After a few adult beverages at the bowling alley, I embarked on my third trip to the restroom. As I went about my business, I read the walls of the stall, because that is a shitload of fun. One day, I'm going to get a pen and write 'For a Good Time, Read All the Shit on Bathroom Stalls'. I have dreams, people. I really do. Anyway, where was I?
Some Chick (from the stall next door): Hey.
Zube Girl: Ummmmmm...Hey?
Chick: What are you doing?
Girl: Peeing? What are you doing?
Girl: Dude, do you like, need some toilet paper or something?
Chick: Oh my God. Can I call you back? Some girl is, like, answering me. Yeah, I'm in the bathroom. 'Kay. Bye.
Yep. Story of my life.
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
After a few adult beverages at the bowling alley, I embarked on my third trip to the restroom. As I went about my business, I read the walls of the stall, because that is a shitload of fun. One day, I'm going to get a pen and write 'For a Good Time, Read All the Shit on Bathroom Stalls'. I have dreams, people. I really do. Anyway, where was I?
Tuesday, June 28, 2005
Dude, I totally have ESP. Like, I’m reading your mind right now. And you know what? You don’t believe me. May I point out the fact that if I'm not fucking telepathetic, how in the hell did I know that you didn’t believe me? Huh?
Anyway, you’re also pondering the green color of my blog, and how it reminds you a little bit of baby poo. And you’re like, yeah, you know, it was okay at first, but the more I look at it, it’s kind of an annoying color. I agree with you 100%, actually. Don’t feel bad for thinking that, or try pretending that I read your mind wrong. I know better. See this round thing above my shoulders with eyeballs in it? It's not just a hat rack. I know stuff about stuff.
So, with the puke green, I’m just over it. It’s so…so…’Ugly Ass Carpet Mom and Dad Thought Was Happenin’ Around the Same Time They Made Me Wear Those Plaid Bell Bottom Pants’ fucking ewwy green. But, I feel like I’m stuck with it. I know about as much about HTML as I do about, I don’t know, putting oil in my car.
And, that's not much. Ask Zube Boy. His motto is, “Honey, if you’re not going to change the oil, you might at least add some every now and again. But, it’s okay. I love you, and now I’m going to learn how to replace an engine.”
That's fucking right beyotch! You have clean man panties thanks to me, and I'll have a nicely lubed engine thanks to you. That's how relationships work, Mm-kay?
But, just so you all don’t think I'm all thinking my blog is beautiful, I'm not. My blog is fugly. I'm not sure what I should do about it.
Monday, June 27, 2005
It sucks when you get into an argument and go to bed mad. Actually, the going to bed mad part isn't so bad. It's the waking up all nuzzling with the one you're mad at. That bites.
The worst part is that you have to at least wipe the sleep out of one of your eyes before you realize you're snuggling with a guy who insists on leaving his dirty ice cream dishes on the side of the bathtub. I mean, who the fuck eats ice cream in the bathtub?
I've found that the best way to deal with this is to push him away mid-hug and say, "Ewwww. I hate you. DUH!"
Then you have breakfast and talk about the weather.
After you put the dirty ice cream dish in the dishwasher, of course.
I'm a liar. Yes. It's true. I'm so sorry.
There is no such thing as extra large condoms.
Some day, I shall start telling the truth.
Brought to You by Zube at 7:49 PM
I've stopped checking myself out in the mirror long enough to learn that Colorado's Planned Parenthood chapters will be giving out FREE Emergency Contraception on July 1st. Actually, I'll be speaking at a press conference about it on Wednesday, and should be writing that instead of writing in my blog, but, feh. I'm having trouble writing stuff I'm going to read out loud, and finding it easier to write stuff that's just gonna be read online by other people. Know what I mean?
Anyway, this is Planned Parenthood's response to Governor Bill Owen's vetoing of HB 1042, which would have required hospitals to provide pertinent medical information about emergency contraception to rape victims. Women who were, you know, raped. And maybe want to prevent a pregnancy as a result of that. You could say that this is near and dear to my heart.
In other news, I've added a '100 Things About Me' link under 'First and Foremost' if you're a crazy ass stalker and want to check it out.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Howdy newbies! I see that someone has so kindly linked to my Asstastic post. I have to say, though it’s not one of my favorites, I am a bit surprised that it has been met with such disdain by another blogger.
Before you read the entry, I'd like to warn you that I have a fucked up and twisted sense of humor, and I’m addicted to the word ‘Fuck’ something fierce. I also want to let you in on a little secret. You will either like or dislike my blog. You are also free to not read it.
Lastly, this is not a fucking dissertation. I write the way I talk. I. Put. Periods. Wherever. The. Fuck. I. Feel. Like. It. If you can deal with that, stick around. Feel free to wander about. If not, there is a little x at the upper right hand corner of this web page. Click on it, and watch it work its magic. No skin off my back.
This update has been brought to you by the letter 'Z'
You guys, I am duly impressed with my ass today. For the record, I'm quite fond of it. I've never had much by the way of boobage, but my ass has thus far done fairly well at compensating.
I put on a pair of pants this morning, and checked myself out in the mirror as I'm wont to do. Somehow, it has managed to look flat, fat, and sort of, ummm, compartmentalized, or something like that, all at once. It's weird. And some of it seems to have migrated up above my waistline. It could be the pants, but pants are inanimate, so I'd be really surprised if they were capable of such a feat. I think it's getting, I don't know, longer or something...It's pretty incredible.
Anyway, I want to be sad, because my pride and joy has me feeling a bit, well, not so prideful and joyful. But, I'm wearing my rose-tinted glasses today, so I've decided to be impressed.
Okay, people, I'm gonna be honest with you. Sometimes being married can give you a headache. Like this morning, while I was putting away clean dishes, and Zube Boy, seeing as my hands were full of glasses and the like, was overcome by a brilliant idea. He snuck up behind me, as I was hunched down over the dishwasher, and yanked my PJ bottoms to the floor.
I clutched my naked knees together and spewed profanities that would've made my poor Mom's ears bleed. In a fit of pantsless rage, I bolted upright, and slammed my tender melon on the corner of the cabinet.
Yeah. I love him so much it hurts. I've decided that while he's sleeping tonight, I'm going to cover him with ice cubes. I believe that this act will result in his freezing to death very slowly.
Saturday, June 25, 2005
Kyknoord has tagged me. No, sillies, get your minds out of the gutter! He and I are each contractually obligated to tag our significant others in that manner for the rest of our lives. It's a quiz. And check out his blog. He's hilarious and his wife makes chaos theorists cry. Good stuff.
Often, I find these quiz things confining, but I'm gonna give it a whirl. This one intrigued me, what with all the 'threes' involved. Huh?!? I never told you how much I love threes? Hmmm...
Three screen names that you have had: SluttyWifeLookingforLove, TooSexy4U, and zubegirl.
Three things you like about yourself: I'm not real hairy, I'm sexier covered in mud from four wheeling than I am all dressed up, and I make really good wings.
Three things you don't like about yourself: I'm just way too much of a babe. I get hand cramps writing my phone number on cocktail napkins. It's not easy, folks. 'Nuff said.
Three parts of your heritage: My great-grandfather was a bootlegger, my great uncle was a Monseñor of the Catholic church, and my Dad is smarter than your Dad. Nanny nanny boo boo.
Three things that scare you: Celery in my tuna, Brad Pitt's obsession with me, and making left turns onto busy streets.
Three of your everyday essentials: Coffee, toilet paper, and phone calls from Jersey folk.
Three things you are wearing right now: My fairy tattoo, my astrology glyph tattoo, and my flower tattoo.
Three of your favorite songs: I'm a Little Teapot, London Bridge is Falling Down, and Ring Around the Rosie.
Three things I want in a relationship: Complete and total submission to my every whim. That's all. Well, a little worshipping and toe sucking never hurts.
Two truths and a lie: I lie, I make my life sound way more exciting than it is, and I always tell the truth.
Three things you can't do without: AM 760 Boulder's Progressive Talk, the word 'Fuck', and the letter 'Z'.
Three places you want to go on vacation: East Gibip, Bumblefuck, and Istanbul...no...Constantinople. Nah, Istanbul. Or Constantinople. You know, that's nobody's business but the Turks.
Three things you just can't do: Lick my elbow, pour coffee without drizzling it all over the counter, and sand drywall.
Three kids' names: Cletis, Tipsy, and Rufus.
Three things you want to do before you die: Have kids, teach my kids to do chores, and totally screw up my kids. That is my dream.
Three Celeb crushes: John Stewart, George Clooney, and Winona Ryder, erm, I mean, Brad Pitt. Yeah. Every gal loves Brad Pitt. Even though he's fucking psycho.
Three people you want to know these things about: I'm a selfish fuck, so I've decided to remain tagged and not pass it on. I learned very early that I sucked all hell at 'Tag' as a kid, and convinced myself it was cool to be 'It'. Walking was not one of my stronger suits, and running even less so. If I didn't tag anyone else, the game kind of ended right there. Then we'd go inside and play with matchbox cars. I was much better suited for that. Ergo, I'm 'IT' forevah, suckas! Bwahahahahaha!
Friday, June 24, 2005
One day, on my way to the ladies room, I passed my coworkers who were checking out a brand new Hoover vacuum the company had purchased.
I stopped for a second; said, “Oh, Hoover. They used to call me that in high school,” and then continued on my merry way to feign being a lady for a few minutes.
It’s fun being a liar sometimes. I hope people appreciate the fact that I sully my pristine reputation for the sake of a good laugh!
Even if the only person laughing is, uh, me.
Hey. Wait a minute...
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Zube Boy is at the computer, and I'm watching TV.
Zube Boy: Honey?
Zube Girl: Yeah?
Boy: How do you spell horny?
Girl: Why'd ya wanna know that?
Boy: I'm writing a letter to my Mom.
Girl: Huh. Okay.
I was very relieved when a few minutes later, I heard him playing the song he'd just downloaded. "Me So Horny."
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
Dear Dorky Self,
There are so many selves trying to live within this Zube Girl, and I think we do a fine job of getting along most of the time. It seems, though, that you and I are most often at odds. I manage well with Intelligent Self, Political Self, and Clean Freak Self. It is you, though, that seems to squelch my ultra-coolness. It's really not fair.
For example, yesterday, Clusterfuck Self was out and about at the grocery store. Clusterfuck Self is annoying, and makes being cool difficult, but not impossible. So, Clusterfuck Self had Zube Girl at odds with another shopper. They were walking towards one another, and Zube Girl was having quite a time of stepping in the way of the other shopper. To the left, and to the right. Eventually, Zube Girl and the shopper stopped.
Enter stage right, you. Let me emphasize that you should allow me to do the talking in situations such as this, when coolness is at risk. I was about to have Zube Girl say something like, "No, you go ahead," and then beam one of her charming smiles, until you butted in with, "Wanna dance?" As if the person whose path Zube Girl's repeatedly stepped in is gonna think dancing even comes close to adequately defining the clusterfuck that just occurred! I mean, really.
I'm betting they don't wanna dance. They wanna shop, and they want Zube Girl the fuck out of their way. So, Dorky Self, please step back when things get a bit messy. I don't complain when you happen to be around in the morning, and have Zube Girl all thinking that she should wear that pink cookie monster t-shirt. Let me make it a bit easier for her almost 30-year-old ass to at least SOUND cool even though she's wearing such a display of abysmal taste.
I'll be petitioning Zube Girl for a stronghold on dialogue, but I'm sure it'll take a while with all of the appealing of god damn Political Self. But, until then I ask that you be seen and not heard. And seen, you know, as rarely as possible.
Really, We're all in this together,
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
In 30 days I'm going to be 30.
Zube Boy handled turning 30 with so much finesse a few months back. Well, and a lot of whiskey. So the next day wasn't so finesseful.
Still, though, I'm getting all wonky about it, and it's a whole month away.
Really, I think it will be a great age. Right?
Dear Zube Boy,
I want to congratulate you on your stellar performance emptying the dishwasher. I'm so proud of you. It was really nice not to have to do it myself. That said, I had no idea you could be so creative.
Sometimes making dinner can be such a chore, but thanks to you, hon, it was kind of like a game last night. Scavenger Hunt. It took me forever to realize that the fucking skillet was on the tupperware shelf in the bottom cabinet on the left. Not, in fact, on the top shelf of the bottom cabinet on the right with All. The. Other. Pots. and. Pans. Whee!
So, thanks. A lot.
PS- Just so you know, the big spoons and spatulas do not go in the silverware drawer. They go in the 'Big Spoon and Spatula' drawer just to the right. I know, it's tough because they kind of are silverware. But, the 'Regular Silverware' drawer is pretty full and it's a real bitch when you can't even open it because the god damn spatula is all jammed up in that shit.
Dear Zube Girl,
Who are you kidding? You didn't make dinner last night. Or did you mean you had trouble getting a knife out of the silverware drawer to perforate the plastic over that TV dinner? Okay, I get that.
I still can't figure out what the hell you needed the skillet for. Ah well.
PS- I can think of a better place to put the spatula, but unfortunately, I think you've already got a stick up there.
Sunday, June 19, 2005
As I'm lounging in the bedroom twirling my hair, reading a book, I hear squawking in my husband's general direction.
Zube Boy: Honey!
Zube Girl: Hmmm...
Boy: HONEY!!! Come here!!!
Girl: *I throw down my book and storm into the kitchen* What in the fuck is all this yelling about?
Boy: What is this?
Girl: What's what?
Boy: This? This thing right here!
Girl: It's a flip flop? What of it?
Girl: It was dirty.
Boy: But, but...why?
Girl: I figured...
Boy: In there! You thought you would put it in THERE!
Girl: Yeah! They came out rather squeaky clean, dontchya think?
Boy: IN THERE! With my coffee mug!?!?
Girl: Well, I read...
Boy: You're gonna drive me to drinking.
Girl: Thanks for emptying the dishwasher. You never do that.
Friday, June 17, 2005
Have you ever, while in the process of putting on your mascara, felt the onset of a fart? A fart of a questionable nature. You decide to throw caution to the wind (*snicker*) and give it a go. It requires a tremendous amount of concentration to avoid the regrettable shart.
Slowly. Slowly. Slower still.
Aaaah. All goes well, but you can't help laughing at the look on your face. And you laugh so hard, you fuck up your mascara.
No? That never happened to you? Heh. Me niether.
I don't give two shits about Star Wars. I just don't care. Is that so bad?
Brought to You by Zube at 8:38 AM
If I had it my way, love handles would be sexy, and instead of going to the gym when you realized you had them, you would go out for ice cream with your girlfriends to celebrate the acquisition of them.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
I'm going to let you all in on a little family correspondence.
I came to realize something very disturbing, and I wanted to touch base with you about it. The other day, I was outside calling and calling you. Screaming "Zack!" very loudly at the ass crack of seven in the morning, 'cause I had to go to work, and couldn't leave you roaming around outside for eight hours unnattended.
After a few unsuccessful rounds of "Zack, come here," I threw up my arms in exasperation and yelled, "Jesus Christ, where are you?" And, you know what? You came bounding around the corner. I didn't think much of it until I was heading to work.
I thought about all the times Zube Boy and I have said the following:
"Jesus Christ, you got into the garbage again!"
"Jesus Christ, get off the couch!"
"Jesus Christ, get off the bed!"
"Jesus Christ, inside or outside! Make up your mind!"
I'm afraid you might think you are Jesus Christ, and, well, don't get me wrong...You're a great dog, but walk on water, you do not, my friend. I'm just saying.
Who is this Zack character? Anyway, I'm assuming the letter you wrote was for me, because you left it on my dog bed.
Do you think I'm an idiot? For Christ's sake, no pun intended, I'm not stupid, Mom. Give me a break. You didn't even yell, "Jesus Christ, where are you?" the other day, but that's besides the point.
Now, don't get your panties in a twist because of what I'm about to tell you, but I think you're just getting old. I mean, you are almost thirty, and that's like, I don't know, 5,000 in dog years.
Get off my back, lady. Sheesh.
PS- Holy Shit and I were wondering about something. Is Little Shit his sister? I said yes, because they have the same last name. He says no way in hell, but I think that's just because he likes kissing on her. Anway, we'd appreciate if you could clear this up for us.
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Many moons ago, I visited the family of a foreign exchange student who lived with our family my senior year of high school. Vanessa rocked and my tender and sheltered high school nerdy self was awed by her tequila drinking capabilities.
Every once in a while on this trip, I played the stupid American (or just plain was a stupid American, you be the judge).
Vanessa's Mom asked me how I enjoyed laying out in the sun:
I meant to say: Muy Bien! Voy a estar morena!
Translation*: Very well! I am going to be brown!
I said: Muy Bien! Voy a estar mojada!
Translation: Very well! I am going to be purple!
A very nice gentleman I didn't know held the door for me.
I meant to say: "Gracias cabellero!"
Translates: Thank you gentleman!
I said: "Gracias caballo!"
Translates: Thank you horse!
The waitor handed me a Spanish menu, and I did my best to read it, and memorize my answer so I didn't have to point. It was like a fun little challenge. I should've pointed.
I meant to say: "Quiero el pollo, por favor."
Translates: I want the chicken, please.
I said: "Quiero el bollo, por favor."
Translates: I want the pussy, please.
Heh. The waitor very kindly walked away, and returned with an English menu, and Vaness and all of her gal pals were laughing and crying so much so that it was difficult for them to tell me what I'd just said.
*Bear with me folks. These are loose translations, as my Spanish could use some brushing up.
I really hate it when
"The 'S' is for super..."
you get a song
"...the 'U' is for unique..."
"...the 'P' is for perfection..."
"...and you know that we are freaks!"
and you can't
"The 'E' is for exotic..."
"...and the 'R' is for Raps..."
the fuck out!
"...so tell those nosy people just to stay the hell back!"
I'm all bobbing my head and shit, too. It's tremendously annoying. And, just where in the hell did that song come from anyway? I mean, other than, like, 1989...
Brought to You by Zube at 6:09 AM
Monday, June 13, 2005
For the love of little red apples. That's how it's fucking pronounced. Not nookular.
Whew. I feel better now. I've gotta stop listening to Air America.
Nah. I think it's quite good to be all pissed off about something.
Zube Boy e-mailed me this photo. Do you think he's trying to tell me something?
Zander! Zoey!. Kitties?! Where are you guys?
Brought to You by Zube at 10:07 AM
If it were up to me, everything that belonged in the refrigerator would go in the cabinets, and everything that belonged in the cabinets would go in the refrigerator.
Then, husbands would not get annoyed when a jar of unopened spaghetti sauce was placed in the refrigerator. Because it would belong there.
And we would have these fucking HUGE refrigerators.
Yeah. That would be awesome.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
Zube Boy: Did you go grocery shopping?
Zube Girl: No. All that shit magically appeared in the fridge. It's fucking amazing.
Boy: I can't believe you didn't get ice cream.
Girl: But, we already have ice cream.
Boy: Honey, nothing is like new ice cream.
Boy: It's like new poon tang. Even if it's the generic brand, it's still new to you. What you don't want is some old freezer burnt shit. Heh.
Girl: Would you like a bowl of old used-up ice cream or not?
Boy: Fine. Thanks, honey.
Girl: It's in the freezer.
Zube Girl: Hi!
Zube Boy: Oh, hi honey.
Girl: I'm at Ready, Paint, Fire! hanging out with the ladies. I'll be home in a little while.
Boy: Are you making me a corny mug?
Girl: *stares at the corny mug she is in the process of making for him*
Girl: You suck donkey dick.
Girl: You ruined the surprise!
Boy: I'll still be surprised when I see it.
Girl: Yes, I'm going to make a lovely mug, and then bash you right the fuck over the head with it.
Boy: I love you!
Girl: I can't even change it now! I already put your name on it...
Boy: Me love you long time.
Girl: Hate. Hate, honey.
Girl: I'll see you when I get home. If I ever come home that is.
Boy: I'm anxiously awaiting you're arrival.
Girl: Wear a helmet.
Boy: As usual.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
I just thought of a really great way to piss off your husband, you know, if you happen to be into that sort of thing.
So, you go to the grocery store and say sweetly while batting your eyelashes, "Honey, why don't we go buy some condoms?" Your husband then gets very excited and says, "Cool, can we buy some whipped cream, too?" To which you reply, "Of course darling."
You head over to the pharmacy section after the dessert aisle, and unfortunately the condoms are behind the counter because kids steal them since abstinence education is apparently only succeeding in making kids even more embarassed about sex. What was I saying? Oh yeah. So, you're not too concerned because this plays perfectly into your plan. Your husband says to the person behind the counter, "Could I have a box of condoms please." She hands him some regular condoms. A box of 10 to be exact.
You peer over his shoulder at the box, and say, "Oh, wait a minute. Do you have any extra large ones?" The lady gives you a wry little smile, grabs a box of extra large condoms, and begins to hand them to your beaming husband, who is proudly passing the regular sized condoms back to her.
You start waving your arms like a madwoman and say, "No, no, no! The regular ones are for him, the extra large ones are for my dildo which he shoved up his ass last night. I don't need fecal matter up in there, you know what I mean?" And then you wink and skip away merrily. For some reason, the skipping part is important. I'm not sure why.
And you leave your husband crying like a little baby. You know the dildo story is not true. He knows it's not true. But, there's no explaining that to the lady behind the counter, who is peeing her pants laughing.
Yeah. I bet that situation would really piss a husband off. That's my guess anyway.
Friday, June 10, 2005
Zube Boy and I are considering a business venture, inspired by his hot pink speedo. That was all he brought with him to Puerto Rico. When we were at the airport checking in, the tour group leaders asked him where all of his luggage was, and he told them he had his speedo and a bow tie in his pocket. That was all he needed. I mean, he is President of the Speedo Club after all.
So, we got into a discussion on the plane. We're looking for investors if anyone is so inclined to take the risk. Feel free to e-mail us at email@example.com.
Anyway, we want to open up a specialty sausage shop/restaurant thingy called Speedos and Sausage. We would only hire men, if that's legal. I certainly hope it's legal, 'cause if we had to hire women, that would fuck up everything. These men would be really hot. I would do the hiring, because Zube Boy has no taste in men. It's really not fair. I always point out hot chicks to him, and he's all drooling. When he tries to point out hot dudes, I'm like, eww. "Honey, pocket protectors are so not hot."
But, I digress. So, these hot guys in speedos would be the waitors and we would only serve the finest sausage in all the world. We were considering selling hot dogs and other varieties of, I don't know, phallic shaped delicacies, but we're still not sure.
Now, I bet you all think that everything is roses and cute little kitties in our relationship, but believe it or not, we do fight. One source of contention is whethere or not the waitors will serve while on roller blades. I think we can have it no other way, but Zube Boy is worried about lawsuits. Like, what if one of the waitors fell, scraped his buttocks, and poked himself in the eye with a sausage. I'm pretty sure we could dissuage him from suing us by telling him, "Stop crying you little pussy." Zube Boy is not so sure.
Oh well. I told him that I really try to see things from his point of view, but I can't manage to get my head that far up my ass. That shut him up. For now anyway.
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Zube Boy and I had a wonderful time in Puerto Rico. There are so many conversations I'm just dying to tell you about. Here's one which occurred while we were sitting on the beach.
Zube Boy: Honey, can we sit over there.
Zube Girl: No. I want to sit under this coconut tree because it's nice and shady.
Boy: But, it's dangerous. What if a coconut falls on your head. I don't want you to get hurt. It's safer over there.
Girl: No, I don't care. Besides, you're more in the direct line of coconut fire anyway. I'm already a lobster as a result of yesterday. Over there is in the sun. Overdone lobster is even worse than the current shellfish look I'm rocking.
Boy: Puhleeeeeaze can we sit over there.
Girl: NO! Why do you want to sit over there any...Oh. I see. Could it be that hot chick in the thong bikini that's causing this sudden desire to move?
Girl: She has a fine ass.
Boy: So, can we move.
Girl: I bet I'd look a lot like that in a thong bathing suit.
Boy: Yeah. She would kind of remind me of you if someone painted her ass white and put dents on it.
Girl: Give me a beer.
Girl: No! You've got a perfectly sweet white denty ass right here. Now shut up. I'm almost finished with this book.
Boy: You're no fun. I'm going to the casino.
Girl: Maybe you'll win big enough so that we can afford some tanning sessions and botox for my ass dimples.
Brought to You by Zube at 10:51 AM
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
I've had a revelation, induced by the consumption of Budweiser.
Blogging is a lot like sex.
Now, hear me out. Or rather, read me out my fellow mofo's. When you're writing in a journal or somesuch, it doesn't really matter how shitty the content is, because, ideally, you're the only one reading it.
Like, when you masturbate. Hey, if you're happy, well, you're happy! If you're getting yourself off, then nothin' else matters, does it? See what I mean?
No? What are you dense? Okay. Let me break it down for you.
I was reading the blog of the fantabulous Blog Ho and he consistently puts forth some great blog shit. I would freak the fuck out if I had like 50 comments on just one of my entries. Really. I would feel like I had to write a great blog entry All. The. Time. I don't know if I could handle the pressure. I'm just not as cool as the 'Ho'.
I'd be pretty damn flattered at first. Like a 'That's Right Bitches, I Fucking ROCK' kind of flattered. But, then I'd get all flustered thinking I had to ROCK consistently. When sometimes I actually prefer to SWAY. In the manner of Axl Rose singing 'Patience'. You know?
It's like being an okay lover for the most part. But, once in a while, you do a really great job of it, and your lovee is panting, "Holy shit. You are a great lover!" The recipient of the great loving is gonna expect that shit every damn day. But sometimes, you just wanna get laid, roll over and go to sleep.
I think I kind of like being 'Just a Lay' most of the time, with a surprise 'Great Fuck' here and there. You just never know what you're gonna get! Isn't that exciting?
No? Then go away.
Today's blog lesson is twofold. Blog Ho is a great mind fuck (hee, that's truly a compliment!) and I should not let Budweiser do the talking for me.
That is all.
One day I was walking down my street kicking a rock, thinking about whether I liked cheese or onion and garlic perogies better. I would kick the rock and watch it roll across the ground. Then, peering down the road at my rolling rock, I saw it land right in between two shiny black shoes. Attached to the pants and body of a man.
President George Bush. I rolled my eyes, and groaned. What in the hell did I do to deserve this encounter?
George Bush: Hi, I'm the President.
Zube Girl: Der.
Bush: So, what's up?
Girl: I'm just kicking a fucking rock minding my own business.
Bush: Gee, why the hostility.
Girl: 'Cause you suck, dude.
Bush: Wh-wh-whatever do you mean?
Girl: I mean that I think you're a pompous asshole who is leading our country to ruin, and making everyone around the world hate us when you had the perfect opportunity after 9-11 to, I don't know, rally up the world behind us. And, do you think I would be in the Oval Office if I told everyone that God spoke directly to me and told me how to run the country? No. I'd be in a loony bin.
Girl: No, no but's. Now would you kindly give me my rock back?
Bush: Here you go. Well, have fun kicking your rock, loser.
Girl: Have fun depleting women's rights, dumbass.
Nah. Never happened. Unfortunately.
Tuesday, June 07, 2005
I truly feel sorry for the people who are seated on a plane in the vicinity of Zube Boy and I. I really do.
On the flight to Jersey, Zube Boy was seated next to the aisle, I was in the middle, and a seemingly nice gentleman was next to me in the window seat.
I was hacking and coughing because I had a cold. I fucking hate that. All I could do the whole time was worry that the guy next to me was cursing the suckfest germinator he had the grand misfortune of being seated next to.
I was also diagnosed with an ear infection the day before we left. So, flying sucked. You know, cabin pressure, popping ears, la la. During take off, I put my hands on my ears and bent forward a little, making the 'owwww' face, 'cause it was like, ow, and it helped me pop my ears.
Zube Boy quipped, "Oh honey, are the voices yelling again," causing the poor guy seated to my left to kind of scooch over a bit. About as much as one can scooch over in their seat on an airplane.
"Yep. They're saying I should kill you."
Monday, June 06, 2005
Down in Peurto Rico, Zube Boy and I adopted a little bird. He was hella ugly, which made him all the more cute, if that makes sense.
He arrived on our balcony on our first day, and kind of stood there cocking his head to the side, as if waiting for something. I grabbed a box of Rice Krispies and tossed a few onto the balcony.
Pedro thoroughly enjoyed them. He came back once a day for the next three days, and we always obliged him with some more cereal.
I was kind of sad when he skipped a couple of days.
Then, on our last day there, Zube Boy shouted at me while I was on the pot, "Honey, guess whose here to say goodbye!"
I hurriedly finished the task at hand and hopped off the throne. There, on our balcony, was Pedro. I poured the last few bits of cereal into my hand and gave them to Pedro.
I wanted to bring him home. Zube Boy said he would probably fit in my suitcase, right next to my black shoes. I decided that wasn't such a great idea. So, we left him there.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Peg, over at Haiku Venue, who happens to kick some righteous ass, has tagged me. So, here goes.
Have you ever?
Snuck out of the house?
Until my parents moved me to the second floor of the house, yes.
Gotten lost in your city?
No. Can't even do it on purpose.
Seen a shooting star?
Yes. Tons. That's one thing that rules about living in the Rockies.
Been to any other countries besides Canada?
Had a serious surgery?
Gone out in public in your pajamas?
Of course. College anyone?
Kissed a stranger?
Um. Of course. College anyone?
Hugged a stranger?
Been in a fist fight?
No. I was restrained by Bro and my cousin.
Laughed and had milk/coke come out of your nose?
Pushed all the buttons on an elevator?
Swore at your parents?
Never. Around them? Whole 'nother fucking story.
Been in love?
Only for the past four and a half years.
Been close to love?
Been to a casino?
Yesterday. Don't remind me.
Huh? I don't get this one.
Once. There happened to be an assembly that day. I won an award for a paper I wrote and was to be presented with it at said assembly. My absence was glaringly obvious. My Mom was just discussing this a couple of days ago at a 'remember when' session.
Been a therapist?
Hell yes. I highly recommend paying someone to listen to your shit.
Done the splits?
Yep. I was a cheerleader.
Played spin the bottle?
Drank a whole gallon of milk in one hour?
No. Water to pass a pee test? Yes. I applied for a job two weeks after my 23rd birthday. It required a piss test, and I had taken two puffs off of a joint on my birthday. I overdid it a little with the water. I'm surprised they didn't make me redo it, because I literally peed water.
Been to Niagara Falls?
Gotten the chicken pox?
Kissed a member of the opposite sex?
Every damn day!
Crashed into a friend's car?
Been to Japan?
Ridden in a taxi?
Ugh. Yes. I still have the resulting sad ass poetry in a journal somewhere.
No. Scammed money from a restaurant I worked at once, but felt so guilty that I gave it back the next day. It did help me make rent, though.
Had a crush on someone of the same sex?
Had feelings for someone who didn't have them back?
Yep. It sucks.
Gone on a blind date?
Yes. He wore spandex shorts and had a mullet. It was the mid 90s. Never did the blind date thing again.
Lied to a friend?
No. Not told the truth? Yes.
Had a crush on a teacher?
Substitute? Yes. Mr. Tobias was a nerdy hot guy. Loved him.
Celebrated Mardi-Gras in New Orleans?
Been to Europe?
Slept with a co-worker?
Yes. We were dating.
Seen someone die?
Had a close friend die?
Been to Africa?
No, but would love to.
Driven over 400 miles in one day?
Been to US?
Been to Mexico?
Been to India?
Been on a plane?
Just today. And yesterday.
Seen the Rocky Horror Picture Show?
Great Scott! Of course!
Thrown up in a bar?
No. On the door of a McDonald's that wouldn't let me in to use the bathroom 'cause they'd just closed? After I'd been at the bar? Yes.
Purposely set a part of myself on fire?
No. Been on fire? Yes.
Yes. Love it.
Met someone in person from the internet?
Lost a child?
Can't even fucking imagine what that would be like.
Gone to college/university?
Do I have to be able to remember it?
The not remembering was a problem as far as graduating.
Fired a gun?
Once. Didn't like it.
Purposely hurt yourself?
When I was a teenager, I used to bite my arm. Hmmm...I'm too tired to go back and change my answer to did you ever bite anyone.
Yes. For fun and pain.
Been intimate with someone of the same gender?
Here's where I become a whiney lame-ass. I have no idea who to tag. If you'd like to be tagged, please let me know! I feel presumptuous doing it! Yeah, I suck.
Oh Lord. What a trip! We're fucking exhausted. We finally arrived back to good old Colorado today, greeted by nothing other than &%!#$ snow. I left a trail behind me on our traveling path today. A cell phone in Jersey. A purse at a restaurant in Colorado on our way home.
And for all of those reasons, I do not quite feel up to telling you any of the stories I had anxiously anticipated sharing while in Puerto Rico. I can't say I miss muggy 90 degree weather, but I can't say that I'm happy to return to snow either.
I'm gonna mope a little and make myself a cocktail with some of the alcohol we bought at the airport's duty free shop.
I missed ya'll. I'll be back tomorrow.