Friday, December 18, 2009

bah, humbug.

thank you, most gorgeous and talented liz strause, for introducing me to my new favorite phrase of all time: "mortacci tua." that means, literally, "death to your relatives." and it's way cooler than saying fuck you all the time. i mean, aren't we over the F word already? seriously! it just sounds so lame now, and it's not even that big of an insult anymore. like, when's the last time someone said "fuck you" to you? and what did you do after he or she said it?! laugh hysterically? for sure! and "death to your relatives" is some badass shit to say to a bitch, ain't it?! it's fucking AMAZING. betty was chapping my dick off at work the other day, and i turned around and said "mortacci tua!" while making the "get fucked" motion under my chin. crushing. i loved it. i always call myself king shit of fuck mountain, and saying that shit to her made me totally feel like it. my penis grew, like, ten extra inches as soon as it rolled off my tongue. i should have punched a hole through the goddamned wall.

shit on the brain lately. sorry in advance.

the one thing i know better than anything else is poo. i am not at all shit-shy. with these guts, how could you be? so this morning i was on the phone going over my saic shit with ed while i was, in fact, in the middle of a shit. i was also brushing my teeth. i didn't think it was a big deal. i talk to snatch all the time while i'm on the crapper, especially since she is the person who gobbles up the most of my anytime minutes. i really could talk to that bitch all day every day. anyway, she never cares, so why should you?

and, if you've talked to me on the telephone for any amount of time in the last ten years, chances are at least one of those phone calls took place while i was having "brown pee." sorry to break it to you here. but totally awesome that you couldn't tell, right?! if you are in my place and i have to poo, i might leave the door open and talk to you if i can tell it's not going to be a messy one. anyway, i was mostly listening (ed talks a lot) and brusha-brusha-brushing (two minutes is an awfully long time to be jamming something long and hard in and out between one's teeth, wink!) when ed paused suddenly, catching me off guard. and, of course, i was making the nastiest shit gurgle-splutter-splatter noise at the exact moment he came up for air. i thought the brillo pad i use to clean my tongue might drown out the racket. alas, it did not.

"what was THAT?"
"what was what?"
"that noise just now."
"...what noise just now?" am absolutely terrible at playing dumb.
"wait a minute...are you SHITTING?"
"oh, absolutely." plop plop plop plop.
"on the PHONE?!"
"i'm multitasking! i have to go to WORK, and fucking with you is going to make me LATE." plop! splish splash!
pause. "you know this is why you don't have a man, don't you?"
"what? for cereal?! and all this time i thought it was my shoes!" lololol.
"you are the grossest person i have ever met. ugh." (click)

now that is probably true, i'm hella gross, but what a fucking baby. you dudes can't handle a little phonearrhea?! give me a break! if i stopped doing other things while on the toilet (homework, journaling, eating, my taxes...) i would never ever get a goddamned thing done! i read, on average, a book a week, and how do you bitches think i accomplish such a feat? because i read on the can. don't you dudes HATE going to a bitch's house who doesn't keep reading material in the john? what do you DO in there?! play with the little seashell soaps? count the tiles? i have a pile of books and magazines on the floor in the bathroom, on the floor outside the bathroom, and pretty much on every flat surface in my entire apartment. PLUS, the butt wipes (i need those) and extra tp and air freshener are all easy to find. which is essential.

what the fuck with people who don't set their places up in a way that makes goddamned sense? i mean, you go to someone's house and try to take a discreet little dookie or try to make something in the kitchen, and not a fucking thing you need is in a logical place. why do motherfuckers do that? WHY? if you are one of these people, please explain this to me. and, inevitably, the second you squeeze out a hot one you realize there is one square of toilet paper on the roll and can't find the extras. or the glade. or, if god really fucking hates you, you clog up the toilet and can't find a plunger to save your stupid life. again, why y'all be doing that?! it makes me NUTS. sneaking around with itchy dingleberries trying to find where this slick sonofabitch hides the cottonelle. arrrrrrgh. mortacci tua, you hidden toilet paper assholes! put shit where a bitch can fucking find it. my plunger is right next to the toilet. butt wipes, toilet paper, and three different types of air fresheners are where? you guessed it! in the cabinet NEXT TO THE TOILET, you handsome genius.

i hate being in someone's house looking for some shit. it makes you feel guilty even if it's something you're supposed to be looking for! digging through a bitch's drawers trying to find scissors or matches or fucking batteries makes me homicidal. and why in the FUCK can't i find a pen? anywhere?! i'm not looking for your mother's heirloom jewelry, whore, i just need a fucking band-aid! or some immodium! where in the fuck do you keep the q-tips?! why is it such a big secret?

who wants to go on a treasure hunt when all you need is a fucking measuring spoon? or a phone book? the television remote?! i understand burying your porn in a lockbox under the floor (i would never do that), but why put the safety pins or the lint roller in witness protection? everyone is just so stupid. leave shit where people can find it, okay? goddamn.

maybe all this irritation is because i'm a messy little pig who likes rolling in her own slop, and i secretly despise neat people. but fuck that. that's not tidyness. that's a big "fuck you" (or maybe a mortacci tua?) to anyone who ever steps foot inside your front (or back, hiyo!) door. here's what i don't get: if i'm freaking out and opening seventeen closets and twenty-four cabinets and forty-six drawers trying to figure out where you keep the goddamned vaseline, don't YOU have just as hard a time finding that shit when you need it? i mean, please. if you keep the toilet paper in the dining room, isn't it just as much of a hassle when you have to drip through three different rooms to go get the next roll? why would you do that to yourself? please. someone break this down for me. i'm obviously dumb.

where were we? oh yeah, "why i don't have a man." i mean, if we're really being honest, it's because most dudes are constructed primarily of lies and bullshit. it really is that simple. also, the bulk of them are mentally retarded. so when i find one who isn't a jagoff and has a brain in his head and wants to be my stunt dick on the permanent, i will have one. until then, blow me. and what is with all this "insight" and advice anyway? you know, ever since my dirty snatch and i started chronicling our failed romantical lives and semi-psychotic ramblings in this public forum, people who couldn't give me reliable directions to the nearest bathroom are all of a sudden facebooking and emailing and phonecalling me with all sorts of advice about my vagina. and her inhabitants.

and while i appreciate the gestures, MOTHERFUCK Y'ALL. (mortacci tua!) i'm old as dirt. and you read this shit because i let you. i write about this shit because i am damned talented and ridiculously hilarious, and your lives are better for having read it. what would you even do if i found myself in a long-term, stable relationship and started writing about darning some hot dude's socks and picking up his dry cleaning? you'd die, that's what. so don't consider these posts some heartfelt appeal to your infinite wisdom. you bitches are dumb as hell. i got an email the other day, from a "friend," an email whose subject line read "i read your blog and i know why you don't have a man." for serious, bitch?! (you know who you are, you stupid motherfucker.) i didn't even open that shit, i just immediately composed a response email entitled, "i know why you have two children with different fathers that you can't afford to feed." dumb bitch. shut the fuck up. and stop telling me what to do.

roommates don't fight over the light bill or whatever mid-poop? husbands and wives and stuff really politely wait until the end of the dump before carrying out their daily business? if so, i rilly and truly will never be able to cohabitate with another human. we'd never finish a goddamned thing. no shopping lists, no netflix queueueueueues, no nada. who has the time?

every year i write a christmas list, probably because of my stunted childhood. for cereal. *sigh* i understood that michael jackson shit in the realest way. if i could get my hands on the beatles' catalog, i would sell it and buy myself a new adolescence. immediately. i'd have surgery and shop at forever 21 and enroll in the seventh grade. it would be sexy slumber parties and cupcakes and taylor swift singalongs all fucking day long. bitch, please!

for a lazy motherfucker i write an awful lot of lists. i think i just like the way they look, you know? all neat and presentable and organized. my scribbles really are beautiful, even if they are sometimes hard to read, and i just like the way lists look on paper. like you have your fucking life together. and i totally don't, so you can understand why my crazy and i like to make pretend that we do. it makes us look normal. you know. because my crazy is really concerned about outward appearances.

i have made no fewer than ten lists in the last week, because hair is going to be here soon and i want to make it look like i have my shit in order, at least a little bit. you know i don't grocery shop, but i made a list. of shit that (in my mind) dudes like to eat. cereal and potato chips and hot pockets. i'm not going to the store, but it makes me feel good to know that if i ever did, i could quickly gather all of the things i wanted to buy. for serious, hair is going to have to learn to live on pretzels and nutella, or maybe i should just leave all the nearby delivery menus on the counter and prop my phone next to them. sheesh.

i made a list of household items i need to buy (still haven't) and ways in which i should organize my closet (will never). i made a list of things for us to do while he's here (i'm sure we'll do not a single one) and restaurants i'd like to take him to (that, actually, has a chance of happening). in spite of the fact that these lists should serve as reminders of how i never actually really complete a damn thing i set out to, i'm feeling pretty good. i'm ready. because while i haven't bought a vacuum nor have i had the duvet laundered, i CAN cross "put up a new shower curtain liner," "replace the crusty dish drain," and "clean up stinky ladyparts" off my lists. and really, that's the most i could ever be expected to do. and just wait until he sees the lists i made for him.

rawr. and slutty sexmas.

ps, i am also working on a little bit about how i hate holiday parties (BARF) and all these nouveau fancy shmancy sex shops. keep your vaginas peeled!

pps, save january 16th on your fucking calendars. akilah and i are doing our show, and it's going to knock your balls all the way off. 6 pm. cj's eatery. ten bucks. live nude sex acts. WRITE IT DOWN, assholes. and show up!

ppps, i'm taking a little breaky-poo from posting soon. i have two more, then i'm on hiatus. just a couple weeks. a teenie weenie little fuckcation. don't worry, though, i will have gotten laid 453 times by the time i come back, and that will do wonders for my, ahem, creativity. and i'll be fresh off a colonoscopy, too. gorgeous!