I’m Over Here Ya’ll!

Well, for now anyways, I’ll post on here once in a while but for now, I’m kind of babying my new website, SHEDENS.

So go! All the action is happening on that site almost daily! If you are a blog/website that wants to be linked up on Shedens.com – like a post on Shedens and share it and I’ll link you up!ūüėÄ

Lady Boners, Episode One: Shirley Manson

BAM! And there it is …..

Marry me Shirley.

Or at least give me a bony finger fiddle.

It’s Nothing New But It Is Something Newer About Absolutely Nothing Are You Really Still Going To Read This?

No, I’m not writing this to tell you that I’ve magically risen from the sewage funk of writer’s block and that I am now going to present to you a post overflowing with wit and a classic yet¬†contemporary¬†prose so revolutionary that it will¬†simultaneously¬†make you laugh, cry, shit yourself and wipe your feces at thine neighbor.

I know. Buzzkill right? Don’t get me wrong, this is still a goal I’m aiming for but it’s not going to happen today at least, but keep those sanitizing wipes ready for your neighbor regardless.

I honestly just wanted to write a post because I am sick of seeing Heroic Jane and the chupacabra story headlining my shit.

SO what does one do when one wants to write a post but one has nothing to say? ¬†Well you post a picture of a fresh and brand new adult, Zac Efron inexplicably scratching his junk (or looking for his keys) because it’s disgusting and kind of hot at the same time?

Disgusting as in I imagine the next shot of pictures is of him sniffing those fingers and hot because …that’s what Zac Efron looks like? Right now?? For reals??? Because when I hear Zac Efron I picture what Ellen¬†DeGeneres’ younger sister might have looked like ….

See? This picture does nothing for me but make me yearn for a headband

So I was surprised that he actually looks like a honest to goodness dude … a fairly good looking one at that. ¬†And YES , he is an ADULT so don’t start side eye-ing me like I’m the second coming of Mary Kay Letourneau. ¬†Although I do kind of look like I’m related to the student she humped…

Never mind. I’m clearly not related to him as my mustache tends to be bushier and more Tom Sellicky.

¬†Okay, now that the celebrity chupacabra post is looking up at this post’s asshole, I bid you all a farewell until there’s something worthy to post up.

“Pumpkin Pie Spice” my ass…

Recently, I bought an International Delight Creamer to ‘delight’ my cup of coffee in the morning but what I got was a bit of a surprise. ¬†And not in a good way. ¬†It was so disturbing that I had to have a sit down, heart to heart with the deceptively named ‘Pumpkin Pie Spice Creamer’ and get an explanation as to why it’s real flavor is Bitter Piss.

ME: Ah, PSP, nice to see you.  Come in and have a seat.

PSP: So ah, you wanted to see me?

ME: Yes, that’s correct. I just have a few things I want to discuss with you at the moment.

PSP: What exactly is this concerning? Is my ¬†new easy flip spout not as easy as I claimed? Was I overpriced? Because you know, I have absolutely no control over the pricing, and besides, I’m a large which is worth every penny, I mean paying a little extra dough for more fla….

ME: No, no no, it has nothing to do with your price. ¬†In fact, I’ll tell you the truth, I hardly look at the price sometimes just so I can soil myself in public when the cashier tells me how much money I’ve wasted. I enjoy the attention. ELLL OH ELLL!!

PSP: Are you serious?

ME: Ah so we’re not a fan of pointless sarcasm. Duly noted. ¬†No. I’m not serious. I’m a price checking, bargain hunting machine – however, it is not your price that I wanted to talk to you about.

PSP: … so .. ah, what is it then?

ME: I want to know why you’re called Pumpkin Pie Spice.

PSP: What? I mean …I don’t get the question…

ME: It’s not a hard question but just in case you’re hard of hearing, I wanted to know: ¬†WHY? ARE? YOU? CALLED? PUMPKIN? PIE? SPICE?

PSP: I don’t… well, I’m called that because that’s what I am.

ME: Well see this is where I beg.. no, I PLEAD!!! I PLEAD TO DIFFER!!

PSP: I don’t understand, is this discussion about you not liking how I taste?

ME: Oh it’s more than that…

PSP: I can’t possibly think of anything else besides that, that would require a meeting, let alone yelling at me so loudly and so close. You totally spit on me man.

ME: It’s not that I didn’t like how you tasted…

PSP: It’s the easy spout then isn’t it? I know I spilled a little but to be fair, you were half a sleep when you poured me into your coffee, so technicall..


PSP: No seriously, back up when you yell, I’m getting soaked over here.

ME: This is about how much I SO didn’t like how you tasted.

PSP: Wait. What?

ME: Let’s discuss your first name… PUMPKIN.

PSP: Yeah, pumpkin, like the orange things that kids cut up on Halloween? Pumpkin seeds? Pumpkin PIE. Pumpkin.  The fruit.

ME: Um, no pumpkin is a vegetable.

PSP: seeds equal fruit.

ME: YOU equals tastes like shit. So let’s just stop talking about pumpkin because you don’t taste anything even remotely close to a pumpkin.

PSP: What are you talking about?

ME: I’m talking about the morning I opened you for the first time and you decided to shit all over my coffee and subsequently shit on my whole day.

PSP: Oh come on! You’re overreacting! I can’t be that bad. I’m with INTERNATIONAL ¬†DELIGHTS. ¬†INTERNATIONAL.. which means I’m from another country and that makes it automatically better. You know, kind of like when you meet a guy and he’s all dopey looking with a skinny neck and no chin but then he opens his mouth and has an English accent and all of a sudden, he’s ‘quirky’ and ‘unconventionally’ handsome?

ME: If ‘quirky’ and ‘unconventional’ meant watered down bong water, then yes, yes, you are most definitely quirky and unconventional. And if being ‘international’ meant sitting next to a rancid Frenchman wearing a Rayon shirt on a 10 hour plane ride where his smell permeates your eyeballs and you can literally taste his body odor in the air each time you take a breath. Then YES, you are international as well.

PSP: (large sigh) So I suck.

ME: Are you listening to me but at all!? ‘Suck’ is a hand held vacuum cleaner compared to your black hole¬†gravitational¬†pull of suck. ¬†This is how bad you are. Are you clear on where you stand?

PSP: If you don’t like me then don’t use me..

ME: I haven’t! ¬†Why would I do that to my mouth again? Why? Do I look crazy to you?!?

PSP: Well you are having a long, drawn out discussion with your creamer..

ME: Shut up.

PSP: What is your point I guess is what I’m getting at. You don’t like me, that’s loud and clear but how was I supposed to know this aside from the fact that you’ve only used me once, I’m still in the fridge and it’s not like I’m hidden in the back with two week old meatloaf.

ME: Ooo is that what’s in the foil?

PSP: Yeah. And you should really throw it out, it’s starting to growl. ¬†But besides that, I’m very prominent in the fridge, front of the shelf on the door, as if someone wants me on hand just in case they want creamer with their coffee. ¬†I had no clue you didn’t like me.

ME: (completely ignoring that piece of shit creamer) Now that we’ve established that you aren’t of the pumpkin variety, let’s talk about you second name: PIE.

PSP: I get it, I get it, I don’t taste like pie.

ME: Oh you taste like pie, only it’s the cow kind.

PSP: Anyways…

ME: And finally, your last name: SPICE.

PSP: Yeah. Spice. What about it?

ME: Now, did this ‘spice’ happen to come from a fancy thing called an urn? Because your ‘spice’ tasted very similar to the ashes of a dead man’s rotting foot.


ME: So you actually believe you taste like Pumpkin Pie Spice?

PSP: I don’t taste myself, I just get named and that’s what I am but¬†apparently, to you, I’m a large carafe of a stinky, travel worn Frenchman ¬†– just throw me away then!

ME: Oh I am throwing you away! I just wanted you to know how much you ruined that orgasmic and delightfully warm embrace that is the first sip of coffee.  You violated my tongue and you took away my warm embrace.

PSP: I’m sorry, that wasn’t my intention.

ME: Okay. Well, I’m throwing you away anyway.

PSP: That’s fine. I totally understand.

ME: Even though you’re mostly full and I did pay almost five dollars for you.

PSP: Yeah, that is a big waste, what with the economy being as bad as it is, five dollars is nothing to throw away so flippantly.

ME: I see what you’re doing.

PSP: What? I watch the news.

I ended up keeping the coffee cream abomination in my fridge because the thrifty, third world girl in me just can’t bring myself to throw away something that’s barely been used. I realize it’s going to go into the trash anyways since I know for a fact I’m not going to try it again. ¬†But for now it sits snugly inside my fridge, where the only light of day it’s going to see is if some unwanted and unexpected guests come by. ¬†Hopefully a hot cup of coffee and bitter piss will shoo them back out the door.

But the moral of the post is: Don’t buy this shit. It will make your eyes water because that’s what happens when your taste buds get slathered with sewage.

My Favorite Kind Of Time

You ever look in the mirror and see your eye bags blazing, new wrinkles gleaming and you realize, you’re getting OLD, when a second ago, it seemed like you were just in high school? You think to yourself, ‘Goddamn, time is such a fucking bitch!’ But you know what? Maybe you just need to stop being so over dramatic and buy some new face cream because time isn’t always a bitch. ¬†Time actually gives us many small little moments throughout the day that most of us are too busy to notice.

Here are just a few examples of my favorite kind of time…

When it’s peanut butter jelly time. (Let’s go ahead and get that joke out of the way)

When it’s time to take a shower because you just had some nerdy dirty sex……with your SPOUSE!

WHEN IT’S MAMA MADONNA TIME!!! (that link will lead you to the deep dark corners of my mind where I bake cakes with Madonna’s face on them and then eat it slowly while looking at myself in the mirror. Just a mild warning)

When it’s ear cleaning Q-tip time (ear-gasms are just the most)

When it’s time to call Corey!! (R.I.P.)

He has lots to tell you! (until the meth wears off)

When it’s time to eat a donut that happens to be the size of your face.

Any time Mario Lopez and his cheese and bronzer foundation slathered face isn’t in MY face.

The one time Diane Keaton retweeted my tweet:

When it’s time to parallel park and I’m not the one driving the car

When it’s time for the plane to take off and no one else is sitting next to you.

The rare time you ¬†become aware that you’re dreaming so now you’re free to dry hump Jake Gyllenhaal and use Megan Fox’s face as a chair with no consequences. (true story)

When it’s time to delete that Facebook friend who has finally posted one too many pictures of themselves posing in front of the bathroom mirror.

When it’s “thank God I’m home, now I can let out this massive fart I’ve been holding in” time.

When it’s Mark Wahlberg fiddles with your skittle on a roller coaster time. (unfortunately this doesn’t happen too often.)

(skip to 0:54 for you impatient types)

When it’s time to put gravy on a food item you shouldn’t be putting gravy on. (wait, does that kind of food even exist?)

STOP! Hammer time!

When it’s time to put this post out of its misery.

(now it’s TIME to leave a comment and tell me your favorite kind of time)

Will You Pet My Peeve? (Don’t worry, it’s clean)

Instead of going on and on about my pet peeve (animals who don’t make the appropriate noise that we’ve assigned to them. horses don’t ‘neigh’ and pigs don’t ‘oink.’ Assholes.) I’m¬†going to post random pictures of horrible male models and make an educated guess as to what their pet peeves are in relation to their pose. (I will also guess their name and age according to how drunk I’m getting.) ¬†Feel free to participate in the comments section with your own guesses as to what their pet peeves are!

or just tell me how wonderful I am, whatever.

Teduardo , 21, Pet Peeve: When no one answers me when I ask if this looks infected.

Michaelali, 23, Pet Peeve: Flimsy milk cartons

Dorf, 27, Pet Peeve;: When I misjudge how far the wall is behind me before I lean. Then I kind of just have to lean like that  for a while so it looks like I did it on purpose.

Hamiltonton, 23, Pet Peeve: When a set of shelves look remarkably like a  flight of stairs.

Chalet’in, 28, Pet Peeve: Peeing on a windy day.

Ouija Board, 22, Pet Peeve:  When I accidentally put on my underwear as a shirt.

Longduckdong, 24, Pet Peeve: Vaginas. Ew. Someone get her off me, she’s leaving a snail trail on my thigh

Hair, 70, Pet Peeve: That teacups can’t also be chapstick… or penises.

Roidaramrod, 47th, Pet Peeve: When none of my bros show up to my slumber party.

Walmart Jesus, 25, Pet Peeve: When Madonna beats me at arm wrestling.

Crockpot, 23, Pet Peeve: When I answer my cell phone before I pick up my cell phone.

Okay, okay, so maybe I played it fast and loose with this week’s topic of ‘Pet Peeve’ ¬†but I have a feeling that these are EXACTLY what these male models’ ¬†pet peeves are. I’m 90 percent positive my ¬†guesses on their name and age are dead on too.

We should totally call Crockpot and see if I’m right.

Bullshit Resolutions: A History

I guess I didn’t blog for 3 months, but I’d rather not do a whiny post on how my bright ideas have been temporarily dimmed and my soul is slowly shriveling up into a raisin from the lack of variety, diversity, a book store, a mall …. or a giant cup of boba!?!? I would rather talk about how I didn’t know how much ¬†I love me a tall glass of honey dew melon boba until I moved to a boba free town. ¬†Sigh. ¬†Is a cup of boba Fed-Ex-able?

Fact: I had a mini-orgasm just looking at this

Anyways, let’s talk New Year, resolutions (yes I know I’m late to the game but, you know… shut your face) and especially, non-having Resolutionists who¬†condescendingly¬†chuckle at the other foolish optimists who want to start the year off trying to better themselves.

I was a non-Resolutionist last year and¬†guffawed at anyone who had resolutions because, for me, it just started to seem so “Oprah A-ha moment-y”…. AND all resolutions are ¬†doomed to fail anyway right? ¬†But guffaw I’m doing no more because “last year” opened our hands gently and took a big fat shit right in it. (plus there’s lots of front teeth action in guffawing which is NOT a good look for me.)

So with that, I’m starting the year off with some resolutions for 2012, the year of humankind’s inevitable doom. ¬†There’s nothing better than meeting the end of the world head on with a good cholesterol count and some volunteer work under your belt. ¬†I won’t list my resolutions ¬†here lest I bore myself into another 3 month blog break. ¬†But let’s instead go down memory lane and review the history of my failed and successful resolutions to see what I did right but especially what I did wrong and how we can avoid it this 2,550th time around.

* Taking the Bomp out of the Bomp Bah-Bomp Bah-Bomp (Losing Weight) ¬†(sorry for that obscure 60s song reference. But please note that the ¬†song also includes the lyric “rama lama ding dong.” I miss good songs.)

Result? SUCCESS ….and FAIL.

Success slash fail because I’ve lost weight, gained weight, lost weight and … I know, it is surprising to many that my Edna Mode physique requires maintenance and doesn’t come naturally.

You would be shocked at how much I look like this.

Well people let me tell you, these rock hard abs don’t contract themselves. My weight has fluctuated through the years several times and when I did lose weight, it was mostly done in an ¬†unhealthy way; juice diets, alcohol ¬†diets, diet pills, not eating anything bigger than my forefinger diet, eating cookies and sucking on chicken bones diet, … you name it, my stomach’s growled because of it. ¬† One year I was bangin’ and the next year I was bangin’ donuts into my mouth, two at a time. ¬†As the years go by, there were less bangin, and a whole lot more donut, as in the pastry AND the circumference of my ass. ¬†Lesson learned. I guess I”ll have to try that ‘eat healthy/work out’ thing that everyone keeps talking about.

* Stop putting the Ho in Hoarder 


After our first move in 2009, I was shocked at how much crap we had accumulated into our tiny condo in the four years that we lived there. ¬†Most of them, we never used, opened or even looked at, which got us to thinking about what little we really need to ‘live.’ ¬†During our last move, the Salvation Army nearly put out a restraining order on us because we would show up with truckloads of stuff several times during the day. ¬†I’m not going to give you any bullshit that we are sitting on straw mats and making our own soap. ¬†We still have stuff, we just don’t have a significant amount of stuff that we don’t use.

*  Try To Make A Dollah Outta 15 cents

Result? FAIL

Putting together a budget was high priority many years and I have yet to be successful in seeing this through. ¬†Well, I actually did put together a budget so technically, I fulfilled that resolution in a most unfair fashion. ¬†I failed to mention in my resolution to put a budget together AND STICK TO IT. ¬†As it turns out, the unsaid last part is kind of the part that needs to be done in order for it to work . ¬†(and I’m pretty sure scribbling the budget on the back of an old Ikea catalog probably wasn’t the best idea)

* ¬†Be All That You Can BE…. but not join the Army or anything ¬†

Result? SUCCESS? maybe… so far…

The age old question of, ‘if you won the lottery, what would you do for free?’ ¬†My first answer to that question is to take my lotto money, take a hit out on Samantha Brown and then promptly take her job. ¬†But since I haven’t won the lotto and, despite my best efforts, I now kind of have a soft spot for Samantha Brown, especially since she called me adorable …

Yeah. I really am.

¬†… so stealing Samantha Brown’s job isn’t an option.

My second choice was ¬†a much more tangible goal of writing for a living. ¬†Can I make money off my shockingly large library of penis and diarrhea euphemisms? ¬†I gave it a shot and started sniffing around on Facebook and found out that I had friends who did indeed make a living off writing! ¬†I bugged them for some advice on how to get started and luckily, one of these friends happened to be the editor of Playboy’s online magazine, The Smoking Jacket. ¬† He gave me and my amateur ass a shot and all of a sudden, there I was, getting paid to write about sharting.¬† ¬†(Thanks Adam!) The next step is to write an article for Cracked – which means I have to raise the bar a whole lot because their columns and their regular columnists are hilarious and brilliant. ¬†I would be lying if I said I wasn’t slightly intimidated and scurred to turn in an article. ¬†It’s like the Cracked writers are real musicians in a band and I want to join the band too……. …..as a¬†tambourine player.

Although, you can be a respected tambourine player if you do the  jittery side to side like Davey Jones right?

Meanwhile, the 60s called and told me to get of its jock. 

Happy New Year to everyone and may we all strive to beat the tambourine of life so aggressively this year that people start to feel uncomfortable and wonder if we’re suffering an epileptic seizure or just need to pee really bad. (ie: Davy Jones!)

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