Ya know what's crunked up, dawg?
I just rocked a slam of SoBe No Fear SUPER ENERGY SUPPLEMENT! drink and it totally tasted like tequila. And it's totally nothing like tequila! Hell, I don't even know what tequila tastes like! (after four or five shots of the stuff)
What'd I tell ya, boo? Crunked up. Crunked right the motha fugg up
Except in this case, "crunked" is "crazy" and "FUNKED".
Speaking of funked, I don't think anyone should be allowed to listen to Snoop Dogg without at least
listening to George Clinton's "Atomic Dog" first. No, scratch that - you should listen to the entire Parliament Funkadelic catalogue before even thinking of listening to Snoop Dogg. Otherwise you just ain't gettin' it on as many levels as you could be, and my happy white ass will mock you mercilessly.
After watching the freestyle scene from "8 Mile" for the hundredth time this afternoon alone, I challenged my eldest offspring to a battle. I'm embarrassed to say that she blasted the hell out of my ass when she called into question my non-existent Neopet parenting skillz when she said that I was such a bad Neopet parent that I had to take said Neopet to the soup kitchen so it wouldn't starve to death. Oh, snap!
She then asked why I don't link to her blog. I think we all know why.
My sister has a friend that got a little bit frisky with me the other night, and tried to seduce me by grabbing my crotch. This friend is a chick, bee tee double-you. Let's call her "Whory". Because it rhymes with her real name, which is Rory. Nah, let's just call her Rory - I don't know if she's usually a whore, and it's not like I'm protecting her anonymity or anything, seeing as how I totally just used her name.
Anyway, I was all like, "Quit dicking me, man. Quit dicking me, Rory!" but she totally wouldn't! This is the same girl (that I didn't tell you about before) who, when I complimented her lip gloss, offered to kiss me to see how the gloss looked on me
. I wouldn't even share a Coke and a smile with this chick, eff why eye.
Anyway, fast-forward to Monday when I was talking to sister. She said something about how Rory left her a voice mail saying she spent the night in mumble mumble
, which is my
little po-dunk town. (Po-Dunk, Illinois - population 236 if you count the chickens that the Ramirez family keeps in their backyard but thinks no one knows about.) So sister, dear sweet sister, automatically thinks that Rory stayed the night with me
So the long and short of it is that my sister thinks I can be seduced by a chubby half-midget with style-aggression issues whose idea of a come-on is to grab my crotch and say, "Well, why not? Ain't you into cootchie?"
Is it "cootchie" or "coochie"? Dude, I don't even know
. Nor do I want to.
At any rate, Rory couldn't have spent the night with me because I was in the custody of some of the military's finest boys (and one girl) in blue (or military fatigues) being questioned because I put the nation's security at risk by making a wrong turn and ending up on a military base. Aye, 'struth!
Were you really scared on Saturday night? Because you should have been. I was totally out there, man, being all renegade and making wrong turns onto federal property. And I bet you slept right through it, didn't you? Fools.
Did you know that this is an offense for which you can be arrested? Aye, 'struth!
I'm really glad that, when they were ripping apart my vehicle searching for who knows what, they didn't find those illegal Middle Eastern immigrants I was muling to Canada. Or Iowa. I forget where I was headed now, which probably explains why I took that wrong turn that ended my ass right
the fuck up in custody.
Still - handcuffs are hot no matter what the circumstances. And tanks? Tanks are fucking huge
. Like, a special kind of huge. Incomprehensible kind of huge. Pregnant Britney Spears kind of huge.
So, yeah, I totally got arrested. So what? So balls.
The other day a friend said that, these days, Britney Spears looks like she belongs in a trailer park in Louisiana. I said that she's always
belonged in a trailer park in Louisiana and he thought about it for a moment, then said (in a wounded voice), "True, but at least she used to be good at hiding it." I was all like, "Bitch, Britney don't owe you shit
." I didn't say that - in fact, I only just thought it right this second, but it made me laugh.
Also? I'm totally not nearly embarrassed enough that I want this man
to have my babies. He
loves Jim Morrison, I
love Jim Morrison...it's total fate. In fact, he reminds me a little of Morrison. (Or "Mr. Mojo Risin", if you're nasty.) He's kind of like a cross between Morrison and Gary Oldman in Dracula. I don't mean the centuries-old, all clingin' to the ceiling, "listen to them, children of the night" Dracula; I mean the more debonair, man-about-town, tinted specs and top-hat Dracula. The fuckable Dracula. If I ever meet Constantine I'm going to tell him he's a cross between Jim Morrison and the fuckable Dracula, and I bet he'd be so impressed with my astute assessment of his physical beauty that he'll yearn
to have my babies. And then I'll reject him. Cuz that's just how I roll.
I don't watch American Idol, but I did tonight and last week because of Constantine. (Or "Mr. Natalie", if you're nasty.) Tonight, Daryl Hall was in the audience. Daryl Hall was my first pretend boyfriend when I was about five years old. I used to hide under a blanket and pretend I was kissing him, and say, "Oh, Daryl Hall! You kiss so much, Daryl Hall!" It seemed like a grown-up thing to say at the time, I guess.
Sheeeit, I don't even know what I'm talking about anymore. Is it tomorrow yet? Is it ever!
I didn't make this up, but I thought I did and it made me laugh: My karma ran over your dogma.
This post took fourteen minutes to write. Can you tell?
Can you ever
(Take my bold tags...please! Ba dum dum