walking in a winterwonderfuckmyliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiife.

I live in canada. yes. we have snow.
but FUCK (seriously)
this morning i was jumping over snow hills like fucking balto himself..
all the way to the bus stop and i caught the bus by maybe a half-second.
so TECHNICALLY:
if i were not resilient and nymph-like (in every way shape and form)
-being that i am god's personal prima ballerina and all.
i would have missed that bus.
and i know the rat woman is thanking every single cosmic force in the universe that this did not happen.
because i would have strait up punched her across the fucking head.
(something about the holidays that brings out the vurry best in me..)

the rat woman: looks and acts like a rat. hence further proving my theory that people who look like rats.
act like rats.
look at snoop dogg.
and this guy that came to my elementary school.
his name was frank.
he was pure rat.and obv. the resident juvenile delinquent.
why is she the rat woman one would ask?
besides being the identical twin sister of splinter from the ninja turtles.
this betch waits at the front of the bus line.
however, be forewarned that:
the concept of a LINE does not exist in riviere des prairies.
and she cuts in the line after about 3 people get on the bus.
and true to rat form,
takes the last available seat on the bus.
rat woman.

so allegedly we're harboring dead bodies in my house
because the heating is like never on.
and the mother screams at me every time i do.
my nip nips can nearly carve out a statue of "the david".
david allan grier.
i swear to you when i say i sleep with 5 layers of sheetness.
and one is a duvet.
duvet allan grier.

what else.

sidenote: i want to be in the nutcracker.
peecaz cracking nuts is my forte.

so my new years resolution is to be more positive.
because im not a miserable old man.
i'm young.
and my boobs are really perky
so no need to be negative now is there?!

basically:

the old negative melnutso thinks:

"i want to hijack santa's sleigh and take santa and his reindeer to china.
i'll take them to a bamboo garden.
strap them to the ground and sit there for 2 weeks
(in the foldy camping chair i got at canadian tire which in reality means i stole it from minty's garage.)
while bamboo grows right through their fucking foreheads.

however

the new positive melnotnutso thinks:

"this calls for sears photo studio opp..who's down for some ugly t-shirt, fake fireplace mantle editorial posing?!"

i know i am.

and for you pleasure but in reality just the pleasure of mine-own:

">

JIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZ-AH!

things i've analyzed over the weekend

1) "MTV" edition


Mtv taught me to always put my money on the little talentless white boy with the falsetto that makes liberace roll over in his grave and ass-cream all over his crimson velveteen coffin.
and then place the rest of your moneys on the coked-out white girl dressed in raw meat scraps.
even if there is no option or category of the sort.
you create your own category.
and you put your fucking money on it.

side note.
the word "situation" is dead to me because of MTV
and that asshole.
anytime anyone says "situation"
regardless of context
techno beats and strobe lights start blaring in my head.
i imagine a little orange man start to fist pump to "beat dat beat".
and i just see that bastard's ugly face.
lifting up his shirt and pointing to his abs.
that's what's going on my my head
in reality i start to flick the light switch on and off
while singing "DSH DSH DSH DSH DSH"

2) "nicki minaj's ass" edition

for the record:
i have NOTHING negative to say about this woman.
i adore nicki minaj and i think she belongs nowhere that isnt my fireplace mantle
in an anne of green gables dress and wig
because she is absolutely and completely a doll.
it is with unanimous envy when i say that her ass
deserves an area code of its own.
and a strap holster that can be hooked and placed comfortably onto my body.
when i'm feeling for some discounted kfc.
when i'm pouring 500$ champagne down my ass-crack
or when i'm bending over to smack the ground
which FYI
i've been doing a lot lately.
(i would also forget to mention that this is one of the strenuous ritual performed in order to satisfy my obsessive compulsive disorder)
that and doing "the hustle" when entering a room

3) "my mother killed the only 2 friends i've ever had" edition


the spiders in my shower.
i usually kill spiders because i'm a ruthless cunt.
but i had a special attachment to these ones.
because they've seen me naked (so we can all assume they wanted to die)
and they've heard me sing the sweet melody of really bad renditions of fiona apple songs (ditto)
and most importantly
they sold me the best weed i have ever smoked in my life.
face numbing.
i remember it like it was 10 minutes ago (literally)
i look up. no spiders.
followed by "YOU KILLED MY FRIENDS!!"
to which she responds:
"what friends?"
(she's right)

RIP jermajesty and prince michael the third.

on a lighter note.
my birtday is in.... *takes out calendar*
exactly fitteen (not a typo) days.
"22 anni pirsi" as my grandmother would say
which translates to:
"we found you in a cardboard box on the service road and nobody in the family likes you"

things that should be relevant in pop culture part one: scene one

strip monopoly.
cause nothing says "eff me" quite like nudity and real estate.
not to mention that by the end of the game
(three hours later)
all you've taken off is your jacket.
and you're no longer friends with any of the people in the same room as you.
now after that.
just picture the old man with the mustache and the top hat.
completely nude.
wearing nothing exception the sock holder-upper straps around his calf
that are holding up his tuxedo socks.

I can't admit that i have ever played a full game of monopoly.
the same way i've never watched titanic from beginning to end.
it's actually scarred me for life.
imagine being awake and seeing sunshine and british accents.
then you fall asleep...
to ultimately wake up and SHIT IS GETTING FORREHL.
the water is cold.
di caprio is dead.
and everyone is like
"disney cruise my ASS"

on that note

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cj1wcs7SZj0

the biche and i have been rehearsing this scene for weeks on end.
biche is the monopoly guy.
because i won the bet.
so i got to be ace ventura.
the bet was over the celebrity apprentice.
who could predict the winner...
i won by default because we don't even watch the celebrity apprentice.
and cause biche is a dog.
thus meaning she has no REAL opinion except for:

eat
sleep
hump
and BEHHHHHHHH *side-eyes of lividnessssssssss*



PRA PRA!

y'know what time it is?!?!!?!

blog time.
*EXPLOSIONS*
*contemporary dancers in yellow sequined jumpsuits with fringe at the bottom*
*rev jesse jackson backed up by the harlem boys choir*

so did you ever get the feeling like you wanted to kick someone's ass.
im serious.
like the sudden urge to just slide tackle them to the floor?
i would only partake in the previous if and only if:

i were wearing chandelier earrings.
you know the long, heavy ones that just hang.
why, you ask?
that's because when i'm deciding whether or not
i really want to beat the shit out of someone.
the deciding force will be driven by the idea
of being all "shits about to get hood"
where i will proceed in removing the earrings.
gently placing them in the hands of the person next to me.
(saying "hold this")
then i continue to walk forward
and uppercut a bitch.

Once i was on the corner of atwater and st catherine.
and its 8 o'clock in the morning
and i havn't injected my veins with a syringe full of espresso at this point.
however i am holding a coffee.
on my way to work.
at a traffic light, as im waiting for the bonnehomme light to show his sexy self.
a runner run's past me skimming my coffee.
at this point im thinking to myself:
imagine she would have knocked it down?
and i would pause
look at the coffee
look at the runner
and just start running after her.
catch up to her and grab her by the hair.
drag her all the way back to mcdonalds,
get to the cash, throw her to the ground and scream "BUY ME A COFFEE!!!!!!!!"
but then i realized that would be FUUUUUUCKED.

so then i crossed the street and went to work.
at work i told the guy that sits next to me what had just happened and he said:

"wow. your life sucks."

my response?

"it REALLLLLLLLLY does..."

best dream ever.

"oh man i had the most fucked up dream yesterday. vane was crying and she takes my car and drives herself home but then she leaves it there and comes back to my house and i'm like 'where's my car' and she's like 'it's at my house' and i start telling her off and then amanda was there and refused to give me a lift and i snapped and was like 'you ungrateful bitchesssssssssssssss' but i started laughing cause that's the lamest most soap opera-y thing you can say"

"it gets worse. then i'm in this scenario where i'm in a high school and i start howling as if im turning into a werewolf but everyone and the teacher in the class is like 'wtf are you smoking' and then i just stop howling and take a seat. then i woke up."

in case you were wondering. this was a series of text messagios directed towards ma boo, gee-double-L. but i only call her this behind her back.
the moral of the story is:
don't drink alcohol.
change your undies at least once a day.
and this boy.

i swear to you i will dress up like link from zelda.
and i will hunt this fucker down with a cross bow.
i dont care if his abs look like i can use them to wash my delicates.
i'm tired of seeing him shirtless, doing cartwheels on beaches while simultaneously riding a motorcycle.
that's a physical impossibility.
and who fucking wears jeans to the beach?!

i'm pregnant

with sextuplets.
i've chosen out names.
and you can rest assured.
that "mortimer" is one of them.
"miss thang" is another one.


so today i had the great fortune of reading the biography of ted bundy out loud.
to a heaping audience of 2.
bitch was fucked.
so basically i've been working on my psychopath history.
cause there are A LOT.
and i need to outsmart the magnetic force field which i exude that super-sucks in psychopaths.
and sociopaths.
like a turkey baster.
they come in every shape and form all having one thing in common.
the desire to see me lose my fucking mind.

you know its bad when half the people you meet remind you of alex from clockwork.
next thing you know he's cutting the boobs off your orange spandex onesie while he's not singing "singin' in the rain"
my psycho sings the mentos theme song.
then he hums it in the bathtub and then i go in there only to stick a hand grenade (shaped like a giant marble penis) up his ass.
(in case you were wondering. i get out before it goes kablammo)
just like keanu in speed.

am i the only one bothered by the fact that alex cuts a perfectly fine orange spandex onesie?
if i remember correctly, there WAS a zipper on that thing.
zippers are there for a reason.
they're there so that in order to take it off, you don't need to use scissors to do this.

my magnet not only "come hither's" sociopaths.
it also attracts homeless men.
only those who smell like a mixture of piss and colt 45
(boiled at high for 10 mins, decrease heat and let simmer for an hour)
the same ones that don't make any sense when they're screaming at you while waving a banana furiously over their head.

ps. how fucking awesome is the picture of the dog with the syringe in his mouth?

so i created this scenario in my head....

remember lamb chops play along?
remember this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HNTxr2NJHa0
now. if you think im fucked and obsessed with lamb chops.
you're absolutely right.
lamb chops is the genuine coming-together of 3 things that i hold close to my heart:
yeta accents, wool and shari lewis' female jewfro (its like a condensed shaun white).
i swear to god.
if barbara streisand were born a lamb and THEN was cast in Yentl.
she would be lambchops.

anyway.

i thought about it the other day.
what if at the end of every episode, when they're singing that song.
shari lewis like. flips her shit.
she cuts off lamb chop's head with an axe.
shoots charlie horse in the eye with a nail gun.
rapes hush puppy?

that would be FUCKED up.
capital FUCKED.

sooooooooo...
(you know its bad when you have to say "sooooooo")

i've been getting into situations where really obese people get annoyed and consequently pissed the fuck off.
i don't know why i always have to be in the same place at the same time.
but it happened quite often recently.

there was this like. i kid you not. 600 pound haitien woman on the metro.
she was wearing curtains. or what use to be the curtains from the sound of music.
she sits down. and eventually gets off at pie IX.
doesn't she bodycheck a tiny asian lady
turns around and gives her this "oh no you did not, child!" look.
i think i was the only one to notice and i was like HO SHIIIIIIIIIIIIT.
not gunna lie.
i was kinda disappointed that she didnt scream.
"WATCH WHERE IT IS THAT YOU WALK"
while clapping her hands consecutively so as to prove just how forehhhhl she is.

then.

the other day at atwater mcdonalds.
ie. homeless-crack addict-aids volunteer worker centropolis.
there's this woman sitting on the terrasse.
she was (you guessed it). obese.
but she wasnt wearing a bra either.
i wont get into detail.
but lets just say
the melons were resting peacefully on the table in front of her.

NEXT.

i got into an arguement with this woman at work.
i work over the phone but she had one of those voices that you can tell.
like deep breathing
you can taste the oxygen tank sitting next to her lazy-boy recliner, basically.
and i ask her "how come you didn't make your payment?"
and she says "I CANT WALK!*inhale*exhale*I MAILED'EM"
and when i asked why she hadn't contacted her branch to trace the payment she says
"i don' know"
...

what do you mean you don't know?!?!?!
(this was my inside voice)

piece de resistance?

right before she hangs up she screams "GO AWAY!!!"

and now i get to cross that off my to-do list...

things i don't get

starring melissa nudo
richard gere
and bill cosby.
a "jello jigglers" exclusive.

HO.kay

1) people who wear fake glasses.


okay. i don't get to bitch that much cause i brought this upon myself
(by lying in the eye exam...fuck you..i wanted glasses)
and now im blind (quasi)
but the moral of the story is:
wearing glasses sucks.
the mere thought of having to wear glasses for no reason other than having to see a stone toss in front of you makes no sense to me.
you get a tan line there y'know.

think about it.

2) Chuck Norris jokes.

Can someone please explain chuck norris jokes to me?
because so far the only explanation i've gotten from like 16 different people is "its cause he's so awesome"
and you know what, fuck
being on "Walker, texas ranger" does not validate awesomeness in my opinion
so what now?..like
is jane seymour the shit because
she was on "doctor quinn medicine woman"
fuck that what about everyone on touched by an angel
i guess being on cbs is where its at
but only like 15 years after the show is cancelled or something.

3) flying nuns

i fucking love flying nuns.
sally field at her prime.
not only do you preach the word of the lord.
but you fly.
with sick head gear that defies the laws of gravity like a motha fucka.

sign me up for that class!

new rule

starting now.
on a saturday night.
at 1:41 am.

i refuse.
absolutely.
to watch any movie where characters speak a fictional language.
here's looking at you, avatar.
and that movie with the cave men. not encino man.
and passion of the christ.
aramaic my ass...

more like mary magdalanguage.
the language of the slut.
it use to be exclusively reserved for sluts of the biblical genre.
but nowadays. especially on a saturday night at 1:45 am.
mary magdalanguage.
not by me.
because clearly, i've hung up my palestinian whore sash for the evening.
laying in bed with a laptop on my stomach at a 45 degree angle.

i really wish that existed.
and i wish i was in charge of marketing this.
and advertising.
the palestinian whore sash that is...

wow.

see



that's a picture of me waving goodbye to my vagina.
she ran away from me screaming.
ironically she screams in fluent aramaic.

men and balls

WORLD CUP FIESTAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
wooooooo.
okay seriously.

italy is out. and im indifferent because i love italy as a county but i loathe italy as a rotten burrow that i live in.
therefore. no wins = no assault with a deadly weapon (massive tridented pitchfork strapped to front bumper of mini SUV) by me.

second.

VUVUZELAAAAAAAAA

a word i have been using at every opportunity for the past 2 weeks whether or not it be in context with the conversation i happen to be having at that present moment.
what an intense word for such a stupid thing.
its a god damn horn.
drunk french butch moms use to "vuvuzela it up" at my brother's pee wee hockey games.
back when it was called a "french mom horn"
and back when vuvuzela's were paired with the words "hostie", smoker's cough, and the graceful stance that is one leg mounted on a wooden bench.
i like taking barenaked ladies songs and replacing key words with YOU GUESSED IT. the word "vuvuzela".
for instance.
instead of "you could be my yoko ono" i say:

"you can be my vuvuzela, you can follow me where ever i goo"

or

IF I HAD A VUVUZELAAAAAAA...i'd be rich-a"

moving along.

i invented my own cat fight scenario.
its pretty much:

cristiano ronaldo

diego forlan


the ultra saucy diego maradona


and fernando torres.


i call them all by their first names.
get some personified recognition up in this bitch.
spain vs portugal was not spain vs portugal
it was fernando vs. cristiano in wedding dresses wrestling in vaseline and rose petals.
i had my money on fernando.
but i also hope cristiano ronaldo falls ass then face first down the spiral staircase in back of a st-michel duplex unit.
hence the bias.
in the end. forlan is number one in my heart
and that's only because my dad is from uruguay.
and uruguayan victory equals crazy uruguayan celebration parties with hot uruguayan guys that i havn't made out with yet.

finally.

i heard paris hilton got narc'd smoking pot at the brazil-netherlands match.
all i have to say about this is:

1) really?
2) you're in south africa
3) you're at a soccer stadium with zillions of people.
4) you're paris hilton

you dumb ass.

on that note.

FIELD TRIP
i'm off to cuba.yes. i know.
i'll be black in a week. literally
just like the little boy i plan on smuggling into the country illegally along with every stray cat and desi arnaz i see.

dear friday night, suck it. Sincerely, the almighty almighty.

this is going to be almost but not quite as bad as Gigli
(cue part where the girl slits her wrists and goes "WOOOOOOO WOOOOOOO")

scene 1: murdering shari lewis' lambchops. (get some homicide up in dis biznatch)



scene 2: drinking baby lotion out of a tim hortons glass.
(all the cool kids are doing it)


scene three: wearing these sunglasses. when i put these motherfuckers on, i instantly transform into a gay Norwegian rave kid with green spiky hair and giant bell bottom pants and indoor soccer shoes.
or a futuristic ray charles on eurovision.
(flipping you off with the murder weapon.
if this were Clue. you'd be winning.)


scene four: superimposing this crazy bitch's head to my body.


ergo.
you know you wish you were me.
i even wish i was me.
and i am me.

in all fairness.
at least we know i MOST DEFINITELY wont ever be on a "who's the daddy?" episode of Maury.

i give this night a solid 8/10.

i may be a man

at heart
but physically and stylistically.
i am a beast.
a beast of fashion.

i'm not even kidding.
when i go shopping (especially in a different country..)
y'know those full-blown weather warnings that interrupt the view and you've got Al Roker all "HURRICANE. put all your shit away!!"
well in my case they're like "SHE'S COMING...hide your valuables"
but that's only because i'm a raging kleptomaniac (and al roker knows this).

shopping to me, is an art-form.
i'm VERY particular.
and VERY aware of what's nice and what's not flattering for my body type unlike A LOT and i truly stress and i will repeat, A LOT of other people in this city.
basically:
i walk into a store, carefully scanning every item in there and usually i'll notice maybe one or two really nice (expensive) things that i'll try on and most probably buy.
right before i turn into a deceptacon
in order to smash everything and everyone with my mean,metal devil feet.
followed by a mix of buyers' remorse and a bottle of sleeping pills.
(elapsed time: 10 minutes)

i wish i could live in the magical vortex that is ebay.
where everyone and everything is so pretty and unique and vintage.
the wonderful world of "buy it now" because god knows i cannot win a bidding war if my life depended on it.
followed by receiving merchandise in the mail and screaming
"FUCK TO THE NO"
when you realize that the item you bought was not a dress, but a dress shirt.
and then you have to write an angry letter threatening to cut people up but not really because i'm too nice to actually write that in an email.

meanwhile my credit card is on it's third attempt and fail at suicide.
because every attempt is followed by a trip to new york city.
where i literally go buck wild, not the slutty buckwild, and i can't even say "gay man" buck wild because that can be a lot of things that is probably inaccurate in relation to what i'm actually talking about...that of which you and i both will never know exactly.
for some reason the word "buck wild" reminds me of the movie coyote ugly.
but not as "buck wild" as that either.
because dancing on a bar in a haltered crop top and Gap long and lean jeans while waving around a bottle of jack daniels, my breasts and vagina is not particularly included in my list of fortes.

ALTHOUGH.
i would wave around a bottle of Courvoisier at all times.
and not only because busta rhymes made a song about it.
but more for the fact that i'd totally feel like i'd be waving around the "i dream of jeannie" bottle.
and where there's the "i dream of jeannie" bottle means that not far from that
is major tony nelson.
mmmmmmm...

ps.

since we're on the subject.

dear sarah jessica parker,
give me back my 5 dollars.
give me back my 3 hours.
and give me back my soul.
or i will be forced to come there.
sit you down.
and talk about menopause, bra-less nannies while shoving appropriate but not funny puns here and there.
for three hours.
right before i steal 5 dollars
from your wallet.

chauffeur

95% of my life so far
has been spent on the city bus.
I was born on the 44 (near the bad parts)
then my mom found me in front of a couche tard.

I fucking hate the bus.
i hate public transportation.
i hate sitting next to ugly people i don't know.
i hate having to listen to that alicia keys song full blast
(its like OKAY its not THAT good. MUST you be listening to it at MAX VOL?)

it reminds me of that time i was sandwiched between this little body odor smelling girl and this other girl that smelled literally like vomit.
and she kept coughing. and with every cough.
BARF.
and the kid was reading a Twilight magazine.
and i wanted to tell my friend about this in a text. but barfzilla would have for sure seen.
i think i went home and immediately wrote the entire description above on my friend vanessa's facebook thing,

so dear vanessa. if you are reading this..send me the actual post. and i will post it hurr for all to see with a giant "I TOLD YOU I WAS FURREEEEEEHHHLLL" directly under it in old english font size 26.

so believe it or not.
this post is supposed to be about bus drivers but i totally got sidetracked by i don't even know what anymore.

soooooooooooooo

you've either got a manly man burly ass bus driver..
you know what i'm talking about...handle bar mustache, FOR SURE likes motorcyles and cigarettes and burning crosses in a white hooded gown.

then there's the middle aged sporty looking bus driver. he's wearing those sunglasses designed for people who ride bikes in spandex onesies. and they're a lot better looking than bachelor numero uno. and they always smile and say "bonne journee" after you get off (the bus)
this guy is the exclusive brand of bus driver that will stop for someone who is running like a lunatic on the side of the road or more specifically,
myself running (FAIL)
with an unnecessarily heavy purse.
most probably being strangled by the scarf
that is wrapped around my leg and my neck at this point.

every once in a blue moon.
you get that hot female bus driver and all i have to say about that is
why?

then FINALLY (yes. almost. but not quite..still a bit more)
there is this form of sexual chocolate.
you all know it and have experienced it most likely.
the biggest, saggiest, meaneast fucking cunt you have ever had to deal with in your life.
and they usually look something along to lines of Exhibit A:


bless her soul

now imagine the aboved image with a blue-collared shirt and navy slacks
these minions are captured at birth.
and are trained and fed "bitch" every single day until,
finally
the time comes where they are to ultimately be placed.
in a metro station.
asking you for you student card.
as if not having that on you readily has caused their entire life to turn completely upside down and then finger-bang their life partner.

my earliest (and fondest) memories consist of Radisson metro station
THAT behind fiber glass casing
and my mother calling her something along the lines of "go shit, you fucking cow"
in french.

good times.

they MUST be stopped

have you ever found yourself on a random street corner in hollyweird, california?
have you ever seen lindsay lohan or perhaps her grandmotherlittlesister?
Maybe you hit the jackpot by landing a glimpse of lindsay in about 5 years...the mom.
(i would have given more than 5 but 23 year old women are not supposed to look like the poster-child for osteoporosis)

Have you ever experienced a lohan encounter where you found yourself thinking
"if only i had a heavy, sharp, high voltaged object to throw at these mother fuckers"
...objects like oscar awards, staple guns and power lines.

if you answered "yes" to all of the above.
then consider this your lucky day.
for i just invented a tv show cleverly titled:

"Whipping Stuff at the Lohans"

The show where contestants get to show off their throwing skills
by aiming and injuring a member of the lohan clan.
without notice.
like a fucking phantom.
(a balanced mixture of TMZ and major league baseball)

Contestants will compete for the chance to win a variety of prizes such as:

- an all expense paid trip to Montpelier, Vermont.
- A photograph of yours truly bending over suggestively in front of a greased up stripper pole.
- and the possibility of hitting and possibly decapitating the most annoying group of people on the face of the earth.

Then everyone can sleep easier knowing that Late-Night Gollum
has been randomly slapped across the face by a steaming hot
sandwich press.

this entire post will revolve around...

now.
i'll give you a moment to deal with your stiffy.
then say about 150 hail mary's and you might as well throw a couple apostle's creeds in there while you're at it.
cause you know god is gunna be pissed about this one.

okay.
i fucking LOVE these two.
i have never been more inspired to get plastic surgery.
because the fact that my boobs aren't shaped like cylinders when i wear my leopard print bikini would
hinder the direct confidence and drive required to do lots of things in my life.
like getting mammograms.
running marathons in VERY revealing spandex.
and most importantly.
chilling at the beach with mah grl, jacked-face ginger spice.
and the playboy bunny tattoo.

i don't think my skin would ever latch on to that shade.
i wouldnt call it a tan per se.
cause tans are brown.
this is more of a "melanoma" orange, perhaps? (COPYRIGHT THAT SHIT. fuck YOU crayola)
and the only way you can achieve that hue of perfection?
simply replace your bottle of STL (and that's "sun tan lotion" for all you retards).
with astroglide.

then take the fat from your ass.
and inject it directly into your lips.
then you would need a lipstick or gloss that yells:
"i LOVE the taste of cock in and around my mouth and chest esp if there is a camera involved"
from the rooftops.
if all else fails
use mayonnaise.

what else.

yes.
must not forget.
lucite platform hooker shoes.
at the beach.
because nothing says "broad"
quite like plastic footwear and warm weather.

so i'll let you have a moment to fully absorb the image at hand.
in order to comprehend the magic
that lies
in bachelorette #1's side boob.

sweet dreams!

lazy susan

one would think that doing absolutely nothing would make me the happiest ho in the world.
considered is the notion that one would think i'm the laziest piece of shart this planet has yet to produce
even shartier than them kardashian sisters and half-breed khloe. the one who looks like shrek or like the mom make S with a saint bernard and that's what came from it.
S with a saint bernard.
however this is not the case.

sure i love lazy days of waking up at 12:30 in the afternoon.
making myself something to eat.
and then going to bed again until about 5 in the evening.
dressing up like that creepy old man from fort boyard.



thankfully for me, his name is "le pere fouras"
pictured above is myself incognito.
i took it with my webcam.
i printed out the background from yourancientfortbackground.com
i dress up like this not only to entertain myself, first and foremost (clearly)
but the new neighbors next door consist of a couple and my arch nemesis. the old lady.
i like to give the old lady sexy eyes wearing this disguise.
and then just like a real man. most days
i actually stare at her through the window and with every opportunity of eye contact i quickly raise my thumb towards my neck and slide it across my throat with a most austere look in my eyes.
as if to say "shit's about to get serious, bia."
its especially serious when you're doing all this AND you look like moses.
i took the time to create "the 10 commandments" out of 2 slabs of stone i jacked from their driveway when they were renovating.
when she walks by. i hold them up to the window. then i flip her off.

this sucks mostly because staying inside hinders my chances of meeting more people and things that i could potentially make fun of.
so i am reduced to dressing up like poor man's dumbledore in order to:

torment the old lady who lives next door.
sleep and soil myself on random doorsteps.
go up to children in the park with candy.
do the "suck it" sign to every red car that passes me by.
and on rainy days...
flash my boobs to people on chatroulette.

someone told me "ca sent la coupe"

and i responded by saying "ca sent la marde"
then i gave myself a high-5 and juice box for having incorporated the word "marde" into my oral vocabulary that day.
its that time of year again
the hockey playoff time of year.
hockey. is a very MEH subject to me
so "meh" that i call it "men behind cages"
the cages being their face guards.
in my world they'd be skating around in sequined dresses with emerald colored feathers (like a bird...in a cage)
and this sport would be called "figure skating"
(with a puck, body-checking and missing teefs)

i would wanna play hockey just because you're allowed to hurt people physically without being thrown in jail.
you can't just go up to people on the street and slam them into windows of starbucks' with your shoulders..it's not 1950 anymore
its 2010 and there are cops EVERYWHERE.

the point is.
its hockey playoff season, and i love this because you've got this underlying battle going on.
an invisible pokemon battle of hockey proportions and not anime.
this battle being the one between:

1)hockey fans
2)hot girls who say they like hockey
3) those who refuse to jump on the bandwagon.

the first group includes those who always watch and keep up to date with NHL shit. they know and watch every team's games, they know which hockey players are black (like picking a needle out of a haystack) and are just generally enthusiastic when it comes to the sport.

the second category is self explanatory.
their facebook pictures usually consists of 46 pounds of makeup. not their natural hair color. tig ol' bitties, hockey team shirt and tuque, seductive pose and last but not least.
peace sign.
they don't necessarily like hockey as much as they DO want to fuck everyone in the team.
and the coach.
and general manager.
and the mascot.
in the desjardins section of the bell center. or radio lounge.
in this same category, i'll quickly mishmash the bandwagon fans.
people who are not fans per se, nor sluts.
these folk basically dont know what a puck or ice is until their home team is in the playoffs and then SHIT IS ON.

last but not least.

i like to call them the "debbie downer" of hockey fandom.
the ones who have a general apathy for the sport. or sports in general.
and thanks to the social networking system mentioned above,
have developed an intense distaste for anyone and anything hockey during the playoffs.
and i don't think its because they're trying to be individualistic by not jizzing themselves over a 2 point lead.
i think that these people are just annoyed by group #2.

in conclusion,
i guess in the end,
all 3 groups mentioned have a point of some sort and could not exist without one another. personally, i just like watching full-grown humans act like sissies over televised sporting events.
makes me feel a little bit better about acting like a sissy ALL the time.
that and i'm about THIS close to getting my own postal code for this sick-ass play-off beard i've been growing.

the eternal optimist.

grades don't mean shit.
because i made up my own grading system that totally owns the old one.
(brought to you by Paxil not)

A is for Amazing.
obviously.

B is for Brava.
and its in italian so you know its of good quality unless it decides to tag-team that shit with hitler in WW2.

C is for Champion.
because the effort you've placed in not doing THAT good makes you one.

D is for Dollface.
because you know even though you don't have the smarts, your face looks like a doll making it more likely that a rich guy (who doesnt care that you're a dumb bitch) will pre-nuplessly marry you. and then you can buy all the god damn louboutin's you want.

F= Fromage.
you failed. but at least its over. and now you can guiltlessly eat some cheese.

zi end.

phoque

today
on the bus
i would have given up my first-born child to an under-the-bridge dwelling troll.
if that would have made a toilet appear out of thin air.
in the middle of the 194.
so that i could pee in.
man i had to pee so bad i wanted to cry.
and i couldn't move because being the genius that i am
(the genius from good will hunting).
i choose to sit next to kareem abdul-jabbar, shaq and some other tall motherfucker.
giving me 0 leg space on either side so i was forced to sit on a slant.
kinda decrepit looking, staring out the window in agony thinking:
"i hope no one hears what im listening to..."
NWA's strait outta compton.

anyway.

then i got off and thought to myself
"i would give up my first born child to a troll living under a bridge if in return i could pee."
then i got home.
then i had to kill rumplestiltkin.
bitch actually thought i was being serious about the whole first-born thing.
he knew i was serious when i cross bow'd him.
in the FUCKING chest.
BOME!!!!!

so summer is on its way into my life.
and my legs are coming out (wide open)
and with the hot, and humid weather *insert picture of me with upper lip sweat screaming "I SWEAR TO GOD..")
comes. MANDLES.

yes, mandles. or man sandles.
okay let me start off by saying
men. the species opposite of the female.
should NEVER. EVER show their feet.
unless they're on a beach,
on a beach,
or an apostle (exception judas. he has no feet because traitors dont get feet).
my favorite are what i like to call "frenchmen sandles"
i'll try to find a pic and i swear to god, if i google image the word "frenchmen sandle" and i get what im looking for.
i'm going to DIE.

THESE


now. once you wipe the sex drool from off your chin.
i just have to say. that ever since i can remember.
i have associated the epitome of rotten with these kind of sandles.
living in the same fraternity as turtle-neck sweaters on men and men who refuse to cut their fingernails (but we'll leave that for another postage)
fortunately for life, they come in women styles too.
so that every summer, i have a second job where i get a dollar for every person i see wearing them.

and then i buy a yacht.
every summer i get a new one.
i have 13 so far.
this year i wanna get one with a picture of a giant naked woman holding a sword airbrushed across the side of it.
even though i said that's the design i'd put on my helmet if i were ever a the goaltender for a professional hockey team.
there'd be a sick-ass naked woman gladiator holding up a sword in triumph on one side.
and the little kid from jerry mcguire on the other.
but that would never happen because apparently holding a shotgun at sid the kid's face while screaming "back the FUCK off!!" is not encouraged in any way, shape or form in the NHL.

le rouche.

i love makeup as much as the next rodeo clown.
maybe even more so.
my crack is MAC.
when i walk into a MAC COSMETICS store (as apposed to the half eaten apple that tastes like asian hipsters)
i get the sudden urge to rip off my shirt...you know that kind of ripping off where your buttons go flying everywhere and you're just like
"YAAAAAAAAAA i want everything".
not really actually.
that was a lot exaggerated.
sorry about that guys,
but seriously.

makeup is something that catches my attention about a good 87% of the time in my life.(and i actually had to gather that percentage in my head too.
i was like. "50? no..much more than that, um..68? no. still not enough. 87? PERFECT)
and i thought i'd just point out some of the epic failures i keep seeing day to day
when it comes to looking like the foo. in the face.

mk so this:


you know when some girls have a foundation that's like 14 shades darker or lighter then their natural skin tone.
and they shmear it all over their face,
but when it comes to the neck part
one must assume they hit a facial land mine
that blasted every single one of their fingers off.

i call it "the mask" because well. self-explanatory.
it pains me to see this form of buffoonery on young women.
its okay. i guess it happens to the best of us (not me)
not clear enough? then allow me to clarify:

"YOU LOOK LIKE A FUCKING RETARD. BLEND THE FUCKING FOUNDATION INTO THE NECK. BLEND IT"

you are not a mushroom.
nor a mime.
therefore your face.
should not vary in color contrast.
to the god damn neck.

2) messy mascara (when you look at it fast it looks like "messy macarena").

if you want me to look at you and think "cracked-out bitch" or her ugly sister "strung-out ho"
be my guest.
by all means,
who advised people that "blotchy black-eyed murdered prostitute" is a good look?

look at it:


for the love of god, use a q-tip.

what else..
humphrey.

this is just too obvious.....



on the bright side it kinda looks like casper the ghost jizzed "haunted mansion" dust all over her face.

perds.

you knew it would come down to this.
you all knew. one day i was going to steep soooooo low.
so low as to write an entry about periods.
are you surprised?
i'm not.

quite simply put. menstruation is the most REVOLTING
disgusting
annoying thing any girl has to experience.
and OBV men out there have no idea what im talking about so.
imagine having to take a poo.
endlessly. for a 4-8 days strait.
and you can't sit normally because it feels like you have to take a poo.
and you can't concentrate on stuff like work and making people explode with your eyes cause it feels like you have to take a poo.
but you DONT ACTUALLY HAVE TO. and that's the worst part.
oh and also. you cant go anywhere without thinking you're hemorrhaging and there's blood all over your pants and everyone is staring at you.
this whole week of shitballshit revolves around paranoia and continuous peristalses.
and boils the size of your fist. on your chin.

and then you have those tampon commercials where women are doing the impossible.
like walking around.
playing lacrosse.
shopping
its like newsflash.
the simple act of moving during those times is a miraculous feat in itself.
while on my menses i can usually be found sitting vegetatively in a hammock in my underwear. flies circulating.
and then my mother passes me stuff like food. coloring books and knives.
using a sling-shot from various distances inside my house.
we call it "pin the random crap on the puta" or to be more PC. "mother-daughter bonding time"

thats why.
if i were to write and direct my own tampon commercial it would go a little something like this:

Me (duh)
jogging pants.
no bra.
dirty hair.
walking around screaming "FUCK YOU and FUCK YOUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU"
to ever person i see.
(including and especially including pre-schoolers and the elderly)

fuck.
you know what. i dont even want kids.
i don't need to deal with this bull shit.
why should i have to suffer once a month when my reproductive system is pretty much the "sleeping beauty" of reproductive systems.
it has been sleeping peacefully for about a hundred years but it still manages to look like a 21 year old.
im pretty sure if you took an Xray of my lower torso you'd see this:



my uturus is a scene from tim burton's the nightmare before christmas (the same little skeletor man dances on my fallopian tubes.)
and sperm knows this.fully aware.
i hope tim burton is aware of this too.
i'm writing him a letter as i write this post...

"to whom this may concern,

provided is the image given to me by my GP regarding recent Xrays taken.
does it look familiar?
i'm sure it does.
plagiarist.
you owe me 32 million dollars.

sincerely
Melissa Nudo"

my own personal hell. take 2.

CUBA.

the communism, the travelocity discount.
the hilarious hotel staff.
the dolls that look like aretha frankin performing at a televised charity benefit.
dirty toronto people named Yanni. yes. THAT yanni.
no wait. i didnt actually meet yanni the pianist.
i met a "dirty toronto people" named yanni (MUCH less inspiring).
oh! and john tesh.
anyway.

all i remember from that trip was:

pineapple express in spanish.
that trippy cartoon.
vane on the bowl doing "the editorial pose"
the "shut up guy".

it was literally hell.
it was so fucking HAT (not "hot"...it was "HAT" cause it was so hot that you would pronounce it "HAT"...kinda like a pimp would say it.)
even the hilarious hotel staff (or the HHS as the cool kids call it) were saying that july is the worst possible time to be there because it feels as if you're being boiled alive.
i remember thinking to myself:

"if you dont move your ass and get some fucking water in your body you're going to have a heart attack...you are going to go into cardiac arrest and you are going to fucking die. you are going to be dead.
95% naked (approximately).
face-first in the beach chair.
and when they turn you over your face is going to have towel marks on it."

THAT bad.
quite possibly the #1 answer in the "thoughts you shouldn't be having while on vacation" category on family feud....

we also got to experience one of the plagues from the bible.
mosquitos URRRRRRRRRRRRvrehwurrrr.
call PETA.
because that shit.
was my own personal "annihilation of the mosquito population of cuba" mission.
i would have doused myself in bug repellant and lit myself on fire if it meant keeping the mosquitos away from me.

then the food.
holy
fucking
shit.
you know what. cuba is EXCELLENT if you want to fit into your wedding dress.
its like. go there. and expect to get off the plane on the way back and your parents tell you you look as if you just got back from guantanamo bay or the island from lost.
because for 7 days strait:

white rice.
bread.
(i swear to god).

it was good. i came back looking like the black ally mcbeal.
(which just so happens to be my ultimate goal in life)
or posh spice but no...because
did anyone ever realize posh spice looks a lot like this:



well not exactly..but lets imagine if she were to be animated at any point in her illustrious career of sucking her cheeks in.
like. a movie about animals. specifically bugs.
she would probably be the praying mantis.
praying mantis....posh....coiincidence?
le non.

but i doubt they would make a character that is an insect recognized notoriously for ripping off and eating its male counterpart's head after mating.
sucks to be you, posherella.

dear producer of television show about vampires.

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my displeasure in pants: part 1.

there are a lot of things that i dislike.
this whole entire blog is based on the fundementals of my hatred for things.
and people.
and more things.

things like pants.
the clothing. not the band.
i dont know if there is a band called pants.
but if there isn't there should be. and if that name isnt taken yet 5-4-3-2-1
its MINE.

in my house, there is a strict "no-pants" policy.
a rule that i made up and exclusively follow.
if you're at my house. you know its me because i'm the only one in the pants without house.
im serious.

the journey begins at the door.
i unlock the door. open door. step inside house. close door. lock door.
and immediately BOOM (just like that) off come the pants (all my pants have snaps on the sides to facilitate the latter).
then i leave them at the entrance and walk upstairs to my room.
its gotten to the point where my dog doesnt even recognize me with pants on.
she automatically assumes i'm a stranger and attacks me.
that and there's a wicked mountain of pants in my entrance (my mom threatens to sell them then i threaten to kill her. thats how it goes).

pants are uncomfortable.
i dont think i can stress this any more than i already have.
my legs are not use to the conformity that is material hugging the thighs (see previous post).
i wish i could start a club.
a "NOT a fan of Pants" club.
unless they're polazzo pants (ew) or leggings, movement is primitive.
and you know how 95% of my time these days is spent in spread eagle position.
that and doing airborne splits just in case there's a photographer who's job is making the tectonic for an off-broadway rendition of "Rent".
you NEVER know.

i also have quite the sophisticated fear of camel toe.
i don't think i've ever had camel toe. but the fear abides.
nobody wants camel toe. especially not moi.
camel toe should remain an artform practiced by rappers girlfriends and rappers girlfriends alone.
i BY FAR cannot compete with rappers girlfriends because:
my boobs arent that big.
my thighs arent that thick
i'm not orange.
not blonde
and i refuse. but ABSOLUTELY refuse to take in in the ass.

my ode to cats.

NOT the musical.
for humans disguised as felines impress me not.
and coming from someone who is VERY easily impressed.
that constitutes as a big ass FAIL on your part, mr. andrew lloyd webber.

k so along with old people in motorized wheel chairs going high speed down random boulevard i am ALSO on.
the german language
and THIS! //www.youtube.com/watch?v=bYn_hOALyTQ.

the thing that tops the list of things that make me laugh is:

CATS (the animal brand)
cats are the most entertaining beings in existence (beating out cute babies and gossip girl by a landslide)
they're so mysterious yet comically genious (especially with a fake moustache held up to their face)

when i have my own place. i'm going to have like 14. not only to keep my brother away. but just because i've already came up with the best names ever for ezampole:

Mr. Jinglepants
Jesus
Niles
Frasier
Papier-Macher
Mortimer
Fyvush Finkelcat.
Meowshole
Benzoyle Peroxide
so on and so forth.

along with this. the appartment itself will be seething in feline paraphernalia.
like calendars from 2006. and this:


blown up on silk screen large enough to cover the entire wall from ceiling to floor.
the same wall that my bed will be leaning against.
because nothing brings a smile to my face quite like pointing a gun at a frightened cat.

and nazicats.

who do they think they're fooling here (not me)
the resemblance is too uncanny. those asians are smart.
get a cat. put its arm in the fascist salute. dip it in porcelain. paint it red and TADDUN.
nazicat.
i should make instructional videos for that shit.
it'll be like a lady gaga music video. minus product placement and sex appeal.
because no one wants to pay or see me advertise anything.
not even drano.
not even if i'm drinking drano in the ad.

and then there's these sluts:
//www.youtube.com/watch?v.

tooooooooooooooooooooooooooo good.

now. why isnt there a part in this song explaining why they cant drive faster than 40 km/h without breaking unexpectedly and slowing down to merge into your lane without ever using their flasher?

suppose i were to lose a bet.

of course, i never lose anything because i am god and god doesn't lose(except losing my keys. ALL THE TIME).
but lets say. hypothetically speaking.
if this bet consisted of NHL hockey statistics or my skills as an equestrian for instance.

This idea came to mind while i was on the metro.
ideas for the perfect humiliation or punishment someone could impose on my very nature if the impossible WERE to happen.

1) one can perhaps force me to get my eyebrow pierced.
if you know me. you know how i refuse to let anyone touch my face. let alone touching it with their needle hands (you heard me, edward needlehands!)
There is nothing more deliciously quebecois than an eyebrow piercing.
that. a pack of macdonald cigarettes, a case of boreal beer and TVA.
also that bitch from RDS with the rotten hair who covers habs games.

2) Force me to walk around one entire day with an ankle bracelet.

i would rather donate sperm every day for 3 months strait as opposed to wearing an ankle bracelet EVER.
because once again. there is nothing more deliciously quebecois than wearing an ankle bracelet.
anecdote time!!!!!!!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
okay. seriously.
i once had the opportunity of a lifetime to witness the most enchanting specimen of female god ever created with his own hands...or his feet..god created this one with his feet. she was that good.
she had:
-platinum blond hair.
-self tanner.
-white crocheted top (SHEER).
-denim shorty shorts.
-make-up applied with spatula perhaps. in earthy tones. and by earthy tones i mean blue eyeshadow like the sky. and pink lipstick like tubed yogurt explosion all over patio set. EARTHY.
to top it all off her ankle was embellished by the finest piece of ankle bracelet any jeweler at the dollar store could ever make.
god made this woman and then he had to stop himself in his tracks to scream "DAIIIIMMMMMM!!!!!" then he went on conge-maladie because creating this bitch was so intense he had a mini-burn out where they discovered he had borderline personality disorder.
he has since been seeing a therapist once a week.

3) make me watch the movie "my girl" over and over for 3 days strait.

if you ever dreamed of seeing me in an emotionally numbed state. this would be your your once in a lifetime opportunity.
That movie contains everything that haunts me in life:

- death
- dead bodies
- dead mccauley culkin (as quite possibly the most adorable thing you have seen in the history of your life.)
- dan aykroyd's face.

this movie is so fucking sad. i cannot stress how sad it is. and how much i BLUBBER when i watch this movie. it's not so much crying as it is the act of having a REALLY ugly facial expression with tears pouring out my eyes and nose. human beings over the age of 9 should not be allowed to cry this much in one sitting. poor guy. all he wants to do is impress "my girl" with his bad ass mood ring retrieving skills. he doesn't know he's allergic to bees...

and this is why i vow to kill every bee on earth.
a vow to avenge the death of mccauley culkin.

then i saw party monster and i was like "HE'S ALIVE!!!" (but he looks like a corpse)

yeah...
so if you know anyone who has the sudden urge to kill copious amounts of bees.
my bee killing stuff is on craig's list.

eyebrowce,

nothing moistens my panties more
than partaking in a heated discussion surrounding the art of eyebrow maintenance.
now i have to start off by saying how i refuse to touch my eyebrows at all costs (sup vicky!). this is not because i get tweezer happy but leaning more towards the fact that i am so fucking lazy that i only end up doing one eyebrow half-assed and end up leaving the other one chupacabra styles because. well. fuck that.

so far. the 5 people who read this blog can tell that i'm VERY easily amused. even more so by women and men with funny looking eyebrows:

"The Eyebrow Weave"

I saw this video on youtube and died. went to heaven where i was given 40 virgins with which i was instructed to do whatever i please. The best part is that the first 30 seconds i was like "is that a man?" and the worst part is that its a sheeeee. and she thinks she looks so good. why doesnt the gay man tell her she looks like a jack-o-lantern carved out in the shape of jack nicolson's "stoned" smiling?
why does the gay man lie?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wi6rStWXFZQ

"The Surprised Look"

these eyebrows are having a party.
and no one is invited. not even the forehead.
the eyebrows just kind of invaded the forehead without the forehead's permission. kinda like like the whole israel-palestine shindig (EXACTLY like that).
the forehead is PISSED.
there can only be 2 valid explanations for this:
1) this person was attacked by a pair of psychotic tweezers attatched to an esthetician who's just been shot in the stomach.
or
2) they want to go around town with an expression that screams:
"YOU RAAAAAAAAAAAAAANG?!?!!??!?!?!"

"Mantastic Eyebrows"

PLEASE. why do you do this? call me old fashioned by unless you are a furby.
there is no justifiable reason why men should be getting their eyebrows did.
or any hair removed for that matter.
There's this one guy i can think of.
who i will forever refer to as "eyebrows"
I guess he's good looking if you've been blinded louis braille style
ie. stabbed in the eyes with a needle used to pierce aged leather. (HAHA. man this is more accurate that anyone will ever know)
However if i recall correctly, the first and last thing i said to him ("eyebrows". not louis braille) was "holy shit. you're eyebrows are nicer than mine"
followed by him giving me the eyes of death (which looks about 96% less threatening in this case)
but its like. whatevs.
at least i dont look like a mediocre eurotrash atlantic city casino performer who's face has been mauled by the endangered siberian tiger he rapes.
just saying...

i go to bed every night praying for a war to break out.

and "war" is not a figure of speech used in lieu of "herpes outbreak".
i'm talking about one of those olden day kinds of wars with bayonette stabbing, military trench coats designed exclusively for mild weather and my all time fave: mustard gas.
sometimes i run around my neighborhood screaming "MUSSOLINI?!?!?!!?!?!"
we need another character who will do crazy shit where people will be all "where. did. THAT. come from...i thought he was such a nice guyyyy"
i do this not because i play video games
and not because i eat to many chocolate bars *spanish accent*

i do this because i'm majoring in history.
and if no one starts shit. i'm going to fucking lose it.

all i really want to do is be the author of the greatest history book on earth.

the "Menudopedia: the pediest of pedias (even more so than the 'encyclo' brand)"

and i'll hire a graphic designer. and the picture on the front cover will be the word ENCYCLO with a big X over it.
(it was between that and a picture of winnie the pooh doing in judy jetson. but i figured the latter would be some what inappropriate)

it'll be a book of all sorts of stuffs.
a little bit of brittanica...a pinch of guiness world thingy...a smidge of julia child cook bookery.
who knows..
who knows what i'll pull out of my hat (and by "hat". i do not. under any circumstance mean "panties")

if i dont do this. then random person i met will think i'm a liar.
and i don't think i can live with myself if that were to happen.
yes. i told a stranger exactly what you just read above.
then he called the cops.
then i slapped him in the mouth and ran away. got into my white bronco and there was a wild police chase on the los angeles freeway for about 3 hource. then i put the car in reverse causing a 36 car pile-up.
they eventually pulled me over where they discovered 300 pounds of uncut columbian cocaine in my trunk.

however, my main concern in this postage is.

what's the opposite of a "saussage fest".
flower fest? because bahina's (that's how ricky riccardo pronounces it!) kind of resemble flowers if you're thinking positively.
i'm trying to start a trend here...
a word that can be used when describing a weight watchers meeting
or a jazzercise class
a tupperwear party
the WNBA...
perhaps a screening of "rumor has it" starring jennifer aniston.

what if you were to say.
"this place is 'hole to hell-afied'"
cause i refer to my cooter as "the hole to hell".
it has teeth. sharp ones.
if you look close enough, you can see hitler and mao zedong playing table tennis..hitler (i call him 'dolfi') gets real upset cause mao ALWAYS wins but i'm like HELLOOOO of course he's really good at table tennis. then i whisper "he's asian" followed by stating the fact that he's probably also better at math, dance dance revolution, selling counterfeit handbags and giving manicures.

now.

re-read the part from "hole to hellafied" all the way to "giving manicures"

....

yeah. its alright. i did too and i'm like WOW.
i need to copyright that shit.
or just go around eeves dropping.
if someone ever uses the words "vagina", "Mao Zedong" and "sharp teeth" in one exquisite blurb of words.
i get to light them on fire. literally (as opposed to figuratively lighting one on fire).
i stand that they should give people who patent stuff flame throwers for that occasion where someone rips you off.

in conclusion
i am no longer granted entrance to "The Gynecology, China and Pirhana Museum"

...

sometimes. when i think really hard.
like. REALLY really hard.
this image is birthed in my brain.
and from this image.
comes the inspiration to move forward in life...








...

my future as homemaker thusfar...

has been a monumental FAIL on my behalf.
No one wants to have my babies. Ever.
I don't even want to have my babies.
for the sole reasons that

a) doing so will ensure the explosion of my body from an average size (meh) to the size of your average industrial-sized refrigerator.

and

b) I'd be the worst mother to ever walk the face of the earth.

I have 0..wait. scratch that out..Make that less than 0. like maybe -76 maternal instincts.

Tragically, every time i hold a baby, i come marginally close to dropping said "creature of god's wonderful kingdom" about 14 times without their parent's knowledge. There they are thinking im so friendly with their bebe because i'm smiling but little do they realize that they are witnessing the nervous smiling of someone who nearly accidentaly killed their child like maybe 4 times in the last 2 minutes. With this, i have come to the haunting realization that babies have the tendency to move A LOT. and that motion tends to be generated in the unfortunate direction that is out of my arms and onto the floor. (face-first)

I'm like the opposite of a magnet. I'm like an infant repellant- like baby RAID. En plus, i know of maybe one baby that will stay in my arms without pulling a fit of the century. That and the fact that i'm there 2 minutes and i'm like "okay, take this thing away from me" but I don't actually say that. Instead, i take the highway of "whoa-hoho! look at that! she wants to come to you" and then i plop him/her (cause i know so many hermaphrodite babies) into the lap of the nearest animate object.
or inanimate. (I once dropped my baby cousin into the loving arms of a house plant)

An explanation for all this would lead to the simple fact that i dont have the ability and strength to love anyone more than i love myself. Loving myself and looking in the mirror while pouting seductively takes up most of the time in my day. Plus. babies need to be fed and stuff so that requires the patience that i just don't have.

I have been consistently hearing horror stories about girls my age getting engaged and it kinda makes me want to purge my breakfast onto the floor. I mean, personally, getting married at this moment or ever, for that matter, is very high on the list of things that completely disinterest me.

If someone were to forse me to get married right now, i would burst into tears because that would imply that i'd have to live in the shithole that is RDP for the rest of my life when my dreams lie far beyond that.
I live my life day by day in hopes that one day i will move to st. michel, quit my job and collect welfare.
(oh hells yes. what? did you think i was gunna go all soft? I think NOT)
Telling me i need to get married would be like telling me i have to work at a daycare from now on.

I know i'm going to be one of them 35 year olds that are single and no one really knows why (but they really secretly think you're gay). then everyone tries to set you up with their balding, loser relative that will be scared of you because you're not the "conventional" girl. By not "conventional" i mean not someone who sits their and smiles because that's the "cute" that has been instilled in their brains (that and REALLY liking the color pink).
I've read enough Jane Austen and i know he whole "spinster" deal. i don't really mind it besides the fact that in this day and age i won't get to wear a petticoat.
i also refuse to carry around and quote the bible.

i like to imagine hell

as being a little like having to take a greyhound bus from montreal to daytona beach while having to watch the movie "Evita!" for the entire 30 hour trek.

c'mon dont lie
you know you're in a situation of sorts when you have to begin contemplating whether or not said situation would be like hell.

i do this about 150 times a day

in line at mcdonald's at 8 o'clock in the morning on a saturday and there's like 19 people in front of you ordering cappuccinos and that takes like a zillion years to make esp if the person serving you is mentally retarded. and all you want is a gd percolator stylez coffee but no. cause you have to wait for the earth to collide with the sun in order to get your caffeine fix when all you wanna do is just SIT DOWN.

or how abouts.

waiting for the bus. when its -40 and the person in back of you keeps unnecessarily touching you and there's 2 annoying girls diarrhea-ing garbage talk out of their assholes and you kinda wanna turn around and say "WOULD YOU MIND?!" but you know you won't cause you don't have the balls. so then you turn the music louder and the bus finally comes after like 47 years. then you get the best seat on the bus right next to the door (and you think to yourself "shit. what if someone steals my ipod and runs out the door?) then this paraplegic guy gets on with his walking thing and he comes directly at you with his swagga and tells you to get out of the seat because its his seat. and you roll your eyes like you just been impaled by the horns of a bull (yes. THAT BAD). and you sigh a sigh that is so intense it almost sounds orgasmic. but like. raped orgasmic. like not good. then you have to go the the back of the bus where you're forced to sit next to someone who smells like mothballs and some douchebot that's listening to techno full fucking blast.

should i go for 1 more?

k k
k (OH FUCK)

gastro. you wake up in the morning and you're still half dead so you think "ouu a tickle in me throat" but non.
it's the big G (and by G i definately. most definately do not mean Gargoyle)
you wake up 2 hours later and you think "i feel like berfing" (that's not a typo)
then you drag your ass to the toilet. get on your knees and do your womanly duty (NOT)

you know how the rest goes. and the next 12 hours of your day. with a cameo appearance by 7up. and toast.
and lipton soup...i always ask the mother to put alphabet pastinas when i have Gastro in hopes that the words "MELISSA IS GOD" will come out whilst i be purgin'.

fahhh sho.