This is a pop quiz, folks. Sorry I didn't warn you earlier, but I think most of us will be able to pass this test pretty easily (that is, of course, unless you're the lady I saw at Publix today).
There is only one question on this test. No need for pen and paper, you can just think the answer quietly to yourself.
1. Dentures belong...
a) firmly Fixodented in your mouth, as if they were real teeth.
b) on your nightstand in a cup of fizzy whatever it is that you dunk dentures in.
c) flicking in out of your mouth like you used to do when you wore a retainer.
Now, I want to apologize to you, my dear readers. I'm sorry. This was a trick question. There are actually two correct answers -- and one of them is not C.
But you knew that. Everyone knew that, except for the nasty, disgusting, denture-flicking woman who was at Publix earlier. There I am, calmly crashing my cart into miscellaneous side bins of shit, when all of the sudden, with no warning this woman looks right at me and flips up her bottom denture.
Lady, please! That's my dinner in this cart. Now I hardly want to eat it because I'm associating with your denture display.
Anyway. Congrats to all of you who answered the quiz correctly. If you could please spread the word to your grandmas and young folks who lost their teeth do to lack of personal hygiene that C is not acceptable, I'd greatly appreciate it.
Aug 22, 2009
Aug 19, 2009
A million reasons why you shouldn't watch the Octomom show
Dear human race,
Do not watch this ridiculous woman on TV. Octomom -- really? If you have any faith in the human race, you'll promise me to never, ever watch this show.
Why, you ask? It's a train wreck and there's nothing we like to watch more than a good old-fashioned train wreck...
Let's start with the fact that this crazy lady is a nutcase. There are tons of woman out there who can't have children who would be awesome, amazing moms -- and this woman is somehow allowed to mass produce and hoard them? Then some friggin' network (shame on you, FOX, although I'm not surprised it was you) actually pays her some absurd about of money to be on TV.
Like we haven't had enough of her on TV.
People, you have something better to watch. As I find something to watch tonight, I'm going to purposely flip though the channels the other way so I don't inadvertently give her damn show a second of viewing time to contribute to the ratings.
And God forbid the show fizzles off after a bit. What then? I bet she squirts in a few dozen more sperm and pops out 10 or so more innocent children to ruin. That'll get her back in the media, right? In the meantime, I hope no other crazy bitches out there copycat her baby factory idea.
Besides, I'm sure there's something waaaay more interesting on, like that vegetable slicer infomercial or a blank TV screen.
And speaking of getting my panties in a bunch... maybe if Octomom would just keep hers on... Just sayin.
Do not watch this ridiculous woman on TV. Octomom -- really? If you have any faith in the human race, you'll promise me to never, ever watch this show.
Why, you ask? It's a train wreck and there's nothing we like to watch more than a good old-fashioned train wreck...
Let's start with the fact that this crazy lady is a nutcase. There are tons of woman out there who can't have children who would be awesome, amazing moms -- and this woman is somehow allowed to mass produce and hoard them? Then some friggin' network (shame on you, FOX, although I'm not surprised it was you) actually pays her some absurd about of money to be on TV.
Like we haven't had enough of her on TV.
People, you have something better to watch. As I find something to watch tonight, I'm going to purposely flip though the channels the other way so I don't inadvertently give her damn show a second of viewing time to contribute to the ratings.
And God forbid the show fizzles off after a bit. What then? I bet she squirts in a few dozen more sperm and pops out 10 or so more innocent children to ruin. That'll get her back in the media, right? In the meantime, I hope no other crazy bitches out there copycat her baby factory idea.
Besides, I'm sure there's something waaaay more interesting on, like that vegetable slicer infomercial or a blank TV screen.
And speaking of getting my panties in a bunch... maybe if Octomom would just keep hers on... Just sayin.
Jul 28, 2009
Do you HAVE to back in to park?
Seriously. I can't stand people who back in to park.
These people usually can't drive, and yet they insist on maneuvering their cars into a space backwards, craning their necks, trying to look cool with their arm slung behind the passenger seat, holding me up and inevitably parking right on -- right on the white lines, that is.
If you can't drive it, don't buy it.
And while we're there, if you can barely drive it, don't back it in.
Aaaaand, unless you have some fancy hood ornament you want to show off, don't back in at all.
There are two types of people who insist on backing in:
1. The cool guy who is no doubt gangsta. You will notice him because he's the one driving the Honda Civic. Either that, or the 1992 Nissan Sentra with rims/shiny hubcaps. Why? Why does he have to back in (and it is ALWAYS a he, isn't it)?
2. The guy driving a big truck. And by "big truck" I mean the one that the bed is too long, so his front end is sticking out of the front of the parking space. He can hardly drive this thing head-on and make it straight, let alone somehow try to slide it in in reverse. Here's a quick tip for this guy: If you park forward like a normal person (look around, yes, front-in is normal), you can actually see what you're barreling that thing into.
There is no need for this ridiculousness, people. I'm not impressed, so don't think you're showing off. In fact, we almost wrecked because you had to drive past your space, then suddenly slam it in reverse to park. Now that doesn't seem natural, does it?
That's all for now. Vroom, vroom, bitches.
These people usually can't drive, and yet they insist on maneuvering their cars into a space backwards, craning their necks, trying to look cool with their arm slung behind the passenger seat, holding me up and inevitably parking right on -- right on the white lines, that is.
If you can't drive it, don't buy it.
And while we're there, if you can barely drive it, don't back it in.
Aaaaand, unless you have some fancy hood ornament you want to show off, don't back in at all.
There are two types of people who insist on backing in:
1. The cool guy who is no doubt gangsta. You will notice him because he's the one driving the Honda Civic. Either that, or the 1992 Nissan Sentra with rims/shiny hubcaps. Why? Why does he have to back in (and it is ALWAYS a he, isn't it)?
2. The guy driving a big truck. And by "big truck" I mean the one that the bed is too long, so his front end is sticking out of the front of the parking space. He can hardly drive this thing head-on and make it straight, let alone somehow try to slide it in in reverse. Here's a quick tip for this guy: If you park forward like a normal person (look around, yes, front-in is normal), you can actually see what you're barreling that thing into.
There is no need for this ridiculousness, people. I'm not impressed, so don't think you're showing off. In fact, we almost wrecked because you had to drive past your space, then suddenly slam it in reverse to park. Now that doesn't seem natural, does it?
That's all for now. Vroom, vroom, bitches.
Jun 27, 2009
Today was Jesus day at the beach
The weekends are my relax time. I have three things I like to do on my days off (and when I get all three in, I call it the "perfect trifecta" -- yes, I'm a dork): go to the gym, go to the beach, go to the mall.
For the record, I'm only 2 for 3 today, but anyway.
After the gym, I change directly into my Tar-jay bikini and head over to the beach. I'm driving down Hillsboro Blvd. (major road, leads to the beach) when I'm all of the sudden assaulted by brake lights. God damnit (oops), why are we braking? I'm trying to get to the beach!
Slowly, we chug along, and eventually are herded into just one lane by Mr. Officer at the next available intersection. "What's going on here?" I wonder as I cattle my Beemer in with the rest of the brakers. "I don't see an accident..."
But then I see them.
All 200 (at least) Jesus Freaks parading down Hillsboro, spilling off the sidewalk and into the lane of street that we've just been herded away from. They are parading (boringly, I might add -- no floats, bands, Santa Claus, nothing) toward the beach, holding up traffic and whatnot.
Let me stop for one second and qualify my right to analyze this: As a member myself of an often-made-fun-of group (I'm a card-carrying Crazy Cat Lady, thank you very much), I feel that I'm allowed to have fun at the expense of other, um, special groups. Now, to continue...
They are all wearing matching white tees with iron-on Jesus transfers. It's mostly children. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves (maybe because it's approximately 147 degrees out?). The cops are escorting them. Did I mention they are holding up traffic?
Fine. I pass them, swerving defiantly back into the right lane, and proceed to the beach. I park. I grab my beach chair (after first unloading the two giant bags of cat food that are on top of it in my trunk) and start walking towards my mecca.
And then I hear it -- is that a band? Great, there's some outdoor concert, I think.
And then I really hear it -- it's friggin' gospel music! The Jesus Freaks are coming, and they're going to be RIGHT HERE singing and praising while I'm trying to relax. Oh, iPod, where for art thou?
Anywhos, I suffer through. It could be worse -- it's in Portugeuse so I can't understand it, so that's at least a little better. I go about my beaching, relatively unbothered (they are congregated in the parking lot, not right there on the sand with me) until the heavens open up and it starts raining.
For the record, I'm only 2 for 3 today, but anyway.
After the gym, I change directly into my Tar-jay bikini and head over to the beach. I'm driving down Hillsboro Blvd. (major road, leads to the beach) when I'm all of the sudden assaulted by brake lights. God damnit (oops), why are we braking? I'm trying to get to the beach!
Slowly, we chug along, and eventually are herded into just one lane by Mr. Officer at the next available intersection. "What's going on here?" I wonder as I cattle my Beemer in with the rest of the brakers. "I don't see an accident..."
But then I see them.
All 200 (at least) Jesus Freaks parading down Hillsboro, spilling off the sidewalk and into the lane of street that we've just been herded away from. They are parading (boringly, I might add -- no floats, bands, Santa Claus, nothing) toward the beach, holding up traffic and whatnot.
Let me stop for one second and qualify my right to analyze this: As a member myself of an often-made-fun-of group (I'm a card-carrying Crazy Cat Lady, thank you very much), I feel that I'm allowed to have fun at the expense of other, um, special groups. Now, to continue...
They are all wearing matching white tees with iron-on Jesus transfers. It's mostly children. They don't seem to be enjoying themselves (maybe because it's approximately 147 degrees out?). The cops are escorting them. Did I mention they are holding up traffic?
Fine. I pass them, swerving defiantly back into the right lane, and proceed to the beach. I park. I grab my beach chair (after first unloading the two giant bags of cat food that are on top of it in my trunk) and start walking towards my mecca.
And then I hear it -- is that a band? Great, there's some outdoor concert, I think.
And then I really hear it -- it's friggin' gospel music! The Jesus Freaks are coming, and they're going to be RIGHT HERE singing and praising while I'm trying to relax. Oh, iPod, where for art thou?
Anywhos, I suffer through. It could be worse -- it's in Portugeuse so I can't understand it, so that's at least a little better. I go about my beaching, relatively unbothered (they are congregated in the parking lot, not right there on the sand with me) until the heavens open up and it starts raining.
Jun 23, 2009
Things you can't do if you burn the shit out of your thumb
Extreme cooking tip #1: That thing you just pulled out of the oven? It's friggin' hot.
Really hot. In fact -- and I learned this the hard way -- I don't recommend touching it. Your thumb will hurt... bad. And as if hurting didn't suck enough, there will now be things that you will find you just can't do anymore.
So I bring you my list of things I can't do because I burned the shit out of my thumb:
1. Button my pants.
2. Turn my key to start my car.
3. Release the emergency brake.
4. Fasten my bra.
5. I can't wait to blow dry and use the flat iron on my hair tomorrow...
6. Use the mouse. You'd be surprised how much your thumb is involved. (Try it.)
7. Crochet that cute duckie I was working on (Shut up. I'm going to make someone a faaabulous grandma one day.)
8. Take my finger out of the ice water.
9. Type. Not very well at least. Friggin' space bar gets me every time.
10. Sleep, probably. Come on, Advil!
However, there is one thing that doesn't seem to be giving me any problems... This glass of wine.
Really hot. In fact -- and I learned this the hard way -- I don't recommend touching it. Your thumb will hurt... bad. And as if hurting didn't suck enough, there will now be things that you will find you just can't do anymore.
So I bring you my list of things I can't do because I burned the shit out of my thumb:
1. Button my pants.
2. Turn my key to start my car.
3. Release the emergency brake.
4. Fasten my bra.
5. I can't wait to blow dry and use the flat iron on my hair tomorrow...
6. Use the mouse. You'd be surprised how much your thumb is involved. (Try it.)
7. Crochet that cute duckie I was working on (Shut up. I'm going to make someone a faaabulous grandma one day.)
8. Take my finger out of the ice water.
9. Type. Not very well at least. Friggin' space bar gets me every time.
10. Sleep, probably. Come on, Advil!
However, there is one thing that doesn't seem to be giving me any problems... This glass of wine.
May 31, 2009
I don't hate my neighbors
Oh, shoot. Typo up there in the title. I have no idea how that "don't" got in there...
Reasons why I hate the people upstairs and diagonal from me:
1. If I want to go to a Brazilian concert, I will. However, it's 11:00 a.m. (thank GOD I'm not hung over) and all I here is this friggin' crap booming through my walls, my ceiling and my bones. And they're not even directly connected to my apartment. I feel so bad for the nice couple that lives next door from me and directly below them.
2. Your barbeque should not be plastic twisty-tied to your patio railing. Wait... it shouldn't? No. You should not have your el-cheapo barbeque grill sitting on top of a jumbo plastic paint bucket that is plastic-tie strapped to your railing. I can't quite put my finger on why I feel this way, but I'm sure it has something to do with LIGHTING THE WHOLE DAMN BUILDING ON FIRE because of your pollo and carne.
3. Playboy magazines do not belong on your dashboard. Well, maybe they do, I don't know. But every time I walk past their work van (see #4), I'm disgusted. I mean, there are children living here. And why is that thing in your car anyway? Never mind. I don't want to know -- and that's why this is on my list. Keep that magazine in your damn bathroom or under your bed or something. NOT in your car for all to see what you do in your car.
4. The work van (eww) is overflowing with garbage (literally). Not a day passes that I don't find a gas station hot dog holder or some other dirt kind of litter right where the van was parked. Seriously? We all live here. Your garbage can can't be more than 15 steps from your car. Don't throw nastiness on the ground. No one simply drives by here and throws crap out of their car -- it's someone that lives here -- and I'm not naming names, but they play their friggin' Brazilian music too loud, have a barbeque rigged to their patio rails and play with themselves in their car.
Just sayin.
Reasons why I hate the people upstairs and diagonal from me:
1. If I want to go to a Brazilian concert, I will. However, it's 11:00 a.m. (thank GOD I'm not hung over) and all I here is this friggin' crap booming through my walls, my ceiling and my bones. And they're not even directly connected to my apartment. I feel so bad for the nice couple that lives next door from me and directly below them.
2. Your barbeque should not be plastic twisty-tied to your patio railing. Wait... it shouldn't? No. You should not have your el-cheapo barbeque grill sitting on top of a jumbo plastic paint bucket that is plastic-tie strapped to your railing. I can't quite put my finger on why I feel this way, but I'm sure it has something to do with LIGHTING THE WHOLE DAMN BUILDING ON FIRE because of your pollo and carne.
3. Playboy magazines do not belong on your dashboard. Well, maybe they do, I don't know. But every time I walk past their work van (see #4), I'm disgusted. I mean, there are children living here. And why is that thing in your car anyway? Never mind. I don't want to know -- and that's why this is on my list. Keep that magazine in your damn bathroom or under your bed or something. NOT in your car for all to see what you do in your car.
4. The work van (eww) is overflowing with garbage (literally). Not a day passes that I don't find a gas station hot dog holder or some other dirt kind of litter right where the van was parked. Seriously? We all live here. Your garbage can can't be more than 15 steps from your car. Don't throw nastiness on the ground. No one simply drives by here and throws crap out of their car -- it's someone that lives here -- and I'm not naming names, but they play their friggin' Brazilian music too loud, have a barbeque rigged to their patio rails and play with themselves in their car.
Just sayin.
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