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.