prior to 2011, I had the best intentions of making and keeping my New Year's Resolutions. They were to quit smoking, take my writing more seriously and to be an all around nicer person. But then I had a shitty night, so that went out the fucking window. I thoroughly believe that it is completely justified to vito your resolutions after a bush league New Years. In fact, I'm going to do the opposite, just to spite you, Baby New Year. You can suck it.

I no longer want a writing career, and I'm going to smoke 2 packs of cigarettes a day. I'll call your mom a whore, and throw little balls of tin foil at you. I'll aim for your mouth. The balls of tin foil will be from all the Hershey's kisses I will eat. The same Hershey's kisses that I have no intention of sharing with you. Then maybe next year, Baby New Year will think twice about hasslin' me.

Okay, so maybe none of that stuff is true. A tad fabricated. I do plan to put my nose to the grind, and hopefully get published at some point in 2011. If I don't, that's cool too. I'll just have to call your mom a whore AND egg your house. I have no qualms with that. I also plan to quit smoking. Not today, but I will. And if I don't, it's okay. I'll just call your mom a whore and egg your house. Still no qualms. But this whole being nice crap? I sincerely don't think I have it in me. There is literally the smallest fraction of niceness imaginable, in my genetic makeup. You might be able to tell on account of me wanting to call your mom a whore and egg your house. Nope. No qualms here.

Exhibit A: I was in the middle of a conversation last night, and a guy that I don't really like (we'll call him Fred Savage) yells “CHELSEY? CHELSEY MARTIN? IS THAT YOU? IT'S ME! FRED SAVAGE!”

So, I do the old 3 finger wave and try to continue on with my story. His friend sitting next to him (we'll call him the guy who looks like a frog, whom I've met a handful of times over the years) interrupts again, and says “And I'm the guy who looks like a frog! I don't know if we've ever met.”

I looked him square in the face and said “Nope.” And turned in the opposite direction.

Exhibit B: As it just so happens, I had my top of the line, state of the art, brand spankin' new Justin Bieber microphone in my back pocket. (Don't make fun of me, we're in love.) So, as the night progressed, I decided to practice my interviewing skills. How else am I going to hone my craft? I spotted a fella who looked very eager to be interviewed by yours truly. I walked up and said “So, you look like you belong on Jersey Shore. How do you feel about that?” Slightly taken aback, he asked why. I proceeded to tell him “You have a spray on tan, you're wearing a V neck t-shirt, and your hair might be 3 inches tall. How do you feel about that?”

Needless to say, the interview was over.

So, long story short, (or was that short story, long?) I just feel like being nice this year isn't going to work out. I have a lot on my plate. Lives to save, homework to do, hogs to feed, dishes to wash, periods to have, funny stuff to say, mirrors to look into... All in all, it's just not a good time for me. Maybe next year. Or maybe not. But it's okay, I'll just call your mom a whore and egg your house.

Happy 2011!

Reach for the Stars. No, not those ones. These ones down here.

2010-12-28T23:27:00.000-08:00

They say if you work really hard at something, and want it badly enough, you can achieve anything you put your mind to. Do I ever have a fucking bone to pick with that asshole. Seriously, if I wasn't wrapped up so tight and cozy in my Snuggie right now, he'd have a flaming bag of dog shit on his door step. I'm pretty sure Wikipedia has his address. I'd probably put a flaming bag of shit on the door step of the guy who invented Snuggies too, just for good measure. What a stupid invention that was. Now, a remote boat on the other hand, that's a different story. That guy; now that guy would get a bag of kittens on his door step. Kittens playing with yarn, all soft and fluffy, bright blue eyed, and on fire.

Do “they” think if I worked really hard, I could be an astronaut? No, “they”, I could not. There are multiple cons to being an astronaut. First, I get car sick. And I have a small hunch that it might be a little more intense when going into space. Second, the space suit would definitely not flatter my figure. And white just really isn't my colour. It makes me look washed out, ya know? And third, most importantly, I would complain about the food in tubes and to be honest, I'm just really not a big fan of Tang. So “they”; for your information, I could NOT be an astronaut.

No matter how hard I try, I cannot become the following things:

- a successful black man (I am not black, nor am I a man)

- a pro basketball player (I am not black, nor am I a man)

- Oprah's best friend (I am not black, nor am I a lesbian)

- French (I'm not actually trying to become French. Let's face it, even the French don't want to be French.)

- less offensive (for obvious reasons)

- the 4^th member of Wilson Phillips (when I heard they were back together, I sent in my audition tape. No word yet. It doesn't feel promising.)

- smart (Wait... What were we talking about? You're making fun of me, aren't you?)

- addicted to heroin (I haven't actually tried that before, but I think I could give it the old college try.)

When I was a kid, instead of all of this 'reach for the stars' bull log, I wish someone was straight up with me and said "Listen Chels. You are off the wall strange, you make people uncomfortable with the offbeat things you say, you're 10 years old and you can't figure out how to multiply and for the love of God, you wear a fucking turtleneck every day of your life." Maybe not Prime Minister material.

I was thinking of something more along the lines of a Walmart greeter, or scooping ice cream at Dairy Delite. Oh, nope, bees. I can't deal with bees. I guess we can cross that off the list too. Goddammit, “they”. If I ever get a hold of this “they” character, not only will he have poop on his door step, but I will also drink the rest of his milk.

I just sang "Christmas is sleigh bells, that just can't go to sleep."

2010-12-18T15:47:00.000-08:00

Merry Christmas friends! What a wonderful time of year, isn't it? I love everything about it, except snow, slush, wet, cold, malls, buying Christmas presents, wrapping Christmas presents, giving away Christmas presents, U2 Christmas songs, the colour red, and crippling loneliness and depression. Wait, what?

I know I said I don't like giving Christmas presents, but if there's one thing I do enjoy, it's receiving them. If you are drawing a blank for gift ideas for yours truly, here are some things on my wish list.
- rocket powered shoes for getting places faster
- Willow Smith's new album to listen to while I'm getting places faster
- deodorant so I don't smell when I get there
- track ball to play with my friends
- to be bit by a radio active spider. But the kind that give you super powers, not brain tumours.

As your Christmas present, I would like to tell all of you individually, a few things that make me love you. Key words: I would like to. I really would. But as it so happens, not only do I not love most of you, but I try not to make a habit of saying nice things to people.
But, tis the season to not be an asshole and junk, so here is a handful of the most notable:

Chuck Norris; You have taught me everything I know about roundhouse kicks, kicking through wind shields, and owning facial hair. I wouldn't be the same without you. Chuck Norris is in fact, the real Slim Shady.

Jesus; for all that cool stuff you did. Holla at a Caucasian.

Older Sister Number One; I love you because you made 6 year old me sing the man parts in Phantom of the Opera. And for setting up this here blog for me. If it weren't for you, me poisoning everyones mind would not be at all possible. Thanks big sister.

OIder Sister Number Two; I love you because you shot a snot rocket that stretched about two feet, while we were doing the dishes. I also love you because we played hair ball-ceiling fan-volley ball.

Papa Dunny; I love you because you go out to buy hot dogs, come home, and realize that you forgot to buy hot dogs. I also love the way you order Chinese food in a Chinese accent. "Numbuh wohhhn, chicken fly lice." I'm sure we ate their spit on numerous occasions. Oh and that first belch in the morning to alert the world that you are awake. That really pulls the old heart strings.

Best friend; I love the way you never know any of the words but you still sing. And your superior one toned whistling skills. You are the Chuck D to my Flava Flav.

The cast of Jersey Shore; just for being you.

Carlos Dragon; for believing that I have Justin Bieber on my facebook. "We totally facebook chat like every day."

And last but certainly not least, Myself; I love myself because I walk into walls, spill my food and drinks all over myself and everything around me, lose my train of thought mid-joke (my native name when I was a kid was "One who can't tell a joke"), say off beat things that make conversations awkward, my wonderful way with words (I am a word-smith, self proclaimed) and how I look exactly like Kim Kardashian (also self proclaimed). I am a self proclaimed Proclaimer.

I'm on my weeeee...

I apologize if you did not make the short list, no hard feelings, I'm just not very nice. Leave your name in a comment, and I'll be sure to tell you why I love you. Or like you. Or can stand you.

Merry Christmas fuckers

Memories, all alone in the moon light... fla fla fluh fluh fluh flooo flah... I don't know the rest of the worrrds (arm stretched out really far)

2010-11-22T22:27:00.000-08:00

So, I was doing some 'ol closet cleaning tonight at Chez Donnie, ("Move your stuff oouuuut, I want to use that room for an offiiiiice, everything I say is whineyyyy." Suck it, Donnie.) and I found some really awesome stuff. Get ready for a...

BLAST FROM THE PAST... PAST... PAST... PAST... PAST

"Roses are Red,
Violets are Blue,
I am good looking,
and so are you."

This here is my very first love letter from a Mr Derek "I have a mushroom cut and I'm a cool guy from 2 doors down that you think is cute and you look really cool cause I'm two years older than you and I like you" Whatever his last name was.

Derek had a mushroom cut. And he was a cool guy who lived two doors down from me. I thought he was cute, and it made me look really cool that he liked me, cause he was 2 years older. Is there a fucking echo in here?

This is Ray. Ray has been on a crash diet as you can see, and he has decided that he is just too too too thin for his own good. His friend said earlier in the day that his head to body ratio was that of an orange on a toothpick. So Ray is going to walk down the stairs and use the door at the bottom to find some food.

See Ray walk down the stairs. But oops, he looks like he might be losing his balance. 'Darn those crash diets, they have caused my head to be too heavy like one of those somersault dolls, and now I'm losing my balance down the stairs!' thought Ray.

See Ray's abnormally large head plunging toward the bottom of the stairs. 'Trying to be thin to fit into today's "norm" could have potentially ruined my life! Why does society have to decide what I should look like? Curse you, society!' thought Ray.

See Ray's giant bean connect with the stairs. 'That hurt more than the one time I got bit by a rabid squirrel and had to have that long series of rabies vaccines! Or the time my sister pulled out my leg hair!' thought Ray.

See Ray's head bustin' up those stairs like they owe 6 books and a buck fifty to the public library. 'Oh no you di-int!' thought Ray's head. Ray's brain is currently unconscious.

See Ray's dad's complete lack of regard for Ray's unconscious brain, or the fact that Ray's concrete noggin be smackin' up some stairs like them's be sleazy bitches. "The stairs!" Ray's dad yells. But what we don't realize is that he is very fatigued, for he is ailed with the same self imagine problems as Ray, and has also been crash dieting. Had he been a bit more aware, he probably would have been concerned for his son's well being. But I don't know for sure. Ray is kind of a dick.

Ode to Papa

2010-11-22T11:39:00.000-08:00

Papa M at my sister's semi formal birthday bash

Papa Martin was born in nineteen number number in Superman's Fortress of Solitude to proud parents Grandma Sweet Lady and Grandpa Pop his dentures out at children. Born Dunnie Dunn Maria Martin, 16lbs 4oz, 147cm long, Daddio was the youngest of 5 kids, with a 17 year age gap between him and the oldest. So, in true youngest child fashion, my dad was the epitome of a little shit. If being an annoying kid was an Olympic sport, my dad would have brought home the gold. What can I say, I learned from the best.

Annoying his 3 older sisters was a game to my dad. He would do anything and everything he could think of just to chap their asses.
"Don, come help with the dishes." "Okay, but I'm only going to dry ONE fork, and ONE plate."
To this date, if he's feeling like a little shit, he'll annoy the crap right out of you. "Dad, go back a channel. I want to see that." "Oh, you mean this one?" And he goes up a channel.
"Dad, my hands are full, can you please help me carry this?"
Completely straight faced he will reply "You're interrupting my chips."
It makes my blood pressure sky rocket.

As I said before, Papa M likes to have himself a few rye and diet gingers, smoke his metal pipes and listen to blaring music until 4 o'clock in the morning. On a Tuesday. He will say to me "I'm going down memory lane, and YOU'RE coming with me." I pretend like I hate it, but going down memory lane with my dad is pretty much my favourite activity. We'll listen to RUSH and he'll tell me about how he was 17 when he first saw them on some terrible Canadian variety show/battle of the bands. He would smoke mass amounts of ganj, put on the head phones, and listen to 2112 and be taken on a musical journey. I've heard all of these stories countless times, but I'll never get tired of listening to them.

I didn't get to know my dad until I was turning 9 years old. I had a strange affliction toward torturing cats. I always thought it was kind of strange of course, until I saw him interact with a cat. Another instance of learning from the best.
If you leave my dad with your cat, chances are pretty good that he will do at least one of the following things:

play your cat like an accordion
make your cat look like it's running really fast
make your cat play air drums
make your cat play air guitar
wrap your cat in a blanket for 45 minutes
wear your cat as a scarf

It is ingrained in my DNA that I do the same. I just can't help myself. Like when you see a kitten and it's so cute that you just want to stick it's whole head in your mouth. What, you don't do that? Ha ha... I mean... I don't do that either. That would just be weird. Right?

I believe my dad to be one of the funniest people I have ever or will ever come into contact with. I'm a big fan of the phrases "Say whaaaaat?" and "Oh snap!" so my dad the cool guy, hip to all of the trends, looked at me one day and yelled out "Saaaaay what, su-nap!" I lizzed my pants for a solid 15 minutes. (Lizzing is laughing and wizzing combined.)

Some of the funniest moments I've had in the company of Dunnie Dunn:

In the parking lot of Dairy West, driving 8km/hr, windows down, in front of 15 or so people.
"Hey Dad, can we go to Dairy Delite?"
"No, but we can go to DAIRY WEST! WOOOOHOOOOOO!" at the top of his lungs. Of course everyone was staring at him, thinking he's some sort of handi-capable, but he just acted like nothing happened and instead looked at them like they were the stupid ones.

I had a stain on my shirt and I said "Hey Dad, can you shout this out?" And he said "Sure. GET OUT!"

I saw the movie Powder with my dad, and he thought it was sheer genius that every time someone yelled "Powder!" in the movie, he would yell out "Toooaaassst Maaaaaan!"

"Chinese isn't a real language. They just talk like that in front of us. And then when we're not around, they speak English."

Hip to new music trends, he likes to sing; "If you wanna be my lover, you've gotta be my friender." or "I'm still Jenny from the block BEEP BEEP. Used to have a little, now I have a lot BOOP BOOP."

Likes: Cartoons, video games, breakfast foods, smokin' dope, pajamas, saying "High five!" like Borat, slappin' the bass, being in a band called 'The Bumpin' Uglies' (ew), eating 2 of the 4 sticks of a KitKat bar, buying presents at the As Seen on TV store (neon pendulum clocks, giant sneaker slippers, dolphin mobiles), making a face and pointing in photos to make it look like he's saying something interesting, naming his cat Mrs Bigglesworth, and pretending to be a french rapper.

"Hmm yes, I concur."

Dislikes: When I use too much ketchup "You did that on purpose didn't you. You're trying to eat allllll the ketchup." "Yes Dad, I'm trying to eat all of your no name ketchup. You figured out my master plan.", when I don't put the lid back on the toothpaste, bananas, ugly people, Corner Gas, when people say "supposibly" or "7am in the morning", and the girl's voice on the Brantford radio station. It drives him absolutely nuts, but he still insists on listening to it. "I wish that she would just shut the hell up."
I wish that he would just change the frigging station.

These are the Daves I know I know, these are the Daves I know

2010-11-14T22:35:00.000-08:00

Dave's head was baked in a muffin tray.

It was this photo alone that inspired me to write this ugly kid blog. To all of the people who claim that "I don't have any bad childhood photos. I was just so cute." you can suck my ass. Give me a half an hour at your mom's house and I'm sure I could prove you wrong and rustle up some sort of boy in drag photo or vagina shot. We all have them, and the sooner you embrace the fact that, you too, were probably an ugly kid, the better off we'll all be. I'll have it known that if you weren't an ugly kid, you are no longer my friend.

Let's get down to business, shall we?

From one to ten on the weird kid crapping in her pants scale, this is a hard ten. Poor Dave mistook "Alright kid, smile." for "Alright kid, void your bowels." Common mistake, we can't blame her. Just the other day someone said to me "My favourite colour is rainbow." and I punched them in the shirt because I thought they said that I had a big adams apple.

I truly believe that in the spirit of the bowl cut, Dave's mom decided to try out the muffin tray. And I have one word for it. Success! I plan to rock this style for my wedding. Not that I plan to be married anytime soon. Nor do I even have any prospects, for that matter. Hey, a girl can dream. Y'ah don't rain on my parade. You'll ruin my floats.

I am awarding 10 bonus points to Dave Penis Head for her fantastic turtle neck bought from Northern Getaway. You truly are the poster child for ugly childhood photos. And for that, I thank you. Let's give it up for PhDave.

Dave Christmas Broach
...Or is that food?

See Dave's extra chromosome.

There are so many things wrong with this photo. Despite what I may look like, I am not actually mentally handicapped. In fact, some might call me a genius. It doesn't matter who, okay, people say that. Yes it still counts if it's my dad.

Aside from the lazy eyes and hair crusted to my face in what I'm sure is probably ketchup, I think Dave Christmas Broach is pretty cute in a put me out of my misery kind of way.

"Hey mom, check out how cute I look. Don't you think I look cute?"
"No, Dave."

Dave is hungry for a Baby Ruth.

Dave is about to eat your soul.

No, this is not the kid from the Omen. Trust me, I checked.

I don't even know where to start. Everything about this picture is absolutely terrifying. If this was my child, I would probably take him "out for ice cream" and then leave him in the woods. What? I'd leave him with a pack of wieners and a book of crossword puzzles. I'm not a complete monster, people.

I'm going to give you the back story on Dave People Eater. He was tragically struck and killed by a truck. His father, overwhelmed with grief, decided to bury little Dave Monster Face in the near by pet cemetery. Even though Father Monster Face knew that his son would come back from the dead as an evil Monster Face, he still did it anyway. Way to be, Papa MF. Little Dave's hobbies include having glowing yellow eyes, hanging out with his bestfriend Black Kitty Monster Face, stabbing people with a scalpel and freaking me the fuck out.

Seriously, are his teeth filed into points? This shits gonna give me nightmares.

Dave Laser beam

Do you think someone was jingling keys to get his attention?

Let's first take a look at the sweater. Are those Easter eggs? Or are they mountains? Whatever it is, it's a party in the part of my brain that controls colour. You know, near the back, behind and below your temples. Okay, so I copied that part from a Harvard website. Who actually knows stuff like that? But all the same, it's a kegger filled with under aged girls in my bean. And the matching turtleneck, Dave Laser beam, takes the cake.

Moving on to the hair. Looks like someone didn't go forward in time to read my blog on why sticking tweezers in a power outlet is not good for your health, nor hair. Please note, a rat tail does exist back there. But unfortunately we are not lucky enough to witness that today. I wonder if it's braided? Or is it au naturel? I have so many questions.

And of course, my personal favourite, the laser beam background. I think every single kid born before 1995 has a school picture with the laser beam background. The bookcase was a popular choice as well. They sent this picture to his grandparents with the caption "Little Dave is now attending the school of Missions Impossible. Or in outer space." And they believed it. Seriously.

Dave Skeletor

This is my only exception to the ugly kid blog post. The exception being that this is in fact one of the cutest pictures I've ever seen.

So, I said to Dave Skeletor, "Is this your third birthday? There are 3 candles on your birthday pie." and she responded with "I don't know. We could have very well not been able to afford more than 3 candles on my sixth birthday."

Being raised as a poor child definitely causes you to grow up a more interesting, well rounded individual, who values the simple things in life.
"Holy apple slices, a two dollar bill!? I can buy a box of nerds and some stale Dubble Bubble from the laundromat. I wonder what kind of a pickle Pud has gotten himself into this time."

Chapter 8: Notes from Heaven

2010-11-04T14:58:00.000-07:00

True to the youngest child syndrome, I was the biggest 'little shit' you could have ever imagined when I was growing up. Well I can't really say 'was' or 'when I was growing up'. Being a little shit and I have a serious commitment.

Past, present, and future.

Tape player Teddy Ruxpin and I (creepiest thing... in the history of creepy things?) would have early morning brainstorming sessions on how and how badly I could piss off my sisters. And when I say early morning brainstorming sessions; I mean early. Getting up at 5am was in the job description of being a little shit. Along with playing with things identical to my sister's (she would lose her shit thinking it was hers, but it really wasn't. HA-HA! Chels, you slay me.), torturing cats (not real torture, just playing them like an accordion, draping them over my shoulders, putting them in lunch pails, etc.), stashing cod liver oil pills behind the couch (I used to "take them" every day) and listening to Wilson Phillips on my cool yellow sports walk-man. That part didn't make me a little shit, the fact that I'd yell everything I said while listening to my cool walk-man, did. And I would do all of this at 5 am.

Needless to say, I used to get on my sisters' nerves. I wish I had a better word for what I did. I was the master.
My sisters are 5 and 7 years older than me. So when they were babysitting me and hanging out with their cool friends, I would be a little shit and try to cramp their style by doing the Bart Man and attempting to tell jokes. I ended up in my room a lot. Would I sit and chill out in my room like any other normal kid? Reflect upon how I had wronged them? Chya... Right. Operation Manipulation would go into full effect. If you know me, you'll know I'm a pretty crafty, artsy fartsy, sticker collecting, glue stick loving kind of gal. I'd bust out a piece of paper and a pen and pour all of my feelings onto it. And when I say feelings, I mean 'how can I get out of my room' feelings. It would look a little like this:

This of course, isn't the real art from the year 1992 but it is a very fair representation.

So I'd fold my heartfelt art work into a neat little paper air plane (I was better at making crumpled balls) and send it down the stairs. I'd practice my sad face, and wet my eyes with spit, as I eagerly awaited the beautiful sound of "Chelsey, you can come down now." That was music to my frigging ears. And believe me when I say this worked every single time. I could practically time it. What, you thought this was a one time deal? False. When I find something that works, I place it permanently in my repertoire.

From this day forward, I will no longer answer to Chelsey, Chels, Chel, Chelper, Chelbs, Chester, Chuck, Chunk, Chunky, Chelky, Chaylo, Chols, Cholo, Chols Marinara, Heavy C, Bill, Welby, Chels face, Chelsey Buns, Choltsy OR My little chocolate chip cookie (Dad!). You may now call me 'King Little Shit'. I believe I have rightfully earned that title. Or you could call me a genius. That's all up to you.

Chapter 7: Cheating is my niche

2010-11-02T10:25:00.000-07:00

Nikki Chapin. I like the way you inhale the leap.

I used to cheat at pogs. Alright, I used to cheat at a lot of games. Okay! You caught me. I still cheat at most things. Board games, drinking games, pogs, tests, boyfriends, mini-putt, marbles, bakugans, society, death, etc. But I have the after cheat guilt, where I will most likely tell you that I've cheated, and let you partake in a cheat to ease my conscience. I am, in fact, a cheater cheater pumpkin eater. I literally eat pumpkin for every meal.

I had the longest pog tube that money could buy. (I think, I don't know, I was like seven. And it's a well known fact that seven year olds are stupid.) I'd walk around at recess thinking I was THE SHIT. Don't mess with me and mah mad pog skills! And when I say mad pog skills, of course I mean mad cheating skills. I'd play for no less than 6 pogs at a time. For keepsies. I would set half of them upside down when you weren't looking, so when I smacked them with my slammer, they would just fall over. Would you look at that, I won 4 out of your 6 pogs. Oh snap. I was "Pog Ballin'" if you will, until that fateful day when I was hanging up my coat in the cubby area, when my tube of pogs slipped through my fingers. I think you can guess what happened next. Someone yelled "SCRAMBLE!"
I knew that was karma right there. Note to self; you shouldn't have eaten that popcorn during recess in the tube by yourself. Another note to self; get more friends. One more note to self; maybe you'd have more friends if you stopped wearing turtlenecks.

If you ever find yourself playing Monopoly with me, and I insist on being the banker; just know that I plan to cheat. Remember when you go to the bathroom, you'll probably come back with 4 properties missing. I will most likely try to sell them back to you. If you are the banker and you leave the tray on the floor, I have every intention of walking by and trying to pick up money with my feet. I'll buy you a hotel and lull you into a false sense of security. And then BAM. 6 hours later, I'll win that game of Monopoly. You won't even know what hit you. Until the inevitable happens, me confessing my endless amount of cheats. I will say you win by default.

I also lie. About very insignificant things. Sometimes I lie to be agreeable. "Yeah, this song blows chunks. Wait, this is one of my favourite songs." or "I hate butter tarts." an hour later, "I don't know why I said I hate butter tarts. I actually really like butter tarts."
When I was little, I'd make up stories to my mom to make myself sound interesting. "This kid Joey in my class, died today. He died right in class." She never led on that she didn't believe me.
"My dad's cousin is former Prime Minister Paul Martin. No I'm not lying. Seriously, who would lie about something like that?"

Trust that I am being extremely honest right now. All of the things I have written thus far, have been in complete and utter honesty. Do I mind outing my bad habits? No way! You'll still like me, right? I believe on the grand scheme of bad habits, mine aren't THAT bad. It's not like I'm dealing meth to children, or killing people. And 9 out of the 10 times I tell a lie, I'll admit it eventually.

So everyone, rest assured that at some point in our relationship, I have probably told you at least a dozen pointless lies.
"My dad has heat vision."

SEX

2010-10-31T16:28:00.000-07:00

Hello. I'm sorry I have been neglecting you. Don't look at me like that. You know you're my everything. But listen. We need to talk. I think we've gotten to the point in our relationship where we need to spice things up.
SEX
Do you feel spiced? Good. They don't call me Chelsey 'Spices Up Relationships' Martin for nothing.

Instructions:
Step One: Youtube 'Let's talk about sex' by Salt 'N Peppa.
Step Two: Listen to 'Let's talk about sex' by Salt 'N Peppa.

Sex is a funny thing. I believe with such pleasure comes big responsibility. I don't know about you, but I definitely don't want to get pregnant or get the AIDS. But to each his own, right?
I think it should be mandatory to have a sexual history resume. "Oh, you slept with her? I heard she slept with that one guy and got the clap." Wouldn't that be so much easier? But no, we have to learn the hard way. "Oh no, he slept with that girl who slept with that one guy, and now I have the clap." Sticky situation.

You could just not have sex. Sounds simple, right? WRONG. I'm no doctor, but I've heard if you don't use it, you lose it. And that's a risk I am not willing to take.
Sometimes I feel that I would be a lot more comfortable in a full body condom, like in Naked Gun. Leslie Nielson makes that thing look good. But I have a feeling that I would lose a little bit of sex appeal. You don't think so? Aren't you just a precious gem.

Have I told you how much I love you today?

So equipped with my full body condom, out on the prowl I go. And when I say out on the prowl, of course I mean talk about running trains on hot dudes and do absolutely nothing, because if I do, I'm THAT girl at the party. I don't understand why society won't just let me get my bang on. As a single gal, I would like to get a little somethin' somethin' on occasion. What's a girl to do? Dear Double Standards; I hate you. Yours Truly, C Sparkle.

What's the deal with old people having sex?

So, I've accepted the fact that I probably won't be doing the nasty until I'm in a committed relationship. Which is absolutely fine by me. Yep. I mean, what is sex with someone you don't love anyways? AWESOME. That's what. I fucking hate my life.

Maybe I'll be extra good in this life so I can come back as Justin Bieber's son. I'm going to get so much poon it doesn't even make sense. But I'll probably end up being a gay. You know, cause I'm Justin Bieber's son and all. That's a given.

This probably wasn't the sexy blog you were hoping for, was it? Oh snap, I made you read the whole thing. You're most likely dumber now. If I can make one person dumber each day, my mission in life is complete. Help me reach my goal.

Fun Old Fashion Family Photo Album or FOFFPA

2010-10-27T22:49:00.000-07:00

It's me (my dad) with girl hair. What a handsome fella.

So here's how it started. Ma and Pa Martin on their wedding day. My mom had already had a child, so note the red dress. She knew she wasn't getting away with anything.

Well if it isn't little baby Chelsey in the Neglect-your-kids-inator, complete with the wheels of death! You will notice that I'm in a lovely pink dress. It was absolutely necessary on a count of I looked like a boy.

Circa 1987. Fashion was at an all time high. I'm going to narrate this picture.
"Say whaaaaaaaat?"

And heres the Fam Jam. Again, fantastic fashion. I'm going to style my hair like my mom did and rock my dad's glasses. What do you think? Gold, I knew it. I'm about 3, and still no luck deciphering whether I'm a girl or a boy.

See sisters being mean to me. Bunny ears-ing me behind my back. They used to play this really fun game (when I was sitting in the middle of the backseat in the car, where I belonged.) where they'd say, "Chelsey, look at Holly!" and Jess would do a face behind my back. And then Holly would say "Chelsey, look at Jess!" And again... Do a face behind my back. No seriously, it was pretty much like the funnest. Good times had by all.

That fucking Oshkosh jumper piece of garbage. But, check out the sweet kicks. I wasn't lying when I said I was hood.

Me in a nut shell. I like turtlenecks and combing my hair with a fork.

This is the kitchen that was redecorated approximately 487 times. Give or take a few hundred. 7 years old at this point... And we're still not sure if I'm a he or a she. Who thinks I should get a mushroom cut? Cause I make bad hair cuts look good.

Well, friends, I hope you have enjoyed this time warp.

Until next time,

C Sparks

Post Script: I will have everyone know, that when I was looking through pictures deciding which ones I wanted to show off to the world, every single baby picture of me had my sister's name on it. I need an ocean for that burn.

Chelsey's guide to surviving the Zombie Apocalypse

2010-10-25T09:30:00.000-07:00

Step 1: Go to your medicine cabinet.
Step 2: Take all the pills you can find.
Step 3: Chase the pills with a bottle of vodka.
Step 4: Have a nap.

Oops, did I say survival?

Everyone likes to think that if shit goes down and all of a sudden people start eating each other, they would have everything under control. I, on the other hand, have absolutely no problem admitting the fact that I would be completely fucking useless.

I used to sleep over at my dad's house on a regular basis. I didn't have my own room, or even a bed for that matter (does this really surprise you?) so I slept on an air mattress behind the couch. It's 1996 and my dad is rocking this insanely cool new game system called PlayStation. I was a bit of a skeptic, considering the Sega Genesis was now bundled up and put away. I just wanted to play me some Wonder Boy, or maybe Pitfall. That was such a good game except for all of those pits you could fall in. But I figured it was worth a try.

I had to hand it to Pops, ask him to pick out some cool games, and he will deliver. The always classic Crash Bandicoot, Nascar (we used to stay up all night and do about 300 laps. He would be beating me for 299 laps when I would come up behind him like a sneaky snake, and SMASH him into the grass. I'm so good at that game.), South Park: Chef's Love Shack (it was a trivia game where 7 out of the 10 answers was Leonard Maltin. Who the fuck is Leonard Maltin.) and this one that looked pretty cool called Resident Evil.

At this point in my life, I was as scared of zombies as any average Joe, in an "Ah, you're eating my skin" kind of way. That's going to ruin anyone's day. At the very least, their morning.

Let me tell you about my dad. He likes to have himself some drinks, smoke some ganj and play video games until the wee hours of the morning. Yes, that's right, he's pretty much the coolest dad in the world. (My dad could beat up your dad. Okay, maybe he couldn't beat him up, but he's really good at lighting a bag of dog shit on fire. MARTIN RULES!)

So, while Daddio discovered the joy of Resident Evil, I discovered my crippling fear of zombies. Trust when I say, when I'm scared of something, I don't half ass it. I put every ounce of energy I can muster into being absolutely petrified. So, the further and further my dad delved into Resident Evil, the more skiddish and paranoid I became. I ran every where I went, even in broad daylight. I'd open my eyes while washing my face to catch a glimpse in the mirror to assure myself that there were no zombies standing behind me. I didn't even really mind the soap scalding my eyes. My showers were short, my lights stayed on, and my head was pretty much on a swivel.

I realize you all must think that I'm the biggest pussy you know. I am not about to deny this. Not for a second. But I dare you to put yourself in my shoes, and see how well developed you are after listening to the grunting of zombies until 4 in the morning, every morning, until he beat the game. I swear, that shit is tattooed on my brain.

Think fast - A zombie breaks through your door right now.

What do you do? Find a weapon.

What do I do? Throw up.

What is your weapon? A baseball bat or a golf club.

What is my weapon? Nothing, cause I haven't found one yet. While panicking, crying and running in circles, I finally find a weapon. It's a Swiffer mop.

What do you do with the weapon? Try to kill the zombie.

What do I do with the weapon? Throw it at them and cry.

I strongly suggest that if a zombie outbreak is to ever occur, steer clear of this gal. That is, unless you would like someone to slow you down, lay on the floor and cry, throw up all over everything and eventually be the down fall of your entire group. But don't worry! I'll be fine. You have your plan, I have mine. Yours involves shooting zombies, mine involves shooting myself. Yours involves blunt objects to the head. Mine also involves blunt objects to the head. My own head. And when all else fails, I plan to repeat steps 1 through 4 as needed.