Thursday, May 20, 2010

the barbarian.

so conan totally fucking RULED.

he's really the most perfect dude. seriously. and i'm not even into skinny, waifish men. because there really is no quicker way to feel like a gigantic walking sack of sweet potatoes (i'll wait quietly over here while you figure out why that is such a ridiculously awesome and accurate visual) than to rub on some delectable bean pole and have his sharp, pointy bits stabbing you all up in your soft meat.

i've done it. more than a few times. and always with the beaniest of poles. not salad-eating anorexics, mind you, and none of these emaciated hipsters in nut-hugging girl jeans that are always clogging up belmont. just naturally thin dudes the circumference of a ball-point pen. but they have to be TALL, because i can't deal with a dude who could fucking hide behind me. i'm laughing while writing that, because that shit is hilarious, but i am 100% FOR REAL. skinny and tall works. skinny and small DON'T. i mean, in life it totally works, because you can fold your tiny ass up and hide in cupboards when the gestapo come calling or slide through fences and crawl through dog doors, all of which i'm sure comes in very handy. but the thought of sleeping next to a malnourished little piece of undercooked meat doesn't light any fires over here. not because it's gross, it sort of totally is, but because i don't want to carry my manfriend around in a snugli.

we have been over this before, but i want to get to the bottom of all the jack sprats out here trying to cozy up on some curvy jibs. BACK UP THE FUCKING TRUCK. speaking of this craziness, i totally fucking forgot to write about how i saw goddamned gym dude at whole foods a couple weeks ago. holy mother of god, how on EARTH could i forget something so monumental?! maybe because it wasn't such a big deal. whatever. anyway. i am incredibly particular about my soy, rice, and almond milks (i DO make things other than tacos and toast, silly) and i am really fond of a few brands i can only find at WF. i can't have my milk feeling too thick or looking too brown; it makes me want to vomit, and i do enough of that as it is. also, i buy tons of probiotics and lysine and raspberry lime poland spring sparkling water. i always have a very specific, targeted list when i go in there because everything is so fucking expensive and ten minutes of aimless wandering can land two hundred dollars' worth of shit in my cart. easy.

i typically race through with my list (at the speed of arthritis) and leave before i spend my rent money. and i try not to make eye contact with anyone because i know everyone and bitches always stop me while i'm shopping to talk to me about NOTHING. i was putting three gigantic bottles of flax seed oil in my cart next to the kefir and coconut oil and chewable acidophilus when i felt a presence behind me. so i just moved, because i am always very conscious of blocking a person's access to something i am JUST STANDING in front of (why isn't everyone like me, hmm?) and hate to waste anyone's time. i grabbed one more bottle (i go through a lot of that stuff) and was walking away when he put his hand on my arm.

i whipped around (again, i really don't move that fucking fast) to confront my assailant (touching = assault, never forget that) and deflated as soon as i realized who it was. even when dudes are so super fucking shitty to me, if enough time passes i can smile and be nice when i inevitably run into them again. i might even be excited and cordially ask "hey, how have you been?" and actually listen to the answer. and gym dude never did anything other than fill my arteries with gooey, calorie-laden LOVE. but i was uncomfortable standing there, IN A GIANT MECCA DEVOTED TO FOOD, with a dude who'd jerked off using a slice of pizza in my presence.

he still looked INCREDIBLE, but i was so grossed out you wouldn't even believe. barf. and he was like, "are you seeing anyone?" in that deep, velvety voice (swoon) and it almost took my last breath to admit that i indeed am not and watch the lusty satisfaction spread across his face like syrup oozing across a pancake. if you know me you know that while i am a master of hiding shit and deception, i am a terrible to-your-face LIAR. he would've totally been able to tell. "i'm glad to hear that. i am going to call you."
groan. it's never "the one that got away" (although i really don't have one of those but for the purposes of this story we'll pretend that i do) who wants to call you. it's the dude who licked bacon grease out of your butthole or whatever who can't wait two minutes before texting you "do you still like crab? it's on sale!" from the other side of the motherfucking store. and OF COURSE i still like crab. what an insane question. who the fuck doesn't like delicious crabs? IDIOT.

i double-timed it (at a snail's pace) to finish my shopping, and i ran into him twice more (that's what i get for standing in the pasta aisle for five minutes when i should have been picking out cans of red salmon like my list told me to) before finally almost running him over with my cart because i was racing to get the last two bunches of calla lilies before some other bitch with impeccable taste snatched them out from under me. he walked with me to the checkout (while checking ME out, zing) and i unloaded all my shit and then looked in his cart, which was full of health food and fruit and fresh vegetables and energy bars and whatever else you people who give a fuck about your appearance eat while the rest of us are sucking down delicious ribs and carrot cake.

"what is all that?" he asked, nodding at my bottles and bottles and bottles of weird hippie shit that sick people eat in the vain hopes of feeling better. "are you on some crazy diet?"

i rolled my eyes and told him that i have a bowel disease and that filling my body with vitamins, oils, and delicious bacteria is supposed to make me feel fucking better. i wasn't expecting this to happen, but his eyes got all wide and tear-filled (wtf with the melodrama? YAWN) and he asked if it was fatal. my response EVERY SINGLE TIME someone asks me is "god, i hope so," and when i said it to gym dude he almost started hyperventilating. which was funny to me. hilarious, even. i mean, this is a dude who masturbated into my kitchen sink while i ate lemon cake frosting with my fingers. this unexpected emotion made me laugh, probably because i am evil and come from hell.

"could i have had something to do with it?" now i want you to picture this. 1 packed grocery line 2 original whole foods in evanston 3 him trying to discreetly lean across cart between us 4 "discreet" imfuckingpossible when you are 6'5'' and made of bulging muscles 5 people staring anyway 6 samantha trying to put on serious face when she really wants to die laughing.

but you bitches are going to be so proud, because i said, with a STRAIGHT FACE, "yes." now you know and i know that this is some congenital biological wackness that satan handed me right before i slid out of my mom's ass that lay dormant for twenty-five years before showing its ugly face and ruining my fucking life, but this idiot doesn't! i live to fuck with people. really, i totally do. i was fucking with rachel a couple days ago so badly that i almost gave her ass an ulcer. seriously, she sent me seventeen texts and forty-nine emails and called a hundred and fifty times to make sure i wasn't mad at her. and i just kept acting mad until it wasn't funny to me anymore. what a JERK.

so i had absolutely no problem letting this dude think that a couple months of blueberry pie and chicken wings caused this bastard piece of shit disease that has overtaken my digestive tract. he looked horror-stricken (ha ha) and tried to hug me (ha ha ha) and felt SO BAD that he bought all of my expensive groceries (getting shit for free from a bogus dude is no laughing matter). it just occurred to me that some of you might have no idea what the fuck i'm talking about, and if you find yourself scratching your head in confusion PLEASE do yourselves a favor and go through my old shit and read a piece called "fat fuck." even if you've read it, you should read it again. it is filthy and horrible and disgusting and brilliant in a way i can't do justice to here. go on, now. i'll wait for you.

gym dude has called a couple times and emailed me a couple more, but i've adopted this new "no hustling backward" policy that we'll talk about later when i don't want to write about my ultra-pale paramour. so in other words, FUCK THAT DUDE. because he makes me sick. tee hee.

fuck jay leno. conan is seriously one of the funniest dudes on television, and what happened to him was so unfair i can't even stand it. he's self-effacing and silly and smart and he's so fucking sharp. seriously, his comedic reflexes are ridiculous. if conan talked about vaginas and how much he hates retarded menfolk i could totally write his material for him. and that's a big deal because i'm still arrogant enough that when people ask me to write shit for them to perform i turn my fucking nose up. for reals. stop asking me to help you with your stand-up DUDE WHO KEEPS ASKING ME TO WRITE YOUR STAND-UP. i may look a little bit like seth rogen, but this isn't "funny people." and i might have considered it if 1 you had offered to pay me 2 you had offered to pay me 3 you had offered to pay me 4 you had offered to pay me 5 you had offered to fuck me.

and i would have politely declined, but it would have at the very least proven that you aren't entirely a bag of shit. "help me fine tune my stage act" is how this asshole put it. for a stranger. FOR FREE. and a male stranger at that! you know i'll help you women do anything short of assassinations and child trafficking, but I WILL NEVER HELP A MAN DO A GODDAMNED THING. i say that all the time. and i mean it. especially not for free. ugh. fucking gross.

anyway, conan was singing and dancing and playing his guitar and telling jokes and singing and masturbating bear and dancing and andy richter and guitar playing and triumph and singing and videos and john c. reilly and dancing and walker texas ranger and reggie watts and lights and brian urlacher and la bamba and deon cole and dancing and yelling and singing and AWESOME. i feel terrible that you couldn't have come with us. it was incredible. the opening act dude sort of sucked my balls a whole lot, but rachel was GOING CRAZY laughing at him. for cereal. i had to give her, like, TEN side-eyes. i was all, "is this really your shit?" and she was laughing so hard she couldn't answer. if i hadn't laughed at the song he sang about sandwiches and when he kept saying "make a fuck shit stack" i would really be reconsidering my friendship with her right now.

plus, WE GOT TO TOUCH CONAN. he came up right where we were sitting, and i touched him. so did ginger. i can now die in peace.

after the show we went to the astonishingly beautiful wit hotel (you already know how i feel about hotels) and had a super-late fancy dinner at state and lake, the bar inside. this is only worth mentioning because a few weeks ago ginger and draper got into a heated internet debate about the proper way to eat tasty foods (draper and i voted NEAT, while ginger's vote was MESSY) and she swore on a stack of bibles that she would NEVER quarter and eat a cheeseburger, which is the method of choice both for me and for that smoldering piece of top sirloin steak. when the waiter placed that gigantic slab of medium-rare beef in front of her, i watched with HUGE bug eyes as she almost picked up her knife to cut it into more manageable pieces. but she knew i would never shut up about it, so she pretended she wasn't going to and double-fisted it.

and even though i totally know i'm right and that not having grease run down my hand brace as i tried to open my mouth and shove a sandwich the size of a football inside is the most perfect way to eat, it was incredibly sexy watching her do it. meow.

ps, i'm not late on this, just lazy. if you haven't, PLEASE get bon iver's "for emma, forever ago." i bought it when it first came out, listened to it INCESSANTLY, then put it on my musical back burner. but i'm listening to it again, right now as a matter of fact, and it is SO GOOD i might die.

pps, i just this very second bought tickets to see the dum dum girls, beach house, and vampire weekend in september at the aragon. i have a couple VALID and TOTALLY LEGIT presale codes, because i am the unofficial ruler of the universe. i want you to come to this show with us, because it is going to be SO GOOD that we all might die. let me know if you wanna.