So now I’m back to sitting in a ratty chair all day while getting paid to surf the internet, pick at my skin, stare at the walls, deny creepy friend requests, &/or shit my braincells away playing Tetris. Oh, and I forgot my lunch. Worst thing ever. I’m so hungry right now, my hair looks appetizing. Five more hours. Lucky for me it’s raining dumps outside so the odds that there will be hundreds of pile-ups on the road going home are fucking incredible - which means I will most likely be stuck in traffic for an hour and a half while everyone else stops to stare at the accidents because they’re stupid assholes. People who act like they’ve never seen a car wreck before should be forced to die from one first hand. Personally, I could care less about disasters on the road. It could be a flipped-over bus full of children w/severed necks, and the Apocalypse would come before I slowed down for that shit. C-ya in hell, kiddos.

I sort of hate my life right now. I don’t want to go back to school, I don’t want to work, and I don’t want to pee anymore because I’ve already gone like 15 times this morning. Basically, I have no motivation to do anything. It could always be worse, though. Hell, I could be Lindsey Lohan. Normally I hate talking about celebrities b/c it pisses me off to think about how much money I could make in exchange for my soul, but her life is so fucked it’s funny. Her own father just went to the tabloids with news that she’s currently dating another chick. Anyone else smell a publicity cunt?

I’ve been told by many people that I’m too negative. I guess that would explain why Eeyore was always my favorite Winnie the Pooh character. I just couldn’t relate to any of the others. Pooh was too stupid, Tigger was too hyped up on crack, Piglet was too pussy, and Rabbit was a hermaphrodite. Eeyore was by far the bad ass of the bunch. His house was a pile of sticks, so of course he had to deal with shit falling apart all the time. & How many other people come from broken homes? All of them. Therefore, he’s the most relatable. If you don’t agree, you can suck Pooh

I have jokes.

All I wanted to do during my lunch break this afternoon was watch the new episode of South Park via Youtube. Bad idea. Every time I thought I found the right video, it would turn out to be Rick Astley’s nerd ass trying to dance and look gay in a giant trench coat. For those who don’t know, this is called getting “rick rolled.” If you’re familiar with the prank, then be sure to thank all the cyber athletes out there who cream themselves each time it happens. Otherwise, consider yourself lucky. It’s shit like this that would revolutionize the planet if it were half as useful as it is totally fucking annoying.

Needless to say, I spent the majority of my lunch break getting rick rolled, only to end up catching a third of the actual South Park episode. I was pissed. On a side note, who knew watching white people dance in the 80s could be so vomit inducing? Oh, that’s right - everyone. Thanks for wasting my oxygen, you fuck ups. I hope giant piles of shit fall from the sky and land directly on your heads, snapping your necks and fumigating your souls.

Here’s a quick question. How the fuck am I supposed to read this?:

I was trying to get tickets online for the Taste of Chaos concert and that second word is bloody impossible. PS, I’d like to apologize to the millions of people reading my blog for not updating in nearly a month. I wish I could say there were some excuse, but there isn’t. Truth be told, I spend 8 hours a day on the computer at work and have time to blog whenever I please. I’m just lazy as shit.

That being said, here’s what’s been going on: Saw Daniel Tosh at the House of Blues, got a new car, and reaffirmed the notion that I’m probably an alcoholic. Some people seem to think that it’s possible to have a good time without drinking. Clearly I’m not one of them. Truth is, if I’m going somewhere that involves mass amounts of people, odds are there will be mass amounts of douche bags - law of probability. Therefore, the only way I can have fun in an environment like that is if I’m completely inebriated. Unfortunately, this only works in your typical bar/dance club where the use of brain cells is prohibited anyway. When you’re at a comedy club, however, you actually have to sit there and process jokes (unless Dane Cook is involved, in which case you only have to be cognizant enough to recognize fart noises and hand gestures).

By the time we got to the House of Blues, I already had half a bottle of wine. Then we had to wait in line outside for over an hour, which prompted me to drink some more. At one point, I was so drunk I actually opted to stop drinking - a first for me. Probably because my face became numb and my brain felt like I just had a Lobotomy. If you’ve ever seen that movie where the guy’s awake during surgery, my disposition was pretty much the exact opposite of that - awake on the outside / Meow mix commercial on the in. Basically, I was half retarded.

So I’m sitting in the second row, half retarded, and Mr. Red is the opening act. For those who don’t know who Mr. Red is, neither do I. Let’s just say his performance was a blur. Then the almighty Daniel Tosh hit the stage. Aside from the fact that I pray to him each night before going to bed, I really really really just wanna bone the guy. He’s tall, brilliant, and utterly hilarious - a dying breed. Sadly for me, I’m pretty sure he’s gay. Don’t ask how I know, I just do. Basically it involves a psychological test I perform on all good-looking men. I flash them my tits, tell them I’m drunk, and note their reaction. Joking, but seriously.

After the show I had to piss like no other. So I book it to the bathroom and there’s a line of drunk bitches extending down the hall. By this point, I could actually feel my hangover start to kick in. After about 3 hours, I finally reached the front of the line when this ugly chick with bad breath turns around and starts yelling at the girl behind me. She wouldn’t stop so I grabbed her by the necklace, shoved a Tic Tac down her throat, and told her to shut the fuck up before I slit her neck. The look of fear in her eyes caused me to start laughing hysterically. Finally I told her she’d just been Punk’d.

Moral of the story: You might not have to drink if you’re about to see Daniel Tosh. He doesn’t suck.

“Real women have curves.” No, real women have vaginas. Curves have nothing to do with it, so shut the fuck up already. That phrase is nothing more than a cop out fat women use to make themselves feel better about being fat. FYI, rolls do not equate with curves. But since some still can’t seem to make the distinction, here’s a visual comparison I created for good measure:

Notice the difference. Anyway, if real women truly do have curves, then what does that make Keira Knightley? Scratch that. Keira Knightley hit menopause years ago and is, therefore, no longer a woman:

As we all know, once a woman’s reached menopause, her existence is no longer relevant. Now before a bunch of angry chicks start sending me hate mail, just know that we’ve got the better end of the deal. A man’s existence can become irrelevant at any point in his life, depending on the size of two things: One is his wallet and the other, I should think, is pretty obvious.

I’m also sick and fucking tired of those stupid Dove campaigns. “Real women have real bodies with real curves.” Fuck Dove. Not only are they discriminating against thinner women, they’re discriminating against women with cosmetically enhanced curves. Last I checked, everyone loved a good tit job. But no, not Dove. According to them, you’re not “real” unless you look like this:

Well, if that’s what it takes to be real, then count me the fuck out. I don’t plan on letting myself go until long after I’ve secured myself a bankable husband. After that, whatever. I’ll kick it with the Dove girls. By that point in my life, I’ll be drinking too many cocktails to notice anyway. Puking up my food will become inevitable and so, too, will my ability to stay thin. If you ask me, you’re not a real woman unless you’re drunk and perfectly fit 24/7. Moral of the story.

I was watching that Sweet 16 show on MTV during my lunch break this afternoon, and at one point I actually wished someone dead. Watching a 16-year-old spend thousands of dollars celebrating a day that should have never occurred in the first place is like gargling battery acid, minus the pleasant taste. Every so often, however, it serves as a useful reminder that the more money a kid has, the more likely they are to be fucked up in the head. Take this one girl, for example, who made her boyfriend compete with a better looking guy for the “opportunity” to escort her at her birthday party. The competition included bowling, arm wrestling, and some other lame shit. Who won? Her boyfriend. Who did she choose as her date? The other guy. As if that weren’t twisted enough, the boyfriend actually said he was “OK” with it. Apparently, birthday girl ate his balls for lunch because that bitch was so fat, dumping her ass should’ve been a slice. Instead, he spent the rest of the night watching as his girlfriend danced w/another guy. Pathetic would be an understatement.

Something else I found amusing was this chick’s desire to have her 6-door hummer bulletproofed. Needless to say, the price for a job like that costs more money than the average house. And we wonder why billions of people around the world hate Americans. No worries, though - I’m sure Ethiopians would be interested to know that one of her other requests was to have a vending machine installed in the trunk so she can get fat to and from restaurants. Of course if it were me, I’d just put a whole fucking shopping mall in the car. That way it would take up the entire road and piss everyone off. If anyone fucked with me, I’d unleash a pack of wolves on their ass. Yes, in my car there would even be a forest. Fuzzy dice would be hanging from the trees. & If cops didn’t like it, they’d have to take it up with my driver who also happens to work for the mafia. Shit, that’s the kind of sweet 16 I’d like to see.

This afternoon the bf and I got in an argument over the radio - one of our favorite past times. He has this thing for The Russ Martin Show, and I have this thing for music. Needless to say we were having issues over which station to play.

Like most radio personalities, Russ Martin has one of the most annoying voices ever. When I hear him talk, I picture a man who, at fifty years old, still likes to belch the alphabet; with a beer in one hand and his balls in the other. Personally, I wouldn’t be surprised if the guy wears his own fart for cologne. Probably calls it “Eau de Russ” or some shit. Anyway, there are few people whose voice I can stand, and his is not one of them.

So despite the fact that I had just gotten off work and the last thing I wanted to hear was a crappy talk show, I decided to be gracious and let my boyfriend win. As a result, the rest of the way home was spent listening to Russ give a commentary on how, past a certain age, vaginas begin to look like pug dogs. Let’s just say the best part was when they broke to commercial. Yes, it was that riveting.

Why does this guy even have a show? Oh, right. Because this is Texas, the capital of white trash and the breeding ground for his target audience. When he and his crew aren’t giggling at fart jokes, the rest of the time is spent listening to half-baked callers try to form coherent sentences. Congratulations Martin, you argue with rednecks.

Russ, if you’re reading this: You aren’t funny and you’re nearing an age where pugs are the highest quality bitch you can bag. Stick to the charity work, and leave the rest to Howard Stern.

There’s this new guy at work and I already hate him. He smells like crap, says “howdy” instead of hello, smokes at least 46 times a day, and whistles everywhere he fucking goes. People who whistle should have their tongues removed. People who whistle at work should just die. But since the universe doesn’t work that way, fuck the universe.

It’s not just his appearance or the way he smells that’s the problem. He’s also a former cop who drives a pick up and wears cowboy boots to the office. If that doesn’t spell redneck, then you suck at letters. What’s worse is how he always calls me “young lady.” Granted I’m at least 30 years younger than him, I’d appreciate being treated as more of an equal. Then again, I imagine the concept of professionalism isn’t something that occurs very often to a guy who lives off barley and steak burgers.

To top it off, this good ol’ boy is my new superior. Fortunately, if I ever need his help with something, the chances of finding him are dick to none. That’s because every 15 minutes, he’s outside working for Marlboro.

If there’s one thing that stays consistent throughout life, it’s the fact that no matter what there will always be at least one asshole wherever you work.

The hell is up with parents taking their kids to R-rated movies after 10pm? There’s a reason people go to the theater that late, and it isn’t for the jacked up ticket prices - it’s to avoid children.

A couple years ago, some friends and I decided to see the worst movie ever, The Hills Have Eyes. We went to a midnight showing, and about halfway through the film this little girl, no more than 5 years old, started to sing. Naturally, her mother wasn’t doing shit about it. Instead, the woman just sat there smiling like a tard. First of all, anyone who can manage to smile through a movie like that is deranged. Secondly, anyone who brings their kid to a movie like that is deranged. Girls were raped by disgusting mutants, guns were pointed at babies’ heads, and a man was burned alive in front of his family. Meanwhile, little miss sunshine across the isle is engaged in a song and dance.

Of course, this wasn’t the only bad experience I’ve had with kids in a theater. Just recently the bf and I saw Cloverfield at the local Tavern (see my review on that movie here) - again, another late night showing. Before the previews started, a group of school-aged children walked in accompanied by two adults. One can imagine how that conversation went down:

“Just remember kids, people much older than you threw up watching this movie. Anyone want a giant bucket of popcorn before it starts?“

People like this actually breed. Keep it Pro-Choice, guys.

Someone should invent a dog silencer for children - one that doesn’t involve bullets and therefore wouldn’t be illegal. Then movie theaters everywhere could sell them right next to the candy. Of course, they should be limited only to people of a certain age. These “kiddie silencers,” as I like to call them, would become the hottest new form of discipline. See a kid walking into your theater? Shock their ass. Odds are, you did the right thing.

• Problem: Fat guy videotaping everything. Very unrealistic. In real life, people would’ve been too busy shitting their pants.
  Solution: Let Godzilla do the recording. Strap a camcorder around its neck Blair Witch style, and we’re good to go.
• Problem: A group of friends risk their lives for some ugly chick. Also not realistic.
  Solution: A group of friends risk their lives for Kate Beckinsale; ugly chick gets left for dead. Much better.
• Problem: Black chicks in the back of the theater won’t shut the fuck up.
  Solution: Black chicks in the back of the theater get eaten alive by giant spiders.
• Problem: No explanation as to what the monster was.
  Solution: Monster revealed as spawn of Oprah Winfrey.
• Problem: Couldn’t figure out whether I was watching a love story or a horror flick.
  Solution: Combine the two genres by having the monster fall in love with the leading lady. Oops, nevermind. Apparently, that’s been done. Then again, so has everything else.
• Problem: Hardly any children died.
  Solution: I wanna see every child in that God damn city die a slow and painful death. If the monster gets full, he should use the surviving kids as toothpicks.
• Problem: A lot of people think Cloverfield sucks. Some even say it’s the worst movie of ‘08.
  Solution: Those people should see Meet the Spartans.

This morning I decided to have breakfast courtesy of the local convenient store. As usual, I opted for a Hershey’s with almonds, a/k/a the best candy bar ever. However, there seemed to be something different about the wrapper this time. Just above the Hershey’s logo was a sign which read, “Check out Brad Paisley’s Bonfires & Amplifiers Tour 2007.” Since this is 2008, my first reaction was “Gee, I wonder how old this chocolate is.” Then I continued to read the rest which said, “Get s’mor [some more, get it?] access & WIN a spot as a crew member for Brad Paisley.” Yeah, I’d rather win a trip to Darfur.

Since the majority of his fans are either gay or 16 years old, I’m willing to bet the only other people who’d want to win this prize are illegal aliens. Think about it. A convenient store in the middle of Texas selling 99¢ candy bars with the opportunity to win one of the shittiest jobs in music. As if free labor weren’t bad enough, now they’re throwing Brad Paisley into the mix. Nice job, Hershey’s. What’s next? Enter to win a competing spot in one of Michael Vick’s dog shows? Talk about worst prize ever. I’d boycott their chocolate, but that would be like protesting air. Unfortunately, I can’t live without either.