Bad Friends Anonymous

So, It's Been a While. I'm Not Dead or Anything. This is Just an Update.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 08:00:00 +0000

Well, after some rousing fun with my glorious bipolar psycho crazies, losing my drawing tablet so I can't complete my silly drawings for my misadventures, and two terrible weeks of having a bad reaction to an antidepressant, I'm back to doing the occasional update and not waiting six months and then leaving people with some depressing crap. But here's the fun part: I'm working on a short book. And according to Pumpkin, who is my muse, the Zelda to my F. Scott Fitzgerald, and my very patient proofreader to what can only be called the ramblings of a madwoman, it's pretty damn good. And she's not one to lie. She'll tell me if I'm writing crap. Right now, I'm not going to let out what I'm writing about, simply because I feel that it's completely different from what I write here. But I will say this: it is in no way connected to the blog. Okay, some of the stories may show up, because let's face it, the best stories are the ones that are true. And unlike Stephen King, I can't just pop out a book in the time it takes for me to write this post. See? Right now, somewhere in Maine, Stephen King has just written eight new books and is wiping his ass with hundred dollar bills. You go Stephen King, you magnificent bastard.
But I will say this: If my story, or novella, or book, or whatever it turns out to be ever gets published, I will not only dedicate it to the audience that it was meant for, but also to the people who read my blog, to the "Yeti," and most importantly to my Zelda.
But enough about that. I'm enjoying my new medication. I'm working on buying a new drawing pad, looking for a job, and I remembered that I used to love competitive martial arts, along with a myriad of other difficult sports/hobbies (ballet for one. I enjoy what I can never achieve true perfection at). I found an MMA group at a local gym, and the instructor is a woman. A badass woman. I was invited to watch a class. Now I'll be honest: I expected it to be a "self defense/take back the night" type of classes. I was so totally wrong. Even Janet said, "Those women wouldn't last five minutes with me in my class." And for all of my nice expensive clothes, high heels, designer perfumes, and makeup, I remembered that I truly missed sparring and fighting. Taking and giving a beating. As I watched the class, my hands were clenching and unclenching, and that part of my brain that has gone unused for so long flipped on like a beacon in a lighthouse and all I wanted to do was get up, join in, and throw down. That fighter's urge was begging to come out. I have a punching bag here a home, but it's just not the same. I'm dying to get that gym membership so I can get back into shape. You have to join the gym in order to join her classes. She has a contract with the gym or something like that. But, I need the gym membership anyways, so I'll have something to do with my spare time, as well as being able to join the class.
There's another gym in the next town over that specializes in MMA and fighting style sports. The problem is, all of their "promoted" fighters on their website are all men. HUGE men. They look at me, and they don't see the girl that not only qualified but earned a first place medal in free sparring at the World TaeKwonDo Tournament, has 21% body fat on 175 pound frame (that means I'm mostly muscle while still maintaining healthy feminine curves), that I can bench around 125-150 pounds (depending on the day), or the girl that is determined to work her way back to the top to become an elite fighter and step into the cage. All they see is a "girl": Boobs, hair, nails, heels, makeup, etc., and oh yeah, did I mention boobs? But this woman, Janet, didn't see that. In fact, she said she looks forward to me joining her little MMA group. Not because it would be one more paying student, but because I already have experience, and I want to truly dedicate my time to becoming a top extreme fighter. I heard that not many states allow women to cage fight. Texas, on the other hand, is one of the states that allows it! I love Texas...we have the death penalty, guns, cage fighting for male and female athletes, the right to still secede from the union and become our own country, and the Bush family. Oh, and we have "Big Rich Texas." You know that trashy shit is awesome! It's five hundred degrees during the summer, but we don't give a shit because it's Texas motherfuckers!
Since I don't have any funny original pictures or anything, here's a picture of the ambassador of the blog, the Almighty Hedgehog:

Sorry This Isn't a Funny Story Guys. But This Awesome Chick Needs Our Help!

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 23:06:00 +0000

A fellow artist on DeviantArt "NeoLucky" needs our help. She's an awesome artist that is in need of a kidney transplant. She lives in Anchorage, Alaska and is raising money through a medical fundraising website called Help Hope Live. If you guys can give anything, she would appreciate it greatly! I've already donated. All the cool kids are doing it. So if you wanna be cool, and up your awesomeness factor by a billion, then you'll go donate as well! (Note: Awesomeness is still metaphorical, but you will totally be worthy of being called Awesome if you donate!)
You can find out more about "NeoLucky" the artist in her own words via her personal journal and check out her awesome artwork on her DeviantArt page here (page opens in a new window!)
You can donate to her cause and find out more about Nicole Dubois the woman at Help Hope Live by clicking here (again, opens in new window!)
Donate whatever you can, guys! Every little bit helps and together we can all help change someone's life for the better!

Bathroom Triage

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 26 Oct 2011 21:12:00 +0000

Once upon a time, I was very happy and super in love with a wonderful woman that we will refer to as "Pumpkin." (What the fuck am I saying? I still love her, and NO, this was not the reason our relationship ended. I actually screwed up WAY WORSE than this. This was just...an unfortunate accident...a horrible accident.)
Now, for those of you that came here searching for some kind of crazy large vegetation molestation porn, then I’m sorry to disappoint you as this is not what this is about. So go back to Google and try again. I just called her Pumpkin as a term of endearment, much like one would call their lover “baby” or “babe” or “snookieookums.” And she will remain under the pseudonym of Pumpkin for the sake of our modesty. (That is also the reason that there aren’t many descriptive pictures to accompany this story. Well, that and I’m lazy…And I don’t want to provide badly drawn porn for you weirdoes.)

Pumpkin had previously been helping her parents pack in order for them to move to a new house. No big deal, right? Well, if you know my Pumpkin then you know that simple things such as this usually end in horrible catastrophe and injury. This time, it was her toe. Her big toe was squished by the corner of a desk that she was helping her mother move.

Now, if you have ever injured your toe, you know that 8.375 times out of 10, that toenail is going to get dislodged in some way. It’s painful, it’s horrifying, and if you’re a vain princess like my Pumpkin, the dislodging and/or loss of a toenail is SOUL CRUSHING END OF THE WORLD DEVASTATION. Now, when the offending desk fell on Pumpkin’s toe, it did in fact, dislodge the toenail only PARTIALLY. So the nail was still intact. And Pumpkin was desperately clinging to the hope that it would just grow out normally, and that it wouldn’t fall off entirely. I was once a cosmetologist and I knew that her hope was in vain and that the best course of action would be to remove the nail entirely, so long as the nail bed (matrix) itself wasn’t damaged, the nail would grow back fine. But regardless of what I had to say, she was steadfast in her belief that if she could just keep the nail there, it would grow out and she would never have to deal with NOT having a toenail. I love her, but we’re talking about a woman that won’t go to Wal-Mart at 3am without full makeup. I think she’s beautiful no matter what, but we are our own worst critics, and if you were to hear her describe herself without makeup, you would have thought I was dating the crypt keeper. Then again, if you were to hear me describe myself, you would’ve thought that she was dating the five million pound elephant woman. We’re human females. It’s what we do. But I digress…back to the horrific toenail of death.
It started off like any awesome anniversary. And if you don’t know what I mean by “awesome anniversary,” then I suggest you shut down your computer, go out and find a significant other, consummate the relationship, date long enough to have an anniversary, and then you’ll understand what an “awesome anniversary” is. So we were doing “our thing,” so to speak, (sorry guys, that’s as graphic as it’s going to get. I’m not going to take away from the actual hilarity of the story just so you can get your rocks off. There’s a lot of other websites for that) when it all started to go horribly AWRY…

Yep…that’s right. Somehow, my knee hit her toenail. And that finished dislodging it completely. It was now hanging on by just the cuticle and the gooey backend of the nail bed (the nail’s matrix).
Bloodied, in pain, and pissed as hell (because during our “happy times” she was ALMOST THERE before the injury occurred…and if you don’t know what I mean by “ALMOST THERE,” then go get some friends and have them explain it to you, loser.) Pumpkin sprints to the bathroom, leaving a trail of toe blood behind her, and a very confused me sitting on the bed wondering what the fuck just happened. So I get up, toss on a t-shirt and boxers, and go to the bathroom door, which she has, for some reason, locked. I can only assume it was locked so that I could cause no further injury to her.

So, being the good girlfriend that I was, I rushed off to grab her a bathrobe. Only then, with this peace offering in hand, was I allowed into the bathroom, where I was greeted by a sobbing girlfriend with a bloody toe.
Guys, I have medical training. I have had cosmetology training. With these two powers combined, I became “Captain Save-a-Toe.” But Pumpkin is a fragile creature, easily prone to bruising, breaking, and pretty much needs her own plastic bubble if she ever wants to see the age of 30 without being confined to a wheelchair. And intense amounts of sudden pain is not something that she deals with well at all. Just seeing her toe in that state had her hugging the toilet and fighting the vomit. So, I went for makeshift anesthetics: Bikini Zone (lidocaine, a topical anesthetic) and some generic spray anesthetic that also had lidocaine in it as well.

Essentially, I numbed her toe. And then I pulled out some needle nose pliers and a razor blade.

That’s right; I preformed bathroom surgery on my girlfriend’s toe. I scraped away the rest of the tissue under the nail with the razor blade, counted to three, and yanked the fucking toenail off with the pliers. And she didn’t feel it because I’m pretty sure there was enough lidocaine on that toe to have numbed it to the point that I could have cut it off completely and she wouldn’t have noticed. But I loved Pumpkin, and I like her cute toes, and I wouldn’t have done that to her.
Afterwards, we cleaned up her now nail free toe, put a Band-Aid on it, and went back to bed to go to sleep…cause let’s face it: After you have to rip off your girlfriend’s toenail with a pair of needle nose pliers, you’re not gettin’ ANY for a while…
The aftermath was mildly amusing as well. As you recall, Pumpkin is a vain princess. And as soon as it was healed enough, she began polishing her toe to simulate a toenail being there…And she was actually pretty good at it. But I knew the truth hidden under that pink polish.

What is Wrong With People on the Internet? What are You People Searching For?!?! And Why Do These Searches Lead You to My Blog?

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 24 Oct 2011 11:40:00 +0000

Okay, I've come across something that has distressed me greatly. I know I would normally be posting some random crazy story about something stupid that has happened to me, and yes, those stories are coming. But I needed to take a moment to share THIS with all of you:

Yes, that is what Blogger is telling me that people were searching for when they were led to my blog. I logged in, saw it, started twitching, screen capped it, and decided to share it with you all.
You see, if you're not familiar with Blogger and it's nifty features, it gives its users a statement when we log in that tells us our general audience's location (like what country our readers are from), page views, comments, and search keywords, along with many other stats such as the types of browsers that people use to view our blogs with (even with nifty graphs and pie charts!). It almost makes us seem like creepy stalkers instead of simple bloggers. But creepy stalker stats aside, I would like for you to please direct your attention to the items blocked off in red in the picture...Really look at them. Absorb them for a moment. Soak in the absolute fucking insanity of what these people are searching for.
What. The. Fuck.
I mean really, what does the internet think I'm writing about? I don't think I've ever mentioned that I can kill someone with just two fingers! But I bet I could if I tried. (I watched A LOT of "Xena: Warrior Princess" growing up.) I've never written about a crying face with a fist. I promise. I'm like 99% certain. The whole "that was the end" thing I can't vouch for. I may have said that a few times. I'm not even concerned with the term "hoggy" being linked to my blog because of my love of the awesome hedgehog and all of his "Hoggy Glory." I used the term "hoggy" a bazillion times in an entire post about the magnificent hedgehog!
But I'm still distressed by this you guys. Especially the "I can kill you with 2 fingers" search. I'm seriously concerned and confused. What the fuck is wrong with the people on the internet? Now, I have no objections to gaining new readers, but I just want to know why these terms are getting linked to my blog...it's just...creepy...and disturbing. And I want to know who wants to kill someone with just two fingers. Mainly so I can avoid them. It's probably the same person that was looking up the "crying face with a fist." *shudders* That fucker is out to get someone...

So, in light of these recent distressing discoveries, here's my contribution to the internet search engines:

Face punching lemon sniffers
Retarded monkey ball scratching
Big hairy masked yeti bandits
Nacho titty leg hair
Prison dancing orange strawberry shampoo
Adorable labradoodles peeing on a goat
Eggplant back hair
Mandatory nacho eating contests
Hobos fighting over Rico cheese
I can kill you with NO fingers

Now let's all sit back and see what happens...heehee.

An Award for Danny D. in Orlando, FL: The Greatest AT&T Customer Service Rep EVER. (Alt Title: How I Became Known as "El Jefe" and May Have a New Alias With the Sheriff's Dept.)

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 08 Oct 2011 03:35:00 +0000

Guys, I got a phone call today. And if you know me, you know that I answer my phone regardless of the number. Especially if the call WAKES ME UP. If you know me personally, you know that you DO NOT WAKE ME UP. I am an evil fucking bitch if I am roused from a deep sleep. Well, the fuckers in Honduras didn't know that. I also didn't know that they were from Honduras. They called, and I couldn't distinguish the language (for the record, it wasn't Spanish guys. I know Spanish when I hear it. It wasn't Spanish. I swear it was freakin' Hindi or whatever language it is that is spoken in India. But AT&T confirmed that the number came from Honduras AFTER I had made an ass of myself!)
So, I decided that if I was paying for the call anyways, I was going to have some damn fun with it. So, I (in all of my infinite wisdom because I thought the call came from India) said: "You got my shit, ese? You don't call El Jefe unless you got my shit, man! I will fuck you up pendejo unless you callin' to say you got my shit! Don't fuck with El Jefe! El Jefe will fuck you up, pendejo!" (All said with a horribly stereotypically racist Mexican accent. I apologize to the Mexican people for that. I was pissed. And that shit was fucking funny. I know I said I would never apologize to anyone ever in this blog, but I do feel that I should apologize for that one. I may have already caused one international incident, I don't need to cause two of them.)
Yeah...I said that. I'm a bad person, I know. Well, they hung up (which made me sad, because I was really just getting started). I assumed that was the end of it, so I roused myself out of bed (El Jefe was pissed enough to not go back to sleep), and called AT&T. I hate calling AT&T. I really do. But they assured me that I WOULD NOT BE CHARGED for that call (no matter how much fun "El Jefe" had with it), because it was obviously a wrong number. But then I started to get weird phone calls from numbers that weren't even fucking complete phone numbers. So I called AT&T back to see if they could block them from calling. Unfortunately, the Hondurans were using some kind of "spoofing" device and on AT&T's records, it appeared that I was calling myself so there was nothing they could do...Enter Danny D. (Last name abbreviated for privacy's sake. But he knows who he is. He knows he's getting a blog post. He knows how awesome he is.) Danny speaks Spanish. These fuckers called 3 times while I was on the phone and I finally caught them and put them on 3-way. So between Danny, The Honduran Douchebag, and myself (aptly calling The Honduran a pendejo the whole time...because I have no damn sense. Danny was way more polite because he likes his job. He's a good person. That's why he gets an award) the 3-way call ended with The Honduran Douchebag hanging up, leaving me and Danny alone to figure out what the fuck just happened. Danny spoke Spanish to them. But he said that the dude was speaking 3 different languages at the same time, and switching between them. Spanish, Hindi (still not sure of the actual name of the language), and something else. But the calls did stop (Thank you Danny!).
Now AT&T records all of their calls. Plus I had a voice mail from the Honduran Douchebags. So I go to the Sheriff's department here in town, because seriously, those calls were annoying, and I filed a report. And I made sure to get Danny's name, and the location of his call center in case this did escalate into something major and the cops needed something that had been recorded.
Guys, I have A LOT of tattoos. A LOT. (Please refer to this post: Uninvited Tattoo Conversations) I look like I could belong to a street gang. Seriously. So walking into the Sheriff's Department was a feat in and of itself, because I got some crazy weird looks! But I'm actually an overly privileged and wealthy mostly white girl. While I have Spanish heritage, I am most definitely NOT "El Jefe."
So, the Sheriff's Deputy takes my statement, and listens to the voice mail. This is vital, because the Deputy is Hispanic. I figured maybe he could figure out what the fuck was going on. DANNY, THE THIRD LANGUAGE WAS NOT SOME CRAZY BACKWARDS JAPANESE PIG LATIN. IT WAS A NATIVE LANGUAGE SPOKEN BY THE AZTECS AND STILL SPOKEN BY SOME PEOPLE IN HONDURAS CALLED NAHUATL. The Deputy confirmed it, though he couldn't understand it. So, crazy third language confirmed! YAY!
However, as I told my story, with the times and the initial conversations, the Deputy giggled (Thank the gods he still laughed when I said that I decided to come to them instead of hopping a plane to Honduras and just crazy murdering people), and he wrote down that I will now have an official alias. It's on the paperwork. It says "El Jefe" and underneath that it says "The Boss." I am not making this up. I have a fucking Sheriff's Department DOCUMENTED ALIAS. I am "El Jefe." Fuck. Me. Running. And for the record, I still have to go back to the Sheriff's Department on Monday to speak with the investigators. And they will know me as "El Jefe." Goddammit. My life is so wrong...But as Carrie Fisher (My idol) says: "If my life weren't funny, then it would just be true."

But what is going to be REALLY FUCKING GREAT, is if it makes it in the paper tomorrow in the police reports or the "assumed names and alias'" section. Then it will be official. And I will scan that shit and post it right fucking here for the world to see that I am officially "El Jefe." And "El Jefe" is to be respected motherfuckers. It also means that every time I get pulled over by the cops, "El Jefe" is going to come up as an alias when they run my driver's license for any warrants. That is going to be fucking FUN.

But Danny D., I promised you an award for the greatest customer service phone call EVER in the history of customer service phone calls. Because we got to do a 3-way phone call with weirdos in Honduras and YOU stopped them from calling me (at least for the rest of today) and for that you are my hero. So here's your award.

And the Hedgehog is the official Ambassador of Good Will and Love for the blog and he approves of you. So because you saved my sanity and kept me from crazy murdering people in Honduras (which the Deputy asked me how I would even find these people to do that, to which I replied, "Google, dude. Google is the answer to everything. Google is on my cell phone. Google would help with crazy murder.") you, Danny D., of the Orlando, FL AT&T call center are officially "Hog Approved." Enjoy. :)

A Post for "thesalt." The Blogger Help Forum Member That Saved My Blog Because it Went Crazy.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 03 Oct 2011 22:39:00 +0000

Guys, one of my blog posts, How My Mom Told Me Where Babies Come From, decided to go all renegade and change its HTML coding on its own, causing my entire blog to go crazy and look retarded. Everything on my sidebar, was at the bottom of my page. It sucked and I couldn't figure out why it was doing this. Why would my blog betray me like that?!?! I had loved it, nurtured it, given it drawings and become friends with it! So, I went to the help forums. Apparently, I'm not the only one who has had their blog betray them in such a manner. I scrolled through the posts thinking to myself: I understand. I'm one of you now. I too, cry at night because I don't understand why these things happen to me. Just look at my blog and the mess it has become...
So I posted my own question. And sure enough, a wonderful blogger known as "thesalt" came to my aide! They said that they too had experienced such betrayal by their blog (sadly, I know not their blog's address, nor "thesalt's" gender) and suggested that I check each post individually. Sure enough, I found the offending post. It has been spanked, given a timeout, locked in the closet, sent to bed without supper, re-coded, and has learned its lesson (I hope) and it will never do it again.

So, to "thesalt" I say to you, thank you! You are my hero/heroine, and you have won this:

You prevented my fragile little psyche from exploding completely and so I give you 1 bazillion Internet Points...and a new car. (Note: The car is strictly metaphorical. It is merely a vehicle for which you may cruise the internet in style. But it's a fucking bad ass metaphorical internet car, and you will be a pimp/pimpette in it.)
As the ambassador of the blog, The Hedgehog extends his gratitude as well:

When The Zombies Attack, We're All Going to Die. Unless You Make Friends With a Navy SEAL.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 07:44:00 +0000

Every zombie book ever written is in my house. I'm like 42% sure of it. There are also zombie movies, zombie tv shows, and of course more zombie books. I usually prefer Stephen King, but hey, those zombies are damn good writers!
I would expect zombie books to be all "UUUUUUGGGGHHHH" and "AAAAARRRRGGGH" with an occasional "BRAINS!" thrown in. But zombies are very articulate! They even wrote a Zombie Survival Guide! They are much better writers than I ever thought about being. And they have very active lifestyles, which is more than I can say for myself. Zombies are out chasing the "normies" all day and night, gettin' their undead heart rates up, blastin' their undead glutes, shaming even the most proficient cardio enthusiast, while we're just sitting at our desks/beds/tables/counters/toilets/prisons/wherever you read the internet getting more and more lethargic. But the zombies are motherfuckin' beasts! BEASTS! Now I know most of you have never met a zombie. And that's ok. Eventually, we'll all meet them. But right now, they mostly want to stay underground (i.e., dead), writing books, and occasionally coming up for bit parts in the next "virus of the year" movie or "Walking Dead" episode.
Now, what the fuck does this have to do with me owning every zombie book, movie, and tv show? Because I'm PREPARED, bitches. My house is a zombie proof FORTRESS. And by zombie proof, I mean that we have a couple of locks on our doors, and by fortress, I mean that we lock them. Take THAT zombie fuckers! I'll lock you out! I have an arsenal too! It mostly consists of a squirt gun and an ice pick, but I look scary holding them! RAWR!

Yeah, that's right, I'm motherfucking SCARY! But you see, we all have these visions of us being bad asses in our heads. Thanks to Hollywood, we all think that we will magically turn into Rambo and slaughter some fucking zombies and save the world and be great big fucking heroes. Women and men will swoon at the sight of us, fall to the ground and beg us to make sweet, sweet hero love to them. Babies will be named after us. Towns will build statues in our honor! It won't be the United States of America anymore; It will be the United States of Motherfucking Larry/Bob/Joe/Sally/Frank/Mary Sue/whoever! World Leaders will hand control of all the countries on the planet over to us and make us SUPREME RULER OF THE WORLD! Everyone is certain that THEY possess the foolproof plan that will save the planet from the zombies so that this dream will happen just for them. But guys, sit down, because I have some very bad news for you.

THE FOLLOWING IMAGE WILL NEVER HAPPEN:

In reality we're all going to piss our pants when those fuckers do rise up and start to take over. Because while we think we're all fucking Navy SEALS in our heads (thanks, Hollywood), we are in fact, NOT Navy SEALS. We are all regular worthless peons that might be able to survive for a few weeks if we can find a Wal-Mart. Unless, of course, you actually ARE a Navy SEAL, then by all means, you're already a bad motherfucker and that awesome decapitated zombie slayer image up there is entirely accurate. You will be a fucking survivor, and we worthless peons will grovel at your feet begging for you to protect us. The secondary image may also be a prophetic vision and you may become our zombie slaying king and we will gladly make you ruler of the world and give you the deed to the planet! In fact, you've probably already killed a few zombies and your mattress is made out of their corpses and your pillows are made from their heads. Because you're a bad ass like that, and we...we are nothing. We will be shamed by you. We will not be worthy of your protection. But we will still beg for it. Because zombies are motherfucking scary...just like you. You are the essence of all of our zombie slaying fantasies. Mr. Navy SEAL, that may be a picture of MY zombie killing fantasy up there, but that is going to be YOUR zombie killing reality.

THIS, however, is going to be my (and the rest of you regular fucks) sad zombie killing reality:

Yeah...Guys, that right there is the COLD HARD TRUTH for all of us.

No one likes to see themselves as the actual nerd losers that they really are.

We are all royally fucked unless we all make friends with some bad ass Navy SEALS. And there's not many of them. You have to already be a bad ass motherfucker to even make it through SEAL training. They don't allow pussies to survive SEAL training. Many try to become SEALS...and many, many, many EPICALLY FAIL at it. Remember G.I. Jane? Yeah, you gotta be a bad motherfucker to be a SEAL.

And if you encounter a Navy SEAL zombie...Just lay down and accept your fate...I'm sure he will make it quick.

So in essence, when the zombies finally do come: WE'RE ALL GONNA DIE BITCHES! RUN FOR YOUR FUCKING LIVES! THE ZOMBIES ARE GOING TO EAT US! WE ARE NOT BAD ASSES! WE ARE JUST A LIVING BUFFET! WE'RE ALL FOOD! IF WE RUN, WE'RE JUST GOING TO DIE TIRED! WE'RE ALL FUCKED! FUCKED I TELL YOU! THE ZOMBIES WILL WIN!

I Met the Coolest Old Dude Today, So I'm Dedicating This Post Entirely to Him.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Fri, 30 Sep 2011 05:40:00 +0000

I was at Java Jacks today actually trying to be productive. Now, I am actually going to do my best not to swear in this post. Don't ask me why, because it just seems like it would be disrespectful to the Awesome Old Dude. His name is Mr. Burns, and he's a lawyer (and he was a drill Sergeant in the Air Force and he was in the Naval Reserves, so instant respect from me right there). So, I was sitting there, drinking my awesome crackhead coffee (that is another post) when somehow I ended up having a conversation with this nice old gentleman. Guys, this is the most AWESOME guy ever. He has some great stories...He has lived an amazing life and met and worked for and with some insanely famous and infamous people. And he has the pictures and proof to back it up! I wanted to actually interview him, take his picture and put it here, but he declined, saying that he's 82 years old and just wishes to have a quiet life with his coffee and his mystery books and his law practice (wills, probate, etc. Nothing wild and exciting and court related anymore). But I have to say that I was actually proud to say that I had met this gentleman. He knew Charlie Wilson (Yes, THAT Charlie Wilson), personally, was an assistant to a president (I want to say it was President Johnson, but I could be wrong. He knew SO MANY POLITICIANS!), grew up pretty much next door to Reagan (Yes, again, THAT Reagan) in Illinois, and if there is a philanthropy plaque somewhere, Mr. Burns' name is probably on it. He doesn't have a Wikipedia page (I checked. I was a bit sad about it), but guys, I spent a few hours talking to this man and I have to say that at the end of it all, I was amazed. He reminded of my Grandpa (The awesome one. My dad's dad.). So, I didn't get any of the work done that I had gone to Java Jacks to do in the first place, but you know what? I don't care. I had half of a drawing done on my laptop on the next table over, while I was comfortably curled up in a chair with my crackhead coffee chatting away with Mr. Burns, listening to his poetry that he had written for his late wife over the course of their 60 year marriage, laughing with him at his awesome stories, and making a new friend. So, no, there is no funny drawing to accompany this post, or weird story about me being insane or my Speshul dog (though I have a great post coming later about that. It may be posted tonight, but not in this particular post). No, this post is dedicated entirely to Mr. Ken Burns, the most Awesome Old Dude I've ever met, and I hope that he's there the next time I go to Java Jacks to drink insane crackhead coffee.
Mr. Burns, thanks for making my day really freakin' awesome. You totally rock.

Posting From My Phone. Because My Computer is Being a Douchebag.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 28 Sep 2011 01:10:00 +0000

Just so everyone knows, I'm not dead or anything. I haven't abandoned the blog already. Drawing my crappy pictures takes a lot of time. And I am on shiny new medication for my bi-polar crazy disorder. This results in 2 things happening: extreme mania where I will draw for fucking days, do random retarded shit, write insane stories, and take notes for new blog ideas, but nothing will actually be COMPLETED.
Then I will crash. And I will crash HARD. But don't worry kiddies, because I am coming out of that horrible crash and starting to level out and act like I have some goddamn sense. So all those retarded stories that are half written and unpublished, will eventually be finished and published (and edited so you fine folks will know what the fuck I'm talking about), and the drawings will be done very soon as well. Aside from my bi-polar crazy disorder, I am also plagued with migraines. These also impede my productivity. But when I'm just being an ass and being fucking lazy I have a very beautiful woman named Allie in Oklahoma that is on my ass daily, texting me and telling me to post shit so I can become famous. You all should worship her because not only is she cracking the metaphorical whip over my head to make my lazy ass be more productive, she's also my muse and even though she's 9 hours away from me, for almost 2 years now she's kinda been one of my few reasons for functioning. I don't function MUCH, but when I do, she's one of the reasons. Oh and she's the subject of a GREAT story that I can only describe as "Bathroom Triage." It's a fucking epic story. You guys will love it. And before anyone says anything about the events leading up to it, SHE ASKED ME TO TELL THAT STORY. So there.
Oh and my doctor gave me some crazy steroids for my boob pain (I'm sure you all wanted to know that) and I have been throwing up everything like I've got the fucking Ebola virus or herpes or whatever disease makes you puke until you wish you were dead. And my boobs still hurt...bastard pills. I quit taking them. I would rather have sore boobs.

How My Mom Told Me Where Babies Come From

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 21:07:00 +0000

                When I was seven years old and in the first grade, my mother gave birth to my little sister. Here’s my problem with that: I do not remember my mother being pregnant. There was never the sit down where she said, “You might have a little brother or sister!” I also had no knowledge of reproduction. I never had that defining moment in childhood where I asked my parents: “Where do babies come from?” My mom never had to tell the stork story. Or the cabbage patch lie. Or stammer through a half assed truth about marital relations (When a mommy and a daddy love each other…). I feel like she missed out on a defining moment of parenting. But she totally made up for it at the hospital. I thought I had an Ivy League degree in reproduction at 7 years old! Let me start at the beginning:
                As I stated before, I had no idea my mom was pregnant. I don’t remember my mom looking any different from the way she does today. I remember that my paternal grandmother (Grandma) woke me up for school one morning. When I asked where my mom was, Grandma replied that she had to go to the hospital the night before. I was confused, but not worried; mostly because my mom is a trooper. Thanks mom, great way to leave your 7 year old sleeping at home alone. Though, in her defense, they probably woke me up and I had no idea. I sleep like a motherfucking brick.  I went to school as usual, experienced an almost regular school day and Grandma picked me up afterwards. Now I went to a private Catholic school. Not to be content with having me tortured by nuns, my mother was also the school’s secretary. So I had to have A LOT of “act right” in me. All of the teachers kept asking me if I was excited to have a little brother or sister. I looked at them like they had just grown a horn and fucking extra eye. In fact, they could have been speaking backwards Japanese pig Latin with a stutter. That’s how much I understood what the hell was going on. Hence, it was an *almost* regular school day.
                Cut to the hospital. I go in and my mom is laid up in the hospital bed. And there is a baby in one of those weird plastic baby holder carts.

The conversation went down like this:
Me: “Mom, where did she come from?”
Mom: “Uh. Well, they brought them in here one by one and I picked the quietest one. All the rest were screaming and crying.”

Me: “But…I wanted a brother!”
Mom: “Well, they only had one boy. And a nice black couple down the hall had already picked him.”
Me: “This one is all wrinkly and red. I don’t want a red sister!”
Mom: “That will go away.”
Me: “OH MY GOD! She has a black crusty belly button!”
Mom: “It will fall off!”
Me: “What?!?!”
Mom: “That’s how you tell that they’re new…and uh, fresh…”
Me: “Get an older one!”
Mom: “We can’t! Your dad already paid for that one!”

Me: “Keep the receipt. This one might be broken. We might have to return it.”
I think my dad and my Grandma almost pissed themselves at the explanation my mother gave me. But it worked. Like most of the parental explanations I received during my formative years, I never questioned it. My parents wouldn’t lie to me! (We have yet to speak about why Santa Claus has not paid me a visit in the last 13 years…jolly fat bastard owes me some damn presents!)

My mom had me convinced until I was 10 years old that you bought babies at the hospital. No wonder my teachers thought I was retarded. I’m 27 years old now. My sister is 20. I still want my parents to get a refund.

Anti-Fortune Cookies

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 07:04:00 +0000

Once upon a time (ok, like 4 or 5 years ago) the Yeti and I went to our favorite local Chinese eatery to fill ourselves with noodley foodstuffs. It was delicious. Of course our obligatory fortune cookies came after the meal. AWESOME. I love fortune cookies. I could eat those stale little fuckers all day long. I have perfected being able to remove my fortune without breaking the cookie. The Yeti has not. Now, some fortune cookie aficionados will tell you that you have to eat half of the cookie before you read the fortune or else it won't come true. I'm so glad I didn't. Because this is what my cookie said:

Yeah, I'm not making this up. I think Peking received a batch of Anti-Fortune Cookies. This fear was confirmed when the Yeti opened up his cookie:

Seriously. To top it all off, we already fight like retarded cavemen. Swinging clubs and beating each other senseless. That had been going on for a good majority of the week prior to the consumption of the noodles. The prophetic cookie was NOT what we needed to see. But the absurdity of the printed cookie paper hit home.

The Yeti and I looked at each other, and started laughing so hard that the restaurant patrons stopped eating to look at us. Realizing that we were creating an awkward situation, we quickly left the restaurant.

We still eat at Peking. We love Peking. We're still hoping they get another batch of Anti-Fortune Cookies.

The Hog Approves Of This Post

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Mon, 12 Sep 2011 06:53:00 +0000

So a while back we bought a hedgehog squeaky toy at Lowes. It was supposed to be for the Speshul Dog, but I think I'm having more fun playing with it than he is. So now everything in my house has to be "Hog Approved." Technically the hedgehog doesn't squeak. He grunts. It's actually fucking adorable. So adorable in fact, that I'm thinking of buying another one and making it the official blog mascot. In order for something to be "Hog Approved," you must make him grunt twice. I don't know why he has to grunt twice, but it seems like a good idea. Now, I have a lifelong love of the mighty hedgehog.
Look! Here's a picture I drew of the hedgehog:

And the hedgehog approves of this post. Because the hedgehog is awesome. You and I will never be as awesome as the hedgehog. He is EPIC. And he will poke the fuck out of you if you piss him off. Actually hedgehogs are perfect for warfare. If you put them on a string, they're like a living mace.

Or a little spikey hand granade.

Or you could let one curl up around your fingers and punch someone in the face with it like a pointy fist.

I dare you to get smacked in the face with one of these spikey little fuckers and not admit immediate defeat. You can't win against the hedgehog. He's too fucking great. The hog will own you. FOREVER. And you can't kill the hedgehog. He's too goddamn cute. Therefore:

Deal with it. The hog is greater than you.

Paper Spamming the Real World

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 08:14:00 +0000

Tomorrow I'm going to paper spam my town and the next town over. Mostly at the coffee houses. What is paper spam? It's a sign that tells people why they need to read my blog. This is what I wrote:

This is paper spam.

Now that I have your attention, go look at my blog so you can enjoy it.
(I don’t actually spam; I’m just a blogger that loves to do weird things. Like paper spamming. You tend to run out of ways to amuse yourself when you’re unemployed, so you have to start annoying the general population. Math is involved. Math can prove that I am statistically more annoying than a fly. Isn’t math fun?)

You see, I’m trying to become internet famous. But I don’t have any people reading my blog. So, I’m spamming you via a piece of paper in a desperate bid for attention.
(I obviously didn’t receive enough attention as a child. Isn’t that sad? Is it sad enough to make you want to read my blog? Yes. Yes it is.)

I’m also super awesome, and I deserve to be famous. And you’ll be awesome by association, just because you read my blog. You’ll be so awesome that doors will magically open for you!
(Note: Doors aren’t magic. Awesomeness is strictly metaphorical. You will have to find an automatic door and pretend that it was forced open by your awesomeness. Trying to open a non-automatic door with your newfound awesomeness may result in black eyes, nosebleeds, and your friends peeing on themselves because they’re laughing at you.)

“But why does your blog exist? Why do I need to read it?”
It exists so everyone will know what kind of sandwich I had for lunch! By reading my blog, you will be on the cutting edge of sandwich news. It’s vital that you know about my lunch.
(Actually, that’s not true. The blog exists for me to make fun of things and share my silly drawings. I tell people about my lunch on Facebook and Twitter. But you can totally “Like” my page on Facebook and follow me on Twitter.)

Just read the stupid blog. Read it and then join my verbal/paper spam army so more people will make me famous! Copy this note and spam your friends! Put it up at your dorm, job, or office! They will love you forever for it!
(Note: No one likes spam. You might actually lose friends if you do this. But that’s okay because I’ll fill your friendless life with bloggy goodness. And you’ll be too busy being awesome to be troubled by real friends.)

Make me famous by next Thursday…Please?

www.badfriendsanonymous.com

I'm that fucking awesome. That is EXACTLY what I wrote. And if you got here because of one of my paper spam campaign notes, then you passed the literacy test. And you can be my friend now.

Wine by the gallon and buzzed blogging

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Sat, 10 Sep 2011 02:39:00 +0000

Heehee. Is it wrong to buy wine in a gallon jug? 'Cause that's exactly what we did! Now mix that with a 550 piece puzzle, Yeti's ADHD, and my obsessive system for putting a puzzle together, and you have...Well, I just told you! But the Yeti, with all of his class and elegance, decided that a Styrofoam cup with a lid and a straw was a-okay. Oh and there's ice in it too. We have taken redneck to a whole new level. Now, currently, I have a fairly decent buzz. Which in turn distresses my Speshul dog. He is so very Speshul, that he doesn't need proper spelling. Speshul dog has also wrapped his chain around the beam of my porch. But, I've decided not to help him just yet, because if I do, he doesn't learn anything. Not that he was very good at learning to begin with. I just thought that it would be fun to go back and read this tomorrow when I have a hangover and ask myself, "Am I retarded?" There will probably be a picture.

Hey look! I drew a picture commemorating my gallon jug of wine.

Uninvited Tattoo Conversation

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Thu, 08 Sep 2011 05:10:00 +0000

I have quite a few tattoos. 19 of them. And some are quite prominent. When I go out, I would have to wear a full burqua, gloves, and a scarf to cover them all up. Some of my tattoos could be deemed offensive. Now do I care? No, not really. But for the love of god, if you have a tattoo, I don’t want to know about it! I'm sure there are others out there that have dealt with this stupidity.

These are some of the stupid things that I REALLY have dealt with:

No, please...I don't want to be friends with you...

I'm sure it is...

No...You only appear to have half a brain cell...

Please...Please stop talking already. I just want to finish whatever it is I'm doing. And this usually happens when I'm at the grocery store. I don't know what it is about fucking grocery shopping that makes me a target for this type of asshattery.

I want to become internet famous bitches. Read my shit.

noreply@blogger.com (Unknown) — Wed, 07 Sep 2011 04:29:00 +0000

Ok, internetters. I'm gonna need you all to start reading my shit. Like, NOW. Seriously! Get off your asses and do it. Actually, you don't have to get off your asses in the literal sense. But metaphorically.
Oh, why do I want to be famous, you ask?
Well, I'm currently unemployed. Severely. I live with a "Yeti" that makes awesome money as an electrician, though, so I can afford to be unemployed. But my dream is to become famous for being unemployed. Red fucking carpet famous. I want this to be my motherfucking job! I always wanted to be a writer, but since I have the attention span of a ham sandwich, I figured a blog might be best. All these blogs out there get book deals and crazy shit, so why can't I?

Here's my problem:

I don't have kids...So, I can't be a "mommy blogger."
My life is really pathetic, so I can't be a "humor blogger."
I don't troll a ton of websites, so I can't be a "troll blogger." (But I can direct you to some awesome troll blogs.)

What I can do:

I can make fun of stuff that I think is really retarded.
I can offend a lot of people.
I am in no way politically correct.
I have a black friend that's severely racially challenged. She's not very good at being black.
I have a jewish friend. There's actually nothing funny about that, I just want everyone to know that I have a jewish friend...who is also a badass photographer. Really, she's awesome. Hire her for some photos. Here's her website Jill English Photography
I'm kind of REALLY gay. It has it's moments of hilarity as well.
I have a mentally challenged dog. And I'm not exaggerating, he is 100% special needs. There was an accident when he was a fully functioning puppy. He doesn't function on a normal scale anymore.
I am (Seriously. It was diagnosed.) bipolar. It has it's moments of hilarity.
I am unmedicated.
I like to drink. But I don't do it very often anymore.

Here's what YOU can do:

Read my blog.
Tell your friends.
Tell me about your horrible friends.
Comment on my blog.
Don't get upset about my blog. Really, this is all just in good fun.
If you see yourself in a post, please, don't change or get upset. You provide me with hours of amusement. If you change, I can't make fun of you. If I know you personally, you totally deserve it.
Send me hate mail. Because then I can post it here and make fun of you!
Get me some kind of a book deal.

Uncle Sam told you to. So do it. Now. Do it for your country!