Dude, You Don’t Wanna Hear This Guy Do 50 Cent…

 

I have no idea why this picture makes me laugh every time I see it- but it does.  This is what I happened to think he was saying today.

Rodent Arthritis

I saw a squirrel running across the street this morning.  It was more like he spoinged across.  Spoing, spoing, spoing.  It made me wonder if old squirrels and rabbits have terrible pain in their tiny tiny ankles with all that compacting of their wee joints from all that spoinging.  It made me sad.  Then I thought of a tiny squirrel driving a tiny Rascal and laughed my ass off.

I’m Bringin Home a Baby Bumblebee…

Dude, according to Slate.com, you can rent three pounds of bees for about $75.00.  Three pounds of bees sounds like a lot of fucking bees.  Farmers apparently rent the little suckers to pollinate their crops. 

So, are they bee pimps?  I love the idea of a bee pimp so much it hurts. 

Some farmer:  Bitch, where’s my honey?

Bee:  You know I love you baby, I ain’t holdin out on you!

Farmer:  Do I have to choke a bitch out?

Bee:  Naw, baby, it was just a slow season.  I’ll work harder, I promise, baby.  You just have to give me a little time.  Let me crawl all over your face, baby, me and a bunch of my friends and make you a beard like you like.  

Farmer:  Aww, girl, why you make me so angry?  I don’t wanna choke a bitch, but when you mess with my honey, you mess with my emotions. 

Bee:  Lemme make it up to you, daddy. 

-End Scene

I am not crazy about bees.  They actually scare me a little.  However, anything that can get pissed enough to disembowel itself to prove a point deserves props, don’t you think?

Something, some, something, some, some, some, something, feelin hot, hot, hot…

Um, it’s 83 on a day in mid-May in Seattle.  This is unfucking acceptable.  I am muy annoyed.  Heat and I get along about as well as Biggie and Pac, which is to say, if I could shoot the sun, I’d fucking do it.  It would catch a case of 187 on the real tip. 

I don’t cope well.  I get whiny, then I get mean.  Then, people have to pay.  I am not normally violent, though I have violent daydreams (some of em are so rad, I can’t even deal).  Heat fills me with rage.  I am a large woman, born and raised in Alaska.  Large, warm blooded mammals don’t rock the heat well.  Fuck the sun!  It can kiss my big, white, Northern ass!  I am running out of places to run and hide.  I am thinking about moving to Barrow with the polar bears- like, “Scoot over bitches, lemme get down on some of this ice floe action, yo!”  And they’d be all “Grr…”  And I’d be all “I know you’re going extinct and everything, but don’t think for one second I won’t fucking cut you.”

Someone once told me that scorpions (not the German butt metal bands, but that would be AWESOME!) get crazy from extreme heat and sting themselves in the head when it gets em all loopy.  I want a stinger.  Hard.

I would just roam the halls of work, prowling for the first person to piss me off, or tell me how nice it is outside…

Them:  Blah, blah, sunshine, beautiful, hot, yay!

Me:  Excuse me?  Do you want to taste my fucking sting?  Take that shit back!

Them:  What the fuck is your problem?

Me:  Pachong!  (That’s the sound my stinger makes)

Them:  Blarg!  I’m dying!  Why did you sting me?

Me:  Because I can.  I am the Postman of Pain.  I deliver it.  There is no Return to Sender stamp, bitch! 

Them:  Gurgle, gurgle…Why…are…you..talking…like…a…pro…wrestler?…Gurgle…

Me:  Because I just snapped your ass like a Slim Jim!  Ooh, yeah!

Then, eventually, I’d become so crazy, I’d sting myself in the head and end it all.

Nothing over 72 degrees is good.  Nothing.

How To Not Make Nice With Your Neighbors- A How To Guide

Step 1:  Drink a LOT of rum and orange juice.

Step 2:  Don’t eat anything except refried beans.  Continue drinking rum and orange juice.

Step 3:  Borrow a karaoke machine.

Step 4:  Continue drinking rum and orange juice until 3-4 AM (undetermined, due to time change).  Smoke a joint.

Step 5:  Play Selena’s “Mis Mejores Exitos” at full blast.  Scream the words to “Como La Flor”  Listen for thumping on floor.  

Step 6:  Go to bed almost immediately, for fear of call from landlord.

Step 7:  Sheepishly write note of apology to neighbor on Kewpie Doll stationary.

I Got Pac-Man Fever

 

I have a strange fascination with Pac-Man.  I have no idea why.  I just wonder what he’s like.  He doesn’t really have a back story.  He isn’t really on a quest.  He doesn’t inspire any kind of sympathy or desire to help him, etc.  You just kind of lead him through glutting himself on things, level after level. 

So, orginally, I was thinking about how funny it would be if Pac-Man were a binge and purger, and would just puke pellets everywhere after he finished each level.  I mean, that’s a lot of stuff to eat, provided the player is skilled.  Pellets, the really big blinky pellets, fruit, ghosts…  I thought of him getting an intervention and, well, really, my head is a fucked up place.  Needless to say, I laughed my ass off. 

So THEN, it led me to believe that he was actually an overeater.  Then I thought of more imaginary people that are overeaters all meeting at an Overeaters Anonymous Meeting and what they might say to eachother…Below is just a taste (oooh, BAAAD pun)…

PacMan:  So, we’d like to welcome two new members tonight, Scooby and Shaggy

All:  Hello Scooby and Shaggy.

Shaggy:  Like wow, I have, like no idea why I’m here man.  Isn’t this for, like fat people?

PacMan:  Shaggy, we would like to ask that members are respectful of eachother’s recovery and that we not make value judgements about why we are here. 

Scooby:  Roo’re radicted roo rood, Raggy.  Roo ruse it roo fill ra rempty prace recause Daphne won’t ruve roo.  Roo moke roo much pot too!  Rat’s a role nother group, ‘rough…  

Shaggy:  You shut the fuck up, you moley, speech impedimented sack of shit!   

Scooby:  Rit’s rrue, rough.

Shaggy:  Oh, God, maybe you’re right.  I beg that bitch for dog treats just to get her attention. 

Pac-Man:  Shaggy, we ask that our members don’t use abrasive language to other members in the group. 

Cookie Monster:  Dere will be cookie at da end of group, yes?

Pac-Man:  Sorry, Cookie, we cannot reward our behavior and stay on our paths with food.  Why not go see a movie, or take a walk, or count!  You love to count!  You can count the number of days you haven’t been on a cookie bender. 

Cookie Monster:  You no have idea how hard is for Cookie to no eat cookie.  It hurt like punch in chest.  Pac-Man never been on 4 day cookie bender, have he?  Wake with sugar fuzz on teeth and tongue, thirsty, empty box of Lorna Doone next to head.  You no even like shortbread!  You snort lines of Nilla Wafers!  Da Keebler Elf gives you erection!  You have blood sugar level in 200s!  Crumbs in bed, and all you think is…c is for cookie, dat’s good enough for me…(Breaks into inaudible sobs).  Good enough for ME!

Garfield:  Oh, fuck you, Cookie Monster!  I kick dogs for lasagna!  I kicked a fucking dog off a counter because I didn’t want him to have any.  He’s on one of those fucking two wheeled cart things because I had a ricotta jones.  That’s something I have to live with EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE!  So fuck you, man, fuck you and your fucking cookies.  I need a cigarette.

Kirby:  Oh yeah?  Have you ever SHIT FIRE?  Huh?  SHIT FIRE?  Yeah, I didn’t think so.  Save the sob story for Jon, Dickhead.  I’ve eaten shit that would make your fucking head explode.  I have napalm for diarrhea, man.

Pac-Man:  I think things are getting a little intense in here.  I think we’ve made some really good progress here tonight.  Good work everyone. 

-SCENE-