Monday, November 7, 2011

it's back again

Hidy ho boys and girls.

Lots of things have changed since we last spoke. I reckon we should start at the beginning.

In July I decided that I would be moving to Nashville by the start of the new year. Luckily enough, it happened sooner than I was expecting and with a lot less hassle. I got an interview in mid - September at a local company in a small town outside of Nashville. I was convinced that I wasn't going to get it but seven days later they called and offered me a muuuuuch better job for muuuuuuch better money. I took a week of vacation to come up to the 615 to take a drug test and fill out some more paperwork. In that time I did a lot - and I mean A FUCKING LOT of pinning {if you haven't heard of pinterest, get on that shit and get on it now}. I went to Knoxville for a UT game that was wonderful and embarrassing all at the same time then I be-bopped my way back to Memphis to turn in my two weeks notice and start packing.

Best news ever? I didn't have to work out my two weeks. I got a three week vacation and it was horrrrrrrrible. And I'm not kidding. Don't get me wrong. I don't particularly like working. I hate getting up in the morning and working until five? Laaaame. The only thing worse than working 8 - 5 is not working. Ever. For three mother fucking months. I mean, sure I could have spent that time packing or doing something with my life but I didn't. I hate packing with an unbridled passion. The only thing{s} that come close to how much I hate packing are unpacking. And Ann Curry.

I made it up to Nashville October 25 - the weekend before Halloween. Great idea? Not. At. All. I crashed a Hallo-wine and cheese party {punny, right?!} at my friends apartment complex. Hangover #1. Then Halloween weekend happpened. I went as a dirt ball because um... it's easy. And comfortable. And not slutty. And I get to wear a mullet wig. Basically? A typical Saturday night. Halloween was haggard. The next morning I woke up completely confused by my surroundings. At which point I realized I had lost both my cell phone AND my debit card. Needless to say I was ready to pack my damn bags and move back to Memphis. Then the strangest thing happened. The cab driver who had allegedly driven me home said he had my cell phone and I could get it. Then my debit card was found safe and sound outside my friends stairwell. Maybe Nashville won't be getting the best of me? She said dooming the next weekend.

This past weekend fucked me in the ass. With no lube. I won't get into the deets because I might cry. Suffice it to say, it's a miracle I survived. A legit goddamn miracle.

My new job is... well, a new job. I have subordinateS. Yup. That's a plural. I'm all boss like and shit. The town is hilarious. I mean, like I hear banjos playing in the woods every morning on my way to work and I dodge the wild turkey and deer. Half of that last sentence is true. I'll let you guess which half. I have a feeling that a lot of my future blog posts are going to be about these wonderful backwoods people.

That's it for now, ladies and gents. I promise to try to be better. I know I've said that 100x. But now that I live in the boonies it's a lot more likely.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Meet: Roberta Guggenheim

After telling the world about m.... er, Anonymous' tale with the Inbred Ass Ninja, a dear friend of mine, who has asked to go by the surname of Roberta Guggenheim {apparently was her name when she worked retail and someone was going to tattle} told me via facebook that she had a few butt stories to share.  I knew at that moment that I was going to need to share this with the world - or 35 of you mother fuckers, at least.  I asked her to be a guest blogger and not only did she agree - she sent me three whole stories.

Here goes nothing:

Butt story #1 --- The Ghost Shart
            I am a person who typically has stomach issues- nausea, diarrhea, the whole Pepto Bismol jingle. For the reasons listed, I cannot eat at many new restaurants. The most recent restaurant do traumatize my wittle bewwy (I have a toddler, it slips) was Genghis Grill. I went with my husband, who loves it, and his best friend who was visiting from out-of-town. The whole bit about this “restaurant” is to give you a bowl, herd you into a line where you fill the bowl with RAW MEAT (you have to scoop it out with tongs yourself), veggies, and rice, and then hand it over to some chef guy who fries it all up in front of you and gives you your bowl back. Sounds… cheap? doesn’t it. I don’t know how this place is a chain restaurant.
            The food wasn’t that bad itself, but I think the whole process where I got the opportunity to squish some raw meat with sweaty tongs just moments before I ate was too much. Needless to say, I picked at my food until it was time to go. Once in the parking lot, it hit me. I was carrying my baby in his carrier and went to say good-bye to my husbands friend, and I sharted. I quickly threw my child into the car and jumped in the front seat and waved out the window. My husband got into the car and before he could open his mouth I shouted, “We have to get to a bathroom NOW!!” We were 45 minutes from our house, so I called my dad who lives 10 minutes from the restaurant. My step-mom answered the phone, and God bless her, she’s a little new to English and couldn’t understand what “shart” meant. After much yelling and her many “Whaaaaa’s?,” she told me to come over.
            My husband drove quickly, but cautiously, laughing the whole way over there. When he pulled into the driveway, I ran out of the car, literally holding my butt cheeks together to prevent further spillage, and went to do the two polite knocks on the door before I ran into the house and blew up their bathroom. As soon as my hand hit the glass, A BIRD flew out of the wreath attached to the front door and fluttered in my face! Apparently, I trapped him in their entryway because it was about 12 seconds of constant fluttering until I ducked (which is hard to do when you’re already sharty) and he finally flew off. I finally made my way to the bathroom, and… nothing. No shit. No shart. Clean panties. All of the taunting courtesy of my husband, near-death bird-in-face experience, and the sheer embarrassment of thinking I crapped my pants for nothing.

I posted about this story a while ago but needed to share it again.  Mainly because the term "shart" makes me laugh uncontrollably.  The idea of sharting makes me laugh even harder and hearing terms of phantom sharting?  Well, I laugh so hard that a pee a little and stop breathing.

Butt story #2 --- I didn’t ask for that…
            As a married woman, I appreciate the availability of sex, but hate the predictability of it at times. Sometimes, a woman just needs something a little special- y’know what I’m saying, y’know what I mean? Apparently, so does my husband. One afternoon, while derin’ it in the style of le doggy, my husband “slipped” and jabbed me straight in the b-hole. This is not okay. It caught me so off guard that I lunged forward, face first, into the wall. (We don’t have a headboard, thank God… if not for just this one tragic experience, I’m glad we’re ghetto as hell and do not have a fucking headboard.) My husband must have not picked up on the subtlety of my reaction (which included, “You’re junk is bigger than my poop!”), so he tried to keep going with it. I immediately started crying because my butt hurt so badly from the surprise jab. I rolled over to yell at him and he freaked, yelling “Oh my God! Your face!” I ran into the bathroom and my nose was bleeding! (I found out later that my bunghole was, too… Oh what this asshole did to my poor asshole.) Luckily, my nose wasn’t broken, and it didn’t even leave a bruise. That didn’t stop me from taunting my husband about it, though. “Oh, you like to put your junk it butts, do you? What, what?” Also, in true ‘me’ fashion, I told everyone who walked through our door for the next two days the story (I like telling stories), hoping the embarrassment of seeing people’s reactions would deter him from “slipping” ever again. It has, which just proves that humiliating your husband can be the right move for Uranus.

I don't want Roberta to ever be in pain but I think it would be funny as shit if she HAD broken her nose. I can see her being asked by a random passerby "what happened to your nose?" to which she would undoubtedly reply "My husband put his junk in my butt."

Butt story #3 --- Clogged up
            By this point, I literally had not pooped for 3 days. Blaming my husband, I told him I couldn’t poo because he jammed his thingy all up in my butt and clogged my pipes. His solution: Taco Bell. So, I had him go pick up some almost Mexican garbage from Taco Hell. In anticipation of the events assured to follow, we sat down for a lovely dinner. And my, what a de-clogger it was. I ate one half of a taco and couldn’t make it to the bathroom before I actually, one-hundred-percent-real-life sharted. It wasn’t the disaster I thought sharting would be (thanks to my trusty thong), but it happened, nonetheless. It was a relief and a tragedy all at once, and probably the only time any normal, sober person actually welcomed a shart.
(I’m sure I’ll have more butt stories in my life, so I will forward them to you for the rest of time.)

Tampa, a college friend of mine, once said "This one time! I took it in the butt! I haven't pooped the same since!"  If I knew then what I knew now, my only would have been to hold a powerful fist in the air  and scream preach on.

Thank you so much, R.G.  I adore you.

Thursday, July 7, 2011

Quick rant.

Dear America,

I hate Casey Anthony just as much as the next person - trust me, I really do.  I find her behavior repulsive.  I dislike everything that I've seen about this bitch.  That being said, I'm really tired of hearing people talk about killing her, hoping someone kills her, re-trying her case, slamming the judge and jury, chatting about how inappropriate her sentence is, et al.  Let me tell you why this annoys me to no end:

1.  You want her dead - either by your hands or someone else's: I'm kind of torn on this one.  I'm pro-choice and can be pro-death penalty.  Can be = convicted sex offenders, rapists, cop killers, terrorists - douche nozzles of that nature.  But how can you say, with any ounce of sincerity, that you would kill someone?  Don't you think that you need to seek therapy?  Me thinks you have a few anger management problems and need to talk to someone and ya need to do it now.

2.  You want to RE-TRY her case:  The next person I hear say she needs to be fucking re-tried is getting a firm backhand.  The accused has a few rights so that everyone doesn't get completely dicked over.  They have the right to a fair, speedy trial; a trial by a jury of their peers; right to council; presumption of innocence; something about the Miranda rights and, arguably the most important for today's topic: double jeopardy.  I don't know what class teaches about this in school but I know one must.  If you, I don't know, never went to school? have you never seen Double Jeopardy with Ashley Judd?  Have you never seen at least one episode of Law and Order where the son of bitch gets off?  {If you said no to that last one, I'm calling bull shit.}  Double jeopardy means you can't be tried again after being acquitted.  It CANNOT and WILL NOT be happening.

3.  Talking shiz about the jury for finding her not guilty: This one pisses me off the most.  Did you watch any of the trial?  Surely you know they didn't have any hardcore evidence that this bitch killed that sweet baby.  I know everyone watches TV.  If you watch Nancy Grace I'm a little embarrassed for you but I'll let it slide.  The people that were on that jury did exactly what they were supposed to do.  They looked at the evidence and did what they believed to be right.  If you want to be pissed at anyone, be pissed at the prosecution.

4.  The judge:  He's just a big bad ass ball of American Justice.  AND he's a total hard ass.  A hard ass named Belvin. If you don't think he caught shit about THAT name growing up then it's like I don't even know you anymore... Did you hear that he gave some TGIFridays working ass clown that flipped the bird to the prosecuters six days in jail and a fine?  Don't mess with this chocolate marshmallow.  Homes is not fucking around.

5.  Her sentence:  Quick recap: She was jailed July 16, 2008.  She was found not guilty on the serious charges and found guilty on four counts of being a lying cunt {hey, that's the legal term... not mine}.  The maximum penalty for being a deceiving whore? One year per charge.  Math time:  Four years. Max.Im.Muuuum.  In Florida, folks down there only serve about 85% of their sentence.
365 x 4 = 1460
1460 x .85 = 1241
Carry the one.  Long division.  Calculator.
She only has to serve 3.4 years.  And that's without good behavior.

Moral of my rant today: Do I think she is guilty? Yes. Do I dislike her? Oh, but of course.  Am I tired of hearing about her? Hell. Fucking. Yes.  My heart hurts for everyone involved with this trial.

But just in case... this is a good idea.

Can we please get back to talking about Lindsey Lohan?  Or maybe... I don't know.. maybe something awesome about the world? Like this? This makes me laugh.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

A and the Inbred Ass Ninja

I have something to tell you, beautiful people.  It's a story about a boy and a girl and what a wonderfully awkward story it is but before I get down to the nitty gritty I want to share a song with you.  It's one of the most ridiculous songs I've ever heard in my life but I'm fucking obsessed AND it is crucial to my story. The lyrics I want you to really remember are below - specifically the bold.

Oh my good no exaggeration
Boy all this time was worth the waiting
I just shed a tear
I'm so unprepared
You got the finest architecture
End of the rainbow looking treasure
Such a sight to see
And this all for me

The girl in this story would like to remain totally anonymous {trust me, you'll understand but I'll call her Anon} and the boy? Well, we are going to call him Slingblade.  He may or may not have been inbred and he talked... like Slingblade.  Anon met Slingblade up in Nashville during a particularly sloppy joe night and took a liking to his accent and smooshy face so she decided she was going to take him home.  The pair decided to go back to Slingblade's house which was about 20 minutes away.  Whilst in route to SB's humble abode, Anon decided to... um... service him.  Which would be fine... if Habeeb, the cab driver, was not eagerly watching in the rear view mirror.  Yup, that happened. Anon falls out of the cab but makes it safely makes it up to Slingblade's bedroom and this is where things get inappropriate.  I know what your thinking, "Falling out of a cab while going home with some strange isn't bad?  Slobbing on some knob while in mixed company isn't bad?" And the answer is a simple no.

This second part of the is where the song is very important.  Did you hear these lyrics?  If not, please remember the bolded section.  Things start getting X rated so I'll get straight to the point:  Slingblade was packing some serious heat.  Like porn star huge.  Anon said it was the only thing redeeming about him since he liked a little inbred and she couldn't understand what he was saying.  She was into how aggressive he was {because seriosuly, who wants Boyz II Men baby making sex when you're with someone you never plan on seeing again?}  But then it happened.  Slingblade put it in Anon's ass without asking.  No warning.  No head's up. Nothing.

Like I said, prior to laying the pipe in her poop shoot, he knew what he was doing.  Then he had to go and do that?  Now, fellas - if you don't know how unwelcome this is or how much this makes you want to hurl, take a time out.  Go get yourself a cucumber that matches the size of your package {in SB's case it would be more along the lines of an eggplant} and shove it in your ass.  Now imagine it being a surprise.  {I'm laughing incredibly hard right now... I hope someone actually does this.}  If you aren't willing to shove it in your own ass, please remember your manners and ask permission before sticking into the anal cavity of the chick you're lucky enough to be hooking up with.  IF she says yes, have at it.  If she says no, stay. the. fuck. away.

But I'm not done.

Things finished up.  Anon took a little nap then got up to take a shower because nothing instigates a hangover like the smell of stale cigarette smoke, day old beer and jizz.  She walks into the shower and is immediately weirded out by his clear shower curtain.  {If I haven't expressed my feelings on this subject:  I need to make it clear that nothing screams serial killer more than a clear shower curtain.}  While washing away the smells of the night before and praying that her asshole will one day forgive her, Slingblade walks in.  "Surely, he's just going pee.  Wait... he's sitting down.  Maybe he's just drunk?"  Not so lucky, my friends.  Slingblade sat down and did this:

Faces and all.  This really happened.  You cannot make this kind of shit up.  Anon peered around the gross clear shower curtain and immediately wanted to die.  Once SB leaves the shower smelling like - er... explosive diarrhea, Anon goes back to bed.  At which point SB tried to cuddle... after sticking it in Anon's ass and shitting while she is showering.  No, sir. Not gonna happen.

Anon was rescued a few hours later and be-bopped her cute little ass out but not before telling Slingblade that she was married.  Maybe to discourage any future contact from this fella?  Maybe to make him feel shame for putting his big, beautiful appendage in a place where it so clearly didn't belong?  The world may never know.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Sorry for partying.

It's a two post day... only because I really don't want to do anything productive tonight.  This one is dedicated to... well, me.  And my frands who celebrated my birthday with me this year.

I went to Smashville to celebrate with my main lovers.  It started innocently enough with margaritas and "dinner."  Dinner is in quotations marks because I consumed mainly lime wedges and tequila.  Woof.  So here we go.

I don't know why I blacked out.
Surprisingly normal.

Out come the peace signs. Probably starting to get grey...

Definitely at grey out right now.
Getting darker...

Andie and Shorty Bo Peep


This last picture is Steve. Steve talks like a frog.  Steve loves Dale Earnhardt.  I fell in love SBP didn't approve but went along with my obsession.  It was my birthday, after all.  There are a shortage of pictures of me this night... mainly because I sloppy joe drunk and the garbage man eyes were out in full effect.  I wound up getting kicked out.  Of a bar.  ON my birthday.  Allegedly I wanted to take a nap.  I don't see why this was a problem.  I haven't been kicked out of a bar since I was caught drinking underage when I was 18.  Obviously turned 26 has catapulted me into adulthood.  {To explain garbage man eyes, see below}
Yup. Sloppy. Sloppy. Joe.
Moving on...  To say I was hungover the next day would be a horrible understatement.  Whoever said that breakfast is the most important meal of the day has never binge drank without eating a substantial dinner.  I barfed all day long.  Took not one, not two but THREE hangover showers.  Ate a plethora of popsicles and slept... a lot.  But the party had to keep on going.  SBP bought us tickets to see Jonny Lang at the Ryman that night.  He was wonderful and delicious.  The fans he brought out were better than anyone can ever imagine.  {Quick aside: I stopped yacking shortly before walking into the Ryman.}  Then we went to Paradise Park - a bar modeled after a trailer park? Yes, please.

Mr. Lang

My cowlick was out in full effect this weekend

I somehow managed to drink?

For future reference.

SBP & Nashville.

That's definitely fireball in her hand.

Hand over face = black out. Part two.

Nashville and Vanilla Thrilla. My faves.
Then there were the men that were attracted to me that night.  I tend to draw in real winners.  He's proof.

Hank, Jr.

This guy was homeless.  And got closer to me every 5 minutes.

Fact:  This guy had a rat tail.
There was one other fella that we didn't get a picture of and it broke my little heart.  He looked like Jesus.  His real name was Eddie but told me I could call him Jesus, quite the charmer, I know.  I decided I would call him Ian. Or girl.  He wasn't fond of either but it wasn't up to him.  Here's what happened during our first exchange:

Take away the beard and blonde hair.
{Real talk: I googled hot Jesus to find this picture.  I'm going to hell fo sho.}

Ian:  It's your birthday.  You know what you should do?  Have sex with me.
Me: Ha. No thanks, girl.
Ian: (looks at Nashville) You can join us, too.
Me: Um, that's my sister.
Ian: It's cool... she can still join us.

As we made our way back to the car I managed to thoroughly insult some Spaniards by asking if they were French... or German.  They can't take a joke so fuck em.

Sunday Funday started with breakfast at Cracker Barrel and napping.  Lots of napping by everyone but me.  I sat up and stared at them {true story} and sent them text messages trying to wake them up.

Hangovers hurt more when you're old.

This is the homeless times. True story.
I'm hold Boozeman hostage.
I found this on a trash can. I was getting into character.
Then I was excited I had a new toy
Then I was scared by the bald man.
Things quickly got out of hand.  Scottie Don't was hanging out with us for the first time all weekend and I truly enjoy emotionally abusing him.  I don't know why other than I can. So I do.  Here's proof:

The sign reads: "Blow jobs $50 Ask for Scottie"
There were a few men interested... they wanted to negotiate the price but Scottie stood firm.  Rage part three: the finale ended with wildly bad decisions, a bathroom mishap and more bad decisions.  It was a wild success.

SBP and I went and shot guns to round the weekend out but I'm saving those pictures for another time.

Hulkamania, brother.

I love manly men.  Southern manly men, to be exact.  {I don't think that there is anything manly about a man with overly plucked eyes brows and spray tans.}  I like to look at them.  I sometimes like to talk to them.  I like the way their little brains work {girls don't poo, really? who came up with this?}.  I like it they get horribly grossed out when I burp {sorry, father... I will never stop}.  I like it that they don't always smell nice.  I will always enjoy their vast knowledge on all things sports, beer, man things.  I like it when they like to go fishing and shoot guns and build man things with their man hands.  I. Love. Manly. Men.  I also am obsessed with gay men.  Like the gayer the better.  That being said there is a lot in the middle that I don't understand... the heterosexual men that insist upon sporting the murse, for instance.

The murse is a man purse.  Who invented this monstrosity? No one in America, that's for sure.  And they weren't intended for straight men.  They just weren't.  Gay men can wear them but gay men can get away with lots of things straight men can't.  It's ok.  You were born that way.  There are tons of different styles which blows my mind.  Most men who carry these things like to call them satchels or European something or others.  I have a two questions for you purse wearing fellas:

  • What about the across the body bag you're wearing screams, "I'm a man?" Nothing. The answer is nothing.
  • WHAT do you need to carry around so badly that won't fit in your pockets?  Would you like to know what I carry in my purse? Lipgloss, altoids, my wallet and tampons.  For my pa-chatch.  Do you carry around tampons?  Or are you more of a pad kinda guy?  Do you experience heavy flow?  You look like you have a wide set vagina.
Let it be known that my daddy-o, one of the manliest men that I know, has sported a fanny pack once or twice.  Now, he hasn't done this since I've been able to speak because I mocked him incessantly whenever he mentions bringing it back out.  His argument?  Hulk Hogan wears one.  Not ok, Rick.  Not ok.

In conclusion:  murses are gay.  As in, to only be worn by gay men.