A gross act of plagiarism, but what the hell

My special pal Readbecca has this gear was of recounting journeys, and I am going to shamelessly steal it for the purpose
of recounting my cross-country adventure last week. So, sit back, relax, and let the magic flow like sweet honey all over your fine ass:

Level of stress at onset of journey: medium, but in a shell-shocked, glazy-eyed kind of way
Number of cats in backseat: 2
Number of pitiful meows that made me feel like a real jerk: 10
Time spent driving through Virginia: damn-near all of it
Number of cell phone calls made to breakup the boredom: 5
Number of conversations with Dallas ex-patriots in Manhattan: 1
Number of showtoons belted out at full volume: 37
Number of Lewis Black CDs listened to: 1/2
Number of Jim Gaffagan CDs listened to: 1
Number of stops for gas: 2, although one was just an excuse to buy candy and pee. I like candy.
Most interesting thing seen while in VA: nothing in VA is that interesting. But, the fall foliage was quite lovely
Level of relief at entering Tennessee: high
Number of McDonalds patronized on day 1: 2
Name of hotel for first night: Residence Inn
Number of hours on the road: 10.25
Best feature of said hotel on day 1: ice cold beer in the lobby
Time Blogda finally got into bed: 11:00 p.m.
Time Blogda woke up for the free breakfast: 8:30 a.m.
Items consumed at said breakfast: eggs, potatoes, 2 muffins, OJ
Number of midgets also eating breakfast: 3
Number of additional midgets seen in parking lot: 1
Fields of cotton passed: 4
Number of signs for the Loretta Lynne Coal Miner's Daughter Museum: 7
Number of signs for the Pearl History Museum: 5
Level of temptation to stop at both museums: high (like your's wouldn't be)
Number of Dairy Queens patronized on day 2: 2
Number of Dairy Kings scoffed at: 1 (I only have room in my heart for one dairy sovereign, and her name be Dairy Queen! Long live the Queen!)
Level of excitement at entering Arkansas: none
Number of scary rubes who eyeballed Blogda at the gas station: 9
Amount that Blogda dislikes Arkansas: titanic
Amount a relief when crossing into Texas: immense
Number of rad electrical storms viewable in the distance: 2
First sign that Blogda wasn't in the Mid Atlantic States no more: Barbecue joints, everywhere
Number of hours on the road for day 2: 10.5
Number of days the journey took: 2
Number of stops at drugstores for Bengay and Thermacare wraps for my aching back and neck: 1
Number of states driven through on said journey: 4 (although, it would be a solid 5 if DC ever got statehood. Taxation without representation bitches!!!
Amount of relief at being back in Big D: partly cloudy, with a chance of sunshine later on in the week.

Homeward bound

Well kiddies, things have been awful turbulent as of late. My Mother fell and completely severed her rotator cuff in 2 places, as well as some happy little fellow called "the Labrum". She tripped over their fat little dog Desiree. So, I went down to Dallas for a week to help take care of her, and let me tell you what, there is something very humbling about bathing your own Mother. And, after all that, my Dad needs to have heart surgery again. So...I'm moving back to Big D. With a quickness. In fact, my movers are coming in less than 2 weeks, so that means a few things: a. I'm selling all my furniture (save my sweet, sweet bed) and b. I'm purging most of my other crap. If you need any crap, let me know, I'll give you a good deal on it.

People keep asking me if I'm looking forward to moving back, and that's not an easy question for me to answer. It's a bittersweet homecoming for me; while I'll squeal with delight when I think of going to huge-ass grocery stores, I'll miss the crazy bus people and the amazing weather DC has. I'll also be leaving some truly cool folks in DC, so I'll be lonely for them in Dallas. But, what can you do, eh? On the bright side, back in Texas I'll actually get to meet men who aren't dwarfed by my incredible height of 5'7". No foolin', I'm like an Amazon here...it's freaky.

I'm so bad, I kick my own ass two times a day

I had to put some hurt on a fool today because of something mind-blowing that happened to me this morning. There's this squad of telemarketers that are trying to get me to buy pills from them, I think I was feeling fat one day and signed up for some diet websites to look at crap like TrimSpa and stuff, and apparently these dick-less sacks of shit got my number from them. Note to self: make up fake numbers for surveys. Any who, these assholes have been calling me 3-4 times a week, at my work number, and every time I hear from them, I say "no thank you" to their offer, then hang up. They fuckers won't go away. I have also tried "no thank you, please take me off your list, you guys call me all the time and I don't want your product no matter how cheap it is." I also ask to speak to their manager, but nothing seems to turn these folks off of me. They turn-up like a frickin' bad penny, man. So, this morning, I was already having a crap day, and these fuckers decided to call me. I asked to speak to the manager, who, in heavily accented, very broken English, tells me his name is "Sam". Now, if this dude's name is "Sam", I'm a 10ft tall sock puppet named Raphael. So "Sam" tells me that he can't take me off the list, he doesn't have the authority. To which I reply with "Bullshit Sam, take me off your list. What you're doing is against the law, you have to take me off the list now that I have requested that you do so." He keeps jibber-jabbin' at me, and I get increasingly louder, and louder. Bear in mind, I'm at work...and I'm in a cube with completely open walls. So, he keeps telling me he can't take me off the list, I keep telling him he's full of shit, then the stupid fucker calls me "baby". This get's me even more mad."Did you just call me 'baby'? Who do you think you're talking to? How dare you! What makes you think that you calling me 'baby' will make me want your shit? Take me off your damn list!" He thinks he's cute, so he keeps throwing in "baby" and "darling" now, and every time he does, I get more and more furious. Then he says he can take me off the list, if I pay him $200. "$200? You want me to PAY YOU $200 to get off this list? That's extortion! You're actually trying to extort money from me! That's illegal, SAM!" This gets me nowhere, but now I have an audience of 3 of my cube neighbors. Sam and I go back and forth for another few minutes, and he keeps trying to get me to pay him off. Then he says "why should I take you off my list?" I reply "cause I will NEVER, EVER GIVE YOU ANY MONEY!!!! EVER!!! Calling me is a waste of your time and mine. Take me off your fucking list!" The next thing Sam says is absolutely mind-blowing. "You should come over tonight". "What? Are you asking me to come over?" I reply. Then, Sam tells me he'll give me $500 if I come over to his place tonight. I say "What the fuck are you talking about? Now you want to pay me to come over and yell at you tonight? Are you kidding me? You like being yelled at that much? Take me off your damn list!" Then Sam says he loves it when I yell at him, and he'll give me $500 to fuck him tonight. This is really just too much for a lady of my sensibilities. "Now you want to give me $500 to fuck you tonight? Are you masturbating? What the fuck Sam! Take me off your list!" Then, trying a new tactic, I say "I'm recording everything you say Sam". This turns him on even more. Then, at the suggestion of my cube neighbors, I put the fucker on speaker phone. He keeps going for a few seconds, then I tell him he's on speaker phone, and he hung up. Yelling at him was momentarily satisfying, but that son of a bitch is going to call me tomorrow. I hate Sam.

The Hell Mouth in my building

The trash chute in my building scares the ever-lovin' crap out of me. Normally, I fear any holes in walls or floors that are so deep and black that you can't see the other side of the wall or the bottom of the pit. And if the hole/pit gives off a chilly wind...boy howdy...I can't get away from it fast enough. I can't sleep in a place where one of these holes exists...cause God only knows what the hell is going to climb out of the holes when you're not looking. It may be the undead...it may be gigantic cockroaches...nothing good EVER crawls out of these types of holes. Think about it, have you ever heard of ponies or bags of money crawling out of a hole like this? Fuck no! Anyway, whenever I stumble on one of these holes/pits, I consider it a Hell Mouth, and I stay the fuck away from it. This usually isn't problematic, but this fear of mine has come to include the trash shoot at my apartment building. It's always given me the willies, but lately it's bugged me even more. To get to the trash chute, there's this doorway in the hall of my floor called "Disposal Room" (I suppose we also call the garage a "car-hold"). When you open the door, you are now in the beast's liar...and the hair on the back of your neck will stand up. The room is about the size of a walk-in closet, and the shoot door is the furthest thing in the room from the door. They've also rigged the light switch to go on when anyone walks in the room...but sometimes it doesn't work....so I can't go in there. So, assuming the light is on, you walk over to the shoot door with your refuse, and when you open the chute door, gird your loins, cause you're about to witness the unholy. This trash chute smells like what I imagine a forsaken child's tears must smell like...and it is completely and utterly pitch-black. I mean...completely black...not from paint, or goo from other people's trash...black from evil. And even though the chute is only big enough to accommodate a small-sized trash bag...I still get scared that I might fall in. And if I fell down into the trash chute, I would try to swallow my tongue so I could die before I hit the ground and had to face whatever dwells within it. That thing scares me...a lot. Maybe I can steal some holy water and carry it with me when I need to take out the trash.

Spelling is hard

The good Lord does not wish me to spell certain words. If he did, he'd have given me the ability to do so. The "list of the damned" grows every year, sometimes exponentially. And the sad thing is, I always think I have a chance to get the word right. I try so hard...but I'm like a puppy in that regard. Good-naturedly trying so hard, but invariably ending up pissing on the carpet anyway. And being surprised by it. So far, the list includes:

Museum
Restaurant
Guard
Inconvenient
Misspelled (funny, eh?)

I guess I could take the pussy way out, and blame my dyslexia, but I ain't about that. Damn, I should add "dyslexia" to the list, cause you know I can't spell that shit either. God bless the good people who created Spell-check. They are Angles from Heaven. I bet most of my handwritten text is misspelled to some degree or another, but it just seems like spelling is something I don't need to concern myself with. Kind of like long division. I mean, why bother the learn how words are constructed when every computer application I will ever need to use has a spell-check function? Sure, it's lazy of me, but also, kind of efficient. I mean, why waste that brain space on spelling when I could use it to know all the lyrics to "Sister Christian"? Come on, you know I'm right.

You dig me!?

I've been thinking about my Pop a lot lately. He's been on my mind cause he's been having some health problems, but he's okay now. And let me tell you, my Pop is cool as hell. He's got a really twisted-weird sense of humor that me and my brother both get, but that baffles my Mom. And he's a damn good person too, so it's pretty easy to love him. But one of the coolest things about my Pop is that he incorporates slang or popular gestures from a few years ago into his vernacular. It's charmingly embarrassing to watch. For instance, about 4 years ago, my Pop all the sudden stuck his fist out for a "pound" when I was at his house. Stunned, but also a little impressed, I gave him a "pound". So that was cool (even though "pounding" had been deemed passé years earlier), but my favorite of his appropriations reared it's head when my brother and I were really young. Back in like, 1982-1983 times, Pop was yelling at us for one thing or another (we could be complete pricks back then, so I'm sure we deserved it)...but, end his yelling, he says, really loudly,"YOU DIG ME!!??" Holy shit! "YOU DIG ME!!??" That phrase hasn't been cool since the mid seventies! And he was really pissed, so I could tell he really meant it. We had better goddamn dig him, if we knew what was good for us. It was so hard not to giggle at him, but I couldn't giggle...I think Pop would have exploded where he stood if I had even smiled. He was that mad. And, you really have to know my Pop to really appreciate how scary he is when he's yelling at you. He's 6'4", very solid, and he has these steely blue-gray eyes that could stop a man in his tracks. He has this one awesome expression where he just stares at you...without blinking...and he's not quite frowning, but not quite grimacing...but you know he ain't pleased...and he's dead silent...that one is great. It's what I call the "you're fired from the family" look. I've broken that one out myself in one or two circumstances, and it's highly effective when you're trying to make some one feel about 2 inches tall. Anyway, the point of that sidebar was to illustrate how damn imposing my Pop can be. So, picture that guy...yelling at you (and you're about 6 years old)...and he ends the rant with "YOU DIG ME!!??". That's funny. It's like all the badassness just drained out of the man the minute he uttered those words. But you can't laugh...that would be like asking him to destroy you. But secretly, I always laughed a little bit later. Behind his back. At the other end of the house. Into a pillow. My Pop is so cool, you know you're jealous.

It's official, I'm a good kisser

Something has been bothering me for a few years now: all my lady pals talk about how much they love wild, nasty tongue-kissing, but I've never been into it. This horrified my ladies. I mean, I really dig soft, little dry kissing, that's the bee's knees as far as I'm concerned, but I couldn't help but wonder why I never got that into real kissing. One of my girls suggested that maybe the problem was that I was a bad kisser, thus unable to enjoy the act itself. Now, Blogda is a chick, so of course she's insecure, and this idea seemed to have some merit. I mean, I really haven't kissed that many boys in my short life, so I really didn't have much of a basis for comparison. I've had bad kissers kiss me, so I know when someone really stinks at kissing me, and once in high school, I was kissed by a boy who made my knees go weak (that, my friends, was the shit). But, nothing about kissing since then has really revved my engine. My lady friends decided that I needed to get an outside opinion on me technique. Great idea, but the problem was that I was in a steady relationship with a dude at the time, and I didn't think he would be honest with me about my kissing prowess. I tried to get one of my lady friends to kiss me, but none of those skanks would do it (and I'm cute, so what gives?). They kept saying I should kiss another guy, but Blogda was with her gentleman friend at the time, so I couldn't just go kissin' on any fool just to test my theory. So, the assumption became that yes, I was a bad kisser, but it was never really confirmed. But, as they say, time changes everything. My gentleman friend and I parted ways a while back, and I was finally in a position to test the "bad kisser theory". A buddy of mine came onto me last night, and we got down. Again, I was not into the kissing. After the naughtiness, and without any prompting, he told me I was "a really good kisser" (he also said some other things that a lady won't repeat). So ha! I'm not a bad kisser, I just don't get into kissing...which is cool, cause I'm the shit.

6 things you hate about me

So, my pal Amber has tasked me with identifying "6 Things You Didn't Know About Me". Not being one to ignore a request by the Lady Miss Amber, here you go:

1.) I only eat M&M's in pairs of like colors. If I run out of like colors, I'll eat them in pairs of warm or cool colors (the brown ones are like wild cards, they go with whatever). I'm not psycho about this habit though, so don't call the OCD Police on me yet. If push comes to shove and I can't art-direct my treats, I'll eat M&M's out of a hobo's ass.

2.) Thanks to my ex, I can only sleep in pitch black rooms. Yeah, he got me used to this little habit, now I'm hooked. No drapes in my bedroom? I'll have a pair of stanky old drawers over my eyes...I can't abide by anything less than total darkness. The only exception being airplanes or cars on road trips, which leads me to my next fun fact:

3.) Upon embarking on a plane or road trip, I immediately fall asleep where I am sitting (unless I'm driving). It's some weird, conditioned response I've developed, I have no control over it whatsoever. I could be riddled with uppers and Jolt Cola, I'll still fall asleep once we hit cruising altitude.

4.) I have an unusually wide jaw. Now boys, don't get all sweaty yet, I didn't say unusually "big" I said unusually "wide", so I can't fit all your hot, hot cocks in my mouth all at once. But, when getting a dental impression done, the dental hygienist must find the biggest trays in the building to fit me. That's cool, right?

5.) I LOVE having me hair played with. I don't care who does it, I just need to have my hair touched, fingered-through, petted, scratched, brushed, twirled or whatever. There is nothing in the world that compares to it, I swear, my womb clenches when I am getting hair-play. When I die, I'm going to try to be reborn as a house cat.

So, there you go, I hope that was educational for everyone, the test will be next Thursday.

Look out DC, my vagina looks boss!

Well, at least that's what my waxer told me. Here's the deal, I'm going on vacation next week, so I decided to book a simple bikini wax for this Sunday, just to neaten up my jazz. It's all about the maintenance, baby. I've done that kind of thing before, so I knew what to expect. I go to the salon, and this nice, older lady named Violet introduces herself as my waxer, or "esthetician" as they like to be called. To me, that's like my job title at the Gap being “Denim Expert", when in reality, I was "Jeans Folder". Anyway, back to business. Now Violet has a very, very thick accent of unknown origin, so I'm only getting about 1/3 of what she's saying. But I smile and nod a lot, so we're getting along just fine. So, she gives me the paper underpants and I show her my special purpose (hopefully there's at least one "Jerk" fan out there who gets that euphemism). She squeals and says "Oh! We're going to haveso much fun!" And I swear to god, she claps a little. I’m getting a bit nervous now, cause the only fun I want to have downstairs doesn’t involve a middle-aged woman with hot wax on a stick. Apparently, "have fun" means she’s going to wax me into next week. Now, I'm not a hairy broad, so it really wasn’t that big a deal, but damn...it hurts! I was very macho and only squeaked a couple of times during the "unpleasantness", and this just made Violet laugh. After one of the squeaks, she goes, "oh...you're so cute!". Yeah…I’m freakin’ adorable here. So, after about 10 minutes, I am done. Violet is pleased. So pleased that she announces that I have a "beautiful area" now, and that my area "looks very sexy". Which is pretty righteous, cause she sees snatch all day long, and if mine looks good, then it must look good. That's like having a gourmand tell you that fried chicekn you just served was beyond compare. Now that my goods is lookin' good, all I need is a nice gentleman to paddle my canoe. Oooo! I’m a spicy bitch!

Boy, I sure don't want to see the new MIP

There's a basic rule in marketing that most people are aware of: if your product sucks, market the hell out of it in hopes to trick enough people into buying/seeing/using it. Movies are a great example. Remeber how anticipated that damn Godzilla remake was? And IT BLEW!!!! A lot. Of goats. With violence. But damn, they did some cool ads for it, so about half the world's population got suckered into wasting 10 bucks to see it opening weekend. With all that being said, damn that new Mission Impossible movie has got to suck. I mean, you can't swing a dead cat without hitting ads for that little turd. That all points to bad medicine, Kemosabe. Maybe Tome Cruise should let the promoting rest a bit and try just being a stay-at-home Dad for a while. And let the missus out of her cage for some fresh air, cause American is concerned about her well-being. Wow...even I feel gross about saying that, and I'm a bitch.

Guess who's my bitch now?

The Lower Back Extension Machine at Tenley Sport&Health, that's who. Man, I walked up to that machine and read the instructions, all ready to be intimidated. I sits down and adjusts the weight to be about 1/3 the stack, and I test out the machine. "Huh...this is pretty easy", I thinks. So I upped the weight to be about half the stack. Still too easy. I keep adding 20 pounds at a time, until finally, I have the whole stack, and I lift it. I am the fucking man! Ever see that scene in Unbreakable, where Bruce Willis' kid keeps adding weight while Bruce does bench presses...and then Bruce is like, "how much weight was that?", and the kid's like, "all of it." That's how I felt. Damn it feels good to be a gangsta.

Ah men...

...they are damn funny sometimes. My pal Wilksey and I have been doing the online dating thing for a while, Wilksey longer than I, and we have had some fantastically bad dates. In the scheme of things Wilksey has the best stories too. Por ejemplo: Wilksey met a dude from craigslist for coffee on Sat. morning. This dude and her have chatted online a bit, and have spoken on the phone (for an hour and a half), so they aren't complete strangers. So, she meets this guy at Starbucks, and immediately discovers he has lied about his height. Now, this is a common lie for men in the Mid Atlantic states. Generally speaking, a man will add 2-3 inches to his height in an effort to appear more macho. It's just a fact. If the dude says he's 5'9", he's lucky to be 5"6. Back to Wilksey's date. He claimed to be 5'8", but even if he grew 3 inches, Holmes ain't gonna be 5'8". Weird lie #1. Throughtout the course of conversation, he claims to have a photographic memory. That's pretty cool, right? I mean, II wish I had one of those...I'd go back to school and get mad degrees cause studying would be uneccessary...cause I'lll remember evrything and stuff. But here's the thing, this dude couldn't remember the simplest things about his and Wilksey's phone conversation. Things like he thought Wilksey had said she has 8 siblings, but she only has 1. Weird lie #2. Lastly, and this is the best, apparently he ate at every resteraunt in Bethesda Maryland, so some jaggoff wrote an article about him 2 years ago. Which is kinda cool, I guess, but instead of just telling Wilksey about this little fun-fact, he gives her a xeroxed copy of the article...and it was autoographed "L., Bon Appetite! Love Ron." THAT'S FUCKED UP!!! One can overlook the shortness and the weird lies about his memory, but what's with the damn autograph? What a freak! God bless online dating.

A Letter of Apology to the Patrons of Tenley Sport and Health

To Those it May Concern:

I deeply regret my actions at the Tenley Sport and Health's pool on Sunday, March 19 of 2006, and I wish that all of you would please accept my humblest apologies, as well as my assurance that similar incidents will never again occur. What I did was rude and certainly not conduct befitting a lady. Again, I apologize for not shaving my pits, then swimming for an hour with reckless regard for my fellow pool mates. I realize that was gross, and totally my bad. Please don't nickname me gorilla pits, or yeti girl. If you plan on nicknaming me, please make it a cool one.

Most Cordially,

Blogda

Coke with Coffee

So, I'm waiting for the bus this morning, as is my way, and I picked up a copy of a free daily paper called "Express". It's like the super-condensed version of the Wash. Post...and it's FREE! I like free stuff. Anyway, I'm pursuing the paper, and I see this small article titled "Coke with Coffee", and I was intrigued. The article is so damn funny, I had to share it. Enjoy:

Try singing "I'd like to buy the world a carbonated fusion beverage, and keep it company."We're not feeling the world peace. Coca-Cola Blak, which arrives in the U.S. on April 3, is an unholy (or "premium," as the company likes to say) blend of Coke and coffee. We did not obtain a sample of this abomination, but did run a simulation with office coffee and Diet Coke. Tastes like burning!

That's good stuff! And a Simpsons quote tucked in for us nerds too boot.

You know what's delicious?

Barbecue potato chips. Dang, they are tasty. I don't care what brand they are, BBQ chips are always tasty. I even like the Baked Lays variety. But my favorites are the regular Lays KC Masterpiece BBQ Chips. They complete me.

2 Stupid Broads

So, I'm in the locker room at my gym, and there are these 2 nymphettes in there with me. The 2 of them are both about 5 foot, maybe 20-21 years old, and their work clothes look like their club clothes. I've seen these chicks before, they're what we call cardio rats. You know the type, they hog the treadmill/stairmaster/elliptical trainier/mirror, but never really sweat much. I also thought the 2 of them were really one person cause I've never seen them together before (like David Banner and the Hulk). And they use the hair dryer for too long and make the locker room really hot. They bother the rest of us. A lot. Today, one of them actually put her bra on, on top of her towel...it was bizzarre. Why would you do that? But, the crowning moment of the morning is when Broad A said to Broad B "the more layers of clothes I put on, the hotter I feel...isn't that weird?" Wait a minute...the MORE clothes you wear...the WARMER you become?! What the fuck!? Are you kidding me?! Does the press know about this!?

Those broads sure are stupid. They bother me.

P.S. A girl a work with just walked by and cut one...a loud one.

Chronicals from the Can

Women who pee too long weird me out. I was in the can earlier, cause that's my style, and this broad was peeing when I got in the bathroom. She was still peeing when my business had been conducted, and I was washing my hands. That's a long pee. It must have lasted at least 30 seconds, and it was a constant stream. I mean, how does that happen? Ladies, what's the deal? Do you hold it for 3 days, then finally allow yourself to pee? Cause that's what it sounds like. What are you people, camels? The other thing that weirds me out is when it sounds like chick is using a fire hose in the next stall. The force of the urine stream must be titanic to make such a noise! Again, what's the deal? Is your pee-hole the size of a garden hose nozzle or something? Did you just chug 8 Big Gulps? It's all about moderation, ladies. Moderation is the key to happiness. Moderation in pleasure, pain and peeing. Words to live by people.

Blogda don't like her college-kid neighbors.

Those little shits are sooooooooooo loud, it drives me insane. Bear in mind, I don't live that close to a college, but the little fucks move in here anyway, cause they suck. There's this particular group of unctuous cunts that live on my floor in #501. There's at least 2 of them, maybe more, I can never tell which ones actually live there and which are squatters. It really doesn't matter, they're all going down. So, last Friday night, I was home, doing my taxes (I couldn't wait to do my taxes, cause I'm a nerd like that), and those little shits in #501 were having they selves a little party. It's about 11:30 in the pm, and I'm up to my eyeballs in W2s and receipts, and the noise coming from down the hall is driving me insane. I finally can't concentrate anymore, so I get up, and go into the hall in my pj'ed glory. I get to the door of #501 and knock graciously. Some makeup-choked creature with a bottle of PINK champagne in her hand opens the door with about5 of her giggling cohorts standing behind her. I imagine they we expecting someone else, but they got me. I says, very nicely, "I don't mean to be a dick here, but I need you to keep it down." "Okay" they say...but before they can get the door closed, 2 of them say "Oh...that poor girl". What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Poor girl? Girl? I am a wo-man...I can buy and sell your skanky asses! I'm damn-near 30 for fuck's sake...girl! Who the fuck are you to condescend to me? Fuck you, bitches in #501! But, at least the whore squad quieted down a bit. Until 1:30 am, that is. Yep, at 1:30, the boys came over, and screaming that made the first round of screaming sound reasonable happened. Now, this is really just too much. There's elderly people across the hall from me, and a family with a small child. Show some godamn respect, bitches in #501! I sat there (still doing my taxes, which rocked cause I got a wicked-fat refund!), and I waited for the screaming to stop. I waited for 5 minutes. I couldn't stands no more. I get up, go out my front door and go around the corned to confront the crowd. The bitches were hanging out of the front door, screaming at a squad of girls and boys that are in the stairwell. This is entirely too fucking much for me to handle. I says:

"Shut the fuck up!"
"Oh, we were just leaving."
"I don't give 2 shits! You need to shut the fuck up!"
"Okay, we're leaving/"
"SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!"

They shut the fuck up. But I still hate them, and they will have to go down.

Adolf Chaplin

There's this guy that works on my floor, and he looks like what would happen if Hitler and Charlie Chaplin had a baby. It's eerie. Sometimes, he rides the same elevator as me, and it's all I can do not to stare at this dude. He must get hassled all the time! I mean, he did this to himself...with growing that dumb moustache and all...but damn! Hitler Chaplin! I wish I could take his picture on the sly sometime, cause he's funny looking and he makes me laugh. But, at the same time, he scares me a little. He just might be evil. Maybe the Hitler part of him is too strong, you know? But, maybe the Charlie Chaplin part is the dominant one...that would be cool. What if he's planning to breed Uber Comedians in his spare time, which we all know is the purest Aryan comedy genius this planet will ever know. I mean, that might be cool, right? No...that would be cool, no question! As long as no genocide happens this time, cause let's face it, that was fucked up. But Uber Comedians...now that would be great! And what if Adolf Chaplin is like the Head Vampire of the Uber Comedians, the most powerfully funny of them all? All humor would originate from this one dude...and he would be on my floor! That would rock! Hail Comedy! Hail Adolf Chaplin! (throws right arm in air and clicks heels together...with violence).

An interesting take on Brokeback Mountain

So, I'm at the gym this morning, and I happen upon some of the trainers and their clients disucssing who's hotter, Brad Pitt or Joaquin Phoenix. Bear in mind that the trainers are both straight dudes, and the clients are both straight ladies. The one trainer named Brian, is absolutely beside himself because his client thinks Mr. Pitt takes second place to Mr. Phoenix. It's important to have a visual of Brian. Brian looks and sounds like Atabesee from OZ, minus the crazy eyes...if you don't watch OZ, Atabesee is this enormous, West African guy who can bench a Volkswagon. I mean, Brian was in a state. He kept asking "how can you tell me that Joaquin Phoenix is hotter than Bradd Pitt?" Finally, cause I'm a big mouth, I says "cause Brad Pitt is a skank who can't be satisfied, that's why." They all laugh, but Brian keeps at it. "how can he beat Bradd Pitt?" After about a minute and a half of this nonesense, I says "Well, Jake Gyllenhaal is hotter than both of them combined." The other trainer pipes in with "so that whole Brokeback Mountain thing didn't ruin him for you?" "Nope." I says as I smile. Brian askes what he means, and the other trainer says something about Brokeback Mountain being about the 2 gay cowboys. Brian's reply was so awesome, I had to leave the room. He said "Oh, the 2 gay guys? Well, that's cause they're white. A white guy will do that." AWESOME!!!! White guys, when left to there own devices, will go gay for eachother...according to Brian. In order to not laugh in his face, I had to leave the area, but I think he went on to tell everyone how black guys don't do that sort of thing, no matter how lonely they are, but white guys can't help it. That was so fanstatic!!! Brian is comedy gold.

Little known facts about Chuck Norris

My pal Harrison populated a similar list a few months back, and it pleased me greatly. Since then, and update to the list has become available, and I thought it would be just plain selfish to keep it to myself, so my little chickens, read, and learn:

If you can see Chuck Norris, he can see you. If you can't see Chuck Norris, you may be only seconds away from death. 

Crop circles are Chuck Norris' way of telling the world that sometimes corn needs to lie the fuck down. 

In the Bible, Jesus turned water into wine. But then Chuck Norris turned that wine into beer. 

Chuck Norris drives an ice cream truck covered in human skulls. 

Chuck Norris doesn't shower, he only takes blood baths. 

When Chuck Norris sends in his taxes, he sends blank forms and includes only a picture of himself, crouched and ready to attack. Chuck Norris has not had to pay taxes, ever. 

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is based on a true story: Chuck Norris once swallowed a turtle whole, and when he crapped it out, the turtle was six feet tall and had learned karate. 

Chuck Norris once challenged Lance Armstrong in a "Who has more testicles?" contest. Chuck Norris won by 5. 

There is no theory of evolution, just a list of creatures Chuck Norris allows to live.

In the beginning there was nothing...then Chuck Norris Roundhouse kicked that nothing in the face and said "Get a job". That is the story of the universe.

What was going through the minds of all of Chuck Norris' victims
before they died? His shoe. 

Chuck Norris grinds his coffee with his teeth and boils the water with his own rage. 

A Handicapped parking sign does not signify that this spot is for handicapped people. It is actually in fact a warning, that the spot belongs to Chuck Norris and that you will be handicapped if you park there.

Chuck Norris ordered a Big Mac at Burger King, and got one. 

Chuck Norris can slam a revolving door. 

There is no such thing as global warming. Chuck Norris was cold, so he turned the sun up. 

A high tide means Chuck Norris is flying over your coast. The tide is caused by God pissing his pants. 

Behind every successful man, there is a woman. Behind every dead man, there is Chuck Norris. 

Someone once videotaped Chuck Norris getting pissed off. It was called Walker: Texas Chain Saw Massacre. 

When Bruce Banner gets mad, he turns into the Hulk. When the Hulk gets mad, he turns into Chuck Norris. 

Chuck Norris invented the internet… just so he had a place to store his porn. 

The show Survivor had the original premise of putting people on an island with Chuck Norris. There were no survivors, and nobody is brave enough to go to the island to retrieve the footage.

Chuck Norris has two speeds: Walk and Kill. 

Chuck Norris’ sperm is so badass, he had sex with Nicole Kidman, and 7 months later she prematurely gave birth to a Ford Excursion. 

Chuck Norris doesn't say "who's your daddy", because he knows the answer. 

Human cloning is outlawed because if Chuck Norris were cloned, then it would be possible for a Chuck Norris roundhouse kick to meet another chuck Norris roundhouse kick. Physicists theorize that this contact would end the universe. 

The Route of the Damned

My pal Wilksey has this alternate route to Target, or so she says. Every time we try to go to the Target on Route 1, she tries to take us on this "better" route, which she swears is really fast...and guess what? We never, ever get to the Target as intended. Most of the time, we end up going to another Target on Hwy 50. And it takes her a minute to figure out that she's on 50, not on 1, so she curses and stuff for a bit, which is funny. Personally, I like that store on 50, so it's no skin off my back. But I am sick and tired of her wanting to go to the store on 1 and fucking up this "shorter, better" route! We were going to go to the infamous Route 1 Target on Weds. after work, and foolishly, Wilksey tries her route. I begged her, repeatedly, to just go the way we both know works, but she swears she has it under control. I reminded her that we have never had success with this route, but she would hear nothing of it. And guess what? WE DIDN'T GO THE RIGHT WAY, and we ended up downtown by the Washington Monument. Ain't no damn Target near the monuments...no sir, none at all. And I can't get mad at her, cause it really is funny when she does it, I just wish we could have one uneventful trip to that damn Target on Route 1.

I love spellcheck

Spell check is aces in my book. Not only is it highly functional, it's also an unexpected source of good times and humor. I love it when I get to add words to spell check's word bank. For instance, today I added "smellin' ". I've also added "bitchin' ", and "douche bag". I also like it when spell check tries to change a proper noun (usually someone's name) into some other, completely unrelated word. That's always fun. It tries to change my name "Bogda" into "Bogotá" all the time, which makes me feel very international and mysterious. It's also quite fun to have a word so crazy that spell check doesn't even have a suggestion for you. It's like spell check is throwing it's hands up in the air and saying "well...fuck if I know" to your word. Really long last names are good for this, like Ramakrishnan or Sweterlitsch. Good ole spell check, always good for a laugh.

You know what I hate? Tuna.

And some jerk is eating some near my cube...I can smell it. Well, honestly, I'm sure I'll be smelling it all week, cause the insensitive prick who's eating it is probably the kind of insensitive prick that would leave that tuna mess in his/her wastebasket instead of taking it to the kitchen trash. Which means, since no one ever changes the liner in the wastebaskets, that I'll be smellin' that cat's wet dream until I finally get used to it and stop noticing it...which may never come. So, tuna-eater, whoever you are: you need to be fucked...in the ass...by many people...with violence! I hate you, tuna-eater, I hope you get a rash.

Wicked Sweet Nickname

Here's the thing, I can nickname like a champion. I have penned such greats as Pedophile Steve, Uncool Mike, The Senator, The Smuggler, Geezer McGee, The Breather, Stinky (a.k.a. Smelly) and many, many others. But in all my years, no one has returned the favor. I mean, I get called Bogda all the time, but that doesn't count cause it's my last name, all this accomplishes is that I feel like I'm in gym class all the time. Long have I yearned for a sweet nickname, and finally, my dreams came true. My pal Panarelli nicknamed me A-Bomb yesterday, and I freakin' dig it. It makes me sound like an Ultimate Fighting Champion! If I ever start a band, I think it should be called A-Bomb and the Magnificent Seven. And we would rock you so hard, you'd lose control of your bowels. That's hardcore rock.

The Fat Man

So, I'm taking a bath last night, reading my book, minding my own beeswax, and I feel these eyes on me. Because I''ve been peeped at once before (when I was 13 or 14 years old, the yard guy peeped at me while I was in the tub; it was a weird combination of feeling really gross and feeling flattered), and becasue I believe in ghosts, I looked up to see what was what. There, sitting on my hallway rug, is my cat. Now, unless you've met my cat, you may not understand what magnificant sight he is. The Fat Man, also known as Flea, Big Stuff, Fatty and El Gato Guapo Hombre, is a gray and white housecat that weighs in at an impressive 20 pounds. Some of that mass is fattness, but he's also just a huge creature. He's not just a cat, he is a force. He also has really unusual green eyes that always look big and round like dinner plates. Back to the story. So, I'm in the tub, minding my own beeswax, and I feel this stare. The Fat Man is laying on the rug, giving me this stare that says ""what the fuck are you looking at?" It was then that I realized that my cat was cooler than me, and he knew it. This cat allows me to hang out with him, but almost in a condescending way, but I'm cool with that. I mean, it makes me cooler by association, right?

Giant pants

All of the closet doors in my place are now off their tracks. I have the uncanny ability to make this happen everywhere I live. If I could figure out how to get the dang things off the track and remove the doors entirely, that would be aces, but I can only managed to get the doors hopelessly stuck. Consequently, I have little to no access to any of my crap that lives in closets. And tons of shit lives in closets in my house. Alright, so the stage is set: location, my place, time of day, 11:30 in the PM. Bogda enters bedroom and curses the doors. She has to get pants from the closet to wear tomorrow, so she has to reach in the dark and grab whatever she can reach, because closet access has been denied. She crosses her fingers, dives in and grabs a pair of khakis that she thinks are her trusty pants from the Gap. Because it's late, and Bogda isn't paying attention, she can't really confirm that these are indeed the pants she intended to grab. She stuffs said pants in a backpack, along with a saucy orange sweater and a brown t-shirt, then goes to sleep. Next day: Bogda wakes up, puts on gym clothes, then heads out. The gym is across the street from Bogda's office, so a quick bus ride is involved. The workout goes smoothly, as does the shower afterward (except that Bogda secretly thinks no one who showers at the gym is actually getting clean, because the women just dash in and dash out...there's no way they have washed all their bits and pieces...which grosses Bogda out a bit). Makeup goes on, hair gets brushed and Bogda reaches for the pants. Shit Fuck Hell Damn! These are not the right pants. Bogda grabbed the biggest pants in the closet that also happen to have the shortest legs, and threw them into the backpack instead of grabbing the aforementioned trusty Gap khakis. Bogda thinks "oh, this won't be too bad, there only 2 sizes to big, I'll be cool." But no, the super big waist coupled with the super short legs proves to be just plain ridiculous looking. If Bogda walks fast, the pants fall down. If Bogda sits, the pant cuffs hit mid-shin. Good news is, she packed a belt. Bad news is, even with the belt, she looks like a jackass. Bogda hates her closet doors.