and no one cares when i double dip the chips

I was just sitting here with this window (and my fly) open and thought, "I really love being awake when no one else is awake - it's kind of like a party, but I never get stiffed on the drugs". As I went to write that down I had a horrifying thought - nah, I wasn't worried that people would think I did drugs - I was worried that you'd think that I'd, ya know, worked on that line. Like I thought about it and went, "Yeah, that's definitely my 'A' game material right there". And that's just not how I roll.

Some people sit around and work on entries, and proofread, and make sure that they're using real words...not me, bro. We're just chatting. None of us would ever get out of here alive if I started to edit up in this bitch.

I was helping my sister with a paper for school the other day and I was all proofreading and being really critical about things...flash forward, literally, six hours later and the paper I was finally moderately satisfied with shared exactly two sentences with the first draft. It's like the philosopher's hammer: replace the head, then the handle, then the head, then the handle...can you really say it's the same hammer?

So when anyone asked me why I looked like shit the day after that paper I was all like, "I had to help my sister with sixteen papers, man, it was brutal!"

I've been watching Star Wars (episode eye vee - "A New Hope"? I'm afraid so.) and have to say, I'm having a few problems with this particular franchise. I think I should have watched it when I was four, like everyone else, and just ooohed and ahhhed over the robots and hover craft, but I didn't, so.

I have an issue with bitchy-ass little Luke Skywalker. I'm all like, "Why don't you shut up and farm your dirt, you whiny little ingrate?" I'd slap the shit out of him, I really would. Plus, I'm pretty sure he's gay. Not that there's anything wrong with that! No, not gay exactly, but when I see him I can't help but think of the brother from Napoleon Dynamite.

And double you tee eff with there being no Jedi anymore? Oh, we got our asses kicked and have no leadership so we're totally going to disband and not be Jedi anymore, even though we know damn well that Darth fucking Vader, Dark Lord of the god damn Sith is out there...I dunno, dude. What were you thinking, Obi Wan? I mean, you can take the man out of the Federation but you can't take the Jedi out of the man, or am I wrong? Am I wrong?

I'm not wrong.

Then again, I've only watched episode one and, like, fifteen minutes of episode four, so. (I am the single most annoying person to watch a movie with, as I'm sure you can tell.)

Oh, and I hate how they say "falcon". It's not FALL-kun. It's FAL-ken. They rhyme it "falcon" with "maul kin" and it's "falcon" like "pal can". That's that, and I don't want to hear another word about it.

I saw today, for the first time in, literally, fifteen years, the very first real boyfriend I'd ever had. It was weird because he walked past me and waved with the same mannerisms he had when he was a kid and I had a flashback to being in junior high. He looks the exact same as he used to, which was even more weird, except he shaves his head for no reason I can tell. He's not going bald, but he shaves his head - why do people do that? He's going to wake up one day and decide to grow his hair back in, just for a change, and be all like, "Was my forehead always this big?" BLAM - George Costanza.

Of course, I looked like absolute shit - the one day I didn't look cute because I've been so sick - and my hair is mid-process in that I've been going crazy with the coloring and the bleaching and the whatnot. So I need to give it some time between processes or else my hair screams at me and threatens to commit suicide by jumping off my head and into the shower drain.

So I was chatting with him about our respective kids and moms and the "good old days", as people are fond of calling them (this was the kid...hell, kid...who first got me into skateboarding and snowboarding and kissing behind piles of junk in the woods, all hobbies I retain to this day) and we got into the "Hey, you look good!" "No, you look good!" thing. He said something about how he liked my hair this color and I laughed, saying something like, "Well, it's not done - right now I look like some trashy motorcycle racer girlfriend. All I need is to strip Nico to his diaper and give him a baby bottle full of Pepsi!" Then I asked him what he was up to and he said, "No much...just recuperating from a broken foot." And how did he break it?

Motorcycle racing.

I had to get the hell out of there before his wife and baby showed up because if his kid was in a diaper sucking on a bottle of Pepsi I would have killed myself in the shower drain.

I have a knack for saying the absolute wrong thing at any given moment in time, but thinking about things before you say them and then proofreading? It's still for chumps.

gluttony, thy name is me

I'm having an existentialist crisis at the moment.

Today, on two consecutive, yet unrelated, occasions I orally consumed half a cake. That's not the crisis, but please do realize that this was a twice consumed half-cake rather than a full cake in one sitting - because that would just be disgusting and terrible, yet delicious and oddly satisfying.

The crisis comes into play when you consider that the cake was not a planned baking event, nor was its existence known by anyone other than myself and the dog. (The dog watched the creative as well as consumptive processes.) The cooking utensils were cleaned of the evidence and put away as though they'd never been used. There was no reason for the cake to even be, and there is nothing (apart from a major bellyache) residual to suggest the cake had been either created nor consumed.

I destroyed something I created and failed to share with anyone, selfishly hoarding it for myself and indulging in the basest of human behavior. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about my actions in the slightest, and I can see no justification for what has transpired.

So, in weighing all of the factors - guilt, responsibility, short and long term ramifications, social mores and norms - the great philosophical question here is this: since no one yet knows of the existence of the cookies cooling in the kitchen, would it be okay for me to eat all of those, too?

A whole cake. I ate a whole freaking cake.

Damn, that's piggy.

new religions are started over less than this

I know I'm not the coolest kid on the block - just by virtue of the fact that I use phrases like "coolest kid on the block" - but, even so, it was always a comfort to me to be able to say, "Well, at least I'm not a Star Wars fan".

Before you jump to conclusions, let me be perfectly clear that I can still say that I'm not a Star Wars fan...however, I do want to grow up to become and/or marry a Jedi.

That's a totally different thing!

No one ever told me how hot it is to battle someone with a lightsaber. No one told me how Zen-badass their philosophy is. Zen. Bad. ASS. No one ever told me that Jedies (Jedis?) are...how can I put this?...cool.

It's cool to be a Jedi. Way more cool than being Borg, or Klingon, or even captain of a Starfleet Command.

I'm sorry, Jean Luc! I'm so sorry. You don't know how much this pains me.

I still love you, Jean Luc, and everything the Federation represents, but you don't have any cool weaponry or acrobatic skills or even a single mind trick. Your main power is...dare I say it?...delegation. You can delegate like a mo-fo but can you leap multiple stories without even bending your legs? I think not. Can you mentally will your lightsaber back into your hand from a distance greater than twelve feet? No way. Can you command everyone in a blue shirt to do recon on a seemingly peaceful, yet obviously hostile, planet surface, thus assuring their death? Yup. And that's about it, really. Oh, and you have an uncanny ability to fall in love only with those women who are totally doomed to die. That's pretty sick when you think about it - did you ever think that maybe you're the constant in this equation? Glad you never loved me back, I suppose.

I'm sorry, Picard. You'll always hold a special place in my heart, but even Darth Maul gave me chills that you never could.

dad: Yoda wasn't wise - he was Jewish. That "speaking backwards" thing might sound impressive, but it's not. Hell, your grandmother did that.

So I guess it was kind of my destiny to get sucked into the Star Wars thing, seeing as how I'm part - um - Yoda. What the hell species is that little dude, anyway? Whatever it is, I'm part that.

But I'm not a geek, so you can just shut your piehole.

there were horses, and a man on fire, and i killed a guy with a trident!

Just call me Brick.

I do not like little fishes that are not on my plate. They, how you say in American, "skeeve me right the fuck out". Hate them with a passion.

Not only does my mother keep a fish pond in the back yard, but also indoor aquariums. Big ones, filled with lots and lots of creepy, skeeve-inducing fish. One of these is in the room where I sleep. Or would sleep, were I a mere mortal who required such a silly, antiquated biological function.

Some of the fish are pretty, like these cool zippy day-glow neon things, some are plain, like the common gold fish, and some are really creepy, like the scum-sucking plecostomus which still retains some of its prehistoric qualities, like blending in with its surroundings and hunting the wooly mammoth. These are the deakiest of all the freaky-deaky fish in the household.

The only common element of all of these beasts is that they're huge. And I was responsible for a handful (three) of them because they were in the aquarium in my room.

I have, thankfully, blocked out much of the memory of actually netting and bagging these fish but I remember running into the laundry room with my arm extended and screaming in a very Brick Tamland fashion. I was like, "Mom! Mom, I have your fish! I have your fish! They're in a bag! In my HAND! Get them off me, get them off me!" and I stamped my feet and clenched my eyes closed against the horror of the disgusting creatures.

She took the bag from my little fist and I stood for a moment shaking all over and scratching at the, what, mysterious fish germs that were trying to worm their way into my skin? I don't know, but I was scratching like a crack head. Bugs, bugs on me! Fish bugs, the most loathsome of all the bugs!

Ew, I just totally shivered, remembering having to hold that bag of fish. I hope they all die, I really do. Sweet potatoes ghost, I hate those fish.

After mom transplanted the traumatized fish into the pond she made me cinnamon toast and a cup of tea to make me feel better and they were both delicious.

I'm still very scarred, though, but not scared because there's nothing scary about an empty aquarium. Those fish are a bunch of smelly pirate hookers, and I hate them to death.

it's kinda hard being n-a-t-a-l-i-e

Something's been bugging me and I thought I'd clear it up...just in case I lost any "cred" with my "homies" and "Gs" for publicly "digging" on "Modest Mouse" the other day (just scroll down to, like, last Thursday or Wednesday or whenever the hell it was - you're a smart kid and can figure it all out, plus I can't hold your hand forever, you know), may I submit for your approval that my current ring tone is S-N double O-P, D-O double G (or "Snoop Dogg" for all you white folk) singing the lyric "you ain't no G" from the song "Signs" featuring none other than Justin Timberlake, a much-beloved figure in hip-hop culture. So that should restore my credibility. ("Gs to the bizzack, now ladies here we gizzo"...am I right, Gs, or am I right? West SIIIIIIDE! Of IllinOOOOOOIS!)

The actual lyric shamefully includes the "N-Word" but my 'tone is an exclusive Cingula' Remix, which omits that word as it apparently offends ring tone manufacturers and ilk of a similar nature. Whoda thunk it?

Just thought I'd clear that up right quick before I go smack up both my bitches and my hoes.

And in conclusion, I'd rather be broke than ugly, and I'd rather be ugly than you.

Oh yes. I went there.

And I'm sorry, but I absolutely refuse to apologize.

vh1 can eat my balls

Why is it that I'm way more pissed off right now at VH1 than I was a few hours ago at Bono & Co.? I dunno, dude. My dad says I'm "hardwired all fucking wrong" and he just may have a point.

I watched VH1 for fifteen minutes today without seeing a single video. Is this normal? I'm serious. Back in my day...yeah, yeah, yeah, I know, it's lame to complain about how music stations never play videos anymore but I had no idea it had gotten this bad.

After fifteen minutes I finally saw a video for Eminem's "Mockingbird" and was just days of happy, because I do so love him so, but even that totally threw me off. Okay, how is it that he was so damn poor but had a video camera? And did you see the presents that Christmas? Judging by the size of his kid this was before he got famous. This was supposed to be back in his ghetto days when he was "more poorer than you are". Lies, damnable lies, and untruths! At the very least, half-truths.

His kid had a Power Wheel! My kid never had no freaking Power Wheel. Crazy.

And don't even get me started on Mtv! I saw an ad for this new show, "Con", where old boy goes on and on about what a con man he is and how he can get anything for free, blah blah blah. Listen up, as I have the perfect way to con anyone out of anything.

Step One: Be a cute girl.

That's pretty much about it, really. If you're a cute girl you're getting anything you want. Where's my fucking show on Mtv, huh? I want a show.

Anyway - I was more poorer than Eminem. I bet he even ate bread, the fucking phony.

(I'm beginning to think that it really doesn't matter if I post drunk or not, as you won't be able to tell a difference.)

PS - this is what part of the alphabet would look like if we didn't have the letters Q and R. The comments have fudged the bucket and need to be fixed (because Blogger is archiving things in a stupid, non-Natalie type way) but I'm too busy (busy!) at the moment to play. So all of you goat-humping jackalopes will, indeed, have to STFU.

I went with Haloscan for the time being, which means that the "goat-humping jackalope" comment will mean nothing to you. But it means simply everything to me, oh yes it does.

i once was drunk but now i'm not

Damn, dude - thank Hey Zeus that I was too drunk to tell the difference between the "draft" and "publish" buttons last night. I got all talking shit about lots of shit and even now, even though the thoughts came out of my own little mind, I cannot follow the train of thought.

Random Mitch Hedberg: I want to be a rebellious McDonald's owner. Cheeseburgers... NOPE... we got spaghetti!!

I always take it too hard when someone famous (usually comedians, as they're really the only people I know of that talk about random shit like this) likes something I don't - I feel kind of confused and lost, like when I'm at someone's house and notice they don't drink the same kind of milk as I do. I'm like, "Who are you people?"

So, Mitch Hedberg. Now, I don't know if he liked spaghetti a lot or if it was mentioned simply because it sounded funnier than, say, Steak Ums, but I was kind of perturbed thinking that he was all liking spaghetti. Because I don't. He also mentions bananas, which I dislike. And toast! Eddie Izzard is a fan of the toast, as well, which seems odd to me. I'm too lazy for toast. It's not that I dislike it but I don't eat it if I have to make it myself. Too many steps, and too much mess, for the sake of some crunchy bread. Ya know? Like, if I had an open flame in my home and could put bread on a stick like a marshmallow I may eat it, but when you have to get specialized appliances involved it becomes a full-on process. I can't bring myself to do it. If I were rich I'd employ a full-time toast making person and die in my giddiness at not having to make toast. But I doubt that day will ever come, so it's a life of toast-free for me.

For a while I thought that comedians were using toast as an example to show that they're really broke, and they have to make a meal out of bread, but I don't believe that for a second. I was unbelievably poor for a great few years and I rarely bought bread. Do you realize how many slices are in a loaf of bread? It's insane - you buy a loaf, that shows a level of commitment that I am simply not comfortable with making. Even those bright dots on the bag aren't enough to inspire purchase. They don't make them in personal, individual-sized loaves, either. You have to buy a great big fuck-off loaf of bread. I do not eat enough bread to make that kind of purchase worthwhile.

Then you have to have something to put on the bread, like butter or jam or honey or somethin, and those were items I never bought while poor, either.

Conclusion: comedians aren't poor. They just really like toast, and aren't afraid to tell you about it. I believe it's a metaphor for something. The end.

I checked out The ONE Campaign because Brad Pitt told me so. That's not true - it was because of Tom Hanks, the most trusted voice in Hollywood today. Tom Hanks.

I don't know what came over me, I think it was the sight of Dave Matthews (aka My Future Baby Daddy But He Ain't Know It Yet) on a deck chair or learning that Michael Stipe was left-handed (I think I knew that but had forgotten it, and I don't know why I care anyway) but I signed the petition and came really close to ordering the bracelets before I went, "Bitch, what the fuck you do?" Because once you buy one of those bracelets, for any cause, you can never again honestly say that you've never bought one of those bracelets. This is an important thing to me, and here I was, ready to throw it away all willy-nilly. It was terrible, in a very nillying of the willy kind of way.

What else is terrible is how Bono has co-opted the word "One" to reflect his sense of "unifying" "outrage" over whatever the fuck he's outraged about these days. I don't even know anymore.

Used to be a day when a Bono joke was out of my mouth before I realized I'd even formed the words. Not anymore. I'm too lazy to give a shit. I'm more like, "If you crinkle the top of the bag down really tightly and threw it under-hand, I betcha you could pitch me that bag of tasty Doritos and neither of us would even have to stand up, let alone walk anywhere." That's the visual of Bono these days. He's very "throw me that bag of Doritos". You can steal that line if you want - in fact, I insist. "Are you talking about Bono? That guy's a throw me that bag of Doritos. Sho' nuff!"

Do not sign the petition for the One campaign. It's little more than bringing politics in through the back door under the heady auspices of Ending Poverty! and Using Our Voices! to Unify Society Against This Tragedy! No it's not - that's a lie. It's a thumb placed gently at the side of the nose of Hollywood to the current administration and foreign policy - a scared little thumb against a timid little nose, indeed. But they'll never say that, will they? Tom Hanks can't just stand up and go, "Hey, ya know something? Fair trade rules are vital to the global economy and, while I'm thinking on it, perhaps there should be a meaningful cancellation of debt for sub-Saharan Africa as well as other impoverished nations, regardless of America's relationship with their governments. While we're chatting here, how's about we put our heads together and come up with a plan to heal the fractured infrastructure of places like Zimbabwe, Malawi and Liberia? How 'bout it, guys? I'll bring the delicious frosty milkshakes and you can draft a foreign debt relief bill."

Nope. Instead, the likes of Toby fucking Mac say, "Hey, let's make it look like we have nothing meaningful to add to the solution apart from our fame and sign this paper. It'll be great photo op, and the timing couldn't be better because I'm finally happy with how my soul patch has filled out."

Remember back in the day when Eddie Vedder's main cause was keeping concert ticket prices fair by selling outside of the Ticketmaster conglomerate? Stop the Ticketmaster hate machine! It's oppressing the fuck out of concert-goers! Oh, and let's get rid of African orphans...wait, what?...oh, yeah, I guess your way is good, too. As long as we can do something about these questionable statistics that we take at face value and never consider the underlying root cause - that's all I'm really after.

"Efforts" such as this are the very reason no one really gives a shit when someone famous has something to say about politics or foreign policy. They done gone and shot theyself in the foot, maw! They made their bed, now they have to lie in it. And sign petitions with Switchfoot.

I like being unfamous - which is very different than infamous - because when I voice my politics there are, literally, dozens and dozens of people that don't email me their outrage or distress over my opinion. I can't count the number of people who never come up to me on the street to tell me that I should keep my nose out of politics and just talk about anal sex or funny things my kids have said or else they'll boycott my blog. It really gives me that warm, "not doing shit about the problem" kind of feeling, ya know?

A poli-sci professor once said of me, when I missed class, "Her presence is made notable by her absence" and I thought that was one of the most horribly awesome things anyone has ever said of me. Horribly awesome and fantastically terrible, all rolled into one little "ain't she an asshole?" package. I'm a very blessed woman.

You know what the best part of this "One" campaign is? All of the real leg-work involved (and I'm not talking "leg work" as in "Hey, there's Angelina Jolie in a refugee camp, just walking around like a normal person! Why, she's Not Like The Other goodwill ambassadors - she even adopted a Cambodian baby!" kind of leg work) is done by...wait for it...the very same Christian organizations that most benefit from some of the most bizarre faith-based legislation our country has ever seen. Take that, um...someone!

Ah, I love the smell of subversion in the morning! Smells like...Cambodian refugees.

Actually, I'm being rather disingenuous here. The truth is, I don't really want Dave Matthews to make babies with me. I just want to practice with him a lot.

mary with the cherry done popped her cork

I first read this headline as "Virgin Mary seen in shit stain on underpass" and spent a good ten minutes trying to imagine the acrobatics and sheer intestinal volume required to produce such a visage. I wondered what the crazy homeless man/teenage boy who came up with the idea of taking a shit on the wall first thought when he finally removed himself from his ornate shitting-on-the-wall contraption (I imagined a complex rope and pulley device) and saw that it looked like the Virgin Mary. I submit that the first words uttered from his mouth were "holy shit!"

And he was right. It was, indeed, a holy shit. The holiest of all the holy shits in my or your lifetimes.

My favorite part of the whole story was this line: The Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Chicago had not received any requests to authenticate the image as of Monday, spokesman Jim Dwyer said. The funniest part of this line is the inclusion of the phrase, "as of Monday". As though a request for authentication could be forthcoming and, indeed, taken seriously.

I picture a priest being gingerly led to the stain, which was covered by a sheet, by a Chicago police officer who grimly pulls down one corner of the cover. The priest swallows hard and averts his eyes, perhaps in denial of what he's seeing, and says in a trembling voice, "Yes, officer - it's her", all in shock at having seen the body of the Virgin Mary. When he returns to his church and is asked to confirm having seen her, he bitterly chokes out, "They found her under an overpass!" and everyone is in shock because it's all so undignified.

What was she doing under the overpass, anyway? And at night, alone?!? Was she on drugs, do you think? Or maybe...no, it's too horrible to contemplate it...was she with a man? No, couldn't be. Not our Virgin Mary, not my Virgin Mary! She should have never left that tortilla in Mexico City. I told her and told her, but did she listen? Oh, she was just so stubborn!

Then everyone sits around, eating and gossiping, because no one rocks a wake like Catholics rock a wake.

Actually, Jews are much better at doing death than anyone, but we'll never get our moment in the sun because no one has any idea what Moses even looked like.

I'm waiting for Heston's face to show up in a bagel. Then it will be our time to shine, bitches.

And, yes, I know this whole post is based on the faulty premise that it was Mary's body that was found, but that's a whole hell of a lot funnier than a bunch of Catholics praying to little more than a physical testament of Chicago's crappy roadworks department.

But then again, if that's all we're looking at here...well, then it's just fucking hilarious.

yo momma so broke, her bologna don't even HAVE a name

I was informed the other day by Grandmaster Sol (or "Grand Mal", as he's known for short) that he hasn't understood a word I've said in my last few posts, and somehow believes that others may share his affliction (which is commonly referred to as "not being Natalie, thus, unable to understand a flipping word that's posted here"). So instead of getting all real up in yo grill I'll instead revert back to my standard non-linear (because linear thought is for chumps) manner of speaking. Which is different than my recent non-linear (because linear thought is for chumps) manner of speaking in that I use the words "yo" and "dawg" with an alarming frequency. In a manner of speaking.

Please do try to follow along, as there will be a quiz later.

I love, love, love the fact that I've received so much attention and so many emails over the comment in my last post about the half-midget chick who grabbed my crotch. That's really hilarious to me. I also love, love, love how not a single one of you bitches said anything about the federal charges pending against me, of which there are many. A great costly many, bitches! All y'all are just damn lucky that I'm not posting this from a cell in Cuba, but do you care? Nope. All you care about is the midget chick who grabbed my crotch. A pox on your houses, apartments, and other miscellaneous units of dwelling, all of ye!

At any rate, I can't discuss the case because my representative from the ACLU has advised against it until the case goes to trial - you'll probably be reading about it in the New York Times then, anyway, and won't need me to fill in the details. (I bet you're all interested now, aren't ya? Aren't ya, bitches? But noooo, too late now. You had your shot and you missed it. Bitches.)

After nearly a decade of contemplation I'm ready to make a definitive public declaration: Modest Mouse is the greatest band of all time. Don't even try to argue - just shut up and listen, yo. (Sorry for that last "yo", and also for the "y'all" up there, and any other afrocentric rap-esque word or phrase that has been shamefully co-opted by folks like myself that I may have used in this post. I'm trying to stop but it's just so damn addictive!) I've painstakingly studied their entire discography and have determined that it's pretty much better than anything you've ever done.

Right-click and save as, bitches. Listen now and thank me later:

• Never Ending Math Equation (~ 5mb) - Building Nothing Out of Something, 1999


• Gravity Rides Everything (~ 4mb) - Moon Over Antarctica, 2000 (Easily one of the top ten best albums of all time, and by far the best Modest Mouse has ever done.) (This song was in a Nissan commercial but you can just suck it, yo. Don't hate the playa, hate the game. The game that involves selling one of the best songs in the world to the folks at Nissan to use in an advertisement for their fine automobiles. Nissan - for when you care enough about the safety of your family to buy a car whose ad uses the first riff of song wholly unrelated to anything even vaguely automotive in nature whatsoever. Nissan.) (I think it was also used in a beer commercial once, too, but eh, am I right?)


• Bukowski (~ 5mb) - Good News for People Who Love Bad News, 2004

I actually quite enjoy a bit of old Buk (rhymes with "puke") but I enjoy the song even more because, come on, who would want to be such an asshole? Not I, good sir. Not I.

In an entirely unrelated topic (as if there was ever any flow up in this bitch) you'll note that I'm now currently minding the business of none other than the lovely Vero Vagabond. I heart her. If she were meeces I'd hates her to pieces but, thankfully, she's not. She does, however, rock the ever-loving shit out of turkey legs and floral crowns...simultaneously. She's the only person I know who has even attempted such a feat, let alone succeeded. Behold:

Vero Vagabond sez: My sneezes always come in conjugate pairs, like imaginary numbers!

She's the teeny tiny little (and younger) sister of the dude that everyone's blaming for my marriage problems, Alfie. Well, not everyone is blaming him - only the idiots. And you really are being idiots, you know. I won't apologize for the fact that he's the best friend I have, and I won't be party to any stupid little blame game that some people want to play. If all else fails blame it on me, as the song goes. And that's all I'm going to say about all of that. That, and Alfie looks like he smells like cafeteria food. Dunno, man - just something about the dude.

And as if this post didn't offer enough (as IF!) I'm going to pass on a little somethin' sumpthin' for all you bitches in the Twin Cities - courtesy of Orbitron Ron (who doesn't play for the Saint Paul Saints (so don't ask him) but does beat the ever-loving shit out of unrepentant fax machines) I give you a link to a super-dee-dooper Saint Paul Saints dealie-o: go here and enter the password "blog" and you will get a general admission ticket to the St. Paul Saints vs. Fargo-Moorhead game on Monday, June 13th, a drink, hot dog and baseball cap all for $8. You can't beat that deal with an unrepentant fax machine! (Dude, I've been up all night - I haven't the foggiest idea of what I speak.)

Happy A of the M, bitches!

ephedra free for me!

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)

blogrolling can suck a long fat one

So I knew my little membership was about to expire (which I got for free for two years for being an "early adopter" - thanks, Jason!) but I totally didn't want to pay the $20 to renew it. I'm all like, "I'll just hard code the links when the time comes" and forgot about it.

But guess what? Now I totally can't even get into my old 'rolls to copy the links!

I'm stuck, because I sure as hell can't remember everyone I'd blogrolled. Plus, my connection times out after a mere ten minutes, so I can only add in small batches.

I'm going to try to find them all again, but in a week or so if you're still not up there and feel you should be just drop me an email or whatever. And if I do forget you, don't take it personally, as I believe my body has begun to digest big chunks of my brain to make up for the general lack of so-called "food" in my system. I swear, my thought process is so screwy that my brain must resemble swiss che---hey, let's go ride bikes!

(That was a lazy joke I just bastardized right there - it's supposed to go, "How do you know if you have ADD? Hey, let's go ride bikes!" but I changed that bitch right up, I did.)

What was I talking about? Ah, yes - sleep.

zzzzzzzzzzz

i ain't no drama baby mama

It has come to my attention that a number of all y'all out there have been talking "smack" about me and my "bidness". In fact, some of you are even "hatin'" and have the nerve to "be gettin' all up in my grill".

With these facts in mind, I cordially invite you to remove yourself from the immediate vicinity and make love to your own person in a solitary fashion.

In case you need a street translation, that means "go fuck yourself".

Look, I don't want it to be like this so I seriously suggest that you take two giant bunny leaps back, assess the situation and get a grip. You can't possibly know the full story about what's going on because I sure as shit haven't been talking to you...and it stands to reason that the person you're getting your information from just might be painting things with a, shall we say, skewed perspective.

And, by the by, don't even try to paint me out to be some monster by saying shit like you don't want to do anything to bring about my "malice" or whatever the fuck that was all about. Create drama in your own life because honestly? I cannot deal with even an ounce more. You have no clue how I'm living.

I'm giving you a chance to straighten the fuck up and back off before I go all kinds of bat shit. I seriously suggest you think long and hard about your next move.

I don't want to shit where I eat, I really don't, and I have very little energy left to waste on assholes, but I can only let the chatter and lies and misconceptions go on for so long. I've been way more patient than can reasonably be expected of someone in my situation. Or, indeed, any situation.

Grow up and shut up.

(PS - Obviously, if you don't know what I'm talking about, then I'm obviously not talking about you. But you are more than welcome to watch.)

eff why eye

In case anything happens to the old bloggo here please note that demonthighs.blogspot.com will, once again, become my new transitional home. Ya might want to make a note of the url, just in case.

quote du jour

"Fine, have it your way. Just don't come crying to me when you explode the ever-loving-shit out of your stupid face."

-- My father, after I told him to kiss my ass for trying to pull the cigarette from my mouth while I was changing the spark plugs in my truck.

It's my stupid face, and I'll explode it if I want to.

"I think pickles are cucumbers that sold out. They sold their soul to the devil...and the devil is dill" - Mitch Hedberg

You know you're getting old when you see some hot young thing and the first thing you think is "Damn...what I wouldn't give to have pores like that again!"

I have these crazy wicked badass diet pills that are illegal in the US (but not in Canada, so nyeh, yah hoser) that contain dextroamphetamine (amphetamine, hooray!), but they also contain phenylpropanolamine (pheny...um, "chemical that causes random strokes", boo!). I was debating whether or not the reward was worth the risk but got side-tracked with something else, then noticed the pills sitting there and totally popped one without even thinking about it. I popped the shit out of that little pill. I see pill, I pop pill - it's just how I roll. So if I have a stroke later, you'll know why.

People will be all like, "Damn, that's so sad she had that stroke...and just when she finally got this room so clean. I bet she was going to clean her truck next, but now we'll never get to know what color the carpet is in the thing. Life is so cruel!"

I really hope that pill doesn't interact with all of the crystal meth I've been eating. Just kidding! I'm on a diet so I don't eat anything.

I'm not really on a diet. I take the pills for energy, which is also why I slam my body weight in Full Throttle twice daily. I'm too poor to buy real drugs, and that's probably the saddest thing I've ever said in my life.

About the union...brothas get up in some messed up shit, yo, some messed up shit. It's like joining a legal gang, and I've already inherited a beef because of my associations! I feel so Eminem.

Speaking of Eminem...



...but I still love him anyway. Thugs need birthdays, too, with cake and...Alf. I've decided that I'm going to start rapping again because now my dope rhymes will have a greater depth of experience than the ones I wrote when I was ten where I made fun of the Irish by saying they were so dirty they needed their own special soap. Irish Spring, y'all!

When I spit it my lyrics will be hard and edgy but silly as all get out. (Note to self - it's neither "hard" nor "edgy" to use phrases like "as all get out". There is no such thing as a Minnesotan rapper, dawg, so drop that shit, aight?)

Quit eavesdropping on my internal dialogue, would ya? Damn, you're a nosy little thing. (Speaking of - if you email me, use this one from now on. I share a computer with the fam damily now and they always be all up in my bidness, yo.)

I'd really like to call out 50 Cent for being such a phenomenal prick, even though he's Em's boy, but all I can come up with is a very David Spade-esque, "Yeah, 50 has that new hit song 'Candy Shop' with Olivia...I liked this song back when he sang it with Lil' Kim and called it 'Magic Stick'." Not a very good slam, but it'd still probably get me shot.

My sister said, "Nico needs his diaper changed; he smells like crack." No, that's not true - I said it, not her, but I didn't want to admit that I made that joke. But then I totally just did. I totally just did. Sigh.

I wanted to time my final trip to Minnesota (final? ha! I feel like Mick Jagger for as many times as I've taken my "final" trip to Minnesota) to coincide with the visitation of Mitch Hedberg but it didn't happen because I'm too poor. (See reference above.) I wish I'd have at least been in town to clip his obit from the paper or something. Dude was a genius, man.

I first read about his death, like the death of every other famous person I've ever loved, at Mike's place. I'm going to have to straight-up drop him from my 'roll, dawg. Shit's getting eerie. I'm beginning to think that he's somehow involved.

If I had to sum up the essence of Mitch Hedberg to some unfortunate soul who's never had the pleasure of knowing his stand-up, I would quote them this line:

If I was a locksmith, I'd be pimping that out, man. I'll trade you a free key duplication for... That joke made me laugh before I could finish it, which is good, because it had no ending.

Aw, fuck it - here are some more:

I opened up a container of yogurt, and under the lid it said "Please Try Again" because they were having a contest I was unaware of. But I though I might have opened the yogurt wrong…or maybe Yoplait was trying to inspire me. "C’mon, Mitchell, don’t give up. Please try again." A message of inspiration from your friends at Yoplait - fruit on the bottom, hope on top.

I was at this casino minding my own business and this guy came up to me and said, "You're gonna have to move, you're blocking a fire exit." As though if there was a fire, I wasn't gonna run. If you're flammable and have legs, you are never blocking a fire exit.

I never joined the army because "at ease" was never that easy to me. Seemed rather uptight still. I don't relax by parting my legs slightly and putting my hands behind my back. That does not equal ease. "At ease" was not being in the military. I am at ease, bro, because I am not in the military.

The depressing thing about tennis is that no matter how much I play, I'll never be as good a a wall. I played a wall once. They're relentless.

I'm sick of following my dreams. I'm just going to ask them where they're going and hook up with them later.

I can't get into flossing, I can't. People who smoke say you don't know how hard it is to stop smoking. Yes I do. It's as hard as it is to start flossing. You seem jittery. Yeah, I'm about to floss.

One time a guy handed me a picture of himself and he said. "Here's a picture of me when I was younger." Every picture of you is when you were younger. Here's a picture of me when I'm older. How'd you pull that off? Let me see that camera.

I get the Reese's candy bar. If you read it, there's an apostrophe. The candy bar is his. I didn't know that. Next time you're eating a Reese's and some guy named Reese comes up to you and says, "Let me have that" you better give it to him. "I'm sorry Reece, I didn't think I would ever run into you."

I order a club sandwich all the time. And I'm not even a member. I don't know how I get away with it. "I like my sandwiches with three pieces of bread." "So do I - let's form a club." "Okay, but we're gonna need more stipulations." "Yes we do. Instead of cutting it once, lets cut it again." "Yeah, four triangles. And we shall dump chips in the middle!" "Let me ask you something - how do you feel about frilly toothpicks?" "I'm all for them."

And my absolute favorite one of all time...

When you go a restaurant on the weekends it's busy so they start a waiting list. They say "Dufrane, party of two, table ready for Dufrane, party of two" and if no one answers they'll say the name again, "Dufrane, party of two". But then if no one answers, they'll move on to the next name. "Bush, party of three." Yeah, but what happened to the Dufranes?!? No one seems to care - who can eat at a time like this? People are missing. You people are selfish. The Dufranes are in someone's trunk right now with duct tape over their mouth and they're hungry. That's a double whammy! We need help! Bush search party of three...you can eat once you find the Dufranes.

RIP, bro.