Christmas...

Yeah, yeah...I know, I haven't been blogging much. That's because I've been shopping and wrapping and drinking and eating cookies. I love Christmas!

I can tell you one thing though...next year, everybody's getting their present with nothing but a bow on it. I love the shopping and drinking and eating business...but wrapping...I'm f*cking over it.

Merry Christmas from your favorite blog!!

(Oh yeah...and Happy Hanukkah or Kwanzaa or Ramadan or whatever other fucking holiday you celebrate this month!)

Costco Is Dangerous

**It should be said before you read this blog that I despise going to Costco. I also don’t think their employees exist in reality. Think about it…they’re all so damn weird, I’m convinced a spaceship drops them off in the back everyday, and picks them up again later that night.**

Costco is completely fucking dangerous and I feel that it’s my civic duty to warn you all about it. I had the unfortunate experience of going there a couple of Saturdays ago…for one simple container of dip. S was having her birthday/housewarming party and I was on dip duty. How hard could that be…

So off to Costco I go and I just happened to be on the phone with C. I told her the place looked like a mob scene and to let me get off the phone so I could shop. I had surprisingly gotten a nice spot only one row over from the door and I had a good feeling about my impending shopping experience. I spoke to soon. As I get out of my car and go to cross the lane, I see a car coming towards me. But the woman appears to be slowing up...ahh, I think to myself, she's going to be nice and let me cross in front of her. Nope. The bitch was looking for a spot and just as I step out into traffic she floors it in an attempt to find a new one after she realizes the people aren’t leaving. Now she's only a few short feet from taking me out. Cool. I hustle across and jump out of the way as she slams on her breaks. That was fun...how much worse can it get? I’ve spoken too soon…again.

In I go and wave the membership card at the greeter. I pick up my pace, weaving in and out of old people, children and the browsers who take up entire aisles with their carts full of shit. Do you really need 300 cookies and the economy size bag of sausage…I don’t fucking think so. I’m now at the back of the store and it was pretty uneventful. I march right over to the dips…damn it. There’s no Baja Chipotle Lime dip…or whatever the hell it’s called. A friend of mine had it once and it’s delicious. A nice change from the usual Spinach Dip. Ok…maybe the Baja stuff is over by the cheese. It’s a cheese base…it could be. So I walk around the aisle and head to the cheese. Damn it. It’s not

As I’m heading back to the dip section, I feel a thud on my upper arm and I actually lost balance. What the fuck? I look up and some woman, around 60 or so, has full on shoved me out of the way with very little regard for my well being. Sweet Jesus. It was nearing riot like conditions. And in all honestly, I certainly couldn’t push an older woman in retaliation…no matter how badly I wanted to…so I retrieved my Spinach Dip and headed towards the front of the store to pay.

All the lines seemed crazy and I was searching for the shortest one. I spot one with a bunch of people, but very few items. Tada…I found my line. As I approach the register, I realize that they seem to be all in the same family. They’ve got Grandpa and Grandma with them and Mom and Dad and about a dozen kids. Ok…maybe a dozen is an exaggeration, but there was AT LEAST four of the little savages running circles around me. Fantastic! And on top of it, they’re only speaking Spanish. It was mind numbing.

In an attempt to avoid these children, I stand at the back of the register belt thing for where you put your groceries. I was right in the middle of it, one side is for carts and the other side is for members. I just wanted to wait for the giant family to finish up. But in doing so, other customers got in line behind me. One of these customers was a really old lady, definitely late 70’s who was obviously half blind and had her cane with her in the cart. And she lines up right next to me, but with her cart in the member section of the line. So now the register girl has her assistant (Seriously, a fucking assistant? You ring groceries at the Costco and you need an assistant? Whatever.) tell the old lady she has to bring the cart to the other side of the line. This is all well and good, but since she can’t see too well, she slams the cart into my hip in the process and pins me against the register belt. And repeatedly slams the cart into me until I so graciously help her move it…BEFORE I NEED A FUCKING CANE.

So now I have helped the old lady and she’s situated where she needs to be and the assistant (I’m really bothered by the checker outer people having an assistant.) is helping her unload her cart. Old lady was thanking me and thanking me…trust me, it was my pleasure. Unfortunately, with all the commotion, the assistant has already lined up the stuff for the old lady directly behind the giant Mexican family’s stuff. Shit. Now where am I supposed to put my Spinach Dip? I knew this was going to be a problem. I decided to place it down on the side of the conveyor belt thing, directly next to the divider separating the giant family and the old lady.

The (obviously overworked because she needs a fucking assistant) checker girl finally finishes the giant family and picks up the divider to start on the old lady’s stuff. So I quickly pick up the Spinach Dip and hand it to her.

CG: (pointing at the old lady’s stuff) Is that yours?

B: No.

CG: (points at the Spinach Dip and then to the Mexican family as they were leaving) Was that theirs?

B: No.

Checker girl huffs at me and yanks the Spinach Dip out of my hand. Now I’m pissed.

B: (extraordinarily sarcastic) I’m so sorry my dip wasn’t in between dividers like your Costco rules state, but I didn’t want to get adopted by the giant family, party of 27, and I certainly didn’t want to get run into by Helen Keller anymore so I helped her with the cart. Excuse me that I got a little sidetracked with the divider situation.

She just shoots me a look and thrusts out her hand…

CG: Member card

I hand her the card. And now I’m just expecting trouble, because it’s actually not my card. It’s my mom’s. I avoid that place as much as possible, why the hell would I need my own membership.

Thankfully she didn’t notice the picture and continued to cash me out without saying a word. Good. I grabbed my receipt and stormed towards the front door…barely stopping for the the guy to put that stupid Sharpie slash mark on it.

Fucking Costco. I hate it. And I found out after the fact that I could have gotten the same Spinach Dip at Foodtown. Son of a…

Tattoo Boy

I’m pretty sure you’re all well aware that I’m a big ol’ lesbo. But according to all my gay friends, I’m not very good at it. They give me a list of different reasons, for example, I don’t like other gay people, I only like straight girls, I tell them they’re stupid for going to pride celebrations, and probably the most important reason why they say I’m a bad lesbian is that sometimes I try very hard not to be one.

What can I say? I’d rather just be straight. I think it’s easier and much more socially acceptable. And, I’ve got three aunts who are all stay at home moms, which I think is the greatest job in the world. I think I’m perfect for it actually…get the kids on the bus, clean up the house, grocery shopping, kids off the bus, make dinner. There’s nothing more I’d rather do than cook and decorate. And as for the kids…well, I figure they’ll grow on me. I like them, I’ve just yet to be exposed to them for multiple days in a row. How bad can it be?

Anyway, now that you understand this about me, that I’m always (sort of) looking for a husband, I can tell you about Tattoo Boy. Of course I don’t know his name, because that would involve talking to him. We just have this cute, smile and check each other out relationship at the gym. Oh yeah, I go to the gym a lot lately. I only go because I feel completely out of shape and I’m generally pretty bored in the afternoons, so why not use my time productively. So now back to TB. He’s got a very cute blue collar look about him. He’s a little chubby, which is just the way I like boys…when I do actually like them. TB does have a lot of tattoos though, hence the name. He’s got full sleeves, one on his lower back (which I’ve only seen when he was bent over stretching) and even one on his neck. This little crush I have is completely out of character for me and everyone who hears about it seems pretty confused. This is what C had to say about it when I told her the story the other night…

B: blah, blah, blah…cute tattooed guy at the gym…he’s cute and I like him.

C: He really has that many tattoos?

B: Yup. There not scary, ex con tattoos. They’re cute construction guy tattoos.

C: Are you going to talk to him?

B: Probably not.

C: What’s with you liking a boy anyway?

B: I don’t know, he seems like good husband material…and I’m really sick of working.

Yup. I probably am the worst lesbian I’ve ever met…

2009?

As most of you know, Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, was celebrated back in September. Well, a couple of weeks ago I was out for drinks with K and C, and K brings up the holiday…and her confusion about it.

K: You wanna hear something funny?

B and C: (looking at each other with much excitement, due to K’s stories usually being entertaining.) Sure.

K: Ok…I kept wondering why people kept saying Happy New Year back in September…

B and C: (confused) Yeah…

K: So I asked M (M is K’s girlfriend, and she also happens to be Jewish) and she told me that it was the Jewish New Year.

B and C: Ok…so…

K: But I was still really confused about it, so I asked M if that meant it was already 2009 for Jewish people…

B and C: (hysterically laughing) And what did she say?

K: (also laughing) She told me it didn’t mean that…different calendar or something…

That’s K for you. C and I were laughing our asses off because this is the same girl who didn’t know the difference between the atmosphere and a hemisphere. She’s also the same girl who asked if it was going to be dark in a cave. And she’s a teacher…thank God it’s only gym!

Sports Opinions

I’m sure you’ve all heard by now that OJ is going to jail. I practically did a cartwheel. I hate that dirt bag and I think this is a perfect example of Karma. It’s gonna get you one way or another!

And while I’m on the subject of football players, let’s talk about the NFL and their (seemingly) lack of concern to have law abiding players in their league. For instance, Ray Lewis, who was indicted for murder and only convicted of obstruction of justice after various different witnesses changed their stories for the trial. Hmmm…that doesn’t smell like a payoff. And then there’s Pacman Jones, Plaxico Burress and Michael Vick (I especially hate this douche bag), to name a couple more fine upstanding citizens.

Now, to go 180 degrees, let’s talk about the NHL. Sean Avery, who plays for the Dallas Stars, just got suspended for six games last week. You want to know why…because he referred to his ex girlfriends as sloppy seconds. Seriously. Don’t get me wrong, Avery is an arrogant prick, but arrogance isn’t illegal. The NHL thought this was so terribly wrong. Sure, he did sort of have his own little press conference after a practice skate…and it seemed it was solely to announce that other NHL players “fall in love with my sloppy seconds.” What a jerk off, right? But, was a six game suspension really necessary? This is the same NHL that is contemplating banning fighting. You know, because hockey isn’t known for its fights. Pussies. Listen up NHL, this is why more people watch the WNBA…because those lesbos have more balls than you!

Anyway…the moral of this little rant is…The NFL needs to be a bit stricter, the NHL needs to stop being so prude and I’m SUPER EXCITED that OJ is going to jail. And I hope he drops the soap. A lot.

My First Guest Blog at Curious Mishaps

First off my heartfelt thanx to B for allowing me to post this here. You see I can’t post this on any of my own pages as I would probably be fired from my fortune 500 company (or at least put in a time-out). I’ll preface this story with the fact that I work for the computer solutions division of my company but we also run a website that sells consumer electronics as well.

Also let me explain that I am a technical engineer, I have a string of alphabet certifications that looks like someone dumped a bunch of scrabble tiles after my name. Some of these certifications require me to do things like resolve DNS addresses by way of doing Boolean algebra in my head. Now I’m not trying to toot my own horn here I’m just trying to give you an idea of what someone with my job title is expected to be able to do. I normally spend my work days doing things like configuring cluster servers for large corporations, setting up massive terabyte storage systems and doing in-depth conference calls with customers about computer networking needs.

Starting this week the powers that be decided I would be placed on a pre-sales email queue and would assist sales people with finding technical solutions. Naturally I protested this move, alas to no avail. So today instead of putting together $100k plus quotes I am doing things like looking up specs on an apple iTouch and finding toner for the office printer when a request comes in from a sales rep . The request is from his customer who wants us to look up the parts on her husband’s Christmas wish list. The customer describes her husband as “having very expensive and exotic tastes”. Ok so right off the bat I am being asked to do someone else’s Christmas shopping! Next I open the attached “expensive and exotic” shopping list to find I am being asked to look up part numbers for...and I’m not kidding…Tony Hawk’s Xbox games and a set of gaming headphones. If this is what the customer believes are her husband’s exotic tastes I’d hate to see what their sex life is like.

Anyway I protest having to answer this request all the way up the chain of command. You might think my management would agree that this is a huge waste of my time and talents not to mention the tens of thousands of dollars they have spent on sending me all over the country for technical trainings, well you’d be wrong. I am told I need to be a “team player “and that in this economy no customer request is too small. While my management congratulates itself on making every customer feel special (not like the Olympics special) I am forced to stop working on a $300k blade server deal to look up part numbers of Xbox games so that this customer’s husband can relive the shredding days of his skateboarding 80’s past.

Well I did complete the request, however I added a few part numbers to the wish list I thought the customer might enjoy such as: The Women of Xbox Calendar, Leisure Suit Larry Hot Tub Fantasy Adventures game, and my personal favorite; The Mangroomer Private Body Shaver for those personal and hard to tame areas. Needless to say I will be looking for a new job soon. Perhaps BestBuy or the local Adult bookstore is hiring.

-X

Genetically Fucked

I’m back from my holiday hiatus and I figured what could be better than to write about my Thanksgiving experiences. There’s nothing better than family bonding and binge drinking.

You’ve heard enough about Crazy Nanny…so I figured I’d let you in on a little secret, my other grandma is out of her fucking mind too! Yeah! She’s actually not really my grandmother…she's my father’s cousin, but he grew up in a big Italian family in North Jersey and they all took turns raising everybody else’s kid. Evelyn never had any children of her own and being over twenty years older than my dad, she’s always just seemed more like a grandmother than anybody else on his side of the family did.

Ev is eighty six now and when you get to a certain age you start slowing down. She can’t deal with this. The fact that she can’t walk too far makes her crazy. She was a city girl and never even had a driver’s license, so she spent every day of her young life walking all over Newark, whether it was to work or the store, post office…whatever. And even after she moved down to a retirement village with her husband (who has since passed away and God bless him being married to her) she still made a habit of walking herself the few blocks to the “mini-mall” in her community.

She’s never been the picture of stability…but lately it seems to be getting worse and worse by the day. And she was extra nuts the day after Thanksgiving…which is weird, because she was in good spirits the night before. She was hanging out at Crazy Nanny’s with us, had a good meal…shit, it’s better than being stuck in her house with nobody to talk to. You’d expect her to be happy. But her schizophrenia or whatever the fuck it is sure did kick in Friday morning. She woke up and instantly started crying about how bad her life is. What? I’m confused. Did she have some sort of nightmare or something? Who knows? After a couple of minutes of crying, she starts yelling and cursing Jesus. I’m not kidding. All I hear coming from the spare bedroom is “Fucking Jesus…he did this to me.” I had to help her down the stairs with her bag and the whole time, each single step, she’d say “Fucking Jesus.” Finally, I explained to her that if she shut up and stopped cursing poor Jesus that maybe she wouldn’t be so out of breathe and the steps wouldn’t seem so complicated. She actually got a chuckle out of that and held off cursing him until she hit the bottom step. All this anti-Jesus crap from the woman who has gone to church regularly for her entire life.

I can see it’s going to be a fun morning, so I go out and get coffee…all the while taking my time in hopes that my mom has left to take her home. No such luck. I go back in the house and Ev’s still at it…crying, cursing, crying, cursing. If my mother didn’t take her home soon, I might have wound up cursing Jesus.

They’re just about ready to go when Ev decides she doesn’t want to go to the grocery store. My mom explains to her that she won’t be down for a couple of weeks and that she should stock up on food.

Ev: (talking like a truck driver, which is obviously genetic if you know me at all) I don’t give a shit. I’ll eat crackers. I don’t want to go to the store.

My poor mother doesn’t know what to say to her anymore so I figured I’d try to help out…

B: What is wrong with you? Is this crazy shit genetic?

Ev: (smirking at me) Just wait ‘til you’re my age. Then you’ll say that crazy old bitch was right.

What can you say to that? My mom just shook her head and laughed. So did I for that matter. But I think we can safely say that I won’t be seeing eighty six years old and if I did, I can only imagine what kind of treat I’ll be…a combination of both Evelyn and Crazy Nanny…sipping Jack Daniel’s and hatin’ on everybody in my sight. I have just decided right now that I’m not going to quit smoking. I want to spare my children (if I have any) from dealing with me considering I’m not exactly a prize at twenty nine.

My mom and her finally leave. And of course my mother took her to the grocery store. And when she got home she told me that Evelyn kept up the crying/cursing routine the entire time. I didn’t expect any less from her.

Ahh…the holidays. There’s nothing like being stuck with your family all day and looking around thinking everybody is insane. And then you realize you’re genetically linked to 85% of them. Fantastic.

On a side note though, while I was out Saturday night drinking like it was my job, I was telling X and C the story. I told them that I’m worried about getting older and going crazy…to which X responds, laughing, “It’s a good thing you’re not showing any warning signs.”

Jerk. I think I’m doing pretty good considering my DNA.

Squirrel Proof?

Last Sunday I was over at my grandmother’s house for family day. I’ve started calling it family day, because almost every Sunday for the last seven or eight years one of my uncles always seems to wind up at Crazy Nanny’s to hang out for the day.

I can see my ADD is kicked in pretty good tonight, because the point of the story is not about my family. It’s about Crazy Nanny’s new bird feeder. And this new feeder is supposed to be squirrel proof. Sure it is.

We were all hanging out watching football and/or playing with the baby. I was sitting on the couch still cursing the Eagles from the week before for costing me a strike in my elimination pool. Assholes. Anyway, out of the blue, my aunt starts laughing and she points to Nanny’s deck.



Squirrel proof my ass. You see the little bastard hanging upside down. He ate like a savage.

Nanny is quite possibly the hardest person to shop for, so I’ve been thinking there’s a Red Ryder BB gun in her future. Why not? She’s already voiced her annoyance at having to keep walking out onto the lawn when it’s cold out to get the bat she threw to get rid of the squirrels. Now all she'll have to do is crack a window and fire away.

I have to say though, I’m secretly rooting for the squirrels. Just don’t tell Nanny because she’s liable to shoot me with the BB gun. Really, I wouldn’t put it past her!

My Mechanic…

…hates me. Well, he doesn’t really hate me, I just make him crazy. He seems to think that I should know everything about cars. Well, I don’t. And if I did, I would just fix the shit myself…leaving him unemployed. I think he should be thankful that I’m a little car retarded.

Anyway…this is what went down last week when I went in for an oil change. And I had noticed that a few days earlier, a light came on on my dashboard. It was an exclamation point. I have no idea what this means, but I do seem to remember it happening before and I thought it had something to do with tire pressure. I know, I know, I could have looked in my manual, but I figured it couldn’t be that important and it could wait a week until I took the car in. So I stop in one afternoon and ask him if I can drop it off the next morning. He happens to be on the phone, so he’s nodding his head yes to me. Then I tell him about the light, he shrugs but still nods his head yes. I tell him it’s an exclamation point and that I’m not sure if it’s happy or scared. He shrugs again. I’m guessing at this point that he seems to think it’s ok. I wave and leave.

I get there nice and early the next morning to drop it off and he’s asking me if I need my tires rotated. I actually have no idea, but I tell him no because I’m pretty sure he did it the last time. And I remind him about the light. He says he’ll check it and let me know. So I leave him my keys and he tells me he’ll call me that afternoon when it’s finished.

He calls me a few hours later and tells me it’s ready. And how much to bring, because he really likes cash and not giving receipts. Hmmm…anyway, I head on over and he tells me everything is fine. The light meant that I needed air in my tires. “Which one,” I ask him, “None of them looked low.” He looks at me like I’m crazy and told me all four of them needed air. Whoops. And then he reminds me that I was a little overdue for my oil change…

M: You waited too long this time to come in for the oil change.

B: Well, it’s highway miles. I’m sure it’ll be fine.

He doesn’t seem to like this response.

M: (shaking his head at me, but smiling) Get out. You make me crazy.

B: You know, just because I’m not some dainty little ballerina like thing, doesn’t mean I know shit about cars…

M: (still shaking his head and laughing at me) I can’t take you…go home.

So I left. I’ve noticed I invoke a lot of head shaking out of people. They’re usually laughing or smiling when they’re doing it, so I figure it can’t be that bad. I hope.

Puppies!!

They're adorable and they make me happy...if you're having a bad day, click on the link below because they'll make you smile. Shit...just click on it anyway!

http://www.ustream.tv/channel/shiba-inu-puppy-cam

Taserama

This is by far one of my favorite stories of all time. This is the final installment of the Tennessee stories. I’ve waited so long to post it because I’ve been working on it for a while…I want to really capture the moment for you because it was that fucking funny to live through. Chances are you have probably already heard me tell the story, considering I tell it to EVERYBODY.

It was our last night down there in the good old south and we had actually been behaving all day. We went into town in the early evening to do some last minute souvenir shopping, you know, all the essentials, T-shirts, shot glasses, cowboy hats and even dill pickle potato chips. We were also going to finally go on the sky lift, because every time we were anywhere near it K went on and on like a little kid about riding it. All these good intentions went right out the window with just a few words…”Let’s stop and have a drink.” I don’t know who said it, but we went to Puckers. Whoops. After the first drink, we decided we could have one more before the sky lift. And after the second, we decided we could have another one. And then we started doing Jell-O shots. Fuck the sky lift…that shit is not for drunk people. So we settled in…doing Jell-O shot after Jell-O shot and Soco and lime after Soco and lime.



After a few shots and getting told by a man from Texas that I’m too pretty to be a lesbian (I had been afraid of getting lynched for being gay, so you know I was drunk if I actually admitted to it…) I decided a little karaoke was in order. So I coerce X into dueting with me…not a good idea. First of all, we sing terribly together. And second of all, we had no business singing a Dolly Parton and Kenny Rogers song (Islands in the Stream) in Dolly’s hometown. I figure if we had sung it any worse, it could have also been grounds for a lynching. But we sang it…or at least attempted. X had never heard the song and couldn’t follow along. We finished it much to the relief of everyone else in the bar, and as X is returning the mic’s to the karaoke guy, he seems to find himself in an altercation with a local. You know this isn’t going to end well…



I’m back at our table and turn and see this guy in X’s face so I run over. Apparently X had bumped into him and didn’t say excuse me. Now I know all you Jersey people are wondering what’s so bad about that…we do that here all the time. Well, down there, they don’t. Ever. And this drunken old cowboy wasn’t having it. So he’s explaining to X how to be polite. And rather than be defensive, X was actually standing there taking it. When it was all said and done, X went to give him a hug. Bad fucking move. Drunk cowboy shoves X off of him and X is trying to apologize for being rude. DC says, “Shit, I just want you to be polite, I don’t want no damn hug from you.” And then he turns and walks away. Well, now X is pissed and takes off after him, but I thankfully had grabbed him by his shirt and held him back.

So now we decide we want to order some food, so we got some wings and nachos to munch on. The perfect compliment to Jack and Diet’s and Soco shots. And as we’re waiting for our food, X takes out a book of matches that he got from the strip club. The matches are for a bail bonds company. Now this is some foreshadowing if I’ve ever seen it. We were all laughing and joking and we were now chatting up some nice couple at the table next to us. They were from Indiana and I’m pretty sure they thought we were all out of our minds, but they were entertained nonetheless. And it was a good thing they liked us, because the dude was big. And this came in handy when the drunken cowboy was getting thrown out of the bar. And in a drunken rage, made an attempt to attack X. Big Indiana dude jumped up and held him back while the bouncers threw him out. It was great, watching some sixty something year old hick go crazy, I highly recommend it.



Things had settled down for a little bit, we ate and of course kept on drinking. The Indiana people were great…we had a lot of fun with them. And then one of us (I’m thinking it was me, but it’s starting to get a little blurry) suggests that we will sing a song for them. Aren’t we sweet? Bon Jovi no less, in honor of their new favorite people from Jersey. So up we go and belt out what was probably the worst rendition of Livin' on a Prayer that’s ever been sung. Mrs. Indiana must have been almost as drunk as the rest of us, because the next thing I know, she’s up on stage with us dancing and singing along. Note to self: we are a terrible influence on good, innocent people from the Midwest. Allegedly, we sang another song. One of the fun ones from Grease that they usually play at weddings and proms. I refuse to accept this though, because I have absolutely no recollection of it. I don’t care how many times K threatens to show me the video of it, I still insist I did not sing any other karaoke but Dolly and Bon Jovi.

When we had arrived at Puckers, the sun was still up. It was now 1 am and we were WASTED. As we go up to get the tab and say good bye to Indiana, X decides he’s had enough and wanted some fresh air. We’re smokers, but we aren’t used to being able to smoke in a bar anymore and it was getting a little thick in there. So out he goes and me, A and K settle up the tab…which was ridiculously high, even for Tennessee prices. And it wasn’t even counting all the Jell-O shots we bought for cash. Disgusting. I remember at one point in paying, that I looked out the door and saw X sitting on a bench by the door waiting for us. But a few minutes later, when we got outside, he was gone. Poof. Just fucking disappeared. Uh oh.



Now we don’t know what to do. I figured that he was so wasted he wouldn’t wander off…he’s not like that. So we walked around the block to where we parked to see if he was there. Nope. Finally I see a bike cop so I figure I should go ask him. So I march my wasted ass across the street and tell him my friend is missing. He asks me to describe him and he starts laughing. “He’s in jail,” he says, about as twangy as you can get. Now I’m freaking…what? Why? Where? Is he ok? “Yeah, he’s fine. Public intoxication.” The same fucking public intoxication that I’m pulling right now, because the whole time I’m talking to the cop, I’m stumbling all over the place and had to hold onto his bike to keep steady. So Roscoe P. Coltrane himself gives me the number for the Gatlinburg Police Department. And I’m now yelling across the street to A and K… “He got locked up!” Because I think it’s fucking hysterical! Then I remember that he had my cigarettes on him, and now I’m pissed because my innocent cigarettes are now in jail. It’s funny what your priorities are when you’re drunk.

So we go back to the car and I’m about to call the police to see when I can go pick his ass up when I decide that first and foremost, I have to get cigarettes. So we go to a gas station convenience store and I took about twenty minutes, most of which was in the potato chip aisle and I was debating whether or not a certain somebody deserved more pickle chips. Then I got distracted by two local guys who were very loud. I figured they looked like they might know a thing or two about the local jail, so I inquired about the rules. Well, go figure…they were more than helpful. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it. I got arrested one time and I never even paid the fine. Then, the next time I got arrested, they forgot all about it.” Wasn’t he sweet? I felt better already. Upon exiting the gas station, these two serial killer looking weirdo’s ask me for a ride to the motel they live at. Sure I tell them, and make them sit in the back with K. And promptly make her give me my purse as I loudly announce I don’t want it in the back with them. How the three of us are not a dead hitchhiker pick up statistic is beyond me. I’ve heard God looks after drunk people…I’m beginning to think that’s true.

We drop the serial killers off and I finally call the jail. After a phonics lesson for the cops because they couldn’t pronounce X’s last name…they finally confirm that he is indeed in jail. And I’m not allowed to pick him up until morning. And even though I’m just as drunk as he is, he still can’t come home and sober up with me. These poor cops. Fine, I give up, but one more thing… “If I can’t come pick him up, can I at least come take pictures of him in jail,” I ask, so innocently. Laughing, the cop responds, “Nah, you can’t come take no pictures of him.” No fun. Hysterically though, when the cop gets off the phone with me, they tell X his mom called for him. Because moms are always as drunk as their kids and want to come take pictures of them in jail. What? Tennessee really is a whole ‘nother world.



So morning comes…and I’m definitely still a little wasted, but X is blowing up my phone because he’s sprung. So I go get him and find him waiting outside the police station. You know I made him pose in front of the sign…unfortunately, he won’t let me post that picture. No fun. Anyway, I see him waving to some local guy across the street. To which I promptly explain that I don’t care how friendly he got with this guy in the clink, I AM NOT driving him home. Thankfully I had survived the night before, and I wasn’t taking my chances. Before I even get a chance to explain the story, X informs me (knowing that I’m a smidge OCD) that he’ll hang his “bloody arm” out the window. Bloody? They told me you weren’t hurt, that you didn’t get in a fight. “What did they do to you?” I was secretly wondering if he dropped the soap or something, but I didn’t want to ask. He had had a bad enough night.

“I got arrested for being drunk. I didn’t do anything. I got hurt in jail,” he says, rather defensively. And he begins the story…in which he was sitting nice and quiet in the holding cell when an illegal immigrant approached him, yelling in Spanish. X nicely explained that he didn’t speak Spanish. Immigrant wasn’t having it. So he sucker punches X and starts trying to beat him up. The cops hear the ruckus and intervene. So now X is sitting there, and the guy next to him (the same guy he was waving to the next morning when I was there to pick him up) tells him that he “hates Mexicans” and if he comes back over, that he was going to help X kick the crap out of him. When in Rome…so X agrees. Well, here comes immigrant guy and he’s got one of his friends with him. So X and his new pal get up and a mini-brawl ensues. The cops come back after hearing all the noise and decide that they’re not getting in the middle of it…so they taser all of them. Bahahahaha….I’m still laughing about it and it was in August! X doesn’t find it very amusing.

I couldn’t even catch my breath because I was laughing so hard. That’s what friends are for…right? Hearing him tell me how one minute he’s standing over this guy, kicking him in the gut, and the next thing he knows, he’s lying on the floor and feeling a little numb, only makes the laughter worse. So I laugh all the way back to our cabin and go busting in the house to tell A and K about the taser. Now they’re hysterical. We of course texted everybody we knew the night before that he was in jail. Now we had to text everybody and tell them about the taser. X wants to kill us. Oh well. As soon as we got home, we told everybody. I mean everybody…strangers even. Everybody thinks it’s the funniest story ever. I told Crazy Nanny and she damn near peed her pants.

Who wants to come with us on our next vacation!? We’re thinking ski lodge in Utah…so we can combine large quantities of alcohol with big mountains and downhill skiing!

Public Urination Is Apparently Legal In Jersey City

I was reading good old gawker.com the other day when I saw an article about a New Jersey Councilman who was arrested Friday night for drunkenly urinating on people at a concert in Washington, DC.

Apparently Steven Lipski, a Jersey City Councilman was in Washington to see a Grateful Dead tribute band and imbibed a bit too much, causing him to piss off a balcony onto a crowd of what I’m assuming was a bunch of drunken, tripping Deadheads. What an asshole.

What I really find amusing is that Lipski denies the incident. After getting locked up he told everyone he spilled a drink. Bullshit. I’m pretty sure I can tell the difference between a vodka tonic and piss. So can pretty much everybody else. Even if they’re just as drunk as the urinator(I think I made this word up.) in question. And of course, like celebrities who get busted for doing stupid shit when they’re drunk, he has announced he’s swearing off alcohol.

I get drunk all the time and I don’t piss on people. Although, I do swear off alcohol every few months after a bad night. I think the moral of this story is that all politicians are assholes. Even local councilmen.

I personally would like to thank him for helping to keep the nationwide reputation that Jersey is a shithole in check.

Below, the fun loving guy himself. I think the picture says it all.

Equal Opportunity Feeder

Crazy Nanny is a real animal lover. She’s got birdhouses all over the yard, much to my displeasure, and she’s always outside putting seed down for the chipmunks and other animals. For some reason, unbeknownst to everyone else…she hates squirrels. And she sure as hell doesn’t want them eating her seed. That’s for the birds and chipmunks and ducks…whatever…anybody can eat the damn seed as long as it’s not a squirrel.

I’ve told her I think she should put a sign up for the squirrels…that maybe once they read it, they’ll stop eating her seed. She just thinks I’m a smartass when I tell her that…but I don’t think it’s any more absurd than her thinking she can actually prevent the local squirrels from eating it.

‘Ol Nanny has come up with a few creative ways to chase the squirrels from the yard…but her latest is pretty interesting. It’s not creative at all actually…it’s just good old brute force. I was coming home from a coffee run a couple of weeks ago when I discovered her new method for squirrel elimination.

I had just pulled into the driveway and walked around to the other side of my car to let the dog out. The same dog from Fucking Birds that likes to chase the animals in the yard. And as we were about to head into my house (My house is a mother/daughter and Nanny has a little house on the side of ours,) I hear banging and yelling coming from the side of the house.

Panic ensues because knowing that she’s 80, I’m afraid she’s fallen or dropped something…who knows. So I go running over with the dog and there she is…standing on her front porch with my little cousin’s plastic toy bat. And she’s banging it on the porch and yelling at the squirrels. Now the dog is going crazy, chasing the squirrels all over the place. And Nanny was satisfied. The squirrels were gone and I think it’s the first time in over two years since we got Madison that Nanny didn’t yell at her for running in her flowers.

She also informed me that if the squirrels aren’t listening when she bangs the bat on the porch, she will throw it at them if she has to. Honestly, you can drive by my house and you'll most likely see a little red bat in the front yard. It's not mine.

I wonder if this shit is genetic? Can’t you see me now, a crazy old lady sitting in my rocking chair, knocking back Jack Daniel’s like it’s my job…and throwing random shit at animals in my yard. Fuck.

Election Day

Ugh. I already hate my job. Having to work on such a chaotic, insanity inducing day is just hell. Fucking hell. And everybody in my office is crazy. Really crazy. For example, on a scale of 1 to 10, 10 being the craziest…we average about a 7 on regular days. And it fluctuates something like this…we see on CNN that there’s breaking news so it shoots up to a 7.5. We get ONE email about some sort of possible emergency and/or disaster…it shoots up to an 8. We get a few more emails about said disaster…9. It’s been on CNN for more then three minutes…9.5. We get the orders to find satellite trucks, camera men, producers, correspondents…the office starts to look and sound more like a trauma center than our happy little fishbowl where we usually sit and watch TV. Once the crew is on the road to the problem, the crazy averages around a 9. This, of course, is all dependent about how fast the crew can get there. If they think we might miss going live, it averages about a 10…if it’s real tight…a 10.5. It stays around a 10.5 until all the initial tapings and crap are done. Anyway…the moral of the story is that everybody I work with has been buzzing around at a 9 for the past two weeks, and Election Day…shit…I know they’re gonna top out around 15. And I wasn’t looking forward to it at all. NOT AT ALL.

But, now that it’s over I can surprisingly say that it wasn’t that bad. It could have been worse. There was actually some time where we were a little bored. Or at least I was. In fact, at one point my boss wanted to know who interrupted one of our feeds to Asia…

Boss: (slightly frantic) Who switched the India feed?

A chorus of “Not me’s” was heard and I just stared at him blankly for a moment.

B: Unless there’s a link to it on my facebook page, I’m pretty sure it wasn’t me.

He just shot me a look and ignored me…and then a few minutes later said,

Boss: Facebook page? Can’t you even pretend like you’re being productive?

I just laughed. But, inside, what I was really thinking was that facebook and myspace are pretty productive. Seriously, I had just become friends with somebody from college who I hadn’t seen in a few years. I got more satisfaction out of that than anything at #B# News.

So that’s how work went yesterday. I did notice the crazy level starting to go up around 10:45pm last night…shortly before they were going to announce that Obama won. So what did I do…I packed up my stuff and headed out. I was only working until 11p, and God knows I didn’t want to get stuck there!

Toilet Paper

Here’s another Puerto Rico story. One of the best considering we still keep telling it…much to C’s displeasure.

It was our first day in PR. We landed early that morning and we were all wiped out from the 6am flight. Mostly because we had never went to bed and got drunk and took a limo from The Ark to the airport at 3am. But that’s how we roll. We actually got to our rental house so early that the cleaning crew was still there. So as a group we decided we should head to the grocery store and stock up on booze. Oh…and food and toilet paper too.

After a couple of hours and two overflowing carts later, we get back to the house with all our crap. After careful inspection of our living quarters for the next week and a half, we determine that it’s not nearly as nice as the website made it out to be and that of the three bathrooms, one was outside and had bugs in it, the other was upstairs by the three bedrooms and the third seemed to be missing. Thankfully X was perceptive to notice the extra door in KB’s bedroom and wiggled the lock and low and behold the third bathroom appeared. Freshly cleaned and ready for action. But this wasn’t good enough for C.

C had already taken a mental inventory of the TP on hand in the house and decided we didn’t have enough and we should go back to the store. After the group trip grocery shopping this was the last thing we wanted to do. Plus, we had bought a big multi-pack, so we weren’t sure what the urgency was all about. C’s a little weird sometimes.

We had just settled in and gotten the groceries put away and we all wanted to take a nap and relax. A and G went upstairs to unpack and take showers and freshen up. Rightly so, after a long night and an even longer morning. It seemed like only seconds after they went up to use the bathroom that C started about how he had to take a dump. And he wouldn’t stop bitching about it.

X, KB, KH and I all kept telling him to go use the bathroom in KB’s room. He refused. He was adamant about the fact that he had to use the upstairs bathroom. Weirdo. We could all understand that he wouldn’t want to use the outside one, with all the bugs and stuff. But what was wrong with KB’s? Nobody had used it yet. Honestly, not one person had even peed in the damn thing since it was cleaned. But his excuse was he didn’t think we were allowed to use it. What? The website said three bathrooms…and it wasn’t locked, the door was just stuck. Nope…he wouldn’t use it. He wouldn’t even consider it. So he sat there in complete discomfort, moaning and bitching. And not so patiently waited for A and G to get done upstairs.

Finally, the moment arrived. He went upstairs and made sure they were done. He settled in for what was going to be the greatest dump of his life, or at least that’s what it seemed like to the rest of us. And just a few minutes later…

C: (Frantically yelling from upstairs like fucking Hannibal Lecter was in the damn bathroom) X. X.

We were all sitting in the living and were alarmed by the urgency in his voice. So I ran up the stairs and X was right behind me.

B: (Outside the bathroom door.) What’s wrong? Are you ok?

C: (Annoyed) I just need X.

X: I’m right here…what’s wrong?

C: (You could hear him swallowing his pride at this point. And he’s now talking at a near whisper.) Can you get me some of the toilet paper from downstairs?

I could have peed my pants. This idiot went on and on about the bathroom and the upstairs one being the best and kept a running fucking tally of the TP we had on hand…and this is what happens.

So we go back downstairs and X gets him some toilet paper from the “other” bathroom. We all think this is the funniest thing ever. And when X gets back down from the covert drop off, I tell him that C’s going to be mad at me because I went upstairs. Which I only did out of sheer concern. His voice cracked for Christ’s sake. I thought something was wrong.

And sure enough, here’s comes C downstairs and he points right at me…

C: You are so nosy. I wasn’t calling for you.

All I could do was laugh. I knew he was going to say that. But X had my back…

X: Nosy? The neighbors heard you screaming and thought something was wrong.

Ahh…C. I highly recommend bringing him on vacation with you. He’s a laugh a minute. Just wait until I tell you about how he wrecked the rental car.

Power Outage

The other day as I was typing up Fucking Birds (part 2), there was a power outage in my neighborhood. The power outage in question managed to happen while the gas company was at my house in yet another attempt to fix my heat. And of course, I hadn’t managed to save the blog I was typing, almost finished with actually…

So I go storming downstairs, damn near ready to bash the gas man’s head in with a wrench, and when I get downstairs, he’s complaining about the power outage too. Apparently it’s not his fault. He’s lucky.

It’s too late though, because I’m already off on a tirade. Within another minute or two, the power came back on and I run back upstairs and turn the computer on. While it’s booting up, I immediately call X and leave him a very frantic voicemail because he knows shit about computers and I want my blog back. And I’m sick of the flashbacks I’m having of my teachers and professors constantly reminding us in class to back up our work.

B: IT’S ME. I NEED YOU TO CALL ME BACK ASAP. I’M HAVING A COMPUTER EMERGENCY.

As soon as I hang up I sent him a text message too. Just to drive the emergency point home.

The computer finally comes back on and I can’t find my blog. I decide to open up Word, just to check. Low and behold, there it is.

I was just starting to relax, and to finish writing the blog when my phone rings. It’s X and he’s a bit worried.

X: Hey…are you ok? What’s wrong?

B: Oh…nothing. The power went out and I thought I lost the blog I was writing and I knew you’d know how to get it back. But when the computer came back on, it was there. In Word.

X: (laughing, and presumably thinking I’m fucking crazy) Ok…I’ll talk to you later.

That X…he’s a good egg. I’m also fascinated with how I can go from normal, to an unhealthy state of insanity, and back to normal within minutes. Oh well…that’s what makes me so much fun!

Fucking Birds (part 2)

If you haven't already read Fucking Birds (part 1) you should scroll down and do that. This story will make more sense when you do.

So now you know I hate birds. And rightly so. I haven’t had any problems with them lately, unless you count that rogue bat in Tennessee. That is until the other night.

I’ve sort of been on a clean living kick (well, as clean as I can get.) This involves not smoking any cigarettes during the day and not going out as much. So last week, on one of my “healthy nights” where I wasn’t going out, I was going to stay home and relax and watch TV, I decided I could splurge and smoke one cigarette…considering I wouldn’t be out drinking and smoking. One cigarette wasn’t so bad…right? It definitely was.

So I head out onto my front porch and light one up. I’m taking a few puffs off of it and everything is fine and dandy. Until I catch something fluttering around out of the corner of my eye. And when I turn and look, this fluttering thing makes a beeline for my fucking head. So after a very dramatic duck and cover I look up and realize that there isn’t just one flying creature, but two. And number two was coming straight for my head too. Fuckers. Now I’m yelling…for a lot of reasons. Firstly, it’s happening so fast that I can’t quite tell if they’re birds or bats. They appeared to have feathers, but I didn’t get a good look. Secondly, I’m yelling because now I think my hair is on fire, because that’s bound to happen when you huddle up into a ball with a cigarette in your mouth. And thirdly, I’m yelling because I don’t like things flying at my fucking head. Birds, bats…anything.

I finally come up for air…and to see if my hair is fully engulfed in flames (I have done that before…it can happen) or if it’s just singed. Thankfully, only a few pieces got stuck on the end of the cigarette, so all is good. Except that these stupid birds can’t seem to get away from my porch. So now they keep fluttering by me and slamming into the house. They appeared to be afraid to fly past the hanging flower baskets. I don’t know what they’re so fucking afraid of, considering they make nests in the damn things. I flick my cigarette out onto the lawn because I don’t want to burn anything else, and who knows when I’ll have to take cover again.

I go back into the house to a very excited dog. She’s a Lab and she thoroughly enjoys chasing wildlife. It’s her instincts. Between me yelling and the birds banging into the house she is now trying to break out the front door in a Lassie like attempt to save me or something. I don’t really think it had anything to do with me…I’m sure she just wanted to chase the birds. Whatever, I’ll give her the benefit of the doubt and continue to think of her as my savior.

I come to find out from Crazy Nanny that they were in fact birds and not bats. She (thinks she’s a wildlife expert) is sure that they were sparrows and they were making a nest in one of the baskets.

I’ll tell you one thing though. That’s enough with clean living. I marched right to my room that night and changed my clothes. And promptly headed to The Ark. Where I drank beers and smoked cigarettes and had no more interactions with crazed wildlife. Well…that is if you can consider all the regulars at The Ark to be human…and not crazy.

Below, my fearless hero:

Fucking Birds (part 1)

I have bad luck with birds. I used to like them when I was a kid, that was until my parakeet went bonkers and killed my other one. I’ll have you know that it’s a bit traumatic to come home at seven years old and find poor Petey stiff as a board on the bottom of the cage with the top of his head pecked in. All because Petunia wanted to sit next to the mirror. She was a bitch and she lived for what seemed like forever. All the while flinging herself at your hand to bite it the second you tried to give her more water and food. My mother had finally had enough of her and pawned her off onto Crazy Nanny. Where she continued to live and prosper for even longer, and still viciously attacked everything in her sight.

The uneasy feeling I have towards birds isn’t just because of Petunia. It’s directly related to a few other experiences as well. One time, while vacationing in Florida as a kid, my parents took me to one of those gator farms. Obviously they had plenty of gators to see, but they also had other animals too. Some of which were parrots. And of course, my father, paying little or no attention at all to the “Don’t Touch The Birds” sign, sticks his hand in the cage in an attempt to pet the parrot. This fucker lunged at him so fast and clamped down on the metal bars like a vice grip. He had barely escaped a finger amputation…but he didn’t learn his lesson.

Years later, we happen to be in Vegas and the hotel we were staying at has a variety of exotic birds on display around one of their bars. Well, sure as shit, my father has to disregard the Don’t Touch signs and play with them. So there are these two medium size purple and green birds sitting on a perch together. And they let my father pet them. And the one was loving him, making cooing noises and rubbing it’s head into his hand. All was well until it had enough of being played with. Instead of pulling its head back or walking away, it bit into my father’s finger, ripping a chunk out of it between the knuckle and tip. It bled like a bitch…and of course all I could do is laugh. And the timing couldn’t have been more perfect, because here comes my mother, walking down the corridor back from a shopping trip. To find her husband bleeding profusely and her daughter hysterically laughing at him. She laughed too though…that’s what you get for not reading the signs.

I also had my own “miscommunication” with a bird. I was working at a movie studio in New York for a film I happened to be on. And the guy at the studio had a pet cockatiel (it might be a cockatoo, I have no idea, nor do I care enough to know what the difference between the two is.) Everybody loved the bird. It seemed like the whole damn production staff loved the bird. I, on the other hand, would not go near it. I had way too many close calls with the fuckers as I was growing up to know that they can’t be trusted. Finally after some coaxing by my coworkers, I relented and acknowledged the bird with something other than a cautious glare. And low and behold, he liked me. He liked me so much that he would do a little dance for me and make happy noises and act real cute (I should have know, I had seen this act before from the bastard in Vegas). Before long, the guy who owned the studio was telling me I should let him on my shoulder. Shoulder? I told him I wasn’t so sure about that.
B: That’s a little too close to my face. Too close to my ear. He could get pissed and bite my nose…peck at my eye.

Studio Owner: Nah, he’s sweet. He doesn’t bite. And he really likes you.

B: (Still very skeptical, but feeling guilty) Ok. Fine. But only for a minute.

The guy seems happy that I’ll let his stupid bird on my shoulder so I figured it would be fine. Besides, I hadn’t seen an aggressive act from this bird all damn day. I stick my arm out in an attempt to let him climb up to my shoulder. But he doesn’t get on it. He actually starts doing a little dance similar to the one he had been doing for me earlier. Apparently this time it wasn’t a dance. It was some sort of agitated bird ritual they do…RIGHT BEFORE THEY FUCKING BITE YOU. He snapped his beak down on my forearm so hard and so fast I couldn’t even react. The studio owner jumped up to help me and the bird finally let go. And in an instinctual moment I went to backhand him off of me, and the fucker knew it…because he immediately jumped back out of the way of my hand.

With my arm feeling like it’s on fire and already starting to bruise, I asked the guy what the fuck that was all about…

B: What the fuck? I thought he didn’t bite…and he liked me. I knew I shouldn’t have let him on my shoulder.

SO: (In between asking me about a hundred times if I was ok, obviously in an attempt to have me not sue him.) He normally doesn’t…you didn’t put your hand out.

B: (Now I’m getting madder, because somehow this has become my fault.) What? You didn’t tell me I had to put my hand out a certain way. What the fuck?

SO: Yeah, he can’t climb onto your arm. You have to put your finger out.

B: Why didn’t you tell me this when you saw him getting pissed off?

SO: I thought you knew.

BECAUSE I SPEAK BIRD? Now I want to backhand this asshole. I had just spent the better part of ten hours keeping a safe distance between me and that fucking pit viper with wings and when I’m finally going to let him up on my shoulder he just assumes I know what the fucking thing wants. I then had to spend the rest of my day convincing the producers of the film that I didn’t need to go to the emergency room. Beaks aren’t necessarily that sharp unless they actually pull when they bite…and thankfully this fucker didn’t really pull so it barely broke the skin. The only pain came from the pressure…they are much, much stronger then they appear.

Anyway…there was a point to this random babbling about why I hate birds, a funny incident involving me and birds from the other night…but I feel like I’ve been typing a lot, so I’m going to continue it tomorrow. I apologize, I had no idea my hatred for birds was as long as it is.

Dancing with The Devil

I need to preface this blog with the simple fact that I don’t get star struck. Well, hardly ever. After quite a few years of working on films and television shows, and now being relegated to bumping into the network news anchor in the hallway (my certain networks big guy almost wore my Lean Cuisine dinner once…that would have been fabulous), I’ve learned that famous people are nothing more than really popular regular people. They’re all pretty cool and down to earth and of all of them I’ve ever worked with, there’s only one who was actually a bitch to the point of me despising her…but, I’ll never tell who she is. Anyway…there’s not too many people I can say that I would get overly excited about seeing. I could name a few, but they’d all be girls and it would be for purely sexual reasons…

Ok…so now you know, I don’t get star struck. But, back in the spring of 2006 I was working on the show Hope & Faith. And Hope & Faith just so happened to film at Silvercup Studios in Queens. And at the very same time I was working there, the film The Devil Wears Prada was shooting there as well. You know, the one with my idol…Meryl Streep.

TDWP was a gigantic production and I didn’t know their schedule, like when they’d actually be in the studio or out on location. And after weeks of not having seen Meryl, I’d given up all hope of seeing my hero. I absolutely love her. I think I can trace it back to when I was a kid and saw her in She-Devil. I loved that movie…and obviously, I know that’s not her best work and my taste in film has gotten significantly better since then as well. So having been a fan of hers for almost twenty years, I suppose it’s understandable that I’d love the chance to bump into her. And it would have to be by chance, because I would never go searching her out or asking for her autograph…I’m not like that.

Sometimes things happen when you least expect them. And that’s how it went with Meryl. It was the end of a very long Friday. We had been shooting H&F all day. The crew had just started wrapping and I brought a cart down to the set green room to get the leftover food and wine that was there for the actors and their guests. I loaded the cart like every other Friday night and wheeled it from the stage to the hall that lead to the elevator. And as I was doing this, I wasn’t even thinking about TDWP. In fact, I didn’t even think they were in studio.

So off I go, carting down the hallway, oblivious to everything. The hallway is pretty wide too, but it gets narrow in certain spots where staircases come down from the dressing rooms. And just as I was about to walk past a staircase, somebody comes down the steps and spins into the hallway. And they’re bearing down on me. That’s when I look up and see, of all people, Meryl Streep. In full Devil wardrobe. Apparently, she was in full Devil character too, because she wasn’t stopping. She just kept charging towards me, with an evil glare…and no words were necessary for her to say, “Get the fuck out of the way. Now.”

So now, of course, I’m scared. And star struck all at the same time. So I stop pushing the cart and start backing up, pulling the cart towards me until I clear the stairwell. I quick pull the cart over to the side and wait, way out of her way, under the stairs for her to pass. And as she passed me, she turned towards me and narrowed her eyes into an even more evil looking stare and shot me one of the nastiest looks I’ve ever received. Then she snapped her head back and marched to a stage door and stopped. And turned her head to the two people who were following behind her. She never said a word to them…but they knew what she wanted. They told her it was the wrong door, so she spun on her heel and went to the next door and entered onto their stage.

That was the last I saw of her. But I have to say, it was one of the coolest moments of my life. Bumping into her anywhere would have been great, but seeing her in full character like that, and being scrutinized by the Devil herself, even if it was for just a moment was amazing.

Ass Full of What?

I figure everybody is in need of another Crazy Nanny story. I also figure it sheds some light onto why I’m so fucked up. Genetics are a bitch!

This story takes place back in July. My family was throwing a surprise 80th birthday party for Nanny in August, and along with that, we all decided to have a family picture taken. You know, one of those cute ones where we’re all in matching outfits and looking so happy and sweet. Yeah. We did it. Except instead of matching outfits, each one of Crazy Nanny’s children had to wear a different colored polo shirt and their significant other and children had to match them. So now we look like a fucking gay pride family. What’s also very funny about the pictures though is that Crazy Nanny was holding a bottle of water in almost everyone. Of course she was.

I should have known the whole event was going to be trouble while we were still on our way up to the beach. I drove up with Nanny and my mom, and I spent most of the ride trying not to spill the fruit punch I was drinking on my shirt. Because I would look extra cute with a big red stain on my shirt. Anyway, we turned off of Rt. 35 onto Osborne Avenue, as this leads to East Avenue and the beach entrances. Just as we were about to turn onto East Avenue, I notice a guy and a girl on bikes in the middle of the road (It’s a one way street and everybody rides down the middle and they move over for cars) and I’m sure my mom did too. Apparently so did Nanny, because before we had even made it all the way around the corner, she shouts from the back seat, scaring the crap out of both my mother and I…

CN: “HONK YOUR HORN BETTE ANNE. THESE TWO MUST WANT AN ASS FULL OF FENDER.”

What? Has she lost her fucking mind? I start cracking up and my poor mom can do nothing but shake her head. And when I turned around and looked at her, she just started laughing and told me I’m lucky that I have such a “hip” grandmother. Oh sure…if that’s what you want to call it. But, honestly, there’s nothing better than hearing your 58 year old mother get called by her first and middle name, like she just got caught cutting school or something.

Another bright moment at this little excursion was my dopey uncle. All of us adults spent the majority of the time keeping the four little kids away from the ocean. If I heard, “GET AWAY FROM THAT WATER!” once I heard it a thousand frigin’ times. But of course, 38 year old E. strolls down to the edge and gets smashed by a wave. So he now spends the remainder of the time getting his picture taken in soaking wet pants.

Ahhh. Family time is always so much fun!

Save the Boobies

I figured the title would get your attention. I saw this sticker on the back of a car the other day and felt inspired to let you all know that October is Breast Cancer Awareness month.



I just think this is important and wanted to pass on the information. A simple donation can help a lot. And helping with breast cancer can possibly lead to prevention of other cancers and possibly a cure.

Below are a couple of websites with more information on prevention and detection...and also how to make a donation and other fundraising events.

http://nbcam.org/about_nbcam.cfm

http://www.nationalbreastcancer.org/

Wildlife Kingdom

Well…I told you I’d tell you some of the Puerto Rico stories, so here’s the first one. It’s about the fucking tarantula that decided to stop by one night. As if the place wasn’t like a frigin animal amusement park. There were lizards EVERYWHERE, stray dogs, roosters, mice and a bull frog, that according to C, “was the size of a small dog,” as he dramatically held his hands out like somebody trying to describe the size of the fish they caught.

I should start out by telling you that I’m petrified of spiders. PETRIFIED. I am completely freaked out by them and have been for most of my life. The only other creatures that might bother me more are snakes. I’ll get my panties in a bunch over a regular old spider…so imagine my delight when I saw this fucking armor plated behemoth walking through our kitchen. You could almost hear its hooves clacking on the floor.

Thankfully, I wasn’t the one who saw it first. C spotted it and yelled, rather high pitched, to KB for a paper towel. I was standing only a few feet from C and as I turned and saw it I was literally paralyzed. KH and X were standing next to me and they turned when he yelled too. So KB hands C a wad of paper towels and C bends down to kill it. As he does this though, he realizes that he “would like a little more than a paper towel” between him and this arachnid tank. So he quickly thrusts his arm up and the tarantula runs toward him. FUCK. I’m still standing there and all I can manage to do is yell, at the top of my lungs, “KILL IT, KILL IT, KILL IT…” You get the point.

KB is now pissed because C jumps out of the way and now the thing is running into his room. So C yells back at KB that he should kill it. So KB picks up a frying pan off the counter and marches into his bedroom. C follows to supervise. X is now saying that we should catch it and let it go. KH is laughing at me, but also encouraging them to kill it. And I’m still standing in the same spot, yelling, “JUST KILL IT, DON’T CATCH IT. JUST KILL IT…JUST KILL IT.”

All I can hear from the bedroom is a lot of yelling and commotion. And that thing is still not fucking dead yet. I can hear the sound of furniture being shifted around and KB and C shuffling all over the place out of fear the thing was going to pop out from under something any second. And then it finally did. And thankfully I had regained movement and moved to the doorway just in time to watch C make a standing jump onto KB’s bed. Frankly, I didn’t know he had those kind of reflexes or athletic capability for that matter, but I suppose giant poison spiders are motivational.

Anyway, not knowing where the thing is, I retreat back into the kitchen. X is still mumbling something about catching it and I want to punch him in the face. There is no part of me at all that feels bad about this thing dying. The sooner the better…and I certainly don’t want it to have another chance to get back in the house and possibly wind up in my room the next time.

Finally, after more yelling, shuffling and furniture moving we hear a loud bang. And then another and then a third. Out walk KB and C, like victorious soldiers coming home from war. It was dead.

Thank God there were only two nights left though, because I couldn’t sleep for shit. Even after getting drunk. I know those things reproduce…who knows how many more could have been lurking.

Below is Pepe, the stray dog we adopted for a couple of days. We fed him and gave him a bath and in return he showed us lots of affection...by humping our couch incessantly.

Jersey Representin’

Here’s another little Tennessee story for you. There’s more, I just needed to take a little break from them…

My friends and I like to take fun vacations. Which I’m sure you’ve already figured out from reading the previous Tennessee blogs. Prior to that trip, we had all spent a week together in Puerto Rico back in the spring. It was a great time and there are plenty of good stories I should write about for you. While there, we discovered that Rincon, PR is some sort of winter hideaway for Jersey slackers. There are hordes of young people that spend their winters in PR surfing and bartending, then, come spring time, they head home to do the same thing back in Jersey. Really not such a bad idea…

Anyway, I figured this trip to Tennessee wouldn’t involve bumping into people from Jersey. I was right…for the most part. We were Jersey free until the night we went to the strip club. We actually met up with them on the way home…in the car.

Yes, I said in the car. We were on our way home from The Mouse’s Ear (I know, I know…it’s ridiculous, but I didn’t name it.) when we discover that we’re a bit lost. But, I suppose that’s what you get when you ask a stripper for directions. Shame on us. So we’re tooling around downtown Knoxville, I think A might have been driving. Or was it G? Of course I have no idea, because I was drunk, in the back seat of my own car staring out the window and reliving the rafter humping in Technicolor.

We wind up stopped at a light in what seemed to be the middle of the U of Tennessee campus, and I’m snapped out of my drunken day dream by some guy frantically waving his hands at me from the car next to us. I roll down the window and with my head still in a fog, he starts rattling off questions about where someplace is. Everyone else in the car is now asking me what he wants. There’s something familiar about this guy, but I couldn't quite place it. I was a little too drunk to notice that he didn’t have a southern accent. In fact, he sounded a lot like me. And he was very animated, talking real fast and waving his hands.

I finally respond to him…

B: Sorry man, we’re from Jersey. And we’re lost. I have no frigin idea what you’re looking for.

Guy: Hey…we’re from Jersey too. Newark. We’re looking for blah blah blah (I can’t remember what he said.)

B: Oh well…good luck.

G: Yeah, well we can’t find it…so you guys wanna buy some ecstasy?

B: Nah man…we’re all wasted. We want to go home and go to bed.

G: Ok. Take it easy.

We all start laughing…of course the guy from Newark that we run into in Tennessee wants to sell us drugs…who wouldn’t this happen to!? And sure enough, as the light changes and we pull away, I look over and see his license plates. I love the Jersey camaraderie though. Just because we’re from the same state and he can’t find the “clients” he’s looking for, we’re automatically ok to offer drugs to. How the hell did he know we didn’t all work together in the DEA or something? I guess we looked delinquent enough…which is a definite possibility after our night.

Perhaps people like that are why the rest of the country hates our entire state. Oh well…fuck ‘em. It’s the greatest place in the world.

Abracadabra

I’ve been taking a little break with the Tennessee stories (there’s a couple more, don’t worry) to tell you about my Sunday night a few weeks ago. I get myself into the damndest situations sometimes.

I was out for “date night” with C and A, we started at the Patio and then we headed to the Ark, of course. X met up with us there and we were all hanging out, having a good time. All was well until I went outside for a cigarette and X’s girlfriend made friends with the some chick bartender from another local bar.

X’s girl and the bartender are chatting about clubs and dancing and the bartender girl, who appeared to be straight, mentioned how she loves to dance at Paradise because the boys won’t bother her. So I say that of course none of the boys will bother her because it’s a gay bar. She starts laughing at me and says something like no shit, implying that of course she knows what kind of bar it is.

She then gets up and walks over to me…and X apparently, is a bit more intuitive than I am because he ushers his girl back into the bar, as if he knew what was going to happen. I’m so oblivious sometimes it’s not even funny. Anyway, bartender girl is now in my face, yanking my hat off and proceeding to make out with me. Ok. Great. Are we done yet, because this isn’t actually kissing, it’s more like she’s eating my face. She’s now telling me how cute I am and I told her that the last time I saw her was on Christmas night when we left the Ark for a little while and went to her bar. I remember because she was dressed like a slutty elf. She thinks it’s hysterical that I was there that night and that I remember her. And then I told her that she’s a lucky charm for me because I hooked up on Christmas too. More hysterics. I’m not really that funny…she’s just that wasted.

I get her to come back inside and as soon as we get in the back door she drags me back outside. Christ. I’ve had enough of her for the moment and I know word of my making out has spread like wildfire through the bar and I would like the chance to defend myself.

I finally got back inside and sure enough, I am the topic of conversation and there’s a lot of pointing and laughing going on. Fuckers. And X comes over to me and says,

X: Isn’t that the bartender from Christmas that you told me you wouldn’t fuck with my dick?

B: Yeah.

X: Ha.

B: Ha your ass. I didn’t fuck her yet. And I’m not planning on it.

And it only gets worse, because bartender girl is pretty relentless. She decides I need a massage. And I keep drinking and am not one to pass on a rub down, so I straddle the stool like she requests. So she slams my head down onto my arms that are folded on the bar and goes fucking crazy. She is kneading on my lower back so hard I can barely take it. And every time I pick my head up she slams it back down and whispers, “Oh baby, you need this. I’ll take care of you.” What the fuck. I finally glance over to my friends and they’re being as supportive as you’d expect. Still laughing and pointing, but now C is taking pictures of this mess on her phone. Thank God she had her camera out, because now bartender girl is taking my shirt off…and sticking her hands in some very inappropriate places. I’ve had enough, so I stand up. She asks me how I liked the massage and I tell her it was just fucking fabulous. She didn’t seem to notice the sarcasm.

As more time passes, I seem to be getting a bit drunker. I finally sneak away from the girl and beg my friends not to let me go home with her. They’re a great bunch. Really.

And after more conversation with her, I find out she has a nine year old kid and she is currently dating a magician. Although the relationship just recently ended. A magician? Are you serious? She’s very serious. And now she wants to know if I’ll give her a ride home. The moral dilemma kicks in. Do I really want to sleep with some drunk ass chick with a kid, who most recently dated a magician? Am I getting too mature for foolish one night stands, because I’d rather be in a relationship? And I’m still kicking myself for screwing up the last one. All of this is racing through my mind when I finally decide what I’m going to do.

And now, the only question that remains is, did I take her home, or did I let her take a cab?

Well, I don’t think that’s any of your damn business!

“What The Hell?”

This morning, my aunt was on her way out early to go to the gym. She couldn’t resist telling this story when she got there…

As she was getting in her car, she noticed one little boy, about 7 or so, standing all by himself at the bus stop on the corner. She was a little confused because there’s usually a whole bunch of them waiting there.

At the same time my aunt saw the kid, so did her neighbor who went over to him. She asked him what he was doing and he told her that he was waiting for the bus. She felt bad and had the following exchange with him:

Neighbor: You know you don’t have school today…right? It’s Rosh Hashanah…the Jewish New Year.

Kid: (Keep in mind he’s only about 7.) What the hell? I was sick yesterday and didn’t know we were off today.

The neighbor laughed and told him he should head home. So off he went…with yet another day off from school.

I had to post this…it’s been cracking me up all day. My mother, being mildly obsessed with school having been a teacher for 33 years, was less than amused. She’s all worried that the kids parents might have been gone when he went back home…and why was he at the bus stop by himself anyway…and how did his mother not know the school schedule? Just get over it…I think it’s cute. What 7 year old says “What the hell?”

He reminds me of me!

You and Your GPS Suck

I’m on my way to work the other day and as usual it was pleasant(you should be reading this and hearing a VERY sarcastic tone.) It’s never fun, trucking back and forth, up and down the turnpike and parkway…surrounded by idiots.

My favorite idiot this week had to be the guy from Maryland in the Dodge Avenger. He tied up people all along the Newark-Bay Extension, also known as the never ending exit 14 on the turnpike that leads you to the Holland Tunnel. There was a fair amount of traffic on the day in question, so it was hard to maneuver…and of course I wind up behind this asshole. Who spends most of his time hitting his breaks because he’s not paying attention to where he’s driving…he’s too busy watching his fucking GPS.

What is wrong with people? Seriously? How the fuck does anybody manage to get anywhere anymore. I understand he’s from Maryland and not familiar with Jersey roads. But, I’ve been to Maryland…AND I DIDN’T NEED A FUCKING COMPUTER TELLING ME WHERE TO TURN. I just don’t get it. He couldn’t just Google the damn directions before he left? Oh…I’m sure he didn’t want to have to keep looking down and reading them off the paper because that would be hazardous. As if him staring at the computer all the way across his windshield wasn’t. I know those stupid things talk…they even come with fancy accents you can switch to. Australian, southern…French fucking whore…why stare at it? You’re screwing everybody else’s day up.

And as far as GPS is concerned…I know they’re not 100% accurate. I’ve been in the car with one that gave me the wrong directions. So there. And from what I hear from my friend Kit, they will drive you off a cliff if you’re not paying attention. So there you go asshole, you keep staring at the stupid thing and it will drive you straight into the Hudson River. Whatever…you’ll be out of my way then.

Corporate Email

As you all know, I work in news at a major television network. You probably have also come to realize that I HATE my job with a level of passion that is probably unhealthy. It reached an all new high last week when the corporate assholes sent out the following email. Some of it has been edited so that you can’t tell what network it is(for example: -B- is the network name, but all three of the major ones have a B in the middle...I'm so tricky!) I know, I know, most of you are already aware of where I work. But, I’m allegedly not allowed to voice my opinions as a representative of said company, so when I post stuff on the internet I’ve got to cover it up. And as much as I’d like to tell them to go fuck off, I do need money and therefore, need this job until I can find a suitable replacement.

Sent: Thursday, September 18, 2008 7:27 PM
Subject: -B- Premiere Week is Here!

-B- has declared Premiere Week to be National Stay at Home Week! So starting on Sunday, if you're not supposed to be working, stay home every night, save gas, and watch your favorite shows on –B-!

The new fall season starts this Sunday at 8pm with (I took the rest of this paragraph out because it was mostly lots of bullshit and a rundown of the weeks shows, which would give away the networks identity.)

This is just the start of the excitement. See below for the full list of premieres coming your way over the next few weeks. For more information or to catch up on your favorite shows before they premiere, go to www.we-are-a-bunch-of-narcissistic-freaks.com (I also changed their website!)

Are they serious with this shit? They sent this to all of their employees. Now I’m boycotting their shows on principle.

Stupid Boys

I was having a bad day last week…nothing that bad, just work crap and some other stupid shit going on had me a little pissy. Or should I say pissier(According to my spell check, pissier is not a word. Fuck them.)than usual.

So I’m sitting at one of the bar tables at The Ark and I don’t really have a whole lot to say. K asks me what’s wrong so I told him I was in a bad mood. This is what he had to say…

K: Do you have your period?

B: No

I love it when boys seem to think that just because a girl is in a bad mood that we automatically must have our period. I’m speaking from experience when I say that ALL girls are genetically CRAZY. And we have bouts of bitchiness/craziness and bad moods all four weeks of the month. These moods are just enhanced during our “special week.” Don’t get me wrong…I wasn’t mad at him for asking me that. In fact, I was amused. But that wasn’t even the icing on the cake…

K: Do lesbians even get their period? (And then he starts giggling like a 15 year old boy.)

B: (shooting him my signature “you’re an asshole” look) Of course we do. Just because I like girls doesn’t make me not be a girl anymore. Idiot.

K: (still giggling) Ya never know!

At this point I shook my head and got up from the table. As I walked by him on my way to the bar to get another drink I slapped him upside his head. He continues to giggle…such an ass sometimes. But now I was laughing too...so much for that bad mood!

Helloooo Stutter

So I’m at The Ark the other night, a nice quiet weekday night. There’s not a whole lot going on as X and D are on their way out the back door to smoke a cigarette. I told them I’d meet them out there after I went to the bathroom.

In the girls room I go and I’m just about done and I hear the door open. And somebody with noisy high heels had entered. I didn’t really think anything of it. That was, until I opened up the stall door and saw a SUPER-HOT model looking girl standing there. Trendy hair, trendy clothes. The whole nine yards. She smiled at me and I instantly kicked into retard mode…

Model: Hi

B: Uh..uh...uh...yeah..uh..uh..hey.

She just laughed and went into the stall. I exited the bathroom embarrassed at how uncool I am sometimes with girls. I don’t understand what happens to me. My normally charming, irresistible persona transforms into this blubbering idiot. Fuck. I’m cute, but I’m not that hot and I need my charm and wit at or very near 100% with the girls. It’s crucial.

I headed over to the bar to ask K who she was. He had no idea, but had also noticed just how hot she was. And then made some dirty comment about her and I in the bathroom. If he only knew what really went on. K said she came in the back door, so this is perfect. I was headed out there to smoke a cigarette with D and X anyway. Out I go and ask them if they saw the girl. X didn’t think she was that cute and she was too skinny for him. D said she didn’t think she was that cute either…but I’m thinking she might have been a little jealous. Sorry D!

Anyway, out comes hot girl. She opens the back door and walks out to a very awkward silence. She sashays over to the car that was waiting for her, turning The Ark parking lot into a catwalk (which is no easy feat). She knew she was getting checked out and just as she was about to get in the car she turned back to us, smiled and said,

M: Thanks for the silence.

All I managed to do was wave. D and X were cracking up.

The Muffin Man

I had heard R talk about the so-called “Muffin Man” quite a few times. R, having been on the overnight shift for a while got to know the MM pretty well, considering MM had been banished to the overnight shift years ago. And I’m guessing the banishment was due to his social ineptness and thievery. Yeah…he likes to steal stuff. Nothing important like your wallet…usually just food, coffee, office supplies…things like that.

My first meeting with the MM didn’t go so good. Mostly because I didn’t know who he was until after the fact and I didn’t realize I was supposed to look busy and not make eye contact. Thanks everybody…for the warning.

He comes walking into my office and instantly eyes me up. Not knowing who he is, I just stare right back at him and stand my ground. This is when I should have noticed that my boss and one of my other coworkers were huddled in the corner of the room pretending to work…when in fact, they were really just laughing at me. So MM, after a few seconds, finally says:

MM: You must be on the softball team here.

B: (Is this some sort of lesbo call out? So I get my ghetto head shake on and say) What are you trying to say?

MM: (As he is rifling through our medicine cabinet to steal shit)You look like you’d be a good softball player. I think you should be on the company team.

B: (completely confused by the entire situation) I didn’t even know they had one.

Now MM gets into a full blown conversation about the art of being a good softball team and the privilege of playing for the company. Like I give a flying shit about doing anything extracurricular for this company. Even if there is a chance I might meet other “softball players” there.

He has now walked away from the front of my desk and after he has stolen enough of our band aids and generic Aspirin. He walks around to the side now and he is STILL babbling nonsense to me. He makes absolutely no sense and you actually start to think you might be crazy or drugged or something because you can’t understand him. I’m so freaked out by him at this point that I send an email to my coworkers for a little help getting him away from me. F*ckers…more giggling from the other side of the room.

MM finally stops talking because he’s now rooting through all our stuff on the table next to our desks where the coffee pot is. I assume he’s looking for food. There was none there so he waves to me and makes his way out of the office. Now my coworkers are cracking up. I thank them oh so graciously for all the help getting him away from me. And then they ask me what he stole. I told them I didn’t think he stole anything. My boss points to the table with the coffee pot and asks me what’s missing.

That prick stole our antibacterial hand sanitizer. What the F is wrong with him?

Now I know you’re all going to ask why he’s called the Muffin Man. Well…I have no idea. I’ll have to check with R. Or perhaps he’ll comment with the explanation…

Remember

I’m sure he’s watching over you from Heaven.

I had the opportunity to work on the televised memorial for 9/11 in 2004 and it was the saddest experience of my life. The above statement is for a little boy I saw there. He was walking into the ceremony with his mom, clutching a flag and wearing his dad’s fireman’s hat. The image of him entering and being patted on the head by all the police will be burned in my mind forever.

My blogs are usually lighthearted and entertaining. Sometimes even a little crazy. But today I ask you to take a moment and say a prayer for that little boy…and for all of the victims and their families. Also, if you could take another moment and say a prayer for the men and women in the military who are serving our country.

Conspiracy theories and political and religious views aside, they all deserve it.

Thank you.

Outblasted

I was going to post a blog today involving road rage and Crazy Nanny because I don’t have a crystal ball and didn’t know I would have any driving altercations today. But, alas, I did. It wasn’t so much an altercation as it was me being completely annoyed by a little man and his rap music…

So anyway, I had just come out of the Lincoln Tunnel and pulled up to 42nd Street. I was at the red light at the corner of 10th Avenue, trying to make the right to head up to the Hell like office that I call work. I was relaxed, smoking a cigarette and listening to my music. I’m cringing as I’m about to write this, but yes, it was country. In fact it was Brad Paisley. I heart him. It was “Waitin’ on a Woman.” It’s no “Mud on the Tires” but it’ll do.

All is well until this diminutive little man pulls up next to me in his little car. And he is blasting the shit out of his TERRIBLE rap music. Honestly, the song was shit. The worst part about this was that I could no longer hear my music. So I turn it up a little bit, but I still can’t hear it that good due to Rap Master Dickhead.

Now I’m pissed. I wanna hear this song and I wanna hear it now. Uninterrupted. I’ve reached the last straw. Game on little man, game on. And I proceed to turn my radio up. Way up. And I outplayed his ass. So there. If any of you guys reading this happened to be in the vicinity of 42nd Street and 10th Avenue around 3pm today…and heard the dueling radios…it was me. And I won.

The lesson to be learned here, little man, is:

1. Nobody thinks your cool because you play your music that obscenely loud.
2. Nobody wanted to hear that TERRIBLE song you were playing.

And most importantly…

3. When you mess with me, and apparently Brad Paisley, you will lose.

Stop F*cking Beeping

To the guy who was beeping at me incessantly on 69th street…

You are an asshole. I saw the green light. And I also saw the two people who were walking in front of my car. They seemed nice so I decided I wouldn’t run them over today. By the way, the light had only been green for a millisecond, there was no need to frantically beep like that…

In fact, you were one more honk away from getting one of my golf clubs through the windshield of your ugly ass blue Ford Taurus. I swear…I was gonna go all Jack Nicholson on you. My golf bag is in the back of my truck.

Also, to the guy who parks his motorcycle lengthwise on 70th street and takes up an entire spot…you are also an asshole. It’s crap that you do this and I know other people who are annoyed by you too.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

Baby Got Back

Here’s another little anecdote from our time at The Mouse’s Ear. You had to know the strip club was good for at least two stories!

Anyway…we had just settled in at our table, just before the trashy girl came over and X bought a table dance from her. I happened to look across the room to see at one of the dancers that was up on one of the single stages. And I noticed a bit of a resemblance. She kind of looked like me. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Aww…B, you have a cute face but shit…who’s gonna pay you to take off your clothes. And I’m sure you think that the stripper was a skinny version of me…but she wasn’t. She was the same size. I know…I was just as shocked as you are.

As soon as I saw her and was able to absorb the fact that somebody with the same build as me (I guess you could call me chubby, considering my ex-girlfriend was, what she liked to call, a “chubby chaser.”) I leaned over to K to point the girl out. K was surprised too. Then we talked about how we felt bad for her, because nobody seemed to be overly generous when it came to tipping her. We decided that when she came by our table we would buy a dance from her, because as a chubby girl, I have to help other chubby girls out. When she was done with her stage dance, she started going from table to table on the other side of the room. And again, nobody bought a dance from her…she got maybe a dollar, here and there. Nothing substantial. I kept wondering why this poor girl works here. Seriously, at what point do you not just quit and go get a job at Sonic?

Well, of course we managed to get sidetracked with the rafter humping dance and chubby girl had went past our table and we missed her. Trust me, if you saw the table dance we were getting, you would have missed her too. Once things had settled down from that dance and Amethyst put her clothes back on, I turned to see where chubby had danced off to…and that’s when I spotted her…giving a dance to a bunch of people.

And that’s when I realized why it is that Chubby continues to strip. Now I don’t want anybody saying I’m a bigot and a racist and all that crap, but it is fairly common for black men to enjoy girls with a little meat on their bones. I speak from experience here, because if I got hit on by as many girls as I did black guys, I’d be the happiest lesbian around. That being said, I think it’s a safe bet that Chubby, my stripper twin, must also get hit on by a lot of black men. And she probably makes some decent cash from the black guys that frequent The Mouse’s ear. Actually, you can bet your ass she does.

So there’s Chubby, in all her glory, shaking it like a champ for this table…that just so happened to be mostly black guys. The only other people at the table were the guys girlfriends, who happened to be white and, of course, a little thick. And when Chubby finished that dance, they gave her more money and she started dancing again. And then they had her sit down with them and they gave her more money. I turned around a little later and she was dancing for them again. These guys were throwing money at her hand over fist. I’m willing to bet she made more money than Amethyst. And Amethyst can hump rafters. I swear...if this was in a movie, you would definitely hear, "I like big butts and I can not lie."

So I stopped feeling so bad for Chubby after that. In fact, I didn’t see her for the rest of the night because she was a little tied up in the back of the club. Not tied up literally, like with ropes or anything. It was just that the table of black guys was so enamored with her she didn’t have to go selling herself anywhere else like the rest of the girls.

The whole experience got me thinking…I do really HATE my job and I’m really into country music lately…perhaps I could move to Tennessee and become a stripper?

Abso-fucking-lutely NOT.