Pour Out a Little Liquor: Gingrich Edition

Last week, Ol' Big Noggin Gingrich teased the American public with a promise that he would end this ridiculous joke, also know as, his run for the presidency.

My first reaction to the news of his suspension was, "Wait! How the fuck am I going to get my $2.50/gallon gas?

Dammit. I guess that means I'm back to siphoning it out of cars in the Walmart parking lot.

But then I remembered that the promise to cut gas prices was coming from a bloated, delusional megalomaniac, who has a better chance of riding a magical unicorn to Neverland than landing in the Oval Office.

Then I just wanted to know why this asshole was sending out "save the dates" instead of just pulling the plug on his ailing spouse... err, I mean campaign.

To answer that question, many news outlets are reporting that Gingrich wanted to treat his last week on the campaign trail as a sort of "farewell tour." Shaking hands, throwing out the first pitch at baseball games, going to fairs and having carnies guess the weight of his head. You know, fun stuff.

But all good things must come to an end, and today Gingrich released a video letting his supporters-- and those of us that are sane-- know that he will officially drop out of the race Wednesday.

It's the end of an era, guys. A really stupid era.

Brother4Sister in Chicago

Yesterday, while waiting at the crosswalk, a homeless woman screamed that she would claw my eyeballs out and feed them to me. I thought this would be the weirdest thing I encountered during my time in Chicago.

That was until I started perusing the Windy City's Craigslist.

I really hope that woman is still up for clawing out my eyes.

Quick warning: You will never be able to play "Just Dance 3" again without shame crying.

Wait? I thought people only fantasized about fucking relatives in the South.

Another incest ad in Chi-town? What a horrible, horrible coincidence.  

What the fuck, Chicago! Is there something in deep-dish pizza that makes you want to bang your sister?

And just to get the taste of incest out of your mouth, click the ad above.

I'm so sorry. It had to be done.

Vacation in Chicago or How I am Going to Need a Gastric Bypass After this Trip.

Food.

I think it's pretty damn clear the entire United States of America appreciates it, but I can say with upmost certainty that no one loves food like people in the Midwest.

As you guys probably guessed from my last post, I'm in Chicago.

I'm in Chicago, and my pants aren't buttoning. They aren't even close to buttoning. The two sides of my jeans would not come together right now if John Lennon rose from the dead and sang to them.

It's bad.

It's like that scene from Se7en when the guy was forced to eat spaghetti until he died. It's kind of like that, except I'm doing it to myself.

There is something about this city that makes me eat like I'm trying to get Jillian Michaels to hate fuck me. Let me give you an example. This was dinner tonight.

That is the remnants of an All-Italian, which is a sandwich that contains meatballs, italian sausage and italian beef. Then they douse it with marinara and top it with mozzarella. And just in case that wasn't enough. There's a side of fries, and it was all washed down with a beer.

Oh, what's that sound? Just my heart stopping, no biggie.

I'm pretty sure this blog post has no real meaning, I just basically wanted to let you all know that if I you don't hear from me anymore, it's because I have died. 

I love you all. Now, I'm off to go masturbate to a White Castle commercial. 

Road Trip to Chicago or How I Almost Killed My Boyfriend.

There is something relationship-affirming about taking a road trip with someone. Maybe it's because you have no way out. Here I am, nearly 500 miles away from home passing through some hick-ass Tennessee town that has no cell reception and probably no indoor plumbing and I have to hope that he will not kick me out of the car after hearing me reenact my Twitter feed for the last three hours.

That's trust. 

I don't talk about my significant other on here very often (primarily because I'm not entirely sure I won't be trading him up for a newer model soon), but his entire family lives in Chicago, which means we take the 18-hour trip at least once a year. 

Every time after the labor-like excursion we swear we'll fly. We'll take a train. We'll fucking teleport. Anything other than spending a full day in our car, which is the automobile equivalent of a studio apartment with a bathtub in the kitchen. But our overall poverty makes us forget the hellacious experience, and every year we pack ourselves and our 80-pound English bulldog into our two-door sardine can and get on the road.

The first few hours aren't bad. We laugh. We sing. We talk. We catch up in a way that two full-time jobs prohibit. But something happens along the way. About hour six. There is a shift. A change of energy. That takes two seemingly reasonable adults, who like each other, and turns them into maniacs. It's like a mother-fucking Real World reunion. We are carnivorous. It's the Hunger Games set in a Toyota Yaris.

Him: Change the music. If I have to listen to Adele start her period one more time, I'm going to kill myself.

Me: (turns music up) Don't worry, I will kill you myself if you ever FUCKING TALK ABOUT ADELE LIKE THAT AGAIN!!!

It's at this time, when my hatred for him is at an all time high, I have to trust. 

I have to trust that if I get out to pee and/or catch herpes from a truck-stop restroom, that he will not sell me to the first truck driver he encounters for a souvenir keychain. I have to trust that he will not run us into the side of a mountain just so I will stop asking about his high-school girlfriends. I have to trust that he will not turn into Chris Brown after listening to me sing the Wicked soundtrack through the entire state of Kentucky. 

You all know I like to give horrible relationship advice, but here is the best advice I will ever give anyone questioning their relationship: Take a road trip. If both parties come back alive, then it's solid. 

We made it to Chicago, by the way. But next year, we're teleporting.

                          

Help! My F#ck Buddy is Turning into a Cuddle Buddy

Allie,

So after years on having horrible soul crushing, and sometimes face crushing, relationships Ive gotten myself into a fuck buddy situation. Heres the issue, Im not sure if we are doing it right and if you could tell me that would be awesome! We met about 3 months ago and have been sleeping together ever so often since. We have great chemistry and so great sex is had by all. Here's the dilema, when we have sex I end up spending the night, its happened so often now its tradition. We cuddle, hold hands etc. I feel bad cause I am there for the morning sex, but am not sure why he is. Is this going to end in feelings and messy? 

Thanks,
Clever witty name here!

It's been  awhile since I've posted an advice blog, and what an adorable question to come back to. 

So here's the thing, Clever, I can't really tell you how to be in an appropriate fuck-buddy relationship, mainly because I have never been in one myself. I hope this little bit of information will not cause any of my loyal readers to have less faith in my unqualified sexual advice. 

Now even though you all have just learned that I am purer than Courtney Stodden on her wedding night, I still think I can help. 

When it comes to fuck-buddy relationships, as with any relationship, if both parties are comfortable with the situation, then there's not really a problem. However, I do understand your trepidation. 

It seems like you and this guy are becoming reliant on one another for things more cuddly than orgasms, and while that is all well in good, you might want to have a conversation with cuddle-buddy to better define the relationship.

Listen, I don't think that things will end up messy just because this man treats you as more than just an orifice, but I do think it will end up messy if there are unrequited feelings that are not getting addressed. So sit down with this fella and explain your concerns. 

And remember fuck buddies have feelings too. So if he's not secretly collecting your hair off of his pillow in the morning, let homeboy hold your hand without stressing out.

P.S. If after reading this you think, "I wish my fuck buddy would hold my hand." Then write to me at notreallyabarista@gmail.com or on Twitter @AllieOopsie. You will remain anonymous.

An Open Letter to Rick Santorum

Dear Mr. Santorum,

Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!

Love always,

Allie

P.S.  In horor of the suspension of your presidential campaign, I am going to videotape two gay men-- who are in an interracial relationship and support Obamacare-- having vigorous anal sex. After their ass-fucking fiasco, we will all worship the devil and pass out birth control to college-educated women.

P.S.S. Maybe in 2016 we can spread Santorum, but until then there's always Google.

100 Posts and Rambling

100 posts.

This will be my 100th post.

And like Marcus Bachmann when faced with vaginal intercourse, I cannot perform.

I've been racking my brain trying to think of a way to celebrate this big, round blog-posting number, but alas, I was left staring at a blank screen wondering if the woman from "19 Kids and Counting" delivered each one of those little munchkins vaginally.

Then I was thinking that if she did, it is a miracle the baby juice can even stay in that black-hole long enough to bring another one of her miracles into this world.

Then I was thinking, one of those kids has be gay. It's just numbers.

I was also thinking, one of those kids will probably end up being a serial killer. Still, it's just numbers.

Then I turned off TLC and decided to never have children.

I wish I had something more though. Words that could fully express my gratitude that even one person decided to read my internet ramblings. Especially, because I think you guys are smart and funny, and I would love to buy you all drinks and touch you inappropriately once the alcohol took hold.

So if any of you guys are ever in Northeast Florida...

Anyways, thank you to everyone who has ever read I'm Not Really a Barista. I think you are all incredible.

Even if a couple of you are probably serial killers. Once again, it's just numbers.

No big deal.