Tag! I’m it!: Musings on Pee, the Magic Cone, and Colonel Sanders

I have been tagged by hag extraordinaire and NOLA goddess, Cait:

The Rules: This is what’s up:

1. Link to the person who tagged you. (Yar.)

2. Post the rules on your blog. (Yar.)

3. Write six random things about yourself. (Only SIX?!?!?!?)

4. Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them. (Yar.)

5. Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog. (Yar, yo.)

6. Let the tagger know when your entry is up. (Yar.)

OK HERE WE GO!!!

1.    I bought a peacoat today. I will be able kill cold weather in the face whilst wearing this peacoat.

Behold!  My peacoat of death!

2.   I just put my shoes on, I’m really hungry, but I don’t know what I’m going to eat. On most days, I’m 10 blocks and one bad decision away from eating KFC.  It doesn’t help that my doggie day care place is next to KFC.

I could kick Colonel Sanders’ ass.  He’s a drunk mint julep drinkin’ bastard.

3.   I have a small bladder. I will often go an entire day without drinking the proper amount of water because I don’t feel like trudging to the bathroom every twenty minutes.  I drink an entire day’s worth of water between the hours of approximately 7 pm and 12 am.   I have a friend who calls me Tiny Tanks.

A different variety of tiny tank.  This one has an adjustable strap.

4.    My preferred alcoholic beverage of choice is scotch. I think that scotch complements my Tiny Tankitude quite nicely.   Scotch and my bladder are like peas and carrots.  Before my friend Sandeep introduced me to the Wide World of Whiskey, I used to drink beer.  I would go to bars.  And drink beer.   And I would pee.  And drink more beer.  And then pee again.  When I moved to LA, which has a shockingly dismal  “chick” to “bathroom” ratio, it got so bad that I would just have the waitress (or a friend) bring me beer while I stood in line for the bathroom.   Now I drink scotch and I laugh at those silly girls standing in line at the bathroom.  Scotch is a traditionally “male” drink.  It’s also a drink for intelligent women who don’t want to pee all day.

If you’re not careful, peeing could land you in JAIL.

5.    I’m pretty sure the  Magic Cone is the goddamn weirdest thing ever invented. I mean seriously.  Just look at this thing:

No.  No, I am not pleased.  Now pull up your unnerwears, you two dimensional whore.

Where do I begin?  First, no, I do not want to pee standing up.  I prefer sitting comfortably, or, in public bathroom scenarios, squatting precariously while trying not to let any of my person or possessions touch any surfaces.

Second, I think that the geniuses behind the Magic Cone are also the geniuses at Wikipedia who felt it necessary to explain to me how to properly “eliminate a wet seat” in the bathroom.  Apparently I’ve been running afoul of rule number 1 (”Always look before you sit!”).  I’ve been wandering stupidly into bathroom stalls, and parking my ass on anything that was at ass-level.  I may or may not have peed on a midget once–a tragedy that could have been avoided had I only followed the advice of the brilliant men and women at Wikipedia and looked before I sat.

Third, the animation for this little contraption is 85% poorly animated, 100% hilarious, and about 10% pornographic.  She pulled down her unnerwears!  Right there on my computer screen!  Pretty graphic!

Magic Cone: Chicks with  [bleeeeeep!!!!]

6.   I am giving in and going to KFC. I will just have to kick the Dread Colonel Sanders’ ass after I eat his delicious drumsticks.

I will beat the Colonel over the head with this juicy and delicious fried chicken leg.  Bone.  I said chicken bone. ::burp::

FIN

I don’t know who to tag.  I don’t even know that many people with blogs that might even pay attention to the fact that I tagged them.  And most of my blogger amigos/gas have specific blogs about specific stuff–like FOOD and BEER–not blogs about whatever the heck they feel like writing about that day.

Well, here goes:

The nominees for most likely to curse my name as soon as they see this post are: Miss Ellen; Ms. Susan Immaeatchu, Mr. SloeBlahBlog, Ms. M.I.A. Jujubees, Mr. Keebler, and Ms. Evil Twin.

Halogen: The Final Showdown

Well, people.  The miraculous has occurred.

I haz halogen light bulbz.

My apartment is 99.9% halogen light bulbs.  Does that make me elitist?

I woke up this morning in a Bad Mood.  Going to Home Depot is not my idea of Good Times.  But it had to be done.  I went through my apartment and removed all the fixtures, removed all the bulbs and wrapped them gently in a piece of tissue, and then violently tossed the tissue into my purse followed by my iPhone, my blackberry, and a couple of heavy rocks, daring the bulbs to break in my purse and perhaps cut my finger and give me one more reason to hate them with everything i am.

After I had removed all of the bulbs, I surveyed my bulb collection.  I noticed that each fixture required a different size of bulb.  “What is this sorcery!?!” I thought to myself.  Actually, I didn’t think that.  What I thought was, “What the fuck!?!?”

Anyway.  Long story longer, I went to Home Depot.  And then went to another Home Depot.  And 60 dollars and eleventy hours later, I had purchased all the bulbs I needed.

The Great Light Bulb Crisis of 2008 has thus ended.  And with that, I leave you with a few old school light bulb-related jokes.  Being an Oberlin graduate, I can attest to the veracity of the second joke.

How many liberals does it take to change a light bulb?
At least ten, as they need to hold a debate on whether or not the light bulb exists. Even if they can agree upon the existence of the light bulb they still may not change it to keep from alienating those who might use other forms of light.

How many Oberlin students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Three–One to change it and two to figure out how to get high off the old one.

How many Princeton students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Two—one to mix the martinis and one to call the electrician.

How many Brown students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Eleven—one to change the lightbulb and ten to share the experience.

How many Dartmouth students does it take to change a lightbulb?
None—Hanover doesn’t have electricity.

How many Cornell students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Two–One to change the lightbulb and one to crack under the pressure.

How many Penn students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Only one, but he gets six credits for it.

How many Columbia students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Seventy-six–one to change the lightbulb, fifty to protest the lightbulb’s right to not change, and twenty-five to hold a counter-protest.

How many Yale students does it take to change a lightbulb?
None–New Haven looks better in the dark.

How many Harvard students does it take to change a lightbulb?
One–he holds the bulb and the world revolves around him.

How many MIT students does it take to change a lightbulb?
five –one to design a nuclear-powered one that never needs changing, one to figure out how to power the rest of Boston using that nuked lightbulb, two to install it, and one to write the computer program that controls the wall switch.

How many Vassar students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Eleven–One to screw it and ten to support its sexual orientation.

How many Wellesley students does it take to change a lightbulb?
The whole student body–girls can’t do anything right.

How many Stanford students does it take to change a lightbulb?
One, dude.

How many Georgetown students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Four–One to change it, one to call Congress about their progress, and two to throw the old bulb at American University students.

How many Duke students does it take to change a lightbulb?
A whole frat–but only one of them is sober enough to get the bulb out of the socket.

How many Tufts students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Two–One to change the bulb and the other to say loudly how he did it as well as an Ivy League student.

How many Swarthmore students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Eight–It’s not that one isn’t smart enough to do it, it’s just that they’re all violently twitching from too much stress.

How many Amherst students does it take to change a lightbulb?
Thirteen–One to change the bulb and an a capella group to immortalize the event in song.

And God said, “Let there be light!” And there wasn’t.

What the hell is going on in my apartment?  I officially have no working overhead lights in the living areas.  Kitchen light?  Still out (almost 9 months!  I’m holding out until the New Year.)  My dining room light?  Went out last week.  And I arrived at home this afternoon to find that my living room light has also gone out.  I flicked the switch up and down several times in the false hope that the light bulbs were simply sleeping and needed to be awaken from their dark slumber.  No dice.  Them light bulbs is dead.

So, what does this mean?  I’m down to lamps.  And the warm glow from my massive television.

My bedroom lights are still operational.  As is my hall light.  As is my bathroom light.  My two bathroom lights, thankyouverymuch.  (My bathroom has two lights.  One for “bright” and Two for “quit shining that fucking light in my eyes or else I will stab you!“).

Never fear, people.  I WILL move into the bathroom if I have to.

You don’t own me, light bulbs.

Laser Gays are Going Nookyular!!!!!11

There is currently a battle being waged for the very foundation of our civilization and for the fabric of our society. That’s right, people. I’m talking about those crazy men who want to marry one another and be legally recognized as partners. Or those crazy women who want to do the same.

Do these hands look gay to you?  They look pretty gay to me.

When will it end? How will we, as a society, carry on? This is more than just an issue about values and religion and the Bible saying that homosexicality is WRONG. (The Bible also says that we are not to work on the Sabbath (thank you lord… everyone knows that the Sabbath is for drinking and football). The Bible also says that touching the skin of a dead pig makes one unclean (darnit, lord! how am I supposed to drink and watch football on the Sabbath, then? Must I become British and start watching soccer?).

I refuse to watch a sport that does not involve a ball made of bacon.

No, this is not simply about religious values, people. This is an issue of national security. It is a well-known fact that homosexuals are not really people like you and me. Rather, they are a group of deviants. Evil doers. People who love *gasp* OTHER PEOPLE. But here’s a little known fact–they are undead. Their insides are on the outside. And they have red beady eyes…. with LASERS. Yes. LASERS.

Even Hillary Clinton is shocked and awed: “LASER GAYS!?  ZOMG!”

If we allow them to marry, they will promptly take over the universe, vaporizing everything in sight with laser-like precision.

Alas, there is not much that can be done about Laser Gays. We do not yet have the technology. Perhaps if we stop being such idiotic bigots, and stop wielding religion as a weapon to promote intolerance, and instead afford gays and lesbians the same rights that we, as heterosexuals, afford ourselves, we can seek out the Laser Gays and form a coalition. We can ask them to teach us how we can become Laser Straights. Or Laser Bisexuals.  Or Laser Transsexuals.  Or Laser Asexuals.  Or Laser Morrissey.  We can put a laser in the eyes of every man, woman, and child in the world.

No, I don’t wonder if I am gay.  But I do wonder why I don’t have a laser.

Let’s work together. We *must* work together. Why? Because I have it on good authority that the Laser Gays are going Nookyular. And if there is one thing worse than Laser Gays… it’s NOOKYULAR GAYS.

Run for the Hills!  Heidi Montag will save us!

VOTE NO ON PROPOSITION 8.

Vote No.  Nobody likes a bigot.

I like to eat in the shower.

Y’all, the best thing has happened.  I’ve managed to combine two of my favorite things into one glorious decadent activity.

Eating chocolate.

This is what I look like when I’m eating chocolate.  If I were white.  And 33 years younger.

and

Showering.

This is what I look like when I’m showering.  If I were white.  And about to be stabbed to death.

Yes, it’s a little weird to proclaim that one of my favorite things to do is shower.  It’s actually not.  Not even close.  But I’m the author here, and I’m allowing myself creative license for the purposes of this story.  Keep reading.  You’ll understand.

So the other weekend I was hanging out at Fred Segal on Melrose in the bath and beauty area.  I was buying Kiehl’s body lotion, if you must know, and one of the sales associates came over to me and asked if I needed help.  “Nope.”  He says, “Well, have you tried these products?”  (persistent little bugger).  “Nope.”

“Well, it’s edible chocolate body scrub.”

“Say WHA!?!?!?!?”

Shocked monkey.  Yeah, I said it.

The sales associate escorts me to the magical place where one can eat body scrub.  It was right next to the lipstick.  Who would’ve thunk it?

He opens up the tester tub and says, “Smell it.”  I smell it.  Holy crap.  It smells like gourmet chocolate from… from… some place that makes really good gourmet chocolate!  France?  Belgium?  Scranton?  I don’t know!!  Smelled delicious.

“Here, try some.”

“No.  I’m not going to eat it.  You can’t be serious.”

“No it’s really good!  See?”  And he takes a little fingerful.

“No way.  That’s nuts.”  But not one to back down when someone offers me food, I greedily stick my finger in the tub and stick it in my mouth.  Holy crap!  It tastes like gourmet chocolate from Belgium or Scranton or wherever the good stuff comes from!

Breakfast.

SOLD.  22 dollars.

Not only does this stuff smell amazing, and taste even better, it is also 100% organic and 100% vegan, which I am very excited about because I’m positive this will complement a New York strip steak with a side of scrambled eggs quite nicely.  Delicious.

People, I’ve taken showering to a whole new level.

Thaicoon.

I’ve been meaning to jot this little anecdote down for a while now. I haven’t quite figured out how to tell this story pictorially, so this one may just be words.

For those of you who are illiterate, I apologize in advance.

I have this friend “C.” She’s basically one of the coolest, sweetest, people you’ll ever meet in your life. She’s one of my favorite people in all the land.

C has an unparalleled affinity for all things Asian… considering she’s a black woman from New Jersey who grew up rocking out to Michael Jackson.

My first memory of C was seeing her name on a list for the Students for International Training program in which I enrolled in 1995. I studied for 5 months in New Delhi. As I scanned the list for any other souls that might be black, I saw C’s name (which, you will have to trust, has a very Indian ring to it) and was like “huh. She must be Indian.”

Imagine my surprise when I saw her on the plane. She’s black y’all! Darker skin then me.

Shenanigans at the YMCA in New Delhi

We became fast friends. We became sisters, even. We lived for about a month in a small town in Northern India called Udaipur. (It’s where Octopussy was filmed. Octupussy’s lair, in fact, is the Lake Palace. It’s gorgeous.).

Bond. James Bond.

Wherever I would go, the locals would feel the need to tell me “where my sister is.” “Hey! I just saw your sister! She went that way!” They were really great about keeping tabs on the strange black girls living in their town. I’m pretty sure their only experience with black people was reruns of the Cosby Show. The locals didn’t see too many real live black people, so they naturally assumed that she and I were sisters. I was the Rudy to C’s Vanessa.

I could go on for days about all the shenanigans and trouble we got into that spring, but I’ll save that for another time. (People at work might be reading this.)

I remember there was this one particular Chinese restaurant in New Delhi called Fa Yan. I must have eaten 100 meals with C at Fa Yan. Homegirl didn’t like Indian food. Who decides to live in India for 4 months, but doesn’t like Indian food? My friend C, that’s who. Practically every day, “Hey C, where do you wanna go for lunch?” “FA YAN!” And we would go.

Cut to 2003. C had fallen in love with a guy who is Southern Thai. I say “Southern Thai” not because he’s from the southern region of Thailand, but because he is literally a mild-mannered southerner who is Thai. There’s really no other way to describe him. He’s Asian-American (Thai) but speaks with a southern accent. He hunts and has a cabin in the woods. His brothers drive pick up trucks. He’s also one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet. I would love to write out his (and now her last name) but since this is a public forum, and I haven’t yet cleared this story with them, I will refrain. I will tell you this. It’s got a shitload of letters in it. And having been friends with them for nearly 10 years, I still can barely pronounce it.

So it’s their wedding weekend. I fly to Atlanta, excited about being chosen to be a bridesmaid.
We hop in the car and head to the restaurant they had chosen to be the location of their rehearsal dinner. “It’s one of my favorite Thai restaurants in Atlanta. You’re going to love it.,” C says to me.

So we pull up to the restaurant. Can you guess what the name of the restaurant is?

THAICOON & SUSHI BAR.

Thai.

Coon.

I couldn’t make something like this up if I tried.

Thaicoon.

C and her husband now have two children. They are probably the cutest goddamn children on the face of the earth.

Little Thaicoon babies that will one day take over the world.

Light bulbs are assholes.

It has been almost two months to the day since I wrote my last blog entry which was all about my light bulb trials and tribulations. (Recap: my kitchen light burned out in January.  I’ve been cooking in the dark ever since.)  Well, dear readers (all three of you) my light bulb situation is still dire, dare I say critical?

*Sigh*

This week two of my favorite people in all the land came to visit from New Zealand. One is my friend Ramy, the ex-lawyer turned chef extraordinaire. In the hopes that he might have time to cook me up a big fat pile of deliciousness, I decided that it was the perfect occasion for light bulb buying.

Let me backtrack a bit. I just started a new job. I ended my old job on May 1. My new job began on May 19. Between May 1 and May 19, I had two goals. One, go visit my good friends the Sousa-Brownells for drinking and tomfoolery in New York City. Two, buy some goddamn halogen light bulbs.

I hate you so much.

Goal one, I accomplished easily. (My liver might disagree with the “easily” part, but screw you liver. You regenerate. You don’t own me.) I went to New York City with a lot of money, and came back with no money and a dead liver. I know what happened to my liver. Not quite sure what happened to my money.

I either spent all my money on shoes, or I gave it to this guy.

So, my first goal went off without a hitch. Goal two? Not so much. I kept saying to my friend Suna, beginning in April, ”I gotta buy light bulbs.” ”Today I’m buying light bulbs.” “I should buy light bulbs online right now!” ”Do you think I can buy light bulbs on amazon.com?” Suna even offered to buy the light bulbs for me. And if you know her, and know how she’s the poorest rich girl in the world, you would know that she can’t even afford the gas to get to a purveyor of light bulbs, much less afford to actually buy halogen light bulbs, which, if you have ever noticed, are as expensive as fuck. But, bless her heart, she offered.

My friend Suna has a heart of gold. Too bad she can’t rip out her own heart and use it to buy gas.

I couldn’t accept the offer, though. I mean, how ridiculous! I’m gonna have a friend buy me light bulbs? Hell, my mom who lives in Tucson friggin’ Arizona–my mom, for the love of all things light and bulby– offered to buy me light bulbs back in, like February. I said no, like some sort of unstoppable dumbass. ”No, Mom, I can buy my own light bulbs.”

Well, people, I obviously cannot. And there is obviously something seriously wrong with me.

So, as I was saying, my ex-pat Kiwi friends came to visit. They were arriving on Tuesday night. And so I decided to celebrate the occasion by buying light bulbs. I finally hit the Home Depot in downtown Los Angeles on Tuesday evening, about 3 hours prior to my friends’ scheduled arrival time.

Of course I left my sample light bulb at home. So I wandered around the light bulb section of Home Depot, and finally chose two halogen light bulbs that I thought looked like the ones that I needed. I was going to buy just one, but then I thought, hey you might need an extra one eventually! You should get two!!

Idea? What the heck is that? Nope, sorry, I ain’t gots none of them there fancy ideas.

As I left the Home Depot, I was in such a good mood, you would think I had just cured cancer. I was so excited, I texted my friend, “I JUST BOUGHT LIGHT BULBS!!!!” Allcaps. When you say shit in ALLCAPS, you know it’s serious.

So my Kiwi friends arrive to a dark kitchen. Yes, I had bought the bulbs. No, I had not installed the bulbs. Finally Wednesday night, my friends all went out to a bar, and I stayed home like a good girl, and attempted to install these godless light bulbs. So I climb up onto my step ladder and lo and behold… I need THREE goddamn bulbs. I only have two, one of which I was planning to save for future light bulb emergencies! “Whatever,” I thought. “Two is sufficient.”

I put the two in and excitedly flicked on the light switch. Nothing. I flicked it up and down repeatedly, as if that would help. Kind of like when people in the movies are on the phone get hung up on, and they keep pressing that button on the old school phones (you know what button I’m talking about) saying “Hello? Hello?” as if they don’t goddamn well know that pushing that particular button actually ends the call, and doesn’t magically make the person on the other end of the line reappear.

This cat is a phone expert.

So wouldn’t you know, the goddamn light won’t turn on. I assume it’s because all three bulbs have to be in the fixture at the same time for the light to work. It’s like going to a restaurant that won’t seat you until your entire party has arrived. My kitchen is an exclusive annoying restaurant that I would like to kill directly in the face, and I am a moron who can’t work a phone or a light switch. I’m dumber than a cat. I get back on the step ladder and start fiddling around with stuff. I’m surprised I didn’t electrocute myself.

I don’t know who this is a picture of, but it should be a picture of me.

Frustrated, I climbed off the step ladder. As if to mock me and say “hey, fuck you! we need another bulb up in here,” one of the light bulbs I had placed in the fixture fell out of the fixture and shattered all over the floor.

Yep, I still hate you.

So now in my kitchen light fixture, which has been hanging precariously by its wires since January, sits one lonely light bulb.

And you know what? Fuck that orphan light bulb. I’m done with the whole buying of the light bulbs scenario. I will live in this apartment until the end of time and I will not buy another light bulb. HALOGEN? You’re DEAD TO ME.

ALL.CAPS.

Lazy Is As Lazy Does.

No one is a bigger procrastinator than I am. No one.

My kitchen is totally dark at night and has been totally dark for probably about two months because the light bulbs in the light fixture for my kitchen light went out and I have not yet gotten them replaced.

I have attempted to get them replaced, mind you. I even removed the bulbs from the fixture and put them in a little box which I put in my car so that if I ever made it to Home Depot or Light Bulbs R Us, I would know exactly what kind of light bulb to get. You’re probably thinking “jesus christ on a crouton, just go to the drug store and buy a goddamn light bulb.” If only it were that simple, my friends. if only it were that simple.

The light bulbs I require are halogen light bulbs. Halogen light bulbs are an entirely extraordinary beast of bulb. If regular lightbulbs are horses, then halogen light bulbs are unicorns. They are mythical. The tears of a halogen light bulb have magical powers. Did you know you can’t return a halogen light bulb to the store after you’ve bought it? It’s like, once you touch it, you are bound to it forever. It’s yours. You can’t get rid of it. But then you’re not really supposed to touch them with your bare skin. It hurts them. Did you know this about halogen light bulbs? it’s a true story.

Every time you touch a halogen light bulb with your bare hands, an angel loses its wings.

So I needed halogen light bulbs, And not those long ones that you need for those lamps that everyone had in college. You know the lamps I’m talking about– they were blazing hot, and often a fire hazard, and when you turned them on, they lit up not only your bedroom, but the entire fucking block. I’m telling you, you can see those lamps from space.

In college, we used to light our cigarettes off these lamps. These lamps are not safe. They will kill your children.

So last night I’m standing in the kitchen attempting to make food in the dark, telling my friend about how it’s been months and I really need to get a light bulb. “Man, if I’d ordered the damn lightbulbs online, I could have had them months ago.” Then I thought about this.

“You know what? I’m going to go order lightbulbs online right now.”

Then I thought about that.

“Oh forget it, I don’t feel like dealing with it right now, I’ll do it later.”

No more than five seconds passed between my first and second statements. I’m telling you, I barely had time to breathe between exclaiming that I had to buy the light bulbs “right now” and sighing “oh, I’ll do it later.”

Maybe I’ll go to Home Depot on my way home.

Maybe.

Cursing Online.

I’ve been ranting online a lot. Before October of last year, I never posted a comment on any blog online. I was the perennial lurker. Then I popped my comment cherry on Mollygood. Today I just popped my black cherry on Stereohyped.

I’ve been feeling more than a little pissed off lately.

Maybe it’s John McCain and his “senior moments”. You’re fucking 72! Move to Florida, not the White House. I do not want to look at this fucking cryptkeeper of a human being for the next four years. 100 more years in Iraq? Really? FUCK.

This guy? Really!?!?!?!?!?

Maybe it’s Hillary Clinton and her “35 years of experience.” Doing what?! What did she do? Besides vote to authorize this war, and vote for the Kyl-Leiberman Act. Someone please tell me. (I know she’s done more. It’s hyperbole. But these are reasons (1) and (2) that I cannot vote for her.)

Maybe it’s the stupid ass Charlotte Allen who wrote probably the most offensive anti-feminist rant to be published in the mainstream media in recent years. It makes my skin crawl just thinking about it.

Maybe it’s Bill O’Reilly calling for Michelle Obama to be lynched, then excusing the use of his Jim Crow rhetoric by referencing a black pastor (I don’t think it was Jeremiah Wright, but it could have been… actually, I’m not sure who it was, but I heard it as I was flipping through the AM stations on my way to Air America and happened to land for a split miserable second on the No Spin Zone) who counseled his congregation on ways to deal with “public lynchings” as if a white man calling for the lynching of a black woman is the same as a black man discussing his experiences on surviving the metaphorical public lynching. Hey Bill, meet me at Sylvia’s Restaurant in Harlem. We’ll drink some ice tea, motherfucker.

Motherfuckin’ Ice T.

Maybe it’s the neocons screaming that Michelle Obama is anti-American when she, as a black woman, dared express that she was finally proud of her country. As if this country has given black people much to be proud of.

Maybe it’s white people, in response to arguments about how tough black people have had it in this country, saying “yeah, well my ancestors used to work in factories or laundromats or as maids” ignoring the fact that black people didn’t come here to escape persecution in their own countries. THEY WERE STOLEN FROM THEIR OWN COUNTRIES. I’m sorry about the potato famine. That sucks. But it ain’t the same.

And then there’s that particular brand of ign’ant white folks who say “yeah, well, if it weren’t for us you’d be living in your grass huts trying to hunt your dinner with a spear.” Maybe I would. But it would be MY spear, and MY dinner. Fuck. Nevermind that the slave trade destroyed healthy thriving kingdoms, communities, villages, whatever, in Africa. FUCK. [NOTE: Yes, this looks like a strawman argument... however, I did see this argument on a blog somewhere and am currently trying to find and link it.]

I can haz haus neegro?

Maybe it’s the fact that my acupuncturist went snowboarding in Mammoth last weekend and I didn’t go to acupuncture last week.

Maybe it’s my pituitary tumor growing arms and legs. I have been getting more headaches lately, come to think of it.

Whatever it is, I seem to be angry and using the world “fuck” online a lot.

I need to simmer down.

Fuck.

“Kill me in the face.”

Let’s face it. I’m off my rocker. Anyone who knows me can attest to that. I sing stupid songs to my dog. I make up lyrics of my own to songs which already have perfectly good lyrics. And in my finer (read, drunker) moments, I come up with little catch phrases.

“Kill me in the face” is one such phrase. Let me tell you how it originated.

About two years ago, I went to Mountain Bar in Chinatown to hear the Peasants (Andrei and Brett aka Butters) play their particular brand of electronic awesomeness.

” House Music Eats the Rich”

I started with a scotch. And followed that scotch with another scotch. And another, and another. And wouldn’t you know, I ended up getting pretty drunk. No, pretty drunk doesn’t quite do it justice. I was shitcanned. Soon, I began to feel a little sick, so I decided to go and sit on the bench that was outside the bar. Pretty soon I was lying on the bench face down.

This is me… if the beer was Glenlivet and I was a squirrel (yes, I’ve used this picture before, but who doesn’t love passed out squirrels? No one, that’s who.)

Probably about an hour later, my friends came to collect me. “Can you get up?” “Yeah, I can! Wait, no I can’t.” I laid back down. “Hey, are you ok?” one of my friends asked me. And instead of saying “No” or “Yes” (that would have been a lie) or “Maybe” (that too would have been a lie), for some reason I just started muttering “Kill me in the face. Kill me in the face.” over and over to the amusement of my friends.

So we all left the bar (once I stopped demanding to be killed in the face) and went to a couple of friends’ house. When we got there, I was freezing, so a friend of mine at the time gave me a nice comfortable sweatshirt to wear. I promptly passed out.

Around 5:00 a.m., a couple of my friends decided it was time to head home. My friend Butters offered to drive me home. Little did he know that a 15 minute trip would turn into a 45 minute cluster fuck.

At the time, I lived smacked dab in the LA Marathon red zone. Every year the traffic cops block off huge sections of LA so that all the bikers and people crazy enough to actually run 26 miles can do so without getting hit by cars. It boggles my mind that people run marathons (I’m looking at you, Ellen!) I can barely drive 26 miles without getting tired.

Why can’t they run on the sidewalk like normal people?

So Butters is driving around all over creation trying to figure out a way to get me home. No dice. Finally, understandably frustrated he pulls up to one of the road blocks and orders me to get out of the car to go talk to the police.

And I do. (If you know Butters (and most of you probably do) when he’s frustrated you don’t ask questions. You just do what he says.)

Apparently, Butters and I went to the prom when we were twenty-somethings.

I stumbled out of the car, conjured up my best “I’m a lawyer… Respect my authoritah!” attitude, and walk up to the cops. I say to one of them, “Excuse me, but I live right up that street, and I really need to get home. Is there any way you could let us through?”

The cop is looking at me like I have two heads, and seems to be trying to stifle a laugh. “We can’t let you through. It’s almost 6:00 and the bikers are going to be coming through here pretty soon.” “Well, we’ve been driving around trying to figure out a way to get through, but there’s no other way. Can’t you just let us through real quick?”

The cop is still looking at me all smirky-like. “Well, why don’t you walk home from here?” “Because it’s really late, I’m tired, and I don’t really want to walk home by myself right now.” “Ok, then, why don’t you go and get your license just to verify that you live in this neighborhood, and then we can let you through,” the cop says. “Thank you so much!”, I said, relieved.

I turn around to go back to the car and see my friends in the car laughing their asses off. “What?” I say to them perplexed. “What’s so funny?” They just kept laughing and started pointing at my chest… I think I hear Butters yell, “LOOK AT YOUR SHIRT!!!” “Huh!?” I said and looked down at my shirt.

The sweatshirt I had been given me to wear was bright pink, and said in HUGE black letters: TOO DRUNK TO FUCK.

Unfortunately, the shirt I was wearing made no reference to punk rock legends, the Dead Kennedys. The shirt had no picture, and it was pink which makes it more embarrassing. Like the shirt was tailor made in China for college sluts.

Needless to say, I got in the car, and, heeding Butters’ advice, took off the sweatshirt. I then grabbed my license, and walked back to the cops, who, at this point, could no longer contain their laughter. And then I recalled the cop’s suggestion. Why don’t I just walk home, indeed. I’m pretty sure that Robert “The Rapist” Raperson would have found out that I was not, in fact, too drunk to fuck.