Archive for July, 2007

Houston, I think we have a gin and problem. . . . If my ass was strapped in with millions of pounds of rocket fuel in a vehicle made by the lowest bidder, I think I’d need something to take the edge off, too.  It’s not like they actually drive the fucking thing.  At least not until the shuttle is out of the atmosphere.  Probably sober by the time that ride is over.


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Uh huh.  They should’ve thought more than twice.  I watched I Know Who Killed Me.  It does suck.  And not in the satisfying zip-up-when-finished-I-need-a-nap-afterward way.  The plot had more holes than this:

She’s still kinda hot though.

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Nipplecest, Part Duex: The Forbidden Tales. They’re back! The Two wild women that first brought you This all-time classic return in yet another, sure-fire hit:


The question that begs to be answered is do I need to find new friends or do I need more friends of this persuasion? Ponder the possibilities . . . .

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Took The Ex and the kids out to eat and to play. “Play” meaning they go crazy in the Burger King play room and I sit at the table from a safe distance and watch. Afterward, we went to a few stores looking for a replacement cord for The Ex’s laptop. While exiting the last store, My Toes had a complaint. She said that sometimes she doesn’t get to go first and the law says “ladies first.” I tried to convince her that it wasn’t an actual law, just a matter of good manners. It would have been easier to get elected to public office and get the damn law passed. It’s funny how the rolling of eyes and an icy look from a six-year-old girl can stop you harder than a concrete wall.

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I just finished previewing I Now Pronounce You Chuck and Larry. It didn’t suck. This chick is hot. Think I see a trend developing here. So I’m not Ebert and Whoever . . . .

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I just watched Transformers.  It didn’t suck.  This chick is hot.  End of review.

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. . . and evidently I am a complete ass.

It seems, as of late, that my circle of friends has a certain muliebral quality (damn that thesaurus makes me sound smart). Not long ago I was whiling away the nights with Gangsta Tee and Lip Synch, either ogling the eye candy at the Dirty Bird or holding court at IHOP, bitching about the lack of eye candy at our booth. Now, save for rare trips to Memphis (and St. Louis) to hang with Gann, I’m the lone Y. And, apparently, those double-X types are easily angered. Who the fuck knew?

If you were forced to sum up my personality, I guess “smartass” would suffice. I prefer “charming” but I am frequently overruled. Whilst in the performance of charm, I allegedly insulted the intelligence of one my female friends. I was not provided with the exact offending quote, just that involved me saying something about “the parking lot.” I am guessing that I was referring to the time, many moons ago, when the complainant flashed her tremendous breasts at me in the parking lot of a club. Though it’s a bit hazy, my comment may referenced that parking lot and seeing her brains that night. Now on the surface, I can see where making a joke that attaches DD’s to you intelligence quotient could be offensive (I am guessing at the cup size. DD’s sound big and they ARE big). There are few reasons, though, that she SHE shouldn’t have taken it that way, at least from me.

First, she is most likely more intelligent than me. I have no hard data on this but she is college educated, having spent time in Europe training for some business-type shit that is over my head. I, on the other hand, am a college flame-out that hyphenates everything and toils in a factory, probably in perpetuity. Advantage, Boobs. Second, I was a smartass the day she met me and have been a smartass in the years since. Third, and this is the trump, if the image you are trying to project is that the proof of your perspicacity begins and ends above the chest, then don’t say hello to me by shoving my face into it like I’ve got a $1 clenched in my teeth. Every. Damn. Time. You. See. Me. Not that I am complaining. Cause I like Boobs. You point the conversation in their direction a hell of a lot more than I do. I see you for exactly who you are: a smart, quick witted, ebullient woman who refuses to be pigeonholed by either her intellect or her physique. Just because other fucksticks you hang out with can’t and you have a complex about it, don’t take it out on me. Guess I’ll save my charm for the more appreciative.

As an added bonus, I pissed off her cohort on the sole basis that I have other female friends. One minute she is happy to see me, more so than her bosom buddy (pun definitely intended), then the next it’s all “you can be a complete ass sometimes.”  This just minutes after the arrival of the two women I was there to hang out with. When I wanted just one example of “being a complete ass”, all I got was, “you just can” and moments later they left. Sorry I had planned to see a good friend that comes to town just a few times a year and her sister. I’m talking sisters, now. And I mean these Sisters. How could I pass that up? I am, after all, an ass.

It’s a bit befuddling to me that I catch shit for the very quality that made me attractive to them in the first place. To quote an old friend, I guess I am just too damn fantastic.

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