Wednesday, April 28, 2010

she's doing it wrong

Princess Bea (seen here, with her unfortunately tiny eyes and itty bitty teeth) ran a marathon. She finished in 5 hours, 15 minutes, 57 seconds. She was met at the finish line by her parents, Prince Andrew and Sarah Ferguson.

Apparently, this particular princess doesn’t understand the rules. She’s supposed to sit in her palace all day, ordering the servants around and kicking kittens just because she can. When she’s in public, she’s supposed to hide needles in her dress sleeves so she can pull them out and poke commoners when they wander too close. And her main food source is supposed to be bon-bons and the souls of her subjects. Because it’s the rules.

It sounds like this princess actually trained for said marathon, which means buckets of princess sweat. That’s rarer than a unicorn’s tears. Was there anyone there collecting it? Isn’t that what a handmaiden is for? No? Well, somebody’s losing their head over this (what do you mean they don’t do that anymore?! Hot poker in the eye, then. No?! What. The. Hell.)

*sniff* I don’t know if I want to live in a world where a princess a) looks like that, b) sweats, and c) doesn’t wear a ball gown 24-7. I mean, if a princess doesn’t get to order a beheading, then what do the rest of us have to hope for?

Friday, April 23, 2010

you have to admit it's a valid question

What do hookers, heroin users and I have in common?

No, it’s not the way we dress, although I realize hookers and heroin users love their granny cardigans every bit as much as I do. It’s not the infected sores, either. (I know, I know, I’m gonna have to get to the doctor eventually, but in the meantime, assures me that I’m not contagious. Relax.)

Well. Apparently there are more similarities than I realized, so I’ll just go ahead and give you the answer: none of us can donate blood this week. It turns out that hookers, heroin users and I all share the common bond of being declined by the Red Cross.

It’s an extremely exclusive club, so no, I’m not gonna sneak you in the back door. But here’s how you can get in on your own: have unprotected sex with 100 men a day for a minimum of 6 months, share needles with some guy named Scat in the alley behind Sizzlers at least once, OR have such low iron that the technician who tests your hemoglobin worries if you’re healthy enough to be operating a motor vehicle.

People get declined for things all the time. Credit cards, car loans, college admissions, marriage proposals. But how many people get declined by an organization desperate to draw your universally life-saving type O+ blood? Wait. Let me clarify. This is an organization that sets up in a van ON SKID ROW and buys the blood of homeless people. And they turned me down.

I must be some kind of special. I’m going to go celebrate with my new friends. Hey, Scat, wait up!

Tuesday, April 13, 2010

I can't believe it's not butter

I read an article online today that Steven Seagal’s sex slave filed a lawsuit against him for basically being a kung fu pervert and looking like a stick of butter with a ponytail. She also says she has knowledge of his “unique physiological reaction” to being (…I'm...running...bathroom...puking...) sexually aroused.


Let me be the one zillionth person to respond to this: omigodgross.

The article went on to question briefly why the sex slave filed a civil lawsuit as opposed to a criminal complaint. Because interwebs reporting equals excellent reporting, the inquiry was perfunctory and without insight. Here’s my insight: a civil lawsuit gets you money. A criminal complaint requires proof.

The only thing this lady’s lawsuit says to me is that a) she’s willing to publicly admit to being around a sexually aroused Steven Seagal and b) give that lady some damn money. She’s obviously earned it.

This woman is literally holding the entire world hostage, and we’re just praying he’ll pay her off because, God knows, nobody wants to know the specifics of that “unique physiological reaction”, amirite? I know I am.

Sunday, April 11, 2010

part it on the left

It's that time of year again, a time when the teenage girls in my life go shopping for a dress they'll pay 3-figures for (on SALE), wear once, and regret for the rest of their life.

It's prom season.

Unfortunately, I took a glance at a catalog one of them brought over and the first thing I saw was something that looked like a hooker's best dress combined with a crack ho's last nightmare...if that nightmare included wearing your guts on the outside of your clothes.

From what I gather, based on a 30 second perusal of said catalog, dresses have two main requirements: they cannot be subtle and they have to be so short, you need to have two hairstyles to wear them.

Also, the more you look like Merv the Perv's french-maid fantasy, the better.

Thank god, Becca's not even vaguely interested in prom shenanigans. But even if she were, her dress would look something like this:

I promise.

It's a term of endearment, right?

I was born with verbal diarrhea.

My nickname from the moment I spilled my first secret (age: 3 months) has been Motormouth. Furthermore, as I aged and body parts grew and improved (and eventually failed and sagged), I never developed a filter between my inappropriate thoughts and what comes out of my mouth.

Over my life, it's gotten me into more uncomfortable situations than a g-string at a Chubby Chaser's Convention and yet, I've never learned to control it. I'm a very, very slow learner.

And now, because it's too damn late for me to change, I'm embracing my particularly well developed social handicap and that's why I renamed my blog.

I may not have invented kicking ass...

...but I'm damn sure good at it. (I'm thinking about suing Hollywood for copyright infringement.)

In an effort to tie all my kick ass online stuff together, I'm renaming my blog (with new banner goodness). Same kick ass me. New kick ass blogspot.


Thursday, April 8, 2010

My kids think I'm lovely

I was having a random, wandering conversation with my kids the other day about their day at school, when they hit me with this zinger:

Becca: "Hey, Matthew. I was at your school helping in the keyboarding class and I saw Mary..." Matthew interrupts: "I think she looks like Mom", while Becca continues " friends say she's a fat whore."

There followed a great silence...and then we laughed so hard, Becca ran off to the bathroom before she peed herself.

It reminded me of the time I was playing gin rummy with my dad. I was about 12 and I accidentally flipped him off. Or the time my little brother accidentally told my mom to shut up. I can vouch for the fact that teenagers don't have any control between what they MEAN to do and what they ACTUALLY do.

I can also vouch for the fact that while I may be fat, I am no whore. After their hysterics died down, the kids assured me that this is, in fact, true.


Tuesday, April 6, 2010

this is not about Tiger's wang

Tiger Woods’ (you thought I was gonna say penis, didn't you?) daughter goes to school, which wouldn’t strike me as odd…if she wasn’t two years old. That’s a bit younger than the typical kid is forced to learn that 2+2=blue, isn’t it?

When my kids were two, they still had potty incidents and managed to spill their spill-proof sippy cups. Their days definitely didn’t include English Lit first period.

When Becca was two, she climbed into the garbage dumpster and ate from the sugar canister someone had thrown out. When Matthew was two, he stuffed a banana in his toy-box and I caught him eating it days later. Trust me, they were in no shape to sit still and listen to a teacher for hours at a time.

Now, before you consider the source and decide my kids were probably paste-eating grunters until they were six or seven, please note: my kids were very smart (and still are, though they’re currently teenagers so that takes some of the smartness right out of them by virtue of chemistry and hormones).

I’m just not sure what two year old would tolerate a structured classroom environment without absolutely losing their sh*t. I think it’s cruel to force that on 'em. At that age, they should be frolicking freely, pretending to be boogers or raindrops or pink polka dots or something.

Hell. Who knows. Maybe little Miss Woods is a child prodigy. I know her DAD was a prodigy by the time he was two and look at him now. Quality.

I’m just thinking they should give the kid a break. Just let her be two and smear pudding on her face and take a nap when she’s tired and spend time with Mom instead of Staff. But that’s just me.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Human? I think not.

Saw a picture of this guy

in an article about billionaires. His name is Carlos Slim. It’s an ironic name, like calling me Slender Willow or Vanilla Petite, but he can get away with it because, well, he’s got more money than God.

Considering the rest of the billionaires on the same list have lame names like Jim Walton and Lawrence Ellison, old Slim’s not only the richest, but the one with the coolest name. That means he gets to date the head cheerleader.

I read the list and then got to wondering what billionaires do when not taking over the world one sweatshop at a time. Origami with $1000 bills? Yoga on mink yoga mats? Since they crap dollar bills, what do they wipe with? Oh, I know. Disposable baby harp seals… ‘cause you know there ain’t no cleaning that off with Dawn dish soap, baby.

I guess some billionaires might spend their time donating money to worthy causes and setting up foundations to benefit all mankind *cough tax write-off cough*, which is admirable. And other billionaires inexplicably spend their money on $2000 suits yet still get really bad haircuts and wear 1980s serial killer glasses:

All this thinking got me…uh…thinking: how do you become a billionaire? On this year’s World’s Richest list, Forbes tries to church it up. It says Prince Alwaleed Bin Talal made his fortune as an “investor”. An investor?! You don’t invest $100 per paycheck and end up with $19 billion dollars. That guy didn’t “make” his fortune, he inherited it.

Prince Alwaleed could take a play outta the next guy’s book: David Thomson, worth $19 billion and the most honest man alive. In italics, next to his name, it just says “inheritance”. He didn’t work a single day of his life and he is SO PROUD OF IT.

Billionaires are funny. Why not just straight up say “I sold 357 metric tons of asbestos and lead-based toys to foolish Americans” or “I exploited my country’s most recent financial crisis by buying low and selling high”? Instead, they think they need to make it pretty on paper, when in reality, nobody really believes Li Ka-Shing made $21 billion by being “diversified”. What does that even MEAN? My guess? Drugs. Lots and lots of drugs.

Furthermore, I wonder: do billionaires look down on millionaires? Are billionaires like the populars in high school and millionaires like the audio-video club? Would Prince Alwaleed Bin Talal be caught dead at prom with Donald Trump? The world may never know.

I’ve come to the conclusion that billionaires might as well be a different species than the rest of us. Except Carlos Slim. Guy with a name like that would be totally cool downing some ice cold Dos Equis on my patio, I just know it. *Slim, call me.*