What have you done?

3 09 2010

I got the following in my fortune cookie:

Your problem just got bigger.  Think, what have you done. 

Hold the fucking phone, Panda Palace.  I don’t need to be judged just after sucking down bowls of lo-mein.  And the damn cookie assumes that the problem is MY fault!  I don’t even have a problem, goddamnit.  Well, I didn’t until I opened this sassy fucking cookie.





Tits and Bigfoot

30 06 2010

I feel like this blog post title should win a goddamn award.  If someone wants to nominate me, feel free. 

So this post is going to be a collection of completely random shit from my life.  First, the Tits: 

Who is losing sleep over having a great rack?! Not me, son.

All right.  What the good fuck is going on here?!  “My boobs… they’re so HEAVY!  I wish I had something large and uncomfortable to shove between them.  That’ll help.”  And it’s so judgey – C cups and larger ONLY, ladies.  Makes you wonder if there is a guy on the phone when you order to verify that you got big knockers.  I have more than a handful myself, kids, and I can’t fathom the purpose of the damn thing.  How is wedging cock-shaped plastic between your Girls going to help you sleep better?  If I needed a huge brown and pink wanker between my ta-tas ALL NIGHT LONG, I’m pretty sure my husband would volunteer his services.  

Apparently, it’s called a “Kush” and you can see a close-up and read the hilarious customer reviews here.  

So, this can’t be a real thing, with a real purpose, in any case.  It’s gotta be some kind of sex toy in disguise, right?  Yet… just a few pages later…. 

Quite a selection, you must admit.

 

My doorbell just don't require this level of ringin'

So they’re clearly not shy about selling clitoral massage pumps.  “Gentle suction” my ass.  And look at that lady bottom right, holding the blue vibrator to her throat.  Someone give that bitch a map, some GPS, something.  She is a bit north of her intended destination, I feel.  My favorite comment from the reviews online:  “The suction thing hurts!”  Bwahahaha!  I fucking bet it does.  But you can’t really claim that you didn’t know what you were getting into.  That is an explicit little mechanism, pal.  See close-ups and read more hilarious reviews here

But such a selection means, terrifying as it may seem, that the titty shelf is foreal.  *sigh*  This is why the rest of the world hates us, America.  There are starving African babies and we’re inventing boob balancers.  

No lie, this is all from a catalogue called “Solutions: Products that Make Life Easier.”  It’s like getting SkyMall at home.    

Now this, gentle readers, is from my honest-to-god local news channel.  I cannot even make this shit up.  This is where I live.  Fucking brace yourself: 

 

Not only do I live within miles of people who foreal believe in Bigfoot, but apparently they kinda have a tween-girl crush on him: “He had beautiful hair!”  

Also, in case you missed it while rolling on the floor in your own urine just now, the newscaster’s name is Neill McNeill.  What a fucking douchebag.  At least Mr. I-tell-Bigfoot-to-Git-and-he-Gits hasn’t got a ridiculous name.  Well, not that we’re aware of.  Yet. 

That’s your weekly Southern update, friends.  As the 4th of July approaches, I just thought I’d take the time to examine what makes this country great:  Tits and Bigfoot.





The Science of Superheroes

3 06 2010

 Recently, a prompt at Jezebel.com (What Was Your Most Ridiculous College Class?) really reminded me of my days at *sigh* University of Central Florida.  I know, I know, it’s not like I should have really expected any better from a school located in the dead center of Flori-duh, but what can I say?  It was cheap. 

So, the class that first came to mind as “absurd” was my credit for Physics, though it was entitled: “The Science of SUPERHEROES.”  Yes, the caps are original.  I was an English major, and I just wanted to get the damn thing over with, so much so that I literally didn’t see a problem with signing up for a course that was seemingly designed by a 40-year-old Warcrafter living in his mom’s basement.  Actually, the professor, bless his heart, was from Greece, and his accent was a tad heavy, especially on words like “syllabus,” which he pronounced “Silly-BOOS.”  He had created the course from scratch, clearly in a masturbatory fantasy involving Wonder Woman posters, and was hoping the department would let him expand it in the coming years.  I don’t think this happened. 

We spent an entire semester reading comic books, taking field trips to the new Spiderman and X-Men movies, and discussing AT LENGTH all the reasons that Superman couldn’t fly but Batman probably could.  In retrospect, it was a nerd-girl’s dream class, and I had a great deal of fun writing essays entitled, “Spidy’s Web Throwing:  Fact or Fiction?” and “Where Will You Be When the Earth Starts Turning Backwards?” and “How to Prepare for the Mutant Take-Over: 10 Easy Steps.”  Yes, I got grades for these papers.  Yes, I got A’s (English majors, it should be noted, are nothing if not long-winded).  But each class was like going to some secret enclave at Comic-Con (read: like the elevator) where comic books and super-powers were picked apart with the same fervor and detail as an academic conference on James Joyce’s Ulysses.  No question was too ridiculous to warrant a 3-hour discussion about, including but not limited to: how one might construct Batman’s accoutrements in one’s gardage; the temperature difference between Earth and Krypton; whether or not the Mutants were the “real” zombie apocalypse (which was equally inevitable); if Alfred, Bruce Wayne’s butler, had ever tried psychadelic drugs (one class member posited that the whole Batman series was a fantasy of Alfred’s, ala Walter Mitty, St. Elsewhere or similar).  The powerpoint presentations alone were hilarious if baffling, featuring clip-art in lieu of trademarked superheros, which only served to confuse us further. 

Pictured: SCIENCE

 

What about you, loyal readers?  What was your biggest waste of time from your college daze?





Students Gone Wild

17 04 2010

Pictured: The End Result of my Teaching Career

 

It’s not that teachers are bad people, it’s just that we’ve made terrible life choices.

I guess it’s an ambiguous honor when you’re beloved enough by your students that they call you at 2 PM on a Saturday, frantically wanting to know where to find a large rubber dildo.

Actually, in the interest of full disclosure, I should mention 2 things: 1) the message was texted, and I mentally gave the student mental points for correctly spelling both “rubber” and “dildo” and 2) the student is a boy, who followed up text #1 with text #2: “Don’t judge me. I’ll explain later.”

When I called back with the answer (I mean, in all fairness, they totally picked the right person to tell them where to go sex toy shopping in my conservative one-horse/whore/dildo-shop town), my opener was, “Rubber or latex?” And then, later, the sign off from my own personal peanut gallery was, “I TOLD you guys she would know! Thanks! See you Monday for school!”

So either the entire baseball team is roaming my town on a misguidedly homoerotic shopping spree, or college is simply keeping young men too fucking busy to go boondoggin’ after chicks (as should be their wont).

I gotta just say: the image of burly young college dudes roaring around town in a Honda Civic (or similar), waving brightly colored plastic dildoes out the car windows really brings a smile to my face. Truly, this was why I got into teaching.





The South Shall Rise Again!

7 04 2010

Completely ignoring The Band’s The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down, all laws of common decency and with a bewildering lack of, well, historical fucking perspective, my neighbor to the North, Virginia (Yes!  Regular Brand Virginia!  This isn’t even from the off-brand grease-stain of a state that defines “West Virginia!”  Though, to be fair, I think both states were used in Deliverance, so there’s that…) has decided that Dixie just ain’t had her day yet. 

South Set to Rise Again, Thanks go to Law-Makers and Racist Nut-Bags

Three little words that should frighten poor brown people everywhere, troops:  Confederate. History. Month.  A whole month talking about the War of Northern Agression?  Land sake’s, Scarlett.  I want the first order of business to be a geography quiz as to the location of Gettysburg (you can’t have a war of “Northern Aggression” when you’re balls deep into Pennsylvania, kids). 

Pictured: The Glorious Cause

I just want to hear the defense for this.  Honestly.  You can’t even say it’s honoring the “Civil War” because I have the irrational suspicion that something titled “Confederate History Month” is going to be a wee bit biased towards the brave boys in Gray (read: slave owners). 

Fun Fact!  North Carolina kept Lincoln off the ballot in the general election!  Oh, home state.  You kidder, you.  Anyway, I’d call for a boycott of Virginia, but those folks do make some mighty fine ham.  Instead, start learning the words to The Battle Hymn of the Republic.  That tends to get them Confederate boys a mite riled up.





The Birds and The Bees

4 04 2010

Ah, Spring.  When a young girl’s heart/loins turns to sexy-time, and her head is reminded of two incredibly fucked-up incidences from her childhood. 

1)  The Birds

My mother is not a huge fan of birds.  I am with her on this one, frankly.  Little winged dinosaurs, I think they rightly belong in one place only — battered, fried and served hot with cole-slaw on the side.  She saw The Birds when it first came out and I think it made her just distrust the little feathery brutes even more.  Blonde and petite, Mom probably figured that between Psycho and The Birds, Alfred Hitchcock had some personal vendetta against her entire type.  My grandmother also disliked birds, and I once caught her surreptitiously throwing rocks at them while walking our decrepit old dachshund, Beauregard (their current dachshund is named Captain Butler…  we’re clearly the kind of family that remembers the Civil War through our pets).  Grandma also once killed my kitten and she and Mom covered up their crime (something my brother refers to as the “kitt-spiracy”), so really she wasn’t reliable to leave most animals around. 

Anyway, when I was a kid, my mother and I were leaving the parking lot of the local supermarket, bag-boy trudging dolefully along behind us when Mom lets out a shriek.  She said later that she thought the erst-while bag-boy had grabbed her ass.  But then we all started to shriek when she turned around:  attached to the bottom half of her booty was a large, flapping bird, skwaking aggressively, nipping at the ample derriere in front of his beaky little face and holding my mom’s ass lovingly by the talons.  This might have also been the day I learned the phrase, “What the fuck.”   The industrious bag-boy, unbelievably, took charge, conned the bird into stepping onto his out-stetched arm and then released the goddamn thing with a flurry of feathers and unrequited bird lust. 

2).  The Bees

On one fine spring day, I think we were all heading to church — it might have been Easter, though I feel sure I would have recalled the sticky warm scent of hot Peeps fresh from the microwave.  Poor Mom, again, enters the scene wearing a floral flowing skirt.  On her way to simply going from the back door to the car door, a matter of a few feet, she is accosted by a hostile swarm of bees, all interested in her be-flowered petticoats.  As she screamed and flailed across the yard, my dad told us to roll up the windows and sit tight in the car, since he didn’t want any of us (including himself) to get stung.  We literally left mom to the mercy of Mother Nature while we all watched, fascinated, at the wild convulsions and listened, chuckling, to her shrieks of terror.  In retrospect, I’m sure this was because my brother was, in fact, allergic to bees, something we’d learned after the neighborhood bully thwacked a nest down with a well-thrown action figure, and the bees, not caring that my brother was neither responsible nor aware of his “friend’s” folly, attacked him with a vengeance. 

Still!  Why didn’t Dad get out of the car and help?!  He was able-bodied.  Where’s a nice bag-boy when you need one?

So happy Easter, kids.  Watch out for the beautiful weather that will surely tempt you into trying to enjoy Mother Nature.  Keep an eye on that old bitch — she can be a real cunt.





Shut the fuck up, Tebow

25 03 2010

The Detroit Lions are going to be so pissed come draft time.

Ok, so some backstory, realquick, I promise: 

My students, half of whom are football players staring down an NFL combine in another couple of years, HATE Tim Tebow.  Don’t know who Tebow is?  Well, welcome back from Canada or wherever the hell you’ve been.  I fucking loathe football and I know who the child-circumsizing, self-righteous bastard is.  (See?  Your students rub off on you.  When they’re not trying to rub up ON you).

My dad, a fanatical Florida Gators fan (think Jimmy Fallon’s character from Fever Pitch, but with Orange and Blue.  Going home is like having a seizure), LOVES Tim Tebow.   

So I was at an impasse when I came across this tidbit of hilarity:  Tebow is noted for being a bitch by his peers

Not really, obvs, since I just posted it.  My moral impasses are both short-lived and tragically trivial. 

Here’s the highlight: 

Per a league source, after the person administering the test to Tebow’s group had finished, Tebow made a request that the players bow their heads in prayer before taking the 50-question exam.

Said one of the other players in response:  “Shut the f–k up.”  Others players in the room then laughed.

Hilarity, thy name is Locker Room.





Will someone kindly poison whatever Tea those racist Teabaggers are drinking?

21 03 2010

Or inject them all with Super AIDS?  Incurable syphilis?  Just round up all the homophobic, racist cunts, put them all on a goddamn raft and float them out to their own hateful little island somewhere?  Surely cannibalism would ensue. 

Because this shit, here, is un-fucking acceptable. 

Tea Party Douchery

I don’t give a good goddamn what your uneducated opinion on Healthcare reform is — THIS IS NOT 1950!  You don’t get to go around slinging hateful language at people because they are BLACK OR GAY!!  Do I really have to still say this?  Jesus fucking Christ.  Pump the breaks, maniacs. 

For those of you too lazy to read the article (I know my readers), Tea Baggers hurled racist and homophobic epithets at lawmakers.  Also, they spit on people.  KKKlassy. 

Barack Obama, the members of the Senate and Congress, all of these people were fairly elected by majorities.  If you can’t wrap your head around that, you don’t get to play in politics.  You’re like the kid who no one wants to share crayons with since we know you’re too fucking stupid and will likely eat all the best colors.  You certainly don’t get to pretend that you can spell, for God’s sake.  And you most definitely don’t get to pretend that your attempts to drag America back to a place of racism, bigotry and hate is a “beautiful movement.” 

As a general rule, I don’t like politics on this blog, unless I’m making fun of hilariously placed signs.  Politics get folks riled up, and frankly, this is a humor blog, kids, in case you weren’t paying attention. 

But I do care about language.  Obviously, I’ve dedicated my life to educating students about language and how it works, how it changes.  I also love profanity (clearly) and it takes a whole hell of a lot to offend my delicate virgin ears.  And yet this is just too much for me.  I cannot handle a world where this is OK on any level. 

So I am asking you all, dear readers, to please do your own part and speak up against these hateful assholes.  I don’t care what side you root for politically, but regardless of political stance, everyone should recognize that these shit suckers need to shut the good fuck UP.  Does anyone seriously want to go back to a place where it’s all right to be openly racist?  Does anyone think that was a super fun time?  If so, GET OFF MY BLOG.   

Me and Uncle Clint are tight, yo.





P-Day: You win again, Pyrex…

13 03 2010

Those of you who know me, beloved readers, know that I pride myself on my mad cooking and baking skillz.  One area, however, that continues to elude me, though, is the delicate construction of pie.  And before you judge me, let me just say this: Pie is fucking hard.  Between the crusts and persnickity fillings, pie is really like a punishment for whatever kitchen sins you’ve committed. 

My folks are in town visiting, so mom and I thought we’d have a Pie Day.  You know, where we stay in the kitchen all day and torture ourselves by making difficult pastries.  Because, clearly, masochism runs in the family.  We’re both pretty good at meringue, and I can make a decent crust in my food processor.  I did have to run borrow a pie pan from a neighbor, since we ambitiously decided to make 4 of the goddamn things and I only own 3 pie plates. 

Now, for those of you uninitiated with the cruel art of pie-making, sometimes you have to pre-bake the crust.  This is a thankless task, as crusts have a tendency to do absolutely nothing you want them to do.  However, I pre-baked the crust on the bottom tier of my hateful stove (you have no idea how much animosity exists between me and my janky-ass stove) and it looked good.  I popped it on an empty burner to cool and moved on with my pie-making life. 

And then the goddamn thing exploded.

Pyrex, children, should never be heated on the stove-top.  The reasons for this are vast and various, the primary one being that your shit will explode.  I had accidentally turned the back burner on when turning on another burner and the combined heat from the oven and the burner promptly blew my pie pan and crust all to hell.  Also, my oven, like Christine the Evil Car, probably conspired against me to such an end.  I’m telling you, that stove hates me. 

Pie Day had suddenly turned into a disaster site.  We had to remove the dogs forcibly to a room not covered in shards of hot glass and then begin the tedious task of locating and disposing of every miniscule glass shard.  To add insult to injury, the pie pan wasn’t done and kept exploding in little bursts if we got anywhere near the crash site on the stove top.  There were rugs to shake, floors to sweep, vacuum and then Swift and howling dogs in another room to add to the tragic feel of the day.  It was like a scene in a  Cormac McCarthy novel, that cheery bastard.

ALSO: The chocolate pie failed to set in the oven and was more like meringue-topped chocolate pudding or soup than anything resembling a pie.  I did what any normal person would do — mixed myself a stiff drink and went to weep quietly in the bathroom. 

Pictured: Evil Stove, Exploding Pyrex





South of My Broad Ass

9 02 2010

Looks like Amazon is going to play nice.  Here’s my review of Pat Conroy’s most recent nightmare.

Movie Stars, Serial Killers and Pedarests, Oh My!

Good grief, Pat Conroy. This is the weepiest, most melodramatic thing I’ve ever had the pelasure of laughing my way through at an airport. The series of events and cast of characters is so hyperbolically implausible that by the time you’re in an AIDS flophouse in San Fransisco, you’re not even surprised that the zany home-town kids run into an old pal and now drug dealer.

Spoiler-alert for the hilariously over-blown plot points: Leo’s mom was a nun and now spouts James Joyce like it’s HER JOB, making him feel AWKWARD at the school where she is the principal… his brother kills himself because he was man-handled (pun intended) by the grand-daddy of cliches, the charismatic family priest… the new neighbors have a father who is pychopathically stalking and trying to kill them (of course)… the first openly gay kid in school is embraced and accepted as a cheerleader (because we all know how warm and fuzzy the South was to outsiders in the 60′s, right folks?)… Mountain hillbillies come from a predictably sad mountain life… the token black kid enhances their lives and sparks conventional conversations about RACE RELATIONS and eventually becomes the chief of police (of course)… the local sex-pot becomes Angelina Jolie and comes home only to be STABBED TO DEATH BY HER FATHER… the book ends with a hurricane, followed by Leo falling in love with a nurse and prominsing to bring light bulbs or some crap to the convent his mom has returned to. AWESOME. Additionally, the characters break into man-sobs like every other page. It’s a miracle the book doesn’t come wrapped in plastic.

Read Beach Music. Read Prince of Tides. Just don’t read this. Unless you own stock in the Kleenex company.








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