2005 Archives continued

Monday, June 27, 2005

Nunky Futs

Embarrassing my son, who, by the way, is in the full throes of puberty, has become a sport in my home.

I came home last night from Wal-Mart. Devon's hands were welded to the X-Box controller and his friend was watching him kill aliens or save the universe from Grog the Unwashed or some damned thing. They both had a streamer of drool on their chin. I gleefully interrupted.

"Devon. Here. Get up. I got your razors and your shaving cream. Look. It smells like Sport Fresh!"

He ignored me.

"Devon. LOOK. SPORT FRESH. Look, dammit!"

He finally looks over. "Okay, mom. Geez."

"What? I'm excited for you. But don't shave your mole this time. Cindy Crawford wouldn't shave her mole."

"Mom! Oh my God! Stop! Can we talk about this later?"

"What?? It's not like I'm talking to you about (here is where I raise my voice so that people in Arkansas can hear me) MASTURBATION. I'M NOT TALKING ABOUT FLOGGING THE DOLPHIN!"

Chris interjects at this point. (You have to imagine him cupping his hand over his mouth to sound like a radio transmission) "Ssssshhhtttt. Houston. The dolphin has been flogged. Over. Shhhht."

Devon is looking at us in horror while we collapse in giggles. "Oh, dear heavenly God, please kill me, now."

I gave him my serious face. "Oh, really. So much neurosis in such a small body. Speaking of body, go change, for shit's sake. You've had the same pair of shorts on for 2 days."

"Mom, I took three showers today."

"Three? Do we need to go back to choking the chicken?"

Chris pipes up again. "Shhhht. Houston. The chicken choking has commenced. Over. Shhht."

Devon buries his head in his hands while his friend (who is very much a couple of blocks from puberty) watches this exchange in morbid fascination.

"Seriously, Devon," Chris says, "you want to be careful. You'll get jock itch. You know...funky nuts."

As I walked to his bathroom to put away his razors and gel, I threw over my shoulder, "Yeah, what he said about nunky futs."

No wonder my son is never home.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

My contribution to Half-Nekkid Thursday , as promised. No nudity here, so please return to your porn. Posted by Hello

Wednesday, June 22, 2005

More Warm And Fuzzy Shit

Things I've found myself saying this past week:

"Well, hell, yes, when I was little all I wanted to be was an insurance agent. What kid wouldn't?

"I'll bet you twenty bucks you can't fit that in there. Even with lube."

"If I ever become that fucking annoying, just hit me over the head, sell me to a filthy Mexican in Tijuana for a bottle of cheap Tequila and some peanut brittle and call it a day."

"When's the last time you were grounded? Really? Has it been that long? Ok. You're grounded."

"Some people want fame or fortune, some want nothing more than the love of their life, I just want normal sized titties and a raise every now and then. No, not rise, raise. Ok. Yeah, all three."

"My God, it's truly a monumental day when I can accuse someone else of being a geek and be completely sincere about it."

"Do you have any idea what the thong has done for Western civilization?"

"No, there's one other man that can drink hot tea and not look like a fag. Winston Churchill. He rocked."

"I don't speak very well because I don't have a mental censor or five second delay. It's like premature ejaculation of the mind in my fucking world."

"No, sweety, I don't know where babies come from. My degree was in business. That means mommy is a blithering idiot."

And it's only Wednesday.

Monday, June 20, 2005

I have just been informed, via email, that my blog doesn't have enough pictures. So, here. It's all I can find. I like to call it, "God, I need someone else to take pictures so I don't look so retarded doing self portraits." Stay tuned for, "Wow, how much did I drink and how did THAT get there?" Posted by Hello

The Bi-Polar Express

I have a colleague who sends me all this nicety-nice shit everyday. You know, daily affirmations and crap like that? For example, this was today's:

"When you ask "How are you?" Do you hear the reply?"

My answer was this: If I like you enough to ask you how you are, I'm listening to the answer. If I don't like you, I don't give a tin shit how you are and I won't bother asking.

Anyway, I just got off the phone with one of the most frustrating and exasperating people God saw fit to put on this earth. Because I'm a fucking genius, I spawned with him.

With that in mind, here is my Thought For The Day. Ahem:


Most of our conversations range from, "Oh, wow, I think I can actually handle his bullshit this time" to "Oh, my God, let me come over there and do the world a favor by putting you of your fucking misery myself, you asshole". Today was the latter.

There is a lesson to be learned here: Only have children with Adam Sandler, the most perfect man alive.

That is all.

A Whole Bunch O' Keeyuds

My Dad wanted to go fishing for Father's Day. Since the land I own is on a lake, I volunteered to take him.

I must have been high or drunk or both.

On Sunday, my phone rings. It's my dad.

"Crystal! Put your son on the phone! I want to ask him somethin'."

"He's still sleeping. He stayed up all night, hopped up on Diet Coke and smores. He's still twitching. What's up?"

"Well, shit. I was gonna ask him if he knew what you get when you cross a cabbage patch doll with the Pillsbury Doughboy..." He pauses expectantly and I can hear him trying to stifle the giggles. It occurs to me that it's noon on Sunday and my father is shit-faced.

God, I love my family.

I've heard this one a million times, but he never remembers that. I figure it's Fathers Day, what the hell? I'll pretend one more time.

"What do you get when you cross a cabbage patch doll with the Pillsbury Doughboy, Dad?"

"A really fat, ugly doll with a horrible yeast infection!" He dissolves into hee-haws and I laugh and tell him, "Good one, Dad." Suddenly, being drunk at noon doesn't sound so bad.

"Are you ... ready to go fishing?" I hesitated to ask because, depending on what he drinks, my Dad can be very volatile. He has been known to ruin more than one outing by doing things such as:

  • Peeing on my tire in a post-office parking lot. At 10 a.m. He was arrested.
  • Challenging a guy in a bar to a duel after the guy had leered at my mother. When the guy chose to ignore him, my Dad threw roasted peanuts at his head until the guy exploded in a flurry of peanut skins and fists. They were both arrested.
  • Loudly reciting filthy limericks to a bunch of my friends at school before our play, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. We were 9. He was thrown out.
  • Falling. Everywhere. Using the opportunity to grope strange women. He's been arrested.
  • Finding the most inappropriate times to invite my mother to "come over here and sit on my face".
  • Telling everyone how stupid I was when I was a kid. His favorite story is about the time I was honking the horn of our Cadillac in the driveway. After he blistered my ass, I stumbled inside and, through my tears, indignantly demanded to know, "Who told on me??" I was three.
Okay, so that last one doesn't count because everyone thinks that's the cutest thing ever, but you get the idea. If at some point I don't say, "Dad, ohmydearsweetbleedingJesus, please stop", something is wrong.

I went to pick my parents up and my Dad was most assuredly drunk. After I loaded the kids, the fishing poles and fish-killing paraphenalia into the car, we waited. And waited. I finally went back inside.

"Dad, are you coming?"

He looked up at me and grinned. "Well, hell no! I'm not even breathing hard!"

I gagged. "Oh, for fucks sake, get in the car before I beat you with that cane, you repugnant old man."

We made it to the lake in one piece. We went to the dock, impaled some crickets and wedged our poles into place. I immediately turned to the beer cooler. See, in the South (and it may be the same wherever you are), fishing is just an excuse to drink beer in public during daylight hours. Not that some of us need an excuse.

Some time later, my Dad and I quibbled over the fact that my daughter was being an asshole. She was bored and wanted to leave RIGHT NOW. I threatened to throw her in and she went to the car to watch the Wiggles on DVD (I can't imagine what the fuck we did with out kids before the age of technology such as a portable DVD player. I think we actually disciplined them) but the damage was already done. My Dad pouted and hobbled back to the car. I looked to my Mom for direction. I raised an eyebrow at her. Should we leave now?

"Hell, no. Let him pout. We didn't come out here for nothing."

Damn straight, Mom! We have a whole cooler full of beer to consume and poison ivy to pee on!

Devon and I continued to ruthlessly torture crickets while my daughter and my Dad fussed at one another in the car.

Then the Clampett family arrived. An old truck pulled up and several unkempt, loud and obnoxious children spilled out the back. They immediately began shrieking and splashing in the water.

They were parked right next to my Dad.

"Devon, pack up your shit. Now. Move it." I was reeling as fast as I could. My Mom had already started for the car, banging the beer cooler against her hip as she did her best to get all of her four-and-a-half foot frame to the car as quickly as possible.

"But, Mom, I got a bite and - "

"Now, son. NOW." Devon has never experienced my Father when he's in full drunk mode.

I glanced over and I gasped. My Dad was standing outside the Jeep, looking at the hellions in the water and frowning.

Son-of-a-motherless-whore. We had to move faster.

"Fuck the crickets. Leave them. Consider it penance for killing half their brood. Grab your pole. MOVE!" He was gaping at me as I took off at a full run, fishing poles snagging my hair, flip-flops a' flippin'.

I passed my Mom. "Dear God (huff), woman, (huff) what were (huff) we thinking?" I looked straight ahead and my fears were realized. My Dad was standing in front of the Jeep, peeing in front of 3 redneck adults and their respective spawn. And smiling. You could hear the crickets chirping back on the dock.

"Awwwww, shit! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod." I made it to the car as one of the redneck men started moving toward my Dad.

"Wow! Dad! You should have said something!" I threw my shit in the car and grabbed his arm. "Get in the car, now, before I kick your legs out from underneath you and run you over", I hissed under my breath. My mom had made it by now and was in the car, shielding her eyes and pretending not to notice any of this. Devon is standing by the car, torn between hilarity and mortification. I jerked my head at him. Get in the car.

I managed to get my Dad strapped in. He blearily grinned at me. "Fuggin brats. S'garin' all the fuggin fijjjj..." I turned to go to the drivers side. Rednecks are still staring at me.

"Wow. Wow. Just...wow. Aging. Medication. Senile. Mips!" I bolted for the drivers side and squealed tires getting out of there. I could see them all standing there, just watching us drive away.

Know this: I love my Dad more than any man on this planet. He is my best friend and my most avid supporter. But, when he drinks, he is not himself. Not even close.

I bit my tongue and drove. I kept reminding myself that it was Father's Day. I tasted blood.

We drove for a few miles in silence. Even my daughter was quiet. Then my Dad finally spoke.

"Devon, did I ever tell you about the three old whores from Baltimore?"

Fuck you, Hallmark.

Thursday, June 16, 2005


Although I don't live in the ghetto, our apartment complex is one Child Welfare visit away from being the ghetto. Such is the life of a single mom.

My sister-in-law, Penny, is the manager of our fine community. She just called me.

"Crystal, can you call Chris and tell him to move the motorcycle out of the breezeway?"

"What? It's in front of my door. It's a Ninja. It's a thing of beauty. Please tell me someone didn't complain."

"Yes, someone complained."

"This from a bunch of people who throw 40-ounce malt liquor bottles in the bushes and one time, SHIT IN THE BREEZEWAY, Penny. You remember that, right?"

"Crystal, just ask him to move it. Please."

"Fine. But remember the shit, Penny. I remember the HUMAN FECES IN THE PATH THAT I HAVE TO WALK EVERY MORNING."

"Point taken. Will you call him?"

"Poop. And not a small one, either. A big, healthy, fiber eating, multi-vitamin taking, pork and chitlins crap, Penny."


Oh, yes. I remember.


I lost our company deposit this morning. My desk looks like I've been on vacation for a year or so and I'm pretty sure that an entire forest fell to the saw to make the paper that currently clutters it.

I was a little stressed out, seeing as how my neighbors are a bunch of hypocritical, retarded shitbags (pun intended) and I'm the only one here this week. As I was tearing my office apart and going piece by piece through the trash, Jason, an agent that rents an office from us, popped his head in.

"Hey...what's wrong?"

"I can't find the deposit. I can't find the fucking, son-of-a-bitching, cocksucking deposit." I threw an old Subway cup over my shoulder. It hit the wall and bounced off.

"Uhhh, okay. Are you sure you didn't put it in your car?"

"I've already looked there. I don't do this. I DON'T LOSE DEPOSITS, JASON. This sucks. One person can't run this fucking office. I'm going to hit the bar at lunch and you won't say a word about it, will you, Jason? Because at this point, it's either drink or kill every person that crosses my path."

"You have a piece of .. something... in your hair. I can run to the liquor store for you. I'll go, now..." As he's saying this, he's slowly backing out of my office and looking at me like I might snap and rip his face off at any moment.

It was then that I found it. I rocketed up from my chair and waved the envelope under his nose. I did a little dance. My hair was sticking up in weird places, I had part of a crouton in it, mascara smeared across one temple and my shirt was partially untucked. It was sad.

"Ha! I told you I don't lose deposits! In your face, Jason! Ha!"

"Well, technically, you did lose it, even if it was only for a few minutes."

"Ha! Ha ha! Fuck you, motherfucker!! Ha!"

It was then that his 5-year-old son poked his head around from behind his dad's back and eyeballed me like I was a nasty hooker on a street corner.

I should be flogged.

Monday, June 13, 2005

Michael Jackson

This is Crystal Ross, reporting live (LET ME DREAM, DAMN YOU) to you from Memphis, Tennessee, with some of the reactions to the astonishing "Not Guilty on all charges" verdict in the case against Michael Jackson:

From my boss: "I don't care. Quit following me around and waving that hairbrush handle in my face."


From Jason: "Damn. Another big shot movie star gets away with it. I wish that damned California would just break off into the ocean and become it's own country. Then we could just bomb it."

From my Mom: "So? I'm glad he got off (I interrupted at that point to tell her she was sick and she told me she's disowning me for having a filthy mind). Just because he's weird as hell doesn't mean he likes to touch children."

From my son: "Who?"

From me: "Wasn't his attorney Johnny Cochran? He's dead? When did he die? Oh. So who's representing him? That Kato Kaelin guy? What? He wasn't? Shit. I'm going back to my crackpipe."

And now you know.

(Oh, and just in case you have a burning desire to know, this is what he would look like if he had continued aging normally. I almost don't mind the plastic face after seeing this. Can you imagine this man in highwaters, donning a silver glove and grabbing his crotch? Me, neither.)

Wednesday, June 08, 2005

I Don't Hear So Good, Sonny

When I was skydiving on a regular basis, I had numerous eardrum incidents. Therefore, my hearing is terrible. So is my vision, but that's another story. I'm like a female Mr. Magoo.

When someone calls for my boss, I ask them once what their name is and I improvise from there. I used to obsess and fret if I had to ask them twice and still couldn't hear them. That was before I started drinking at work.

Here is the conversation that took place between me and my boss five minutes ago:

Me: "Hey, some guy is on the phone for you. Dominique Ravioli."

Him: "Who?"

Me: "Dominique Pensacola."

Him: "...."

Me: (getting antsy) "Dominique LL-LL-LL-Lola....?"

Him: "I need to cut your pay."

Me: "Ooh! Ooh! Dominique Marinara! That's it!"

Him: "Oh. I got it. You mean Dominique Marizola."

He enjoys these little games we play. I know he does.

Tuesday, June 07, 2005

Things That Have Crossed My Mind Today

1. There is no good reason to ever name your daughter Gertrude. Ever. Everevereverevereverevereverever.

2. Why, yes, it is time to color my hair. Thank you for noticing. Fuckstick.

3. Whenever I see "Federal Express" on the caller ID at work, I immediately assume I am going to be talking to someone who's wife has a dot on her forehead. And God will get me for it.

4. I've been saying, "Good Grief", all day. I know. It scares me, too.

5. I don't know how all these giant paperclips keep ending up in my cute little paperclip house dispenser, but it needs to stop. It's like my normal paperclips are taking steroids or fucking and having mongoloid babies. It's disturbing.

6. If you call and get the voicemail, and then hang up and immediately call back, I will ignore you. Voicemail is there for a reason, you shit-head.

7. I just spent 10 minutes pondering whether "shit-head" is supposed to be hyphenated or one word or two words. I need a drink.

8. When you tell me that you just bought your fiance a $22,000 engagement ring and need it added to your policy, don't act all offended when I ask you if her vagina dispenses NFL season tickets and ice-cold six packs.

If you don't have a sense of humor, go buy one. Oh, wait! You can't! You just spent $22,000 on a ring!

9. I need a hug and a woobie.

Friday, June 03, 2005

Another Lizard In The Family

I can't shut up today.

  • Bimbo didn't kill me. Yet. After brooding in her office for a couple of hours, my boss came screeching into the parking lot, snatched her keys, tried them all until he found the one that belongs to the building and then booted her out of the building. She had 12 pounds of mascara on her face. She looked like she was ready to don a green camouflaged hat and head for the jungle. I was seriously afraid to start my car. No shit.
  • Credit card companies are the devil. I don't have one, but I accepted an offer for one, only to have it "modified" to include $872 thousand dollars in acceptance fees, participation fees, is-your-ass-sore-yet fees, made up fees, Oooh! Lookit-the-pretty-hologram! fees, and 34% annual interest. I can honestly see why people crawl into a warm bath and bust out the sharp objects after dealing with a credit card company. That's why all those fucking telemarketers are holed up in a secure cavern, 2 miles below the earth's surface, guarded by rabid pit bulls and ninjas. Otherwise, the job would require hazard pay and a life insurance program.
  • My son got second degree burns at the pool. He's fascinated by the enormously disgusting slabs of skins that are sloughing off his body. I came home today and followed a trail of flesh to the bathroom. It looked like Hannibal Lecter had a fucking ticker tape parade in my house.
  • It's Brian's birthday tomorrow (Southern Autumn). Ya'll go wish him a happy birthday. He's certifiably insane and prone to say things like, "Ring me!" instead of "Call me!" and drunken bouts of lunacy, but that's the Southern way and I wouldn't change a thing about him. Besides, it will make me feel less guilty about the fact that I've had to ask him seventeen times what day his birthday is and I sent him jack shit. I suck as a friend, yet you all continue to listen to my drunken ramblings when I call you at 2 a.m. God bless the Boobs, Amen.
  • My mom borrowed some money from me. I've called her 32 times in the last four days and shouted, "Where be my money, beeyotch?! Don't make a nigga come bust a cap in yo' ass!" She finally lost it yesterday. "Stop calling me that! I'm your mother! Stop it! Why does my child have to be so damned weird?! Stop! Stop! Stop!"

I plan on telling her tonight, when she comes over, that I've decided to give up men and practice the old lickety split. That ought to drive her to whiskey.

Be very careful when you challenge and nurture your childs intellect and artistic nature. Sometimes, this is what we become.

Call The Folks From CSI

So, Bimbo got fired and it was very anti-climactic. He went into her office, fired her, and then left. She has had the door closed for 45 minutes.

Not one sound has come from her office in that 45 minutes.

And she carries a gun in her purse.

I have called everyone I know with a penis and not one person is available to come take a bullet for me when she inevitably snaps and goes postal.

Mother. Fuck.

I Am A Foul Mouthed Heathen

My two new favorite phrases:

"Fistful of fucked up" (as in, "This vacation is starting to feel like a fistful of fucked up, you wankers") Courtesy of Symon, all rights reserved.

"Cock juggling thunder-cunt" (courtesy of Blade: Trinity. What? I love Wes)

Bimbo is supposed to be invited to the door today. I plan on following her around while she's packing her belongings and saying, "Well, today was just a fistful of fucked up, wasn't it, you cock juggling thunder-cunt?"

She'll probably claw my eyes out.

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