MAYO!

-- County, USA—The Annual Mayonnaise Festival happens every year, but for some, this gathering of Mayo Aficionados is a brand new, and big, deal.

Held in the height of summer for one week, mayonnaise makers, eaters and friends set up shop on the east block of High Street and have a grand old time. One booth, run by some of the original participants since 1978, Bertha and George Mason’s We Love Mayo!  draws large crowds year after year. They offer homemade classic flavored mayo, but they also put some twists on old classics.

“We cure one line of our mayo with red chili peppers for about 6 months,” says Bertha, 79, of –County. “Folks our age can’t eat it, what with digestive problems and whatnot,” she continues, “but that doesn’t stop ‘em from trying,” she says with a wink, and nodding to the near by Port-o-Let.

Just down a way from the Mason’s classic booth is the newest addition to the festival: Hot Mayo.  “It’s our way of telling the world how new and hip this festival really is!” Missy Smith quips. Smith, 29, is the newest appointee in a long line of Public Relations administrators for –County. “We want the MTV Generation to come on down and be able to enjoy themselves along side their grandparents.”

Hot Mayo features two main attractions, not so much selling mayo per se, but selling an image the tiny host town is trying to renovate. The first is a large, clear vat of mayonnaise outfitted with a dunk chair on which local high school cheerleaders perch, waiting for the chair to drop them into the melting goo. Contestants line up and throw baseballs at a bull’s eye lever. “We’ve noticed we get a broader demographic with this one than with the kiddies’ pool filled with warm mayonnaise,” Smith muses. Smith doubles as the high school’s cheerleading coach. “The prospect of throwing something at a pretty girl seems to hit home with the other girls from school who might be jealous of them,” Smith goes on.

On the whole, Hot Mayo draws the largest crowd, using a pass-the-hat method to raise money for the cheerleading department. The kiddie pool, indeed, did keep audiences’ attention much longer: young girls in bikinis rolling around in the yellowing glop makes people want to drop their dollars.

“Overall, this looks like it’s gonna be a good year,” Bertha Mason surmises, looking into the setting sun on opening day. Silhouetted against the sunset, the ever growing line of elderly people for the Port-o-Let brings a smile to Bertha’s face. “It’s only going up from here!”

So This One Time, At the Mall…

This past weekend, the S.O. and I went ring shopping (squee!!). You know how malls are all packed to the gills with crap you don't need, and like, 12 million jewelry stores? Well, this one was no exception. We popped into the first jewelry store we saw. Jewelry salespeople are like vultures: they see the innocent carrion and they hover and circle until their pray makes eye contact.

We were in the store for about 20 seconds and BLAM! Weasel-Stalker-Guy pounced. He was one of those skinny, pale, greasy guys who thought his quasi-Hitler mustache was attractive. 

OK, now I understand that salespeople work on commission, and I understand that you have to be persuasive and forceful in order to make a sale. But there is an invisible line that must not be crossed, no matter how badly you want a sale. I'm talking about Mall Stalking. 

Its one thing to be weasel-y and pushy. It's quite another to become a weasel-y and pushy stalker. 

The S.O. and I decided we didn't like this jewelry store's offerings, we said we were still looking, and moved on. Weasel-Stalker-Guy followed.

To EVERY. SINGLE. STORE. 

I only wish I was joking. I didn't notice until the S.O. pointed it out, 3 stores in. 

S.O.: "That salesguy is following us."    

Me: "Who?" 

S.O.: "The guy from the first store. He's, like, followed us to every jewelry store."

Me: "No way! I don't even remember what he looks like." 

I turned and looked back to the store we'd just left and sure enough, that smarmy fuck oozed his way around the corner, glanced at us, and preceded to chat up the salesguy we'd just left. WTF. Who does that?! Why us?! Does anyone else have problems with similar Weasel-Stalker-Guys?! Seriously!!

I start panicking and acting sketchy myself, thinking I did something wrong and Weasel-Stalker-Guy is going around warning the other jewelry salespeople that my S.O. and me are horrible people who like fucking with salespeople. And we don't buy. If he was trying to convince us to go back to his store and buy his crappy stuff, he was going about it the wrong way. 

So I'm panicking, and looking behind me at the Weasel-Stalker-Guy and he catches me looking at him, and looks guilty. The S.O. is gallantly going ahead with looking at rings, I'm freaking out because we have a fucking Weasel-Stalker-Guy in a MALL and I have to pee. Just great.

It was at that moment I took out my level 264 staff with +788 spellpower and beat Weasel-Stalker-Guy to death in the middle of the mall. 

I just lied again. 

It was only +600 to spellpower. 

Whatever. 

Sue me.

My Creepy Poem

I decided I'm going to be Bubba from Forrest Gump. Everyone needs a friend with a shrimp fetish.

i see my shrimp fetish has made you distant and cold towards me.

well if that's how you're going to be about it, i'm going to send you buckets of shrimp to your house.

and leave shrimp poop on your pillows

and give you shrimp AIDS!

you know how dirty those fucking prawns are

PRAWN SEX

lolololololol

i'm amused

fukkin loooooooooooool

Brian Peppers Time!

http://encyclopediadramatica.com/Brian_Peppers

HIGHLY amused

i don't need you

or your speed

what, what?

did someone say speed?!

i mean

crank

er

...

rat poison?

lolol

are you off diddling Brian Peppers?

If so, type 1

If not, type "I love bleu cheese made from vagina yeast"

Jesus hates prawns

Jesus hates prawns time a million.

Reasons why I am like the Loch Ness Monster, Bigfoot and the Chupacabra: Now with more mange!

1.       When I swim in a lake and poke my head up, I, too, look like a mysterious maybe branch / maybe long neck of a plesiosaur!!

2.       I’ve been known to drain sheep and goats of their blood. 

3.       I’m a legendary creature that people only see in shadows and hear screeching at the moon on the hottest days of the summer... a trait also native to "The Predator"; we are often mistaken for each other which can get pretty awkward when planning your wedding and you accidentally put the chupacabra next to all of The Predator's goat friends.

4.       Photos of me show the extent of my mange, which I’m working on getting rid of as the S.O. doesn’t find it attractive. Also, it draws in flies. 

5.       Bigfoot likes fruit loops. So do I. 

6.       Tourists come from far and wide to catch a glimpse and perhaps a snapshot of me. And should they succeed, I’d maul them. 

7.       I don’t eat. I FUCKING FEED ON ANIMALS. 

8.       When I get on T.V., its grainy footage with me getting my newspaper in the morning, so I’m walking all fucked up and shit because I just woke up, and when I see people filming me, I get all spooked because I’m still HALF ASLEEP and run away. 

9.       I went to Nessie’s birthday party. Shit’s getting ooooold. 

10.   The name of my house is “Ape Canyon.” Srs.

Clouds are tricky, or people are liars

We know those fucking people. You know the ones who look up at the clouds and say "Oh, I see a cute wee bunny!" And when you go to look, you don't see anything. Just a bunch of fluff, but, like, you totally don't want to sound like a moron, so you kinda go "Oohhh, yeah…." And then you feel like an asshole because you lied about seeing a crappy bunny and then it dawns on you that your friend could potentially be high and/or on meth but then you go back to feeling like a moron because you really wanted to see a cute wee bunny. Smells like fail.

Either the clouds are fucking with you and want you to think you're retarded, or, people are liars. I'm thinking both. 

Those communist clouds up there. All like, happy and shit. And when one cloud gets too big the whole sky turns gray. And you just know they put up that screen so we can't see what the other smaller clouds do to that one big one; and then the skies clear and… no more big cloud. Cannibalistic commie mother fuckers. 

That's all you are getting today. I'm cranky-pants, and I'm going to stop writing before I call you all Sex Pickles. Muno = Sex Pickle. Why this would be on a children's show about LCD is beyond me. 

Signs you’re a Whore

I have decided that my last post about my cat was me cheating. I lied to you all. I'm only 4 days into this thing and I'm already lying to you. How can I expect to ever break out of my writer's constipation if I'm lying and cheating? What the fuck is wrong with me? Like, seriously. It's like lying to a therapist. It's like lying to Jesus that Santa Claus stole your cookies on the eve of his birth and expecting Jesus to take your side over that of a fat carnivorous man in a red suit.

When I told the S.O. about the topic of this blog, his eagerness to help out was almost alarming. His enthusiasm for some things makes me think on some occasions that he is most likely an alien. Like, pigeons. Pigeons are totally aliens. Have YOU ever seen a pigeon nest??? I rest my case. Anyway, the S.O. helped out with this, because he rules so hard (as opposed to soft? O.o)

1. You say stupid, incoherent, grammatically incorrect things like, "I got spider-bit in my pant area," and other classics. 

   
   
   
2. You get Christmas and/or Thank You cards from the local high school varsity football team.
   
   
   
   
   
   
3. People call you by different names.
   
   
   
   
   
    
4. You're often mistaken for Amy Winehouse.
   
   
   
   
   
5. 
   
   You bathe in public fountains.
   
   
   
   
6. 
   
   You have a shopping cart. It's named Bruce.
   
   
   
   
   
    
   
7. When you wake up (where-ever you are) there is loose coinage sprinkled around you. Also, feeling like P-Diddy.
   
   
   
8. You know the doctor at your free clinic on a first-name basis.
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
9. 
   
   You insist upon wearing garish red clown-lipstick everywhere you go.
   
   
   
10. Your arm-pit hair is in cornrows because "people are kinky like that."

    

Pharrah: The Life and Times of a Housecat

I’ve had cats my entire life. My first cat I got when I was four or five years old, and it was love/cat torture at first squeeze. I carried her around by one arm, tied strings around her neck and took her for walks, which she vehemently protested, and dressed her in my best doll clothes. I agonized for days, nay, for weeks over the best cat-name EVAR. Rainbow Brite Princess was a huge contender, so was Fairy Princess Rainbow. The more “rainbows” and “princesses” I could cram in there, the better. I couldn’t make up my mind; I mean, she would have to live with this name for the rest of her little kitty life!!! So I went with:

Klammy. 

Fast forward to present day. I’ve had one cat since Klammy died, Ophelia, who had a thing with water and a major case of autism. I added Pharrah to the collection after I stole her from my little sister. In her kittenhood, Pharrah was youthful and spritely. She’s about 3 right now, and some things have changed. Drastically.

Like her weight. Here she is, delighting in her fatness. 

Awhile back there was a slight panic in San Francisco because the seals that visit Pier 39 disappeared. Well, I know where one of them went. Jesus, she is SO FAT. 

Pharrah is an emotional eater. When she’s happy because I’ve come home, she eats. When she’s pissed off and wants to barf all over me for abandoning her for a weekend, she eats. When you touch her, she runs to her food bowl and gorges herself so long as you are there to watch her. 

She also ate all her cat grass and cat nip I lovingly planted for her. I took time and money to make sure she didn’t feel left out when I had a wee garden and planted her fucking cat grass and how am I repaid?? By little cat grass carcasses strewn about my room, carelessly tossed aside when they no longer provided a struggle to live. 

Pharrah then barfed them up. Everywhere. Fucking fail.

She also exhibited some signs of Stockholm syndrome when she had fleas. It was creepy.

Here she is being fat and seal-like.

What a fatty. I’m sure me calling her fat doesn’t do much for her eating disorder. Mommy’s not perfect, sweetheart. 

She talks when I pet her. I like to pet her. That’s a lie. I don’t pet her. I don’t know why I said that. She would just as soon as barf in my sock and let me find it at 6 am when I’m groggily getting ready for the gym than let me touch her in a loving manner. Ingrate.

I’ve Got Worms, and Reasons Why I am a Certified Lunatic

Childhood is a delicate time in every person’s life. Dreams can be made or destroyed, people and places indelibly imprinted on the mind, to serve as either fond memories or warnings of past doom.

As Easter was Sunday, I’d like to regale you of an episode from my childhood.

I grew up in suburban San Jose, in a crappy neighborhood spackled over with a nice name called Almaden Valley. And while it was a suburban area, wildlife was rampant (I mean, we heard Raccoon Sex, for crying out loud. Did you know they do it in trees?! How’d you like to be camping in your backyard only to be woken from horrible snarling monster noises coming from above you and be too terrified to even piss yourself, much less try to go back to sleep…)

 

I digress.

Our first Easter out of Orange County was different than usual. We had a backyard full of shrubbery which to hide eggs, as opposed to flat grass and a pathetic lemon tree. Step-Mother was delighted with the endless possibilities of outsmarting her small step-children—a joy that has assuredly been passed on to me.

The dyed eggs were left in the fridge, and my sister and I went to bed with dreams of cool things, not eggs, in our wee heads. Come a foggy morning, we rise to gather in the kitchen, which had a nice view of the backyard. Leah, my sister, and I were already peering out the window, trying to get a head start on one another. Step-Mother gleefully handed us baskets, made sure we had shoes on, and released us.

Oh, what joy I experienced, having spotted a blue egg nestled in the arm of a tree. Success! Leah hadn’t a single egg in her basket. I ran around like a horse on meth, collecting the obviously hidden ones: pink, yellow, purple… I glanced at Leah, who had stopped along the fence, staring at a blotch of colors, but I hadn’t time to figure out what my stupid sister was doing. I had to kick her fucking ass to prove once and for all that I was far superior in my egg-finding skills.

Minutes pass, and Leah is still in the same spot, but she’s squatting now. WTF. I grow curious, and walk over to where she was, and noticed the blotch of colors was really an egg, which had been viciously and mercilessly thrashed about and left in shambles. 

Shocked, I began to look around on the ground for the rest of the eggs and saw that every single egg not at eye-level was in a similar state of dilapidation. Leah looked frightened, as if the horrible creature that had devoured the egg was coming for her next. Step-Mother, seeing us stopped dead, walked over, looked at the egg disaster, and laughed.

“Honey, the raccoons got the eggs!” And that, ladies and germs, is the best fucking Easter in the whole fucking world.

A close second is where I mistakenly went to a church function with a neighbor, thinking it would be fun, and when they sat us all down to draw a picture of Jesus, I dived in.

All the pictures were hung for the parents to come and see, and my parents knew in 5 seconds, which picture their pious little daughter drew: the snarling monster with bloody fangs.

lololol

My Vagina

In an attempt to discipline myself as a writer, I thought it would serve my best interest if I began a blog to practice my mad-fatty writing skills. Also, to stop the maddening thoughts from clogging up my neural functions so I can think linearly. Ha. I figured it'd be best if I started out with a bang, so the rest of this journey can be downhill from here: just like life! :D
 
I'd like to open this blog with a discussion about Vaginas. 

While most girls I know have quaintly named their Vag something dopey like "Betty" or, in an effort to be pathetically sexy, "Kitty", I have proudly named mine Rancor.

If you men knew what a pain in the vagina having a vagina is, you wouldn't be so keen in trying to have sex with one. I mean really: they aren't pretty. A lot of women I know are always spouting crappy slogans like, "Power to the Pussy" and shit like that. Like their flappy vag is something to which people should kow-tow. I claim shenanigans. 

I think vagina=vacuous waste of time where people pour time and energy to result in more time and energy wasted in trying to stop thinking about said vagina. I think it's a practical joke on God's part. 

Insert inappropriate joke here: 

Q:Why do women get their periods? 

A: Because they fucking deserve it. 

However, we do have the best way to smuggle things across state/country lines. What would you smuggle if you had Nature's Pocket? I'd try to fit in the entire Twilight series up there, just so I can write a disturbing letter to Stephanie Meyer about how I crammed her entire crappy story up my cooter. Win? I think yes. Epix win.