Tuesday, January 22, 2013

So, Wait, You Want a Tea and a Latte?

I will not be saying what coffee shop I work in, because I need money for therapy.

BUT ... if it was Starbucks, this shit would be really funny.

Marfuh. Amorfa. Whatever.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Sexiest Man Alive, Pat Robertson, Blames Ugly Women for Marital Problems.

Mr. Charming Pants is at it again!

That's right. Pat Robertson, the man that has blamed every terrorist attack, natural disaster and shitty Monday morning on feminists and/or the gay community, is ready to place blame on a new subsection of the population.

Ugly Women.

Yep. Robertson says that "awful-looking," "hard-nosed," "overweight" women are responsible for marital problems.

Now I know what you're thinking, "How could any normal woman be good enough for that sexy mo-fo Pat Robertson?"

And my answer is, "I just don't know!"

I mean look at him, he's glorious. It's like Jesus and Ryan Gosling somehow had man-on-man, child-producing, totally straight sex, and he is the product of that blissful union.

And us bitches need to step our game up!

Take us to church, Pat.

"A woman came to a preacher that I know, and she was awful looking. I mean, her hair was all torn up and she was overweight and looked terrible, clothes bad and everything. And she said, 'Oh, Reverend, what can I do? My husband has started to drink.' And the preacher looked at her and said, 'Madam, if I was married to you I'd start to drink too.'"

Boom. Suck on that, fatty. Your husband's raging alcoholism is totally your fault. Maybe if you'd fix yourself up a little, he'd put down the hooch and jump in your cooch--missionary only, of course!

I'm sure some of you think that Robertson is being a misogynistic asshat, but you're probably ugly and therefore don't deserve an opinion or a healthy marriage.

Thanks again, Robertson. It's men like you that remind me that my only real value is my physical appearance. And if I gain 10 pounds or forget to take a flat iron through my hair, I deserve my failed marriage.

Oh, and I forgot to mention, men like you also make me want to dive face first into lesbianism.

To see Mr. Burns Pat Robertson talk about this shit on TV, watch the clip below. And even though it may be hard, try not to masturbate while watching. 

Women aren't supposed to do that either!


Yowza. Cool it with all that sexy, Pat.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Catfish. Or Fingers Crossed She's Not a Dude.

Has anyone watched the MTV show "Catfish: The TV Show"? If not, I want you to stop reading this immediately and watch an episode now (come back afterward, please). Or  just watch this clip.

*Warning: SPOILER*

The premise of the show revolves around the following concept: Since social media has infiltrated every portion of our lives, people are now meeting potential partners online at an overwhelming clip.

Sounds nice, right?

The interwebs are allowing people to fall in love with other people they would never normally meet and they get to have babies and LOL at Grumpy Cat together for eternity. Thank you, Mark Zuckerberg. You're a freaking saint.

But as with anything good and beautiful, there is a catch. People seem to be using this internet machine as a way to deceive others into believing they're someone they're not!

I'll wait why you compose yourself after that shocking revelation.

Better? Good!

The aforementioned deception is what makes the show "Catfish" so incredible! It's basically an hour of you sitting on your couch, praying to little baby Jesus that super-sexy, college-coed "Tiffany" is actually a 40-year-old dude who sleeps on a futon in his parents' basement with an impressive bellybutton-lint collection.

And then you get to watch in horror as the love-sick frat boy realizes he sent dick pics to this guy.

They should actually change the name of this show to "Russian Roulette: Genitalia Edition".

I know it seems like I'm taking these people's heartbreak lightly, but I can't help but feel like most of the subjects on this docu-series had it coming. Not because they dated online, but because they were too damn trusting.

If you really think, in your heart of hearts, that you met a supermodel/millionaire/playboy bunny on fucking Facebook, you deserve to get played out on national TV. That's God's way of whispering in your ear "You have no common sense."

But after watching several episodes and not seeing one person be who they claim to be, I can't help but wonder, is this what online dating is now? A cesspool of guys with necks that look like hot dog packages posing as Channing Tatum look-alikes.

And if so, how can anyone date online without being terrified?

I can't say that I'm not familiar with the online dating world, but this was many, many moons ago back when the internet screamed at you before connecting, and the guy I met ended up being totally normal and we're still good friends.

So what's the deal? Is this amazing train wreck of a TV show portraying the worst side of online dating? Or is it safe to assume that anyone you meet online will be a dead ringer for the Hunchback of Notre Dame?

If you have any experience, opinions or just want to talk about this ridiculous show, leave it in the comments. And as always, horror stories are always welcome!

Sunday, January 13, 2013

Fear and Loathing in the Hospital on Christmas

I thought I should catch you guys up on some of the things I did during my brief holiday hiatus. Enjoy! I will be back to the grind Tuesday. Until then ...

I would like to preface this entry by stating the following: I am an exceptionally good daughter. I've never been to jail. I was never 16 and pregnant or 17 and promiscuous. And anything that caught fire in my childhood home was purely accidental.

Having said all that.

On Christmas Day, while visiting my mother who at the time was hospitalized with pneumonia, I had a mild psychedelic experience after ingesting one of my brother's cannabis-laced brownies.

In other words, I totally tripped balls after eating a pot brownie my asshole brother gave me.

Okay I know it sounds bad. But in all fairness, it was an accident.

Let's start at the beginning.

My mom was admitted to the hospital the night before Christmas Eve. My family was worried and pretty bummed that she was going to be stuck in the hospital during Christmas, but we decided to make the best of a bad situation and all promised to spend the day at her bedside.

A quick aside: My mom is doing just fine. Turns-out smoking for 40-something years isn't good for you. But don't feel too bad for my sweet mother, considering the life her and my father have led, she's lucky she didn't contract whatever disease makes Pamela Anderson's face look like that. Let's just put it this way, Keith Richards wonders how my parents are still alive.

 But more about that another time.

Anyway, my fella and I met up at brother's house for breakfast before heading to the hospital. My brother noticing my obvious worry offered me a panacea.

"Just eat one," he said, signaling to a tupperware container in his fridge. "They're really good."

Another quick aside: One day, when weed is legalized, my brother will have a show on the Food Network dedicated to making delicious shit that will get you high.

I hesitated, because despite all of my talk, I'm reasonably clean-living. I don't drink a lot and most of the mind-altering substances I've encountered have been pretty low-key. Honestly, my biggest vice is a fudge brownie, which I'm pretty sure is the main reason I said yes to the bud-laced dessert in the first place.

"Fine," I said, popping the chocolate square in my mouth. It tasted slightly vegetive, like some mom with too much time on her hands had slipped some zucchini in it, but I didn't complain. A brownie is a brownie.

We made it to the hospital without me noticing any effects, so I assumed it was a dud.

Until about 30 minutes into our visit, when I forgot where I was.

I looked around nervously, to see if anyone had caught on that I was starting to question my whereabouts.

"Oh shit," I thought. "It's working."

And then I wondered how my phone got in my hand. And how long I had been there. And why my face was numb. And if I was literally having an out of body experience. And why there was a low buzzing in my ear.

It was after hours of feeling like this, or it could have been about 5 minutes, because that shit was fucking with my time recognition as well. I sent this text message to my boyfriend who was sitting next to me.

I thought my secret was safe.

Yep, that happened. 

Shortly after my admission, Matt and my brother headed to the cafeteria leaving me with only my dad and my mom. This is enough of a mindfuck normally, but considering I had begun counting my blinks, I had a feeling it was going to get weird.

My mom tried casually talking to me. I guess she didn't notice that I wasn't making any eye contact and that I was sitting cross-legged on the sleeper recliner with the hood of my jacket covering my face. 

I knew that if I was going to convince my mom that everything was normal, I had to have a plan. I had to start making small talk.

"How are you feeling?" I said, a little too loudly, after going over the sentence about 100 times in my head.

"I feel a lot better." she said. "Just ready to get out of here, baby."

"GOOD! GREAT! I'm glad."

I realized that my "don't act like you're freaking out" small-talk bit wasn't going too well. Especially since I sweating and kept releasing low moans.

I snuck away to the restroom to look in the mirror and see if I was giving any tell-tale signs. After staring at myself until my face didn't make sense, I composed this note on my phone.

Surprisingly accurate.

I emerged from the restroom after what felt like 3 hours ridden with guilt and just in time for my brother to come back.

"Allie!! How are you feeling?" 

Fuck. My secret was not safe. I hated Matt.

"I brought you some pudding," Matt said.

I take that back. I love Matt.

Me and my pudding.
Try not to masturbate to this picture.
"What's going on?" my mom asked.

"Oh, I gave Allie one of my brownies and she's high off of her ass."

My mom began laughing so hard a nurse had to check on her. The jig was up. I couldn't hide it anymore. 

"What did you put in those things?" I asked my brother.

"I thought I might have made them a little strong, but dad ate one and said he didn't feel anything."

"Yeah but he just stopped doing drugs like three weeks ago."

"That is true." my dad chimed in. 

"I'm really going to need you to stop talking, Dad."

He motioned eating a brownie and gave me a thumbs up.

"I'm really sorry, mom. I didn't mean for this to happen," I cried.

"Oh, baby, it's fine. You're really cute when you're stoned."

It was around this time I was reminded that my family is different. Not only was my sick mother not angry that I got out-of-my-skull high while she was in the hospital on Christmas.

She thought it was adorable.