Is It Still Called My Happy Place If There Are Shivs and Shin Kicking Gnomes Involved?

This week has found me saying "a-hole" more than the average amount. Whether it was in the rain-soaked traffic or muttering it under my breath, just out of ear shot of my almost two-year old as he threw his 800th fit of the day. Yes, I called my adorable son an asshole. Because he was. Being an asshole that is.

What I'm saying is I've had it with all you assholes out there. And, I don't know if that means you, but if you think that it might then just stop being an asshole and we'll all be okay.

Monday started the week in fine form with layoffs in my office. We all sat around waiting to see if we could kiss our asses good-bye, so by the time they got around to telling you what percentage your pay was going to be cut, you were dancing for fucking joy that you still had a paycheck. It was only later that you stopped and thought about it and went, "Hey! I just got screwed!"

After wading through the mounds of COBRA paperwork and making sure I was all up on the new COBRA stuff (which would be more fun if I could be all hip hop and singing, "I'm all up in your cobra stuff"), I sat around with shaking hands for the rest of the day to drive home to Young Wheezy and his full-on fuck you attitude.

And then? The rest of the week went like this:

* The kid stayed sick and wheezy and grumpy and just schmucky and junior douchey in general. This morning he laid on the floor, face down and screamed for an undetermined amount of time.

Undetermined because by that point, I ceased to care about whatever it was that he completely invented on the spot to get pissy about.

* Jason went into Monk's room with a box of trash bags and went to town. Now our garage is filled with bags and bags of all things pink, glittery, fluffy and girly until she goes through it all and decides what it is that she can't possibly even think about going on living without. And, because "the puberty" is imminent she's been a joy to be around.

* Proofreading multiple replacement window brochures, multiple times. Who knew you could write 20 pages on windows? Well I know, I also know that degrees MUST be spelled out and for the love of all things zombie, why the fuck can you not stop hyphenating that fucking word? I circled it over 100 times already.

* Ants, fucking ants. Why? Because the people in my office drop things like pecans on the floor and then just leave them there. Simply so they can come up to my desk and whine about all the fucking ants in the kitchen.

* And apparently eating all those fucking pecans makes them stop up the toilets which then again, becomes my problem because evidently no one can wield a plunger except for me.

* Speaking of toilets, it's common courtesy to put the toilet seat down in shared bathrooms. I mean unless you're a hobo. And if you're a hobo then go piss in the alley where all the hobos take our trash out of the dumpsters and just leave it there so we can hand pick it all up. I don't want to touch the toilet seat every time I take a whiz. Seriously, it's just a little like touching every ass in this office and I'm not down. Especially because it seems you are hobos, dirty, hobos. Besides, there is trash in the alley I have to go pick up now. Scooping up old spaghetti and used tissues is just my idea of a righteous time.

If all of that wasn't enough, then my red, swelling, itchy eye and my also swelling fat ass should be. Because as it turns out, I also eat when I'm stressed out. Which meant that, yet again, this morning as I went to put on my jeans all they did was groan and say "fuck you, lard-o". Being curvy isn't always grand. Actually, it's mostly not grand. Also? I didn't know that denim could actually groan and creak, but look at that, it just did.

I am now sitting here, fashioning plunger handles and pecans into shivs. Pointy-ass shivs. I've gone on to create a hobo assembly line, with all those dirty, drunken hobos just a whittling away. Because if you're going to do it, you do that shit right.

I Did That Thing Where You Tell Someone About Your Blog And Then They Have To Read It

I do this thing when I get drunk and tell people about my blog. And then I always regret it the next day. The good news is THIS TIME, I don't regret it at all. My friend Tiffany is going to be reading and I'm sure SHE will regret that shit soon.

But I know her husband and I know that she has a lot more to regret in life than this.

However, she's probably going to be confused about a few things.

Let me provide a little key to reading my blog. I write about a few things a lot.

Zombies - I have a weird fascination with zombies. She'll understand, she knows Mr. Boom's when he's been drinking.

Robots - They are crazy cool and when they take over the world I want to be on their good side.

Shivs - When robots take over the world, or I end up in prison because of something Jason has done, I will want to be as schooled on shivs as possible. So I talk about those a lot. I'm still not down with how to keister stash one though.

Joaquin Phoenix - I don't know. He's just really weird and cool. That's all.

Teen Wolf - Teen Wolf will be saving the world when the robots take over. It's the only explanation for why Teen Wolf has had a resurgence and this is the Year of Teen Wolf.

Air-punching - It's the universal signal for kicking fucking ass. Who doesn't get this?

Being a rail riding, breakdancing hobo who is a master of skullfuckery - Wow, that's kind of a long story.

Billy Idol - The king of air-punching.

Saying things about Jesus that are bad.

Other random things:

Kenny Rogers
Foreigner
Journey
Wolf Nuggets
Monster Squad
Nards
Mr. T

You know, looking over this list I now realize there is no real help for me. My mind is a strange and dark place. Which is mostly okay by me, but if you're reading my blog and enjoying it, you are screwed.

My Neighbor Kid Is An Asshole

And, just wasting my energy on this little tweentard mental ninja of Jedi, fuck with my daughter's mind tricks is pissing me off.

Here's the thing. The kid made my kid cry and now she's going to pay.

She's run a steady show of bitchiness that we have tolerated up to this point. My soft spoken, kindhearted daughter typically shrugs it off and goes on her way. But, she's fucked with her brother and now Monkey is not happy.

Monkey takes very good care of her brother, because as she said, "He's the only one I have now and I want to protect him." So when the neighbor kid got pissed at Monkey for paying attention to her brother and not to her she blurted out, "He's only your HALF brother anyway." She just tossed that in her non-stop stream of snotty, bitch face comments.

I just realized I'm too mad to even do this right now.

My kid sat, curled up against my side, sobbing last night.

Jason and I tagged team the kid at the bus stop this morning. First, he pulled up next to her and said, "Before you come over and play again, I'm having a talk with your mother." Without knowing this, I pulled up next to her:

Me: You know, you really hurt Monk's feelings last night?

It: How?

Me: By telling her that her brother was only her half brother...

It: I didn't mean...

Me: I don't care what you meant. Are you aware that her brother died?

It: Yes I am.

Me: Well then have a little consideration for her feelings about her brother. He is the only one she has and she loves him. You need be a little bit nicer to my daughter, young lady.


Yeah, I busted out a young lady.

Whatever.

This is stupid.

That kid sucks.

I Crushing Your Head Because Lassos and Invisible Jets Are Played Out

I lay in bed, working and stretching out all of the kinks that always work themselves up overnight and hang around until my medicine kicks in about an hour later. So I stretched and did the very same thing I've done every morning since I was a little girl.

I reached my arm out and took my fingers and did the "I crushing your head" move to something across the room.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, well... You need to check your freaking life. You've fucked up somewhere along the way.

So I lay there and I do things like pull my drawers open from across the room. And I pick up things that are on the shelf, way over in the bathroom. I even do it with my foot and kick imaginary holes in the wall. I can actually see the sheet rock crumbling.

And that's when I realized that this? THIS? Would be the most awesome super power EVER!

I just don't know what to call it when I finally get asked what super power I'd liked to be assigned. I kind of think I just made it up.

I am, however, absolutely positive that if a hipster was going to have a super power, this would be the one, because you haven't seen this before. And if you say that you have? You are a fucking liar. Or you spent a lot of time in Europe, whatever.

You Know How You Do Someone A Favor And Then They Turn Around And Treat You Like An Asshole?

Sure you do. If not, then meet Rassles.

So yeah, I should have learned my lesson when I guest posted last week. Click on over and read the last guest post I'm ever going to write.

Sometimes you just have to know when to Never Say Die* and other times you just have to know when to fold them**.

I'm totally shanking her when she gets back to the mid-west.




*Teen Wolf
**Mr. Kenny Rogers.

Please Joaquin, Don't Hurt 'Em!

Sometimes people don't listen when you warn through awesome artwork.


But I said it and he ignored it:



And then this happened.

All I can say is that I'm a little psychic. Also? Where was his shiv?

How To Feel Like The Walking Dead In Two Easy Steps, And Not The Awesome Zombie Dead, Just The Dead Dead

"With Fervor!" is how I would describe the way I bit into a piece of moldy bread this weekend. In my defense, I didn't notice the giant, green pond of mold until after I had thoughtfully chewed and swallowed. (It was so not thoughtful at all. It was a feeding frenzy, if you could have a feeding frenzy on one piece of bread.)

That first bite? Delicious, yet nearly vomit inducing. I noticed I had a fraction of an inch between my teeth marks and the penicillin packed punch of moldy fantastic that I had somehow failed to notice.

None of this is the point though, so I should really move on. The reason I was shoving whole grain bread down my gullet like it was something ten times more awesome than bread (like Cool Ranch Doritos, Mutha) is because after my pants declared that I'm an asshole and that they couldn't stand to be around anymore, I put myself on this crazy, no bitch ass calories, fuck you processed foods diet that has made me reclaim my prized Calorie Nazi title.

I'm not going to get into details. Mostly because I know I'm not alone in finding it annoying when bloggahs go on and on about their awesome fat fighting wars.

What I'm trying to tell you, in a really wordy and less than intelligent way, is that if you are going to go on a mad crazy detox diet, don't start on Daylight Saving Suck Ass Weekend (DSSAW - which I'm also going to refrain from rattling on about because everyone on the net is pissed, we get it).

Otherwise? You might find yourself, standing in your office on a Sunday, devoid of all life sustaining energy, shoving moldy carbs down your throat just so you can muster the energy to scrub a toilet that may or may not have other people's short and curlies thrown about it like confetti (seriously? These people lose underhairs like mad, wolfen freaks).

Really, I think the only way to end this is with an illustration. You are most freaking welcome, my little Love Cats:



Also? I'd give away someone else's left testicle for some cheese right now. This? Is going to piss "someone else" off and I don't care.

Suck it, someone else, suck it.

PS - I watched Gangland - Aryan Brotherhood this weekend, rather listlessly but still I watched. Oh the shivs I saw. It was shiv heaven. You know, if shivs were in anyway at all heavenly and not creatively crafted mechanisms of death.

My fascination with shivs has got to end but I'm just all amazed at the inventiveness of it. There is no place on Earth that the phrase "necessity is the mother of invention" is more relevant than in prison.

I didn't know I could write disappearing messages in my own urine.

Now? You are excited for tomorrow's blog post, I know. Boss Urine Messages!

Milking It

And I know you were wondering what has sent me flipping and flopping over the deep end.

I'm not ready!

I'M NOT FREAKING READY!!!!

I'm officially a half-armed zombie

Slowly they moved, seemingly without a thought in their heads. It seemed they had no real direction or destination.

Listlessly they groaned, bumping into one another. Even if I made a noise, would they notice me? Suddenly, I got my answer when the group, walking 5-wide in front of me stopped without notice. The mouse, the messiah had caught their flat, dead eyes. The grouping shifted direction, with a low, guttural moan they wandered away. I said, "Excuse me" as I veered around them. They paid me no mind.

They had no mind to pay.

Theme-park zombies care not for others.

After we hit the theme restaurant with the moving gorillas and leopards, the rodent and princess store with all their "sale" items and the mega store of all that is hot and of the musical variety we had virtually left 1/2 an arm behind.

I quickly bought myself a mouse backscratcher, mouse toothbrush and mouse flash drive and fashioned them into a shiv like I was a fairytale McGuyver. I grabbed a fluorescent pink mouse bandana and tied it around my head like I was John Rambo. With the one full arm I had left I fought my way to the parking lot, shanking and slashing mindless, money dropping zombies left and right. Somehow I managed to hold on to my precious purchases, still in their brightly colored bags.

As I climbed into my American-made rental car, screaming child in tow, I looked in the mirror at my own flat, dead eyes. In the backseat my kids screamed, blood-curdling again. Suddenly, a stuffed mouse smacks me in the head and whines, "Dreams really do come truuuuuuuue."

Mother fucker.

Tomorrow, we hit the kingdom that boasts of all it's awesome magicalness.

Just when I thought I was out, they pull me back in.

When Mr. T's Unhappy Customers' Wrath Falls Like a Hammer, What Will You Do?

PS, I just realized that they probably won't scratch out George Foreman's face as much as they will photo shop a mohawk and gold chains onto him.

I bet no one will buy it though. I mean come on, George Foreman can't even say "I pity the fool that doesn't buy my grill" with a straight face. And this from a man who named all his kids George.

Who are you to judge Mr. T, George? Just who do you think you are?

Have you ever tried to name a company? Well, have you?

In the always exciting, rarely disappointing land of Booms, big happenings are going on. My ever-driven, hates working for The Man, wants to be The Man-husband is possibly launching his own company.

I, personally, think he's just sick of working with ass-faced whores.

In this endeavor he has acquired a partner and one of the first hang-ups they've run into is naming the company, so you know who they've turned to. Ahem.

With my offering of Zombie with a Shiv, LLC turned down, I came back with Teen Wolf Town and was again shot down. The hell? So obviously I'm dealing with some finicky mofo's here. That was my best stuff! I thought about busting out OLLCJ, LLC but that seemed kind of confusing.

Obviously, I was going to have to stretch my creative legs and get a little more, uncreative. In a moment of greatness I came up with Monarch Property Solutions.

Bitchin', right?

Wrong, so bitchin' it's taken. Well not the solutions part, but you know, the rest of it.

So this crap is keeping us awake at night and no one, I mean no one or thing keeps me from sleeping. Last night I tossed and turned, names spinning around inside my mind. Suddenly, I jolted awake and sat up in a flash of genius, I had it!

SugarPapas!

Wait, what? What the fuck is that about? SugarPapas? They are accountants not pimps.

Hmmm, I don't think I can convince them to start a pimp business, and Jason looks horrible in big hats with feathers, back to the drawing board. So back to sleep I went. I tossed and I turned, I flipped and I flopped and suddenly there it was!

Mo-Narch.

Man, that's just stupid. Maybe they could take up drug sniffing and be Mo-Narcs. Missouri's best drug finding freaks.

As it turns out, I really suck at this. I suck hardcore at this. Especially? When I'm trying to sleep.

On my drive in to work today, I thought of another one that just might work. However, despite how uncreative I am, I know that quite a few ultra-creative people read this.

If you have a bitchin' name for a property management company, throw it out there. And it has to be better than:

Radd Property Solutions. Which I thought of already, mostly because I just wanted to answer the phone that way.

But if you offer up a name and we end up using it or some version of it, we'll send you something reaaaaal niiiiiiice, Clark.

So, any thoughts?

The other day Jason's co-worker wrote me and asked me what kind of make-up I used and if I could offer her any tips for applying it because my face is always "flawless".

So the chick is obvioulsy delusional or her taste is all in her mouth. Whatever.

Jason cannot stand her and thinks she is a total slackass, but she's always been pretty nice to me and I happen to know that they are on the verge of losing their house and her husband is out of work.

She mentioned that she had her reunion coming up and that she was feeling old (39). It seemed I had sat into a situation where I could do some good. About damn time.

So sitting at my desk at work, I pulled out my make up bag and carefully laid out the products I use and how I apply them, adding in more detail than I ever really spend on my face, as I have Satan's little helper attached to my leg most mornings.

I told her of my Rimmell powder ($3.99), my L'Oreal foundation and lipliner and even of the awesome Maybelline mascara ($6.99) I found that is kick ass in ways bat guano was never meant to be. And I treading lightly as I told her that I splurge on my moisturizer with Estee Lauder's Day Wear ($45).

Feeling all crazy good about myself I clicked send and promptly forgot about it.

Fifteen minutes later she responded with:

"Well I only use MAC or other really expensive products. Have you heard of it?"

I responded back:

"Not only have I heard of it, but so has every old ass drag queen. Good luck at your reunion, I imagine most of the men will be bald at your age. And I would go on to bet that if any of them have heard of MAC, they look better than you too."

I'm taking my shiv the next time I go to Jason's office.