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.