March 2005

Thursday, March 31, 2005

I went to Wal-Mart last night. I would rather have had a porcupine pap smear, but I went. I was out of fabric softener. My life is not complete without fabric softener. We can be out of toilet paper for 3 days and resorting to the napkins from our last foray to McDonalds, but I will not go without fabric softener.

As I’m wearily dragging my ass through the store, I stopped in an aisle and took note of the other two women in the same area. They were both single moms. How do I know? I’ll tell you:

1. We all lean across our baskets. We are too exhausted from years of waking up at indecent hours to support our own frames.

2. We all have something on our shirts. Whether it be snot, chocolate, silly putty, Elmers glue or mac & cheese – it’s there. Furthermore, we know it’s there and we’re too tired to do anything about it.

3. None of us have brushed our hair since Sunday.

4. There will not be one name brand thing in our baskets. In fact, if your children were young enough when the split happened, they don’t even know what “name brand” is.

5. We can control children, find bargains and still keep a running tally of everything in our baskets. We are rarely off by more than two dollars.

6. When a tiny hand creeps out from the basket and toward an unnecessary treat (in the vain hope that it will find it’s way across the scanner and home before we notice it), we can be 5 feet away looking at fishsticks and still manage to smack that hand. Without hesitation or remorse.

7. Picking a booger out of our baby’s nose doesn’t bother us. No bodily excretion does, anymore. Actually, that’s any mom, single or not.

8. We are all wearing clothes, circa 1985 - 1992. I have been known to go shopping in my Megadeth concert t-shirt and a pair of parachute pants. Who has money for new clothes?

9. We will stare at two chicken packages with the intensity of a caveman trying to figure out fire. We will do this for at least 5 minutes. There will be a thirty-two cent difference between the two packages.

10. We all have cough syrup and shit in our medicine cabinets that expired last year. We will use it until every last drop is gone.

So, the next time you get irritated with that lady in line who hands the cashier a wad of coupons that will take 32 minutes to scan, remember…that’s $7.82 that can be spent on fabric softener, motherfuckers.



 



Wednesday, March 30, 2005

The first car I ever owned was a 1994 Geo Metro. I was so giddy over the new car smell that I drove to work and made everyone come outside, individually, so that they could bask in the glory of my purchase with me. A Geo Metro. I was pathetic. I still kind of am.

Anyway, I loved that car. I could hydroplane on spit and it was small enough to park under other cars, but I got 50 miles to the gallon and if something broke, I just had to buy new hamsters.

I had that car until 2 years ago.

I was working at a ghetto apartment complex. One of my favorite residents taught me the finer nuances of ebonics and some really inventive uses of the word, “muhfuckah!” She had home made tattoos and I’m pretty sure that she was in hiding from the Crips. While talking one day, she was lamenting about needing a car. In a moment of insanity, and because I was afraid she would bust a cap in my ass, I offered to sell her the Geo for $800. She readily accepted. I gave her the key and watched her drive away in my sweet little Metro. She still has it and lovingly refers to it as the Strawberry (it’s red. If you stand it on it’s nose, it really does look like a strawberry).

I went to a car lot the next day and met GODIHATEYOUYOUFUCKINGPIECEOFSHITCAR. I call her Satan for short. Here is a brief list of things about my car:

1. While driving back from Nashville, the alternator practically fell off causing my radiator to explode. Me, my daughter and my best friend had to hitchhike with two smelly truckers. They dumped us off at a coffee shop after accusing me of cell phone theft and soliciting my single friend for a blowjob. Good times.

2. The brake pad fell off in the same friends driveway. It fell off. It’s still there, stuck to her indoor/outdoor carpeting.

3. I had my first wreck ever in that car. It’s the car, mark my words.

4. The brake lights refused to go off. I had to remove the fuse every time I went somewhere lest my battery die. While doing this one day, my son walked around the car and shut the drivers side door. Somehow, the doors were locked. My purse was on the front seat. The keys were in the ignition. I took solace in bashing out the quarter panel on the back window until I found out that this particular piece of glass costs more than my car is worth. It is now covered with duct tape. Combined with the damage from my wreck, I am now officially white trash. All I need is a rebel flag decal and it will be complete.

5. The radio randomly changes volume. It will go from pleasant to ear splitting, scaring the shit out of me and almost causing numerous collisions.

6. The seal around the sun roof fell off into my sons lap while we were driving one day. When I went to turn the radio down after it decided to scare us both, the face plate fell off. I plugged my cell phone charger into the cigarette lighter a few minutes later and when I tried to remove it, the whole inner workings came out.
7. My son will walk around the car before every trip and say, "The power of Christ compels you!" He's not kidding.

These are just a few of the things wrong with my car. I refuse to buy anything new for it until it stops tormenting me. My windshield wipers are a couple of strips of flying rubber that flop all over my windshield whenever I’m driving. I have to lean to one side to be able to see out of a 3 inch strip of clear glass when it rains.

I got pulled over the other night for having a headlight out. I can’t change the bulb because the frame is crushed back far enough that the socket won’t come out. That conversation went like this:

Cop: “Did you know your tags are expired?”

Me: “Yes, I know.”

Cop: “Oooookayyy, why haven’t you had them renewed?”

Me: “I’m broke. I’m always broke.”

Cop: “It’s like fifty bucks.”

Me: “Have you looked at my car? If I had any disposable income, I wouldn’t have duct tape for a window.”

He gave me a ticket. I need to learn to keep my mouth shut.



 



Monday, March 28, 2005

The following is exactly what the title implies.

1. Bimbo has outdone herself. In the Cunt Olympics, she has managed to sweep the whole affair and take all the gold.

She got her ass handed to her by my boss last week. She had done something that was entirely unethical and he was not letting her get away with it. As she ranted in his office, I danced around in the hallway. I looked like the worlds oldest cheerleader because I was so giddy I was high kicking and shit. I tried like hell to eavesdrop on the conversation, but all I could hear was her spewing shit like, "I'm not like thayut! I caint believe you'd think that o' me!" When she gets pissed, her backwoods, country-bumpkin-fuckwit accent becomes really thick. He sounded like he was arguing with Loretta Lynn in there. That is not an insult to country folks, either. Actually, calling her a fuckwit is an insult to fuckwits everywhere, but, whatever.

He told me about the conversation a couple of days later. She stormed out of his office looking like a zebra with tits. She had been crying and I swear she must use 3 tubes of mascara every day. Jesus. Anyway, I grinned at her and she went in her office and slammed the door. She had tried to deflect the anger directed at her onto me. He countered by telling her to cut the shit and quit trying to make me look bad. But, she did score one point. I listen to a radio station on my computer via Yahoo Launch. I love it for a couple of reasons:

  • I can't hear the office radio in my dungeon. I have no speaker in here (or a window. God, I hate that bitch) so it's either listen to the radio station or listen to my own mouth breathing. I'd rather listen to the radio.
  • The radio station he keeps it on is easy listening. You can only listen to Jon Secada and Celine Dion so many times before you want to take a corkscrew and gouge your eardrums out.
So, Dickface tells my boss that every time she comes into my office, I'm watching videos. She happened to wander into my office for some file or another when I was watching the horror that is Bret Michaels a couple of weeks ago. He told me that I can't listen to Yahoo Launch anymore.

Do you know what keeps me from going sniper and bashing her head in with a stapler? My music. It soothes me. Now the bitch has taken that away from me.

I brought in CD's today. I cleared it with my boss and popped one in. How this is different than the radio station is beyond me, but he pays me well so I don't argue. When Nutsack came in, I turned it up and gave her my most dazzling smile. I'm fairly certain that she wants to kill me, now. It's delightfully mutual. My boss is hoping for a free-for-all in the foyer where we rip each others' clothes off, I just know it. Men suck.

2. Easter was uneventful. It rained and got to about -13 degrees, so I barricaded the door and told my kids that the Easter Bunny froze to death.

Not really. What kind of parent do you think I am??

My son made little bunny footprints out of blue & purple construction paper and taped them to the floor leading to Virginia's Easter Basket. The basket itself was filled with enough shit to put her in a sugar coma, so I knew she'd be thrilled. There was also a note from the Easter Bunny. When she woke up, she walked into the living room, followed the footprints to her basket, sat down crosslegged and just stared. When I was getting uncomfortable and starting to wonder if forcing her to eat vegetables the night before had caused some kind of brain trauma, she finally turned and looked at us. In complete awe she whispered, "Devon. The Easter Bunny was in our house."

I had to leave the room and crack up in private. I guess it would be kind of freaky to think about a giant fucking rabbit traipsing around your home while you're sleeping.

3. Young lawyers suck balls. My lawyer and I ended up in a screaming match in the waiting room of the VA Hospital yesterday. He is the most arrogant, useless, overpriced piece of shit I've ever encountered. I cringe when I think about the fact that I went out with him a couple of years ago. I told him he was an asshole and then I sent him an email today and told him he was just pissed off because his father is from Pakistan and he was pre-destined to have a tiny, pathetic dick. I know. I need to go back to the 7th grade and get better insults.

4. My Dad is on his way home today. I think the hospital staff is in mourning. More on that, later.

EDIT: I just had a customer call. Bimbo tried to steal another one of my clients. I went postal in my boss' office. DING DONG, THE BIMBO'S DEAD! THE WICKED BIMBO'S DEAD!! Steeeeeeerrrrrike 3, you're out! Buh-bye! Buh-bye, now!

Thank you all for your support. That is all.



 



Wednesday, March 23, 2005

My mom and I went yesterday to see my Dad before he had surgery. He seemed completely coherent and in very good spirits.

My mother tried to put some socks on him and he screamed in agony, so she just left his house slipper hanging on his toes.

"Crystal, can you try to put my other slipper on. Do something, dammit. I look retarded with one slipper and one sock on."

"Dad. You're wearing an assless gown. I don't think anyone cares about your fashion sense when it comes to feet."

"When I can move again, I'm kicking your ass, you little shit."

He then told me about his sponge bath that morning. Apparently, the nurse has quite the crush on my dad. She's black and weighs roughly 2 metric tons.

"That old bitch told everyone that I raised my flag for her."

I gagged and excused myself to go find vodka. After perusing the gift shop and finding none (what kind of V.A. hospital has no alcohol, I ask you?) I started wandering around. If you've never been in a V.A. hospital before, you should go. It's quite the experience. It's like a mental hospital crossed with a flea market...only smellier. You can buy TV's, knock-off handbags, and jewelry. But you can't buy any fucking alcohol. I headed back to my Dad's room and prayed that he was through with the sponge bath stories.

When I walked in, my Mom was looking at my Dad like she had no idea who he was. She then looked at me and shook her head. I asked her what was wrong.

"I don't know what they gave him this morning, but he's acting strange."

"Mom, it's Dad. He's always been strange. I had to get it from somewhere."

"No, but this is different."

I turned to my Dad. He is watching TV like he can't hear us talking about him right next to his bed.

"Dad, what did they give you today?"

He turned to me and grinned from ear to ear. "Morphine."

"Right on! Good for you."

"Oooh! Will you be here for awhile? You have to see it when they rotate the room."

"Rotate the room? What do you mean, Dad? Do they move you guys around to other rooms or something?" I giggled because I envisioned all these grumpy men, shuffling through the hallway in their assless gowns every few hours like musical hospital rooms.

"No. It's neat. The wall there becomes the floor and the ceiling is the wall. This thing (he gestures to the handlebar thing hanging from a chain above his bed) stands straight out and the TV is on the floor."

"Wow. I need to break something and get some of what they're giving you. Wow."

"I'm serious. I need a smoke. Did you bring my cigarettes?"

"Dad, you can't smoke. You're going to have surgery, you dillhole."

"You're just as bad as those assholes in the kitchen."

"Kitchen? What? Are we on the same planet?"

"The kitchen. Right out there. Where all the bunnies are."

"Planet Morphine, population you, Dad."

"Shut up. Go get me a wheelchair. I'm going outside to smoke."

"Right. I'll get right on that."

My mom and I left to get something to eat. The cafeteria was serving things that might have been edible some time during the Kennedy administration. I got a salad.

When we returned, my Dad was harassing a very good-natured nurse. He was begging her to push the whole bed outside so he could smoke. I decided that if I were ever in a situation where I needed information from someone, and that person was a smoker, I would simply chain them to the wall for a couple of days and not let them have nicotine. Bamboo shoots under the fingernails aren't nearly as effective as withdrawals.

"Mr. Ross, you know you can't smoke. Maybe tomorrow."

"Maybe's ass. You people are trying to kill me."

I sat with him for a bit while my Mom went down to find some lotion for his hands. After enthusiastically explaining the wall rotation procedure again ("There's some guy that operates it. RJ, I think that's his name. He said you can open these things in 140 mile an hour wind, but no one's tried. They did it too fast this morning and damn near tore the ceiling in half. Don't touch that curtain! They have a magnet that comes down the track, attaches to the curtain, and pulls it back for you. It's all computer operated."), he began to beg me for a cigarette.

"Dad, for the last time, no."

"You're just lazy. You don't wanna walk to the truck and get them for me. Lazy ass."

"Careful. I might have to tell them to operate to remove that bottom lip that's poking out from your face."

"Lazy ass."

From that point forward, he affectionately referred to me as "that lazy ass daughter of mine" when speaking to my Mom, the nurse, and his roommate.

I went in search of alcohol, again. I knew one of these veteran motherfuckers was holding and I was going to make them my new best friend.

Stay tuned. I haven't even gotten to the post-surgery hallucinations.



 



Saturday, March 19, 2005

As I write this, my father is laying on a gurney at the local V.A. hospital waiting for a transfer to a room. He fell earlier this afternoon and broke his hip. My mother and brother used the ironing board as a stretcher and transferred him to the sofa. He emphatically insisted on remaining home and suffered in silence for seven hours before instructing my mother to call an ambulance. In our home, you simply followed my Dad's orders. I had forgotten how authoritative he can be until this all happened. I called my mother earlier.

"How is Dad?"

"Well, he fell. He thinks he might have broken his hip."

"What? Did you call an ambulance?"

"No. He doesn't want to go. Steve and I put him on the ironing board and moved him to the couch."

Upon hearing this, I was puzzled. I relayed this information to my friend, Brian, later, and he had the same reaction. "Why the fuck is he on the ironing board on the couch?"

It took me a moment to realize that the ironing board was simply a method of transfer. I had this bizarre mental image of my Mom pressing my Dad's clothes with him still in them.

"So, Mom, let me get this straight. He fell, cut his head open in two places, possibly broke his hip and no one called an ambulance?"

"No. He wants to stay home."

"Ok. That makes a whole lot of sense. WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE? Put Steve on the phone."

She transferred the phone to my brother.

"Steve. Call an ambulance or I will."

"He doesn't want to go, Crystal. You know how he is."

"He is an old man, for fucks sake. Why is no one going against his wishes?"

It was at that point that I had to remind myself exactly how my Dad is. He is proud, intelligent, independent and tough. If he needed to go, he would.

I remained by the phone until I got the call from my Mom. On the way to the hospital, I ran out of gas. I was in a horrible area of town. Every time someone would approach the general vicinity of the car, I would clutch my oversized ignition key and jab it in their direction as menacingly as possible. A cop finally showed up and took me to get gas. When I wandered into the hospital and found my Dad, he was, as usual, making new friends. Here are some of the things that came out of his mouth:

(Upon hearing a nurse instructing the other one to don gloves before examing his head)
"What do you need gloves for? I don't have herpes, for Gods sake." I cringed and reminded him that you can't get herpes that way. Why that seemed important at the time is beyond me. It was beyond him, too, apparently, because he looked at me and said, "What? Who fucking cares?"

(Upon seeing one of the other nurses approaching him to examine his leg)
"Crystal, you need to get them to get someone else. That's the bitch that tried to torture me in x-ray."

(Upon meeting one of his very youthful doctors)
"Does your mother know you're out this late?"

(Answering said doctor when she asked him if he had any heart problems)
"Yes, I fell on my ass and I didn't have the heart to get back up."

(While same doctor was listening to his chest)
"You people have poked and prodded everything but my balls. When is someone going to play with my balls?"

(When my Mother asked him if she needed to go get him supplies or bring them in the morning)
"Just bring them tomorrow. It's not like I'm gonna be up and playing pool or break dancing and shit."

People have, at times, asked me where I get my sense of humor from. My 64-year-old father is tame now compared to how he was when I was growing up. I think that should answer any questions about my outlook on life or my sense of humor.

He will be having surgery on Tuesday and then he begins rehab. He can't smoke or drink. This should supply me with months and months of writing material. Till next time. . .



 



Friday, March 18, 2005

There were three of us watching the movie, "Dodgeball", last night. My friend, Chris, my son and me.

My son adores Chris. Chris took him shooting one day and it was one of the happiest days of Devon's life. He had never fired a gun before and he was dancing around in nervous excitement that day, waiting for Chris to pick him up. I instructed him not to shoot any animals and he looked at me in horror.

"Mom, why would I do that?"

"I don't know. Because you're male. You have an inherent need to hunt, or some such stupid shit. First, it's trees. Then it will be bottles. Then you'll want to move on to a live target. Trust me on this. No animals. And, yes, turtles count as animals."

When Chris arrived, Devon told him that he was not allowed to shoot anything that had a pulse. Chris rolled his eyes at me. I threatened his life should he not bring my son back in one piece and just as innocent as he had been when he left. No first beers or dirty jokes. You never know when you get two men out in the woods with a firearm.

I spent the next four hours envisioning all sorts of bloody and gut wrenching accidents. Sometimes, having a vivid imagination is a bad thing. They returned, unscathed, and Devon proudly proclaimed that he had not killed anything with a pulse.

Ever since that day, my son has regarded Chris as some sort of other-worldly being.

So, last night I told Devon to order the movie. He did. What I didn't notice is that he ordered the version that said "UR" out to the side. UR. Un-rated. In hindsight, I'm sure he knew exactly what "UR" meant. Devious little shit.

Devon and I had seen, "Dodgeball", before and we both loved it. I probably loved it more because he sat and giggled through the whole thing. Hearing your kids laugh can sometimes make all right with the world.

Naturally, there were some new things in the un-rated movie. An hour into the movie, one of the characters mutters something to the effect of:

"Ahhh, there's nothing like the smell of queefs first thing in the morning."

He was, of course, implying that the guys in the room were nothing but a bunch of pussies. At least, that's my take on it. I laughed out loud, as did Chris, because no one ever really expects to hear the word, "queef", and, when you do, it's funny. It can't be helped. 'Queef' is a funny word.

My laughter abruptly ceased when my son shyly inquired, "Mom, what's a queef?"

Chris and I looked at each other. I gave him my best puppy dog eyes and he said, "Awww, hell, no. I'm not explaining that to him. You tell him." Thanks a lot, you fuckstick.

"Chris, please. You're a guy. You tell him. I'm his mother. I can't explain that to him."

My son has paused the movie by now and is intently watching our discussion, peppering it with an occasional, "Just tell me!"

Chris is turning purple because he's laughing so hard at my discomfort and I'm trying to think of a scientific way to explain a pussy fart to my twelve-year-old son. I never refuse to answer his questions. It's just not something I do. I opened and closed my mouth. Opened. Closed.

"Chris. Please. Help me out, here."

"N....(more laughter)...I....you...." He doubles over at this point and I tell him that he is a heartless little man. I wish ass fungus on him and turn back to my son.

Open. Close. Open. Close.

Chris sits up at this point and looks at my son in a very serious manner. I breathe a sigh of relief.

"Devon. Ask one of your friends or go look it up on the internet." He then dissolves into hee haws again. I smack him across the top of his head.

"No, you will not do that. Okay...so...okay...here we go. You know how when you have to .. well, when you fart -" I have to stop at this point because both of the males in my house are now rolling around on the floor and wheezing like old men. Farts are funny, too. Hearing Mom stumble while trying to explain something and using a fart as an example is apparently hilarious.

"Shut up. Both of you. This is serious." Yes, I actually said that. "Ok, so .. you know you're built differently than a girl." He is twelve. I am a fucking idiot. "So...well, we have places where...air can get trapped...imagine a cavern..." Chris explodes when I say this. I mentally slap myself and wonder who stole thirty points from my IQ during all this. "No, scratch that. No cavern. Imagine a hole...shit." I am sweating.

I compose myself as best I can, look him squarely in the eye and say, "Son, ask one of your friends. Or go look it up on the internet."



 



Wednesday, March 16, 2005

I'm depressing myself and that simply won't do. Back to the funny. I'm finished wallowing.
_____________________________________________________________

I've been thinking a lot about my family. Specifically, my siblings.

My parents met when they were my age and they both had children from previous marriages. They fell madly in love and nine glorious months later, I was born in the back of a '57 Chevy. SHUT UP. SHUT UP, YOU FUCKING JACKALS.

My mothers children, Steve and Lucy, were the two that I grew up with. I couldn't pronounce their names when I was little, so they have always been Teve and Oocee. Just makes you want to pinch my cute little fucking cheeks, I know.

As we've all gotten older and they have done unheard of things, like, say, getting married, we have grown farther and farther apart. I was thinking today about how they shaped my character and were a large part of the reason I developed the sense of humor that I have. My Dad was probably the biggest factor, but that's for another day.

Here are the things you should let your kids to to their younger brothers or sisters...they will be better off for it:

1. When your bratty little sister (that would be me) finds your Playboy stash in the barn, tie her up to keep her from tattling. As you're setting the magazines on fire to cover up the evidence, look up long enough to threaten her life. When you finally notice that the magazines have caught the hay on fire, run like your ass is on fire and your hair is catching, too. Before she dies from smoke inhalation, realize that her death would be hard to explain and go get your parents. Somehow find a way to blame her, as well, and peek around the corner long enough to stick your tongue out at her while she's getting her ass beaten.

2. Heat up spoons and chase her around the house with them while they're red hot. Keep a back up by the stove so that you can efficiently heat another one up before she fully regains her breath or has the presence of mind to fucking hide somewhere.

3. Teach your dog to lay on her cat and gnaw on it's ears. This is only effective if the cat is so fat that it's too lazy to retaliate. Instead, it lays there and mewls pathetically until a parent intervenes. That dog is a big, black motherfucking demon and bratty little sister isn't going anywhere near it.

4. When your pet goat dies, have a funeral. Invite bratty little sister. When no one is crying and making it an authentic funeral, hit the bratty little sister in the head with a shovel.

5. Shave bratty little sisters arms just to laugh when she itches like a hooker for a week.

6. Blackmail her with everything. Even shit that doesn't really matter. Use mind techniques to convince her that, yes, Mom and Dad will kick her ass if they find out she ate the last olive. Use this blackmail to take her allowance and make her do all your chores.

7. When you're pissed off because she gets to go somewhere with Dad, take all her toys out to the road and have a roadside sale. The only thing left is the head of her favorite doll. Someone actually bought the body.

8. Chinese water torture, wedgies and Indian rope burns. Repeat as necessary or at least three times a week.

9. Take her Scott Baio poster and draw inappropriate things on it before putting it back up.

10. Steal her teeth that fall out before she can get Tooth Fairy money for them.

11. Convince her to eat dried cow shit.

12. Also convince her to put foil in her mouth after getting her first filling. Lure her to an electric fence, give her a tin can and dare her to touch the (seemingly) harmless fence.

13. Traumatize her so badly by whispering lies from across the hall, in the middle of the night, that she still checks under her bed and in the closet before going to sleep. At 31 years old.

14. Tell everyone you encounter that she peed the bed until she was 10 years old.

On second thought, just have one kid. No one needs that kind of "character".



 




My son has been spending every night at my nephews house since Friday. My daughter is with her father and his girlfriend. It's spring break.

I go home every night to a dark, quiet apartment. I have no one to cook for or fuss at. There are no dirty socks to pick up or jacks to step on. There are no shrieks of laughter and no warm, smacky kisses when I get home.

It's been 5 days. I have taken a long, hot bath every night without constant interruption and last night I shaved my legs. Once again, my tub looks like it's wearing a fur coat.

I watch whatever I want to on TV and I talk to myself a lot.

I am miserable.

I think that being a single mother is the loneliest job in the world for so many reasons that I can't even put into words.

I need a hug and a cup of cocoa.



 



Tuesday, March 15, 2005

My friend, Jason, is the type of guy that women will throw themselves at. It pretty much doesn't matter how good you look, he will remain detached and neutral toward you. Women hate that shit, so they'll be naked and begging before midnight. I didn't do that when I first met him, though. I held out till 3 a.m. I'm just strong that way.

He called me this morning. I went to his house on Sunday night and served him his ass over a game of pool. Well, I beat him once. If you've ever played pool with Jason, you know that one win out of seven games is about as good as it gets. This still didn't keep me from gyrating my hips, sticking my tongue out and screaming, "That's right! Boooo-yah! Suck that! Suck it! SUCK ITTTTTT!!!!"

This was our conversation. You have to imagine listening to Sam Elliot, the guy that does the, "Beef. It's what's for dinner", commercials. That's exactly who Jason sounds like, drawl and all.


Jason: "Are you sick?"

Me: "No. Why?"

Jason: "Cos I'm sick as hell, you sumbitch." (I tell him that his phone calls make me all warm and fuzzy. I don't think he's ever called me by my given name. I am either "asshole" or "sumbitch")

Me: "I was sick a little while ago and -"

Jason: "Goddammit. Now I'm sick."

Me: "You blame everything on me (this is true. A month ago some part fell off of his truck and he called to cuss at me. Apparently, I was to blame since I was with him the last time something fell off of his truck and he had just thought about me when the new thing fell off. His logic allows him to blame me for all kinds of shit) Who all have you been kissing?"

Jason: "Yeah, right."

Me: "I know you. Man whore. Did the last 5 minutes go something like this?.....

"Are you sick? No? Ok. Bye." click
"Are you sick? No? Ok. Bye." click
"Are you sick? No? Ok. Bye." click
"Are you sick? No? Ok. Bye." click
"Are you sick? Cos I'm sick as hell, you sumbitch..." etc, etc.

I don't know why he bothered even asking me. All of the girls could have claimed to have mono coupled with the crazy-monkey-nipplecrust-lung-crushing-flu and he would have still found a way to blame it on me.
_____________________________________________________________

I got my Bloglet report this morning. Out of the 18,000 members, I am 3,489th with my 4 subscribers. I was curious, so I scrolled through the pages.

There I was on page 189, sandwiched in between such gems as this and this.

My parents would be so proud. No homo.



 



Monday, March 14, 2005

My friend (Rob) who shall (Rob) remain nameless (ROB-ROB-ROB-ROB) just dodged a proverbial bullet with a girl by using some lame ass excuse. In his defense, he knows it's lame, but it worked so I don't think he cares.

She basically dissolved into tears during their last three phone conversations over things like having a bad day and the state of affairs in Gniffsofghenazzhein, so he decided that he needed to do some weaning before she got too attached and boiled his dog or something. He did what any mature, intelligent man would do and told her he couldn't hang out with her because he has the flu. Now he is feeling sort of flu-ish and I did what any supportive friend would do and laughed like an asshole.

So, here are some of my lame ass excuses to get out of meeting/dating/talking to someone:

1. I have herpes. (this is only used in the most dire of circumstances because it has backfired on me. I wasn't aware that we had mutual acquaintances and I had to practically show them my pussy to convince them that I was full of it. Now they know I'm STD free, but they think I'm a jerk for telling him that and he derives great pleasure from telling everyone that I actually do have the herpes)

2. I need to go. The triplets just set the pest control guy on fire.

3. How do you feel about being diapered?

4. I'm not sure who the father is. No, of any of them.

5. I'd love to meet you! I can't go more than 25 feet from my front door with this ankle thing on. Can you come here?

6. My psychiatrist says I should get out and meet people. It's time I put the fire and all that screaming my god the SCREAMING THE FUCKING SCREAMING..oh..I'm sorry. What?

7. Have you ever seen a third nipple?

8. My only goal in life is to be married. My life is meaningless without my soul mate.

9. I don't believe in oral sex. It's the devils work.

10. I used to be a stripper (this only works if he's dated a stripper before)


Oh, and just for the record, "I'm a lesbian", has the opposite effect. Men are weird.



 



Friday, March 11, 2005

So, I just read that Brett Michaels, former lead singer of the groundbreaking band, Poison, is one of the judges on Nashville Star. Basically, these people are trying to break into country music, and Brett tells them what they need to do to improve or whatever.

After reading that, I have decided to start judging some art contests. Look. I just drew this:

http://files.bighosting.net/iw1571.bmp

I did that shit freehand, yo. I know. Hard to believe, but true.

You're saying to yourself, "But, Crystal. You blow. I've seen better work done by small, retarded children with vision problems. You have no business judging art of any kind."

My point exactly.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, go watch this. You have to scroll down on the right hand side and click on "Raine" because I'm a moron and I can't get the hyper link to work properly.

It's worth it. Trust me. You only need to watch the first 10 seconds to see the prop wig from Joe Dirt. If the singing isn't bad enough, just look at his head.

HEY BRETT! YOU HAVEN'T HAD HAIR SINCE 1989! YOU TRIED TO COVER IT UP WITH A HUGE BANDANA, BUT YOU WEREN'T FOOLING ANYONE THEN, AND YOU'RE SURE AS HELL NOT FOOLING US WITH THAT BULLSHIT WIG! You look like Wynonna Judd, you fucking dipshit.



 




I just heard something that made me laugh. I'm sharing it with you in the hopes that it will make you laugh. If it doesn't, you need to pull the bramble out of your ass and get a sense of humor.

I was talking with my boss and a guy from the corporate office. Corporate guy is black, extremely handsome and well preserved, and funny as hell. I was asking him why some black women feel it's more convenient to keep their money (bills and change) in a plastic baggy, tucked away in their bra. He was, of course, looking at me like I had just asked him to smell my asshole or something because I expected him to have an answer for me. He's black, right? They have meetings every Thursday. He should know these things or at least pay attention to the memos, for shits sake.

Anyway, he recalled an instance where a woman had come into the office that he's at. She was wearing a very low cut shirt that showed her bra and a good portion of the top of her breasts. He said, "She had the Victorias Secret bra on. But I couldn't get past them damn K-Mart titties."

I'm still laughing. And occasionally looking into my shirt and trying to figure out what my tits are. I'm thinking Old Navy or Gap. I hope. I hate K-Mart.



 



Thursday, March 10, 2005

I'm going to be kind of gross today. I warned you. I know you think I'm a delicate rosebud, all rainbows and cotton balls, but you're wrong, mister. I can be pretty fucking indelicate.

I love being in the office by myself for a few reasons:

1. No Bimbo. That should have been obvious.

2. I can turn up, "Come Sail Away", to full volume, fling my clothes aside and dance in naked abandon for my monkeys. They mostly just sit there and look at me with their expressionless glass eyes, but I know they want me. Well, until I do my air guitar.

3. Pooping. This should also be self-explanatory. I just left the bathroom and it looked like a Cheech and Chong scene when I opened the door. White mist billowed everywhere. I used a whole can of air freshener in my trustworthy aerosol can. I care about the environment, but, trust me, you wouldn't have wanted it any other way.

So, a friend and I are talking about farts the other day. He said something about girls not ever farting in bed and I laughed. I laughed because, when I'm at home alone in bed, I have the manners of a West Texas oil field worker after a case of Busch beer and a plate of pork tamales. It's disgusting because I sometimes high five myself. I have had to evacuate my own room on a couple of occasions. Delicate rose bud. Yessir.

Now, when I'm in bed with someone (and that happens all the time. Seriously. Read the above paragraph and just imagine the hordes of hot men who are begging to share a bed with me), it's a whole different story. I will pop a blood vessel trying to keep my ass cheeks together. He (the friend) thought this was pretty awesome since he doesn't know he's farted in his sleep until after it's too late. I have done this while awake.

It's disconcerting. There you are, innocently watching TV or finishing up your latest paint-by-numbers masterpiece (everyone has to have a hobby. Shut up.) and you rip one without even knowing there was mischief afoot. Thank God it normally happens in front of my kids. They only get tickled when they see me do my dog impression. Have you ever seen a dog fart and then look back at it's own ass like it can't figure out what the hell that was or where it came from? Yeah, that's me.

So, I'm pretty antsy about people sleeping in the same bed with me. I'll wake up at every small stomach bubble and lay there, tense and uncomfortable, until it's passed. Now, everyone knows that this only makes it worse. I don't care. I'm not taking any chances. I have tried to quietly let one go before only to be betrayed by my body when it sounds like there's a chainsaw in bed with us.

I have also had it happen before I could stop it. I was in bed with someone and we had just had sex for the first time. We were both drifting off to sleep when it happened. It wasn't horribly loud, but I heard it. This is what goes through my mind:

"Oh my God, I hope he's asleep. Please, God, let him be asleep. His breathing sounds shallow like sleep breathing. Breathing. Oh, shit. I hope he's breathing through his mouth. That's kind of gross. Maybe I should kick the covers off of my feet and hope the smell escapes that way. What if it goes in his mouth? WHAT IF IT ENVELOPES HIS HEAD? What if it causes a rash or kills him?? Fuck. I have to start buying Bean-O and keeping it by the bed. Why do I only fart like this when someone is in bed with me? Why does it never smell when I'm alone, but when someone's here, it smells like a troll with halitosis and athletes feet crawled up my ass and died? He's asleep. He has to be or he would be gagging by now. What the fuck did I eat?"

So, it's only happened a couple of times, but it's awful when it does. No one ever mentions it; kind of like having a gay, alcoholic Uncle Tina.

Now, here's the gross part.

On second thought, I won't go into flappers today. I've been gross enough.



 




If you look on the sidebar, above the links, there is a place to enter your email address if you want notification when I update. All four of you.

I figure it will alleviate that gut wrenching disappointment you feel when you refresh my blog all day only to find I've been too lazy (or feeling like a bag of hemorrhoid-ridden assholes, as is the case lately) to update.

Watch out, people. I think I'm special and shit. Next it will be a Pay Pal account so I can quit my job and try to find a way to live on my $3.62 that I receive every month. From myself.



 



Tuesday, March 08, 2005

It is your duty as a compassionate human being to help me rid this office (or possibly the world) of the Bimbo.

I can't take it anymore. I can't. In addition to her being a sneaky, underhanded, waspish, vapid, brainless twat, she is now getting to the point where she can get away with murder and my boss doesn't seem to see it.

You know what this means. Her claws are aimed in my direction.

Unless you want to see me on Americas Most Wanted (I can fake being a Mexican and I thrive in ungodly climates. Mark my words, they will never find me. I may have to be intimate with a donkey to support myself, but they will never put me in a cell), I need genuine ideas to run this whore off.

So, let me have them. Please. The person who gives me an idea that works gets an autographed copy of a picture of me dancing naked on her desk.

Nevermind. No one deserves that kind of cruelty.

Seriously...any idea you have to get someone to voluntarily quit or get them fired without implicating yourself will be entertained.

I know there are some of you out there who have jobs that require you to be cutthroat - Lecturis and SidVicious, I'm looking at you - so help a sister out.

Oh, and I have a partner in crime, so if the idea calls for multiple people, there are two of us who are willing to get our hands dirty. She is that loathsome.



 



Monday, March 07, 2005

I'm not happy with the last entry, but then I remind myself that the reason I started this journal was to have an outlet for myself. I have no one to please but me...but I'm my own worst critic, so that sucks all the way around.

I'm sad to report that I'm not turning into a lizard. I found out that Trim Spa has some sort of shellfish extract in it. I'm severely allergic to shellfish. DEATH TO SHELLFISH! FUCKERS! I got my hopes up about my physical metamorphosis only to be left with itchy ears and swollen eyes. Additionally, I had to stop taking it and it was fantastic. My energy levels have dipped alarmingly and yesterday, in between furious bouts of scratching and sobbing, I ate an entire can of green beans, 4 baked chicken nuggets, 12 triscuits, 3 pieces of hard candy and a banana. The thing is, over eating has never been a problem for me. I eat very little. The Trim Spa actually decreased my appetite so much that I wasn't eating at all. Now, without the Trim Spa, it's like I'm fucking pregnant. I want weird things like ... well, green beans and triscuits.

I've also been going through some sort of emotional thing. I'm fiercely protective of my independence and I think I've finally reached a point in my life where it's preferable to remain single.

While I was home molting, Bimbo actively tried to steal one of my sales. I found out today and went postal. My boss defended her and I left his office defeated instead of threatening to start wearing cardigans or something equally hideous.

This is what I'm going to do. I'm going to Atlanta at the end of this month for 4 days. I bought my ticket last night. I'm going to do as little as possible. My new friend, Dusty, has graciously offered his hide-a-bed and his company and I'm taking him up on it. We are going to have a Dance Dance Revolution Dance Off and I think he's going to dress the part of Flashdance to my Amish breakdancer.

He is the funniest person alive. If you don't know this by now, click on that link. CLICK IT GODDAMMIT OR I'LL FIND YOU, NAIL YOUR TITS TO THE FLOOR AND FORCE YOU TO EAT SHELLFISH.

I need this mini vacation.



 




Long ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I used to write on another forum. I met some really interesting people through that forum and I will tell you of my "vacation" to Washington, D.C. Well, part of it, anyway.

After a horrendous flight, courtesy of AirTran (affectionately known as "AirYou'llNeverGetThere" in my universe), I arrived in Virginia. I had been up for 28 hours, made several new friends in the Atlanta airport, ridden the "Ugly on Parade" subway beneath the airport three different times, wrestled a bench away from a homeless lady with a cat, eaten something that was probably food at one point in it's miserable life, and I smelled like Napoleons asshole.

After sobbing all over a customer service representative, she allowed me to use her phone to call for back up (my ride was mistakenly directed to Reagan airport instead of Dulles). I think she saw the haunted, sanity-deficient gleam in my eyes. She knew I was one, "I just work here", away from grabbing her by the ears and eating her face off.

Tami arrived a short while later in a whirlwind of boobs and metallic green Dodge Neon. I have never been so happy to be a passenger in a madwomans car. She drives like the poster girl for road rage and simultaneously put me at ease while fielding calls on her cell phone. She is multi-faceted and fabulous.

We arrived at the hotel and Tami helped me drag my luggage up to the room. I had been up for 30 hours at this point. I was almost orgasmic at the thought of a bath and a bed.

I knocked on the door and it was almost immediately flung open by a very tall, handsome guy with startling eyes and a spiffy corduroy jacket.

Meet Phil. Phil quickly became my new favorite person of the hour. He was charming and funny and adorably rumpled and obscene. After introductions were made, I turned to my other host for the weekend, Tom. As I was opening my mouth to die, I noticed a bottle on the table behind him. It used to contain bourbon. These boys were shit-hammered drunk. In a flurry of phone calls and slurring and obscenities, I was informed that we were leaving for Philadelphia in twenty minutes.

Tami stuck around like a trooper and distracted the men while I showered. I got out, surveyed my blood shot eyes and pasty skin and convinced myself that I felt human. Phil began writing in soap on the hotel window to alert the people across the alley that a man in their building was fucking some woman on his desk. Tom started giggling like a school girl. I resigned myself to being the designated driver.

We said our goodbyes to Tami, she promised to pray for my safety and sanity, the boys poured themselves and their alcohol into the back seat and away we went. We had picked up another passenger, Claire, and she was riding shotgun and doing her best to lose an eye by directing my every move through traffic. The first time I turned and gave her the crazy eyes, she said, "I'm a horribly controlling, aren't I?" I earnestly suggested she partake of the bourbon in the hopes that she would pass the fuck out and let me drive. She was very sensible and declined. Cunt.

The traffic was horrendous. We crawled at a breathtaking 5 miles per hour for the first two hours of the trip. Tom & Phil were drunk dialing every person in their phone and screaming at inhuman levels to try to talk over one another. Phil declares he has to pee. I have been up for 32 hours at this point.

We are in a residential neighborhood in three lanes of traffic. Tom tells Phil to get the fuck out and pee if he has to. Phil exits the car and goes running through traffic, legs and arms akimbo (he runs like a girl. He will tell you that it was on purpose to make us laugh. Laugh, we did) and disappears between two buildings. I pull up and pull over. I look to my right and there he is, dick out, pissing on a wall in broad daylight. He had another 20 feet of alley to choose a more discreet spot, but that's not our Phil. He gets back in the car and I merge into traffic.

Approximately 50 yards further down, I see movement out of the corner of my eye, to my left. I assume I'm seeing tracers. The movement gets more frantic. I look over and a very animated black woman is motioning for me to roll my window down. I roll it down and she says,

"Gurrrrrl, when I saw dat boy get out da car and go runnin' like that, I thought ya'll done keeidnapped him. Dat boy can run!"

We all laughed for an hour about that one and I started to feel somewhat better. Traffic was flowing more smoothly and Claire had found something to distract her from annoying the crap out of me. Then the guys piped up and demanded that we stop for beer.

34 hours awake and only 200 miles, 2 drunken sots, 1 nagging backseat driver, an unscheduled trip to New Jersey, one bar, a gallon of vodka and a 500-pound truck driver away from the release of sweet, sweet sleep. To be continued...



 



Thursday, March 03, 2005

I'm going to recycle something I already posted on the other forum because it's all I can manage right now.

My son has the flu. I was getting over some devil virus that infected my sinuses and lungs and now I'm turning into a fucking lizard.

The general consensus is that I have German measles. I guess those differ from regular measles by cursing a lot and goose stepping.

After obsessively rubbing myself for the majority of the last 24 hours (I throw you people softballs all the time. It's because I love you), I have come to the conclusion that I'm becoming a reptile. I'm really hoping to be a cool reptile, like a chameleon. I think it would be hysterical to blend with my refrigerator and scare the shit out of my kids.

I'm perfectly fine with sunning myself on a rock all day, but I don't want to eat bugs. I'll either be a vegetarian lizard or I'll have to find myself a Dr. Doolittle so he can order me Big Macs.

Either way, I'm creating my will. When I'm a lizard, I won't need things like a computer or money. I do, however, expect one of you to build me a habitat and take care of me. I promise not to blend with your shower curtain so I can look at you naked if you promise to put a pool in my pad.

_____________________________________________________

I moved recently. My mom brought my nephew along and he, in turn, brought two other 5 year old kids. I made a huge batch of kool-aid, gave them each 2 cookies apiece, spun them like little sticky tops, and turned them loose.

An hour later, I'm unpacking boxes in the kitchen. I have pretty much managed to drown out the shrieks, giggles and sound of shit being thrown pell mell. I am in a happy place with my martini glasses. I hear the demons coming down the hallway. I wrap my arms around my martini glasses and put on my Aunt face. I growl.

My nephew virtually rockets into the living room waving my purple rabbit vibrator like its the fucking Olympic torch. He is being pursued by the other 2 hellions. As I stand there with my eyes dangerously close to falling out onto my cheeks, he starts running laps around my mother and shrieking, "Look, Mimi! Lookee! If you turn this thing at the bottom, it shakes!!" My mother is nodding in her grandma way and turning her head to and fro, trying to get a better look at the object my orbiting nephew is clutching.

Martini glasses be damned. My mother has never given a blowjob in her life but I'm pretty sure she still remembers what a dick looks like.

I skid around the corner like scooby-fucking-doo and launch myself at my nephew. I had snatched it and disappeared down the hallway before he even realized what had happened.

After he finally stopped wailing (I threatened to give him away to the creepy rednecks next door. I told him they would change his name to Earl and make him rub their feet), my mother asked me what he had been playing with.

I looked her straight in the eye and said, "Did you know that Steve stole the car when he was 15 and screwed that Laura chick in the backseat?"

Steve is my brother and he can do no wrong. She left immediately. He has called me numerous times. I'm not answering.


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