There is nothing, and I mean nothing, going on right now in my life. Everything is mostly centered around school, drinking, making sure that there are always at least three gallons of chili frozen so when Stan comes home in between guide trips he only has to stop by the house long enough to pick up food and bounce.  Oh, and that my parents are slowly moving to the great state of Utah. I watch my mom pack on average three boxes a weekend and then Fed Ex them Monday morning to Cedar City.  I'm aware my life equals as interesting as the mating habits of tree sloths right now.

But, because I can't stand to go more than a couple of days without posting something, I give you more random shit.

Courtesy of W.D. Ford ... I bring you the K.C. Mo. drunk tank story.

1. He told me a story a couple years ago about the time he ended up in a drunk tank in Kansas City. Apparently, the tank was the size of a walk-in closet and it was packed to the hilt with Missouri's finest citizens, himself included. Among those incarcerated was a very, very drunk and sleepy Commanche Indian. This particular Indian was attempting to sleep on the floor and needed a pillow. So, he did what any self-respecting, drunken, incarcerated Indian would do: he grabbed the foot of the largest black man in the cell and placed his cheek ever-so-gently on the mans toes. This was his pillow. Large black man was not pleased.

"Hey, man. Get yo' nasty fuckin' face off muh foot."

The Indian blearily replied, "Oh, man, I'm sorry, man, sorry. I'm from the tribe Commanche." As if this somehow excused his molestation of the other man's foot.

A few seconds later, as the large black man is chatting with another cell mate, the Indian shimmied up closer to him and again put his head on the other man's foot.

"Look, man. I ain't gonna tell you again. Get yo' fuckin' face off my foot."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry. I'm from the tribe Commanche, man. Sorry."

Again, the Indian played possum and the black man went back to his conversation, sliding his feet back a little farther this time.

Drunken Indian was not to be deterred. He inched his way forward and triumphantly snuggled his way up against the size 16 shoe.

"Das it, man. I done tole you twice-"

"I'm sorry, man. I'm so sorry. I'm from the tribe Comm-"

"Yeah, yeah. Well, I'm from the tribe Co-nigga and I'm about to co-whoop yo' ass."

Drunken Indian reconsidered his attempts and used his own shoe, instead.

I hope this is a true story because I like stories with happy endings.  I hope someday I meet a Commanche.

I had to throw this in. I am now firmly convinced that everyone who works at the post office has lost their muhfuckin' mind. Here's why. I got this in the mail today:

"Dear Valued Postal Customer:

I want to extend my sincere apology as your Postmaster for the enclosed document that was inadvertently damaged in handling by your Postal Service.

We are aware how important your mail is to you. With that in mind, we are forwarding it to you in an expeditious fashion."

This is an envelope that you're looking at. Inside is this:

In case you can't tell, this is the back half page of what used to be a magazine. Just the back half of the back page. Someone took the time to put this in an envelope and mail it to me after it had been stomped on, dragged down the highway, used as toilet paper, chewed on and used as a white flag in a civil war reenactment. Then they send it with a sweet note letting me know that it had been damaged.

I can see that. But thanks for letting me know that it's not supposed to look like this.

The fact that someone took the time to put this in an envelope and send it to me is further proof that there is no random drug testing when you work for the U.S.P.S.

I'm going to put this out there and you can go ahead and agree that I am highly biased an unimformed seeing as I have seen the sex & city bullshit less times than i have fingers on one hand:

Yesterday I was reading something about how the show was groundbreaking and original which I find funny because this show is nothing of the sort. As a matter of fact I am going to call out Darren Starr right now and accuse him of stealing the show from "The Golden Girls".

Sure you laugh and say that these shows have nothing in common. But you are sorely mistaken "Sex and the City" copied each character off of "The Golden Girls". I am going to break it down for you  Why this information is important I have no idea...

The Village Idiot

Golden Girls- Rose Nylund

Sex in the City- Charlotte

Their M.O.- These are the two morons of the show. Rose because she grew up in some small town in the middle of nowhere and Charlotte because she married a guy that never wanted to have sex. Both were naive and both talked in a light and annoying voice.

The Brains behind the Operation

Golden Girls-Dorothy Petrillo-Zbornak

Sex in the City- Carrie Bradshaw

M.O.- Both are the ring leaders of the group. Each of them had bad luck with men. Also their style is impeccable. Carrie brought high fashion and shoes into popularity while Dorothy rocked the pants suit like no other.

The Older Crusty Broad

Golden Girls-Sophia Petrillo

Sex in the City- Miranda Hobbes

M.O.- Both of these are the older ladies in the group or the most run down. Bitter and angry they go through life trying to make everyone else miserable.

The Skank

Golden Girls-Blanche Devereaux

Sex in the City- Samantha

M.O.- They bang anything that moves

Speaking of "Sex and the City" I need to explain this to all the ladies out there. Just because you drink appletinis, wear nice shoes, and bang random guys it does not make you like Carrie Bradshaw or even that skank Samantha. It just makes you a slutty girl that gets bombed on appletinis and pays way too much money for a pair of shoes you will wear once every six months.

Do you know why I know this is true? Because wearing the jersey of my favorite team with my name on the back of it does not make me a member of said team. It just makes me a loser that got my name on the jersey of my favorite team.

So to all the women out there... Give it up...

(Note: I do not own a jersey with my name on it. Just using it as an example, if I ever bought a jersey with my name on it you have full permission to shoot me.)

I can't imagine being a star in Hollywood there is so much pressure to look right, act right, and be something that you are not. The pressure is even higher if you are a Wayans Brother.

As a Wayans you must do the following, which I admit is rather hard to do:

5) Set comedy back 5 years every time you make a movie.
4) Find a way to get one of your free loading siblings into a movie at all times.
3) Find the shittiest scripts and give it to your little brothers so they can continue to work:

2) Watch old tapes of Damon and remember when he was funny.
1) Call Fox and beg them to bring "In Living Color" back on the air.


The only person with a harder life maybe Courtney Love:

5) Ingest dangerous amounts of alcohol and drugs daily to keep your rep up.
4) Trot your daughter out for every magazine to take pictures of.
3) Fuck someone supremely more talented than you and ask them to help you do a record.
2) Convince producers that you can really act and that you really did deserve an Oscar nomination for "acting" as a strung out ex stripper that died of AIDS.
1) Apply makeup daily like you are Katherine Hepburn having an epileptic seizure while an earthquake is going on.

Can you guys think of any people that have it worse than them?

To Every Burger King or McDonalds Employee Who Ever Lived:

Why do you choose a job working with the public when it's obvious that you utterly despise all of God's creatures? Why didn't you go work at the DMV where people expect to be treated like peasant filth? Why can you not just give me my McSalad without causing me mental anguish because my total was $6.68 and I gave you $21.18? Why????

To The Guy Who Left A Message For Me While I Was Gone:

You win today's "Most Worthless Strand of DNA" title. Here. I'll tell you why.

I get back to work and I have a message to call this student. So, I call.

*ringing*

"Hello?"

"Hi, Michael, it's Margot from Rio Salado Financial Aid calling. How are you?'

"Did you get my message to call me?"

*blink. blink*

"Nope. I just wanted to see if you watched CSI last night."

"Uhh. Yeah, actually, I did."

"Wow. Thursday nights must be very confusing for you. Anyway, I just called to see if you could give me a brief synopsis cos' I missed it. I had to give myself an enema."

"What? Who is this?"

"Margot. From Rio Salado Financial Aid Office."

"I left a message for you to call me."

"Huh. Well, I tell you what, I'll call you as soon as you tell me what happened on CSI last night."

Seriously, dude. Stop smoking weed or stabbing yourself in the head every night or whatever you're doing because it's KILLING YOUR BRAIN. STOP. Or just stop trying to communicate with the outside world. Jesus.

To The Mid-Life Crisis Motherfucker with the hairy arms and the Dodge Viper who happened to be in front of me at the bank:

I'm on my lunch break. I come to the bank as a courtesy to my boss, not because I enjoy the witty banter from the tellers. I am losing money, you fucking stain. Do you think that maybe while we sat in line for 10 minutes you could have filled out the deposit slip instead of waiting until the receiving box actually opened?? And I know that your money really needs to hit the account before 2 pm or your check for that Maxim subscription is going to bounce, but bugging the fuck out of the teller while she's trying to process your deposit isn't helping. It made it. It shoots up that plastic tube and goes straight to her. I know you can't see it, but, trust me on this. It's a PLASTIC TUBE. Not a portal into another world, you nimrod.

Oh, and when the slip comes back, can you please just put the receptacle back in and leave? What the hell are you looking for in there? Your misspent youth? MOVE, YOU ASSHAT.

To the Fat Bitch who almost knocked me down in her hurry to get into Jason's Deli:

It happens all the time. You're walking on the sidewalk into an establishment and someone is crossing the parking lot to walk in. You know that one of you needs to pause and let the other go first or there will be a collision. I saw you coming and I hesitated to stop because I had already lost 30 minutes to Mid-Life. You, on the other hand, had other plans. You lowered your head like a bull about to charge and even skipped a little as you rushed in front of me and then let the door close in my face.

Newsflash, you mammoth whore. There's no shortage of salami. They aren't rationing the cheesecake or the ham. I could maybe understand your urgency if a bus full of Ethiopian refugees had pulled up at the same time as you did, but we are the only ones in the restaurant. I hope they were out of cheesecake. Bitch.

***********************************
Wow. So much for the light-hearted post I had in mind. Ehhh, fuck it. I feel better.

I like pickles but not cucumbers.  I used to think salt and pepper and bbq sauce were my favorite condiments.

Then I was introduced to Mrs. Dash

there are two good things about living in a basement apartment.  the first is that you can't kill yourself by jumping out the window.  the second,  and this is an important one, is that whatever you do and wherever you go, you know you're always going to be on the way up. 

tonight will be a good night.  I will it... I'm off the whiskey, THANK GOD, and back on the good ol' russian gasolina.

Let's get this out of the way, I IN NO WAY REGRET NOT GOING TO MY PROM! 

 however, this dress is fucking radical and had I gone I would have wished I could look this good.  This is seriously the coolest formal dress ever.  grrrrr, it's just so unbelievably like NOTHING i've ever seen before... I can't take my eyes away!  She makes me want to dye my hair BLONDE ASS BLONDE again and go tanning EVERYDAY!!

 

 

ANYWAYS...

In the shocker of all shockers, Tom Cruise isn't the linguistic expert he claims to be. Despite telling everybody Suri means "princess" in Hebrew, Hebrew linguists have confirmed that it doesn't.

Suri has only two meanings - one is a person from Syria and the other "go away" when addressed to a female. Hebrew expert Jonathan Went says, "I think it's fair to say they have made a mistake here. There are variations of the way the Hebrew name for princess is spelt but I have never seen it this way." Suri can also be translated into a Hindi boy's name, and it also means "pointy nose" in some Indian dialects and "pickpocket" in Japanese.

The crazy bastard named his daughter "pointy nosed pickpocket." I take back whatever I said about Tom Cruise, because only a genius of maniacal proportions could come up with that. I just wonder how he's gonna top it. He's gonna have to name his next kid "degenerate puppy killer" or something.

"My situation is different [than Nick & Jessica]. I ain't gettin' no divorce. Fuck that! I don't believe in that shit. Once you get married, you're in it for the fight."

-K-Fag threatens us all in Spin Magazine

"D0NG, Grandpa is talking to you!"