It's Bonus Time on Wall Street

My initial reaction, along with every other professional across America, was utter horror and disgust upon reading about Wall Street's record bonus season (Goldman Sachs CEO Lloyd Bankfien = $53.4 million bonus). This lump sum of money, which is more than 99% of the population will earn in their lifetimes, could never (ever) be rationalized (the highest paid editor at The New York times makes less than the lowest paid analyst at Goldman Sachs). Seriously. Hello.

I thought I'd conduct a little research and try and understand what exactly it is investment bankers do before continuing to express my furry, so I looked it up on Wikipedia and I still have no clue. What the fuck do investment bankers do? What outrageously valuable commodity do they provide that is rewarded with such outlandish bonuses? Every time I ask someone in the financial industry what they do they usually claim their job entails "a lot of Excel." I could easily fuck around with a couple of spreadsheets, make some trades and toss around other peoples' money - how hard could this job be?

It's times like these I wish Doc Brown really existed so I could go back ten years and pummel some sense into my 18-year-old head when it was thinking: "You know what? Ramen noodles truly are an underappreciated delicacy. Writing it is!"

Fuck.

Best. Headline. Ever.

(cnn.com)

Another Open Letter

Dear Ex-Boyfriend,

You read my blog a lot. My tracking software tells me exactly how often. It’s a lot. Hello.

I didn’t call you back last night because, in case you don’t remember, we are not speaking.

Additionally, I find it pretty sad that you don’t know the difference between “affect” and “effect.” It is even sadder that you would leave me a voice message admitting you don’t know the difference between “affect” and “effect”. It's so sad, infact, I may actually have called you back to explain it if I didn't know first hand that you have a Webster's Dictionary in your "office" which you could have easily referred to instead of leaving these 2nd Grade inquiries on my voice mail.

Tis' The Season

If there is one thing I detest about the Holiday Season, its shopping. Don't get me wrong, I am a girl and I do like to buy stuff - but Christmas Shopping usually means I have to go the the mall. I hate the mall.

Apart from the obvious reasons (mass production items), I hate the mall because I cannot stand running into the people I would otherwise be happy to never see again. When I do spot these "people" I usually just look the opposite way and pray they don't see me .. but my friends usually want to flag the person down and "catch up" - not for any genuine reasons of course, they just like to be able to compare their life stats.

So, this Saturday I was shopping with my friend Renata- we're on the escalator heading to the third level of the mall and she spots "S" - this chick we went to highschool with. She also has 4 kids with 3 different guys (which in itself is fascinating but not enough to make me want to stop and talk to her).

Renata is all: "OMG! There's "S" - let's go talk to her!"

Me: "No. No. No. No. No."

"S" spots us, and is looking right into my face as I am still saying "No. No. No"

Renata: "Heeyyyyyy! How are you?? OMG, its been soooo long!"

As their meaningless banter is exchanged I am standing there - with a forced half smirky-smile on my face .... This is all I am capable of. I can't even muster up a "Hi, how are ya?" The words just feel trapped in my chest. Maybe not "trapped" so much as really fucking lazy. Like they just smoked a huge bowl and can't be persuaded to come out unless it involved pizza or Doritos. Because I have neither, the words aren't gonna budge. If I do somehow get them out, they feel awkward and forced ... and soooooo obviously fake.

So I choose to stand there - watching as Renata and "S" have the most insincere conversation I have ever witnessed. Then "S" turns to me and says: "So, whats up with you??"

Me: "Nothing. I'm really sick right now."

"S": "Ya, you look it."

Bitch.

Renata and "S" exchange good-byes, promises to hook up, "Email me, bitch!" "For sure!" Blah. Blah. Blah.

The second we're out of ear shot:

Renata: "What a fucking loser."

There's 5 minutes of my life I'll never get back. Perfect.

Organic Cereal Eaters = Better Human Beings

As I was eating my cereal dinner yesterday, I read the most RIDICULOUS claim on the bottom of my favorite cereal box ...

.."10% of Profits Donated to Peace."

Now, I'm no philantropist ... but I’m pretty fucking sure you can’t just donate money to PEACE .... if you could, I would have already made a huge donation to PROBLEMS THAT MAKE ME SAD.

Overheard on the Subway

Girl: "...so, like, my cat keeps attacking the kitten and, like, trying to dominate him. Seriously, he's wicked-dominal."

Memo to Men

Guys, when you have a girl running game for you, the more you speak, the greater the chance you'll fuck it up. So, please, be quiet and let the girl do the work. Women trust women, not men. The less you interfere, the better. Sounds counterintuitive, doesn't it?

Welcome to women. Enjoy your stay.

The Awkward Hilarity Continues

The following is the conversation that happened between me & my mom yesterday.

Me: Did the new people move in next door already?
Mother: Yeah. Why?
Me: Are you going to make friends with them?
Mother: I don't know. I doubt it.
Me: Why don't you talk to any of your neighbours?
Mother: What do you mean?! I know the people across the street in the white house ...... the Felcher's.
Me: The FELCHER's??? That's seriously their name?
Mother: I think so. Why?
Me: Uhhh... because it means something completely repulsive.
Mother: What?
Me: (Regretting opening my mouth) Nevermind. Something really disgusting. I can't tell you.
Mother: Come on! What does it mean??? Scrotum? Does it mean Scrotum?
Me: No! ... and never say that word again.
Mother: Well, you can't dangle this in front of me and not tell!
Me: It's something gay men do. You don't want to know. Trust me.
Mother: I already know.
Me: No you don't.
Mother: Yes, I do.... it's B.J's. (direct quote.)
Me: Oh My God... no!
Mother: Well, what else it there?
Me: Nothing, forget it.
Mother: .... Shit?? Does it mean shit?
Me: Shit mixed with .... mostly something else ... and it involves a straw.
Mother: (silence.) How could you tell me that?
Me: I warned you!
Mother: No, you're right. I pushed for it.


** The Wikpedia definition for Felching: **
Felching is a sexual practice in which semen is sucked out of another person's anus. The individual sucking the semen may swallow it or pass it, mouth to mouth, to a partner. The colloquial term for the latter act is snowballing.

That's My Kind of Rose!

So, my friend told me a story yesterday which I thought to be completely blog worthy.

He and his cousin went to the G'N'R concert with their chicks last week. Show started at 10:30pm - so they pre-drank before the show and made their way to their front row seats as the show began.

A few minutes into the first song they were all, "WTF! That's not Axel Rose!! Who the fuck is this guy? He's terrible!"

Turns out it was Sebastian Bach ... so they headed back up to the bar area where they continued to consume retarded amounts of alcohol which of course remains the gateway to smokin' a few fatties. (if I had to listen to Sebastian Bach, I would also be driven to short-term substance abuse ... it remains an international Skid Row coping mechanism).

Finally - the hour and a half opening act had finally ended and the real show began. So my friend, his cousin and their ladies head back down to their front row seats. At this point my friend and his cousin began to realize:

"Holy Shit - I'm faded."

"I can't really see."

"I'm hungry."

"I can't feel my legs."

Yes ... they were high. Very, very high.

About half way through this stellar G'N'R' performance, my friend looked over at his cousin, who - you guessed it - was sleeping like a newborn baby 10 feet away from Axel Rose's face (who, by the way, was giving what some speculate to be his best performance post his Extreme Make-Over /Bo Derek inspired hair).

For a brief moment, the cousin woke up and found himself looking directly into the eyes of Mr. Rose - who had apparently noticed his slumber. When the song ended, Axel turned to the lead guitarist and said:

"Hey, keep it down .. This guy's tryin' to sleep."

Four tickets to GNR Concert - $650

Dinner & Drinks Before the Show - $500

Falling asleep at the concert and Axel Rose calling you out on it:

FUCKING PRICELESS!!!

Bring it on, Salmonella!

In a total failure of my upbringing (wife bootcamp), I just ate two heaping spoonfuls of raw chicken. That's right. Raw, Salmonella-lovin' chicken. Loved every bite of it. Licked my lips and wished there was more.

How did this happen, you ask? (considering I don't eat meat) Well, my cousin left behind a chicken concoction that my aunt sent over. The chicken was creamed and whipped up with tasty herby goodness. It looked so much like salmon salad that my thought process was basically: Looks like salmon, must be edible right out of the container. Let's put some of that bad boy on a bagel.

Then I had a wonderful evening until my aunt called and asked me how long I cooked the chicken and I said, "what chicken?" Through the power of suggestion, I started to throw up a little in my mouth.

Based on my consultation with WebMD, and several other websites that came up when I googled "I ate raw chicken," it seems I have approximately 24 hours before my body may be totally rocked inside-out by malignant bacteria. Oh, and I may die. Though I'm hoping that years of eating food that has been on the floor longer than 10 seconds will help me on this one.

Also, as soon as I realized my error I did a shot of Jack Daniels. My Dad always said that whiskey meant death to evil bacteria.

My newfound online compatriots who also tried a little "land sushi" and reached out for help, didn't get quite as encouraging a reponse. (although, to be fair, some MySpace dude ate a whole raw chicken for $100 - which is a whole other kind of stupid.)

So, in honor of my somewhat amusing domestic failure, and because I love a good survey:

What do you think will happen to me over the next 72 hours?

a. Nothing

b. Maybe a little retching, but nothing unladylike

c. Something like eating bad Chinese. (We've all been there.)

d. My intestines will betray me, my stomach will convulse, and I'll feel like I drank a gallon of Mexican tapwater and chased it with ipecac.

e. Everything in option "d," but throw in some avian flu.

My Favorite Dude

I can’t decide who my favorite guy was yesterday:

The one on the subway who was wearing a homemade “World’s Awesomest Dad” t-shirt and dirty track pants, with a dirty yellow backpack, 1996 shoes, a broken arm in a sling, and a prison face,

OR

The guy who was wearing brown pin-stripped "slacks" with a blue & white tie-dyed, button-up Toronto Maple Leafs "dress shirt", had long PEROXIDE BLEACHED hair, straight cut at the bottom, brushed back severly on the sides, as well as wrap-around sunglasses in the subway after dark

OR

The old man in line at Taco Bell who went on a five minute rant to this body-builder guy in front of him about why he could never really be a fighter (because his legs were too skinny).


They were all white, so it’s not like I can deduct points for race .... so, I think I’m going to go with the homeless father. He just looked like he could use a win.

This Some Funny Shit

No Screws, No Nails, No Fuss

Finally, a product that even offends Courtney Love's parenting sensiblities.The Peekaboo: For when you really don't care about keeping your daughter off the pole.

Of course, as with any fantastic, incredibly empowering new product there has been a "family values backlash." (The Gap Kids baby thong - my local mall hardly even knew ya).

My favorite quote from the article: "This should only be available to the most depraved people who want to corrupt their children."

Soooooo, basically you're saying it should be available ...

To be honest, I wanted a pole in the worst way a few years ago. For some reason when I swung around on the pole in my living room, I felt like I had finally come home ... so shove some money in my pants and call me depraved.

KI** M* ASS

Dubs says:
I told him that he was basically a p**sy and an a**hole
Delish says:
haha - a pussyhole
Dubs says:
hey careful
Delish says:
what?
Dubs says:
i'm at work use astersks
Delish says:
ok
Dubs says:
be discreet
Delish says:
ok, pussyhol*

DYSFUNCTIONAL 101

NIGGA WHAT?

One of the unique characteristics of humans is social adaptability, the way in which one can adjust according to one’s environment. These adjustments can be large (hand-to-hand combat over black market coffee), or miniscule (saying “about” instead of “a-boot”), and they can happen very quickly (in a time of crisis), or very slowly (tuning out the annoying voice of your spouse over the endless, sexless years). But they happen, all the time.

So it should come as no surprise that my stare down has improved considerably since I got back to the city. It was already pretty good, but I feel like my stare down is more aggressive than it used to be.

But here’s the thing: I’ve also noticed that I’ve been staring down little kids on the subway. Little kids like to absorb the world through their eyes. They are so excited by everything because they are so retarded. They’re like, “Hello, world? What a wonderful place! Do you want to be my friend? I like ice cream!” and I’m like, “Don’t look at me, bitch. Don’t you know I will cut you?”

Obviously, my maternal instincts are kicking in.

Thank You, Baby Jesus, For All That Is Elliot

The following is an actual conversation between myself & Elliot (Snakes) which took place last night:

Me: El, check your e-mail - I sent you the most hilarious video.

Snakes: Rebecca! I already told you I can't watch videos on my computer right now!

Me: Why not?

Snakes: Because my speakers are hooked up in the living room!!

Me: Uhhhhh, why?

Snakes: Because my roommate and I are making beats !!!

Me: (ginger ale spraying out of my mouth while I choke-laughed until I almost threw-up)

Me: Oh. My. God. Thank you soooooo much for telling me that!!!

Return Of The G-Unit

My Mother is back in town after a month in Italy.

And while she still repeats the mantra "Do what ever you want, I'm not bothering you," she will usually follow that up with "So what are you doing tonight? Tomorrow? Maybe I could swing by the office, meet you for lunch? Howsabout tomorrow at 5am, we have a quick breakfast and catch a movie before work?..." By this point it's usually too late, as I've hung myself from the rafters in my bedroom, Shawshank Redempy stizz.

Not actually true -- I managed to squeeze in a Mommy-Daughter outing yesterday. We went shopping. This could have been a successful shopping venture but everytime I turned around she was gone - I felt like I was babysitting a freekin' 3 year old. And so, I spent 95% of my time searching up & down the aisles only to find her standing in the center of the "Coordinates" section applying her lipstick. This happened no less than 3 times during some key shopping moments. The Daughter then must become the Mother, chiding her for such behavior, then feeling guilty, offering her a piece of gum, and secretly wishing she had never given birth to this 50-year-old menace.

Then we headed back to my parents house so I could get first dibs on the gifts she brought back. I sat on her bed for half an hour and watched her rummage through 400 different plastic bags while talking to herself “No, that’s not for you.” …”What the hell is this?” … “Who went through these already??….”

After a questionable assortment of accessories were laid out on her bed … I was forced to wonder .. Did my mother just meet me? Is she suffering from glaucoma and unable to actually see me and the kind of clothes I wear? Unlike my little sister, I don't fall for the "All the girls are wearing them ... " line (Jessica = floral peddle pushers, that's all I'm sayin').

Let's put it this way - I had the opportunity to choose from an assortment of colorful “scarfs”, a belt made of 100% rhinestones, and a glittery gold “top” that's so "titty-licious" it could only draw the conclusion that my mom wants to start pimpin' me out.

Apparently, I need to work on my gratitude because her response to my disinterest in her selections was: “Well, if you don’t like it, I’ll give it to someone for Christmas!! Somebody with taste will appreciate it!”

Touche.

A Night With The McGee's

A few months back my friends and I went to Cabo Cantina
for Happy Hour. We all know how that goes when its "Two-fer" night at the bar. Anyway, one drink turned into fifteen drinks. Friends began dropping off like flies (literally) and Shanda, bless her heart, who has mastered the art of pulling "The Houdini,"was no where to be found.

Me: "Has anyone seen Shanda?"

Me: "Guys, where's Shanda? Did she leave??"

Me: "I already checked the bathroom."

Me: " Yeah, the Guys bathroom too."

Meanwhile, Shanda was safe & sound at home - passed out in her bed spooning a burrito. Bitch.

Anyway, the night really began at 4:00 a.m. back at The Unit with Dustin, Elliot and yours truly. Now, anyone who knows the 3 of us collectively, is well aware that absolutely no good can come out of this situation. Please, bear with me. It gets better, I swear.

So, the night was running along like any other Friday night. Troy was away (in A.C) Jorge was gone up in the OC, Wood was with his chick - so being just the 3 of us I was pretty much able to whore all of the attention for myself.

At this point, I had already convinced Dustin to let me use all his weed to roll a mothafuckin' bat and roped him into massaging my feet. So, I'm sprawled out on the couch - lighter in hand (as we had just finished hoochin' a fatty) and suddenly, I got the most wonderful idea- so I thought I'd throw it out there - You know, for shits & giggles.

Me: "Elliot, can I burn you?"

Snakes: "Are you fuckin crazy?! Okay."

Sidenote: Elliot & Dustin are often referred to as Snakes & Blabs McGee for the following reasons.

Elliot (a.k.a. Snakes McGee) - I can only speculate he was given this name for his aggressive alter-ego "Snakes" who surfaces when he has consumed retarded amounts of alcohol (this usually happens 3-4 times per week) - For example, the time he made it his life mission to go to 'The Tavern' every night for a week straight. However, on the 6th night he wound up wasted and passed out on our couch ... at 5am he burst into my bedroom and attempted to relieve himself on my pile of neatly folded clean clothes. When I tried to intervene - (you guessed it) he cocked back his fist in an attempt to deliver a powerful right hook to my face - (not the more dignified "bitch-slap" as one might suspect) .... he was going to knock me the-fuck-out.

He didn't hit me of course ... and yes, we're fine.

Dustin (a.k.a. Blabs McGee) - Dustin is my favorite "gay" guy friend ... except he's not gay. If I ever felt like spending an entire afternoon talking shit about every single person I know or having an intense in-depth yet highly reflective convo about the contestants on "So You Think You Can Dance?" - I would make the following call .....

"Hey, Schnizzler, wanna come over and hang out by my pool?"

Once I get him in the pool, frolicking on my pink raft and drinking vodka & pink lemonade (seriously, he's not a flaming homosexual) his mouth would run like a leaky faucet. Blabbidy. Blab. Blab.

God, I love that boy.


Now, back to business.

Sooooo, basically at this point, Snakes has given his consent to be branded by my Bic lighter. So, I heat that bad boy up for a good 2 minutes, Snakes offers me his arm in all its tattooed glory (full, bad-ass sleeve) and I go to fuckin town.


SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS (that's the sizzle sound of flesh burning for those of you who completely lack imagination)

Snakes: "YEEEEAAAHHH!! That's what I'm fuckin talkin' about, Son! I love it!! Shit, look how sweet that looks!! YESSSS!!! I FUCKIN' LOVE PAIN!!!"


Blabs: (whom at this point was getting himself all worked-up and as a result, his voice began projecting at an unbelievably high-pitch thought only possible if you were a Smurf) "Oh my God, Elliot! I can't believe you just did that!!! Dude, that's craaazy!!! Holy Shit!!"

Me: "Okay, your turn, Twizzle Sticks." (Dustin)

Blabs: "Are you crazy?! I'm not doing that!! Do you not recall the bout of raging poison oak I had 9 months ago which may still be laying dormant under the surface?? My skin is extremely sensitive, Rebeccaaaaa!! I could have a serious adverse reaction. "

Snakes: "Forget it, Dude - don't let her make you do something you don't want to do.... you're just a woman, that's all. Nothing to be embarrassed about. You're still Gangsta.. ..even though you probably have a vagina."

(at this point I was already heating the lighter up, because everyone knows that 99.9% of the time Dustin will cave to peer-pressure - especially when his "manhood" is called into question.)

Blabs: "Okay, fine." as he extends his lean, milky arm across my lap "Go! Go! Go!"

Please put your brain in visial mode for this because the lighter had now been heating up for over 6 minutes and that bitch was hotter than the fuckin sun.

SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS


Dustin (whose voice had gone up an additional 400 octaves and now sounded exactly like Miss Piggy after she'd been huffing whippits for 3 weeks straight ) screams:

"OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!! YOU BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!" ... as he hurdled himself, horizontally through the air and into the unsuspecting entertainment unit. Shelves came crashing down - books and baseballs went flying everywhere. .... and Dizzle .... Dizzy-D .... was on his knees in the midst of the rubble that was once his cozy living room ... crying like a 2 year old baby who was in dire need of a diaper change.

Fast-forward to Monday morning. I get the following e-mail from Blabs:

"Everyone at work saw the burns on my arm and they know what they are. It looks completely unprofessional and now I can never wear short sleeves to work again. Mary in Accounting told me I will have these scars forever. I'm so pissed off. Thanks a lot, Rebecca."




In spite of my numerous attempts to rectify this situation, Blabs didn't speak to me for 5 days.

Apparently, he needed some time to "cool down" .... and a swift kick in the vag.

You Can't Make This Shit Up

"You've got something on your face. No.... a little higher. Yeah, there. Oh, that's a mole? Oh.... [long pause.] It's pretty."

I had this Austin Powers moment in the elevator at work yesterday. It looked like chocolate ... apparently I was mistaken. The opportunity of letting people know when they have food in their teeth, snowflakes in their nose or various forms of eye-puke is one of the rare occasions I really step up and become a decent human being.

Despite the obvious discomfort during my attempt of selfless kindness yesterday, I will not allow it to disrupt my quest of preventing others from walking around in public looking like filthy buggers. Do I hear a nomination for an award on Oprah's Angel Network? Holla!!

(I may "forget" to mention that you have shit stuck in between your teeth or have crusty boogers in your nose if deep down I think you're prettier than me.)

i.e. "Wow. You really won $25,000 in a Jessica Simpson look-a-like contest? ... Huh... Here - want some poppyseeds to munch on? They're delicious."

Don't judge me.

An Open Letter to Shanna Moakler

Dear Shanna,

As a firm believer in the "constructive criticism sandwich", let me first begin by saying: my ex-boyfriend thinks you're pretty. That's your first slice of bread. Now, I'm afraid I need to serve you up a few slices of meat. As former Miss America, and more importantly the ex-Mrs. Travis Barker, you made some rookie mistakes on Dancing With The Stars. And no, I'm not talking about infamous ankle buckle on Latin Fever night.

1. You neglected to expose the fact that Ma and Pa Moakler have been in prison approximately 70 times over the past 25 years. For you to have a chance, America needed "inside-the-prison, mother-Moakler's -breast-against-the-visiting-glass" type footage. Did you think this would be "embarassing"? Because you really missed the chance to steal that crackerjack Jerry Springers thunder.

2. Your stoicism. Girl, you knew you were doomed from the first episode. The producers used you and your bare naval for the ratings, and you took it all with good grace. Classy? Yes. But - as I think we both know - class don't vote for the next champion of Dancing With The Stars.

3. There's a sticky/sexy "did her once in the backseat of my car" vibe about you that I really dig. Okay, so this is not really meat. It is more like spicy mustard. I'm not sure which way it goes. I just wanted to add it.

Here's your last slice of bread: I thought your performance of the Cha-Cha was fierce, and I don't care what the haters said about your face glitter. It was awesome and Tampa-licious.

There. That wasn't easy for me. Thank you for your gift of dance. Now please, take little Alabama Lola and just go. I can't bear to look at you right now.

Mullet Madness

Anyone who knows me, knows of my mild obsession with all that is "White Trash". While some think this is strange and random, I truly believe this obsession stems from one of my previous lives living in the deep South. While I'm not certain as to who I actually was (I would like to have been a Southern Belle, although I was probably some toothless skid named Dwayne Lee who had an Uncle Dad). At any rate, I would like to channel my blogging efforts into something I'm passionate about. The Mullet. We all know 'em and deep down, we all love 'em. So please take a few moments and enjoy my research.

(Susan, I would like take this opportunity and post a public "thank you" for attending the Lynyrd Skynyd concert at Viejas with me. It was truly one of the most momentous nights of my life ... and again, I'm deeply sorry about the Confederate Flag incident. I was caught up in the moment.)


What is a Mullet?

Often referred to as "Business in the front, Party in the back", however may also be called a "Tennessee Waterfall". The Mullet is rarely spotted in the wild, however, there are several specimens to be found in trailer parks across America. Most people wearing this hairstyle still think that Quiet Riot, Whitesnake, Cinderella, and all the other myriad of metal bands kick major ass.

Here are some different Mullet species:

MULLATINO

The Latin DNA make-up naturally gives the Mullatino thick, course hair. This trait is deemed invaluable by many. The sheer volume of hair gives them unlimited options for the styling of the mullet. The tight, aerodynamic shape of this particular mullet is truly incredible. As if it was not good enough to have the perfect mullet, he went ahead and sculpted a perfect mullestache which compliments his mullet in shape, design and color. Very Impressive.

Sidenote: Deep in the heart of barrios across America, a thriving Mullatino population exists and they are addicted to food produced in a vehicle widely known as a roach coach. I recommend this scene as a potential hunting ground. Mullatino's are far less violent then the typical American Mullet. Not to mention you can pick up a few taco's while yer huntin'. (Sorry Shanda)

TRAILERMULLET

In its larval stage, the Trailermullet spends much of their time observing the behavior of those in its own trailer park community. This is done in order to properly develop the many survival skills associated with its breed. After this delicate species is properly schooled in all the basic skills mullets should know; (subtle emotional abuse techniques, advanced methamphetamine production, distribution, and ingestion, post date-rape etiquette, and all aspects of government assistance programs) this species will graduate to the next level of mulletness and is ready for a trailer of their own to enjoy the fruits of our labor.

PERMULLET

Here we have a mullet that has been specifically treated with a permanent. This primping of the mullethead's plumage can only mean that the subject takes great pride in his lifestyle.

The permullet tends to be a little less aggressive than his mullet counterparts, most likely because he does not wish to taint his beautiful quoiffe with the sweat that would result from the process of opening "a can of whoop-ass" on ya.

KLUXERMULLET

All White = All Night!!!

Fuck Yeah! That's what I'm talkin' 'bout, son!

I score the aggressiveness of this mullet a 10/10! This particular breed of mullets like to spend their time boozin', whorin', swearin', spittin', kickin' ass, and shit talkin'.

The Kluxermullet, previously believed to be extinct since 1986, has now been upgraded to endangered after a recent sighting in Clanton, Alabama. Praise the Lord!

The Curse

Whenever I miss Southern California, I try and convince myself that the place is unquestionably cursed. I was there during the blackouts of 2000. Everyone was issued a battery powered alarm clock, a flashlight, and a raver's grade glow stick. (We were warned not to break it because, as a memorable hotel employee warned "if it gets in your eyes, it will burn like pure liquid glowing pain.")

I ended up doing shots with a group of strange men at 3PM and as a result I made confessions that would have otherwise never seen the light of day. Blackouts were also directly responsible for me driving to Long Beach to eat at generator-powered Popeye's Chicken and Biscuits.

My friend Shanda told me stories of the fires which swept the area and ash rained down from the sky. The sky turned orange, like a nuclear bomb had gone off. No glow sticks necessary this time. Everyone was issued a surgical mask to wear, the kind worn by polite (and germophobic) manicurists, all the world over.

Yep, whenever I miss Southern California, I remind myself that, while I'm no Jerry Falwell, I suspect that there's a cosmic price to pay for clearing out the orange groves, filling the valley with pornography, throwing up a Ralph's on every corner, and making board shorts and flip-flops acceptable restaurant attire.

Lord, I miss it somethin' awful!

No, If's, And's or BUTT's!!

I think I have big butts on the brain. Yes, I've been consumed with thoughts of supersized asses. And when I haven't been thinking about supersize asses I've been thinking about the subway. (This preoccupation actually makes a bit of sense, as I've decided to economize my morning commute by making it as painful and inefficient as possible.) Here's how I do it: I make a few subway trips a day - zipping between my place and work with a huge case which holds my laptop and my oversize luggage-of-a-purse.

Given the amount of time I spend enduring filthy looks from people who are annoyed by my oversize accessories, it's no surprise that I would try to shift blame away from my cheap self and persecute other people who take up too much space. So, here's what I'm thinking: TTC subway seats have grooves. I can only imagine that, after extensive research, the grooves were designed and are based on the dimensions of regulation-sized asses. The average Toronto ass fits the groove, and the honor of placing your ass in the groove (or at least the opportunity to try) costs you $2.75. But some people take up more than one seat! Their butts spill over the allotted width, throwing off the whole system. Now the person next to them has to scoot over and straddle the peak between grooves, and so on and so forth.

The result: an unfair seating distribution, wasted space at the end of each row, and a loss of dignity and comfort for everyone involved. (Not to mention a loss of revenue for the city, and indirectly, our nation's public schools.) I'm no policy-maker, but shouldn't subway riders, like obese airline patrons, have to plunk down another $2.75 if their butts exceed the groove? Or maybe just another $1.00, if their butt is merely peeking over the lip of the next seat? I mean, it's not like the groove isn't plenty generous. I sit my booty in the groove and still have plenty of wiggle-room.

Thoughts? Questions? Concerns?

Petty Peeves

Yesterday, my friend Jordan and I became passionately engaged in a conversation about our pet peeves. All this came about when I was telling him about a gentleman at my work who, while extremely attractive, wears shoes with paper thin soles. Paper thin soles on a man equate to men who wear clip on earrings and guyliner - it's simply one of the most un-manly things you can do (apart from performing fellatio on your buddy).

Perhaps this is more of a "petty peeve" than a pet peeve ...

This drove the conversation into the always amusing direction "What really grates my nerves? ..."
I thought it wise to compile a short summary of my top three peeves - Petty or Pet.

CHILDREN AT SALAD BARS

I never actually realized how much this chapped my ass until I was trying to enjoy a hearty meal at Soup Plantation. I watched in horror as three kids darted back and forth to the salad bar, acting like the little hethens they were - completely destroying my personalized soup/salad experience. Now, don't get me wrong - kids are great (sometimes, not really), but why any responsible adult would allow their bratty, snotty, bacteria laden children anywhere near an open food area is beyond me.

Salad, veggies and all the toppin's scattered a pathway from the salad bar to their table of hell. I watched fingers go into the dressing, baby carrots shoved up noses, ice cream from the soft serve machine ingested directly from the spout into one of their crusty little mouths.

I was silently praying one of them would drown in the Fat Free Ranch dressing ( I hate Ranch). They survived - which is more than I can say for my appetite. I did however, trip one of the little beasts accidentally on purpose as he was tearing back to his table after grabbing a handful of croutons. He skidded beautifully across the abrasive industrial carpeting and ended up smashing his dome on the leg of an unsuspecting chair.

That kinda made me feel better....


PEOPLE WHO RE-USE THEIR WATER BOTTLES AT THE GYM

I don't really want to go into detail on this one - but why spend $600 or more on a gym member ship and insist on reusing the same Evian water bottle for months? Why don't you just lick a Petri dish and call it a day?

DAIRY PRODUCTS ON SKIN

This is the worse thing ever!!! Nothing is more revolting that the thought, sight or smell of milk (or any dairy for that matter) which has had an opportunity to dry on the skin. It kicks my gag reflexes into gear just thinking about it. When would this ever happen, you ask? Ever pick up a baby? This probably explains my aversion to babies and most infants. The dried up milk in the creases of their multi-layered necks ... all crusty and scaley and putrid smelling? Or have you had the pleasure of witnessing someone devour an ice-cream cone - (individuals usually on the upward side of 300lbs) - the ones who were never taught to lick around the edges. Instead, they allow the melting ice cream to drip down their hands and arms - perhaps a tactical method amongst the obese: "simply lick the unused particles off your hands to cleanse your pallet, and you're ready for round two!"

I just thew up a little in my mouth.

S.A.D. in the City

Well, I'm going into my 2nd month back in Toronto. I just moved back here from San Diego, CA (don't ask) for a great position at an Advertising Agency and I have been feeling the downward spiral of my entire being take place at a painfully slow pace.

I don't know what it is - perhaps the fact that it's been pissing rain for a week straight - my mother did always suspect I had Seasonal Affective Disorder (S.A.D.) due to the fact I would sign my homemade Christmas cards to my relatives "Love, The Saddest Girl in the World". I would also silently weep as I built snowmen in the backyard with my siblings.

My depressed state could also be due to the fact that, aside from different hair styles , most of my East Coast friends have remained some the most repressed people I have ever encountered - but I'll save that for another post.

I have attempted to make myself feel better by instilling a flickering light at the end of my tunnel and writing down my goals for the next 10 months.

MY GOALS:

a) Bust my over-ambitions little fanny at work for one year. Develop the skills and resume glitz necessary in order to secure a sweet-ass Agency position in SoCal where my body belongs and my heart remains.

b) Survive the vicious, hateful Canadian winter without attempting to slit my wrists with a butter knife, or drown myself in the dirty dishwater that tends to sit in my kitchen sink for 3 to 4 days and make it back to California by August 12, 2007. (My sister is getting married on August 11th and being the Maid of Honor, I guess I should kinda be there).

c) Use my exceptional, newly developed PR skills and let my fellow Canadians know, they really do say "A-BOOT"!

If I stick to the "Operation Cannuck to Cali" strategy, I will be pounding shots of tequila and shoveling fish tacos down my throat in no time .... ah, it's almost enough to make me smile ...