5 Things That Are Not As Awesome As They Sound

Eating at restaurants

Eating at a restaurant SOUNDS great, sure. The idea is someone else cooks supergreat food, serves it up to you and cleans up afterward. The reality is, you are being overcharged to play “whose fucking hair is this?”

Sometimes the food SEEMS better than what you make at home, but usually all they have done is add more butter, more salt or more bodily fluids than you do at home, depending on how rude you were to the waitstaff.

Something that often happens when you eat out is the food is a big disappointment compared to what you saw on the commercials. You know, when what they show in ads looks so mouthwateringly delicious so you have to go there and when the dish comes, it doesn't really look like that. For example, fast food hamburgers always look gourmet in the ads but when you get one it inevitably looks like someone sat on it. 

With fast food, the prices are low so you kind of don’t care, whereas at a restaurant, you are paying for a pricey meal, you have certain expectations.

Expectation       

charbroiled meat

Reality

still charbroiled meat, what's your problem

Ehow articles

If I understand the concept correctly, any random asshole can write an Ehow article. I personally have never been invited to but hey, I'm REAL BUSY AND WHATNOT. What I'm saying is there is no guarantee the numbnut writing the article knows jack about shit. Exhibit A: My refrigerator broke. Through the magic of teh internets, I was able to figure out what parts were broken, and order the parts. One of the parts was something I really needed directions to install, so I looked online for guidance. An Ehow article was SO HELPFUL. It said:

      1)    Turn off water to refrigerator

      2)    Install part

      3)    Turn on water to fridge.

Um, yeah, step two IS A LITTLE VAGUE, MOTHERFUCKER.

Song lyrics

Sometimes there will be a song I really like, I can even sing along to it, but I have no frickin clue what I’m singing about, nor do I care. Once I said I really liked a song and my husband was horrified because as it turns out, the song was about suicide. I’m like “I don’t care what he’s singing ABOUT, he sounds HAWT.”

Sometimes there will be a kicky tune but you can’t admit you like it or people judge you. I posted “Come on Ride the Train” on my Facebook wall and all hell broke loose because that apparently suggests I might be up for a gangbang, which is SO not the case. As far as my friends and colleagues know. Well, most of them know.

Similarly, I can dig Heavy-D’s fresh funky jams but doesn’t mean I agree when he says overweight lovin is the way to go because YUCKO, amiright? I can also like Eminem's music without wanting Xtina to gargle my balls.

Spa Treatments

One year, for our anniversary, my husband got me a spa day. 

It was a Swedish massage (all gooood!), a wrap (where they bind your entire carcass with scorching hot, wet mummy towels and try to suffocate you) and finally, an exfoliating treatment (so awesome that I finally understand the meaning of “enhanced interrogation”). 

Basically, this treatment involves stripping your hide of its outermost layer with an industrial scrub brush and then setting some hoses in the ceiling loose on you like you are being rolled through a car wash. 

If they had STARTED with this nightmare I might have left before the rest of my Day of Beauty. IT. Hurt. SO. Bad. 

Now, it DID leave my skin baby soft, but then, THIS poor bastard is probably pretty smooth also:

sssssmooooooothhhhh

Skype

I don’t know what idiot came up with Skype. When I’m talking on the phone with someone, I generally don’t want them to see that I'm so bored with their conversation that I’m doing housework or plucking my chinhairs, that I'm continuously flipping them off due their incessant droning, or going on a serious nostril excavation because HEY BOOGERS ARE AWESOME, YO.

The last thing I want is to STARE at someone I’m talking with – if I was comfortable with eye contact I’d talk to you in person, right?

What We Should Look Like on Skype:

Plus you realllly don’t need to see what’s going on in my house while we talk. You don't need to see how shitty I look right now, how much booze I’m pounding down, how few pants my spouse has on or how fucking lazy my children are.

What We Actually Would Look Like on Skype:

  

                      

I think they should figure out how to do Skype so that you can hear the person talking but you can't see anything at all. Get on that, inventors. 

So, January is Stupid So Far (now that it's August)

YES I KNOW IT'S AUGUST. This is my new post. I wrote it in January. 

You might assume I have been just PaRtYiNg it up, spending lotto winnings between January and now. You might be an asshole. More likely, you're like me, just another plodding, somewhat defeated numbskull trying to get through the day, hoping that the gastrointestinal gods bless you with a fresh batch of sphincter waffles in the morning and that nothing more challenging than that occurs for the rest of the entire fucking day.

So... January is stupid so far (work with me here)...

January in Central Illinois. Capture the magic. I have spent a lot of time with one of my kids lately due to her extended illness, which is real superfun. Since we are together ALL THE FUCKING TIME, I have decided to forego decorum, forget the tender ears that are present and just be myself. HAHAHAHAHA!! Sucks for you, kid! I have now stopped NOT saying my favorite thing I say when it’s cold, because HEY, it’s cold and I deserve some joy in life. 

See, I like to say, “I’m freezing my BALLS off!” and then whomever I am with (sister, child, patrolman) will say, “You don’t HAVE balls.” And I will act panicked and say, “OH MY GOD IT’S TOO LATE.” This works every time. And by “works” I mean I get to hear the sound of crickets and be the recipient of a lot of eye-rolling.

There was a segue here relating to making observations but...

INTERRUPTED AGAIN BY LIFE *

* protracted period of abject shittiness

So right there I came up with an AMAZING, ORIGINAL observation that people drive like complete dumbasses. But I didn't mean just the cell phone talkers, the texters and text-readers. Mostly I meant FUCKING OLD PEOPLE. Well, just plain old people, I don’t imagine they get much fucking in. Just complaining about their psoriasis, driving badly and breaking the occasional hip.

I apparently thought I had invented a new word, “gerimandering” which was supposed to describe the geriatric meandering style of superbad driving. The term makes perfect sense but it sounded too familiar so I looked it up and apparently it already exists and means something political:

“In the process of setting electoral districts, gerrymandering is a practice that attempts to establish a political advantage by...” Blah blahblahblahhhhhhhh SO BORRRRRRINGGGGGG

So that scewed that but then I noticed it ALSO says,

"Jerrymander" redirects here. Jerrymander may also refer to the arachnid known as Solifugae.” 

Arachnid. Like spider. HUH. Okay, so I then looked THAT up and then this is the part where I proceeded to

SHIT.

MY.

PANTS.

Because HoLY FUCKING BALLS:

Like we need to look at THIS shit

"Solifugae are an order of Arachnida, known as camel spiders, wind scorpions and sun spiders or solifuges, comprising more than 1,000 describedspecies in about 153 genera. They may grow to a length of 300 mm (12 in) including legs"

Camel Spiders. As in the size of a goddamn camel. 

DID YOU HAPPEN TO NOTICE THE PART ABOUT THE 12 INCHES.

It was all cute when I thought Gerimandering meant this:

"Whats up, bitches!"

But "JERRYMANDER", meaning THIS:

Seriously, look at the fangs

IS NOT COOL. 

Speaking of NOT COOL: 

Dude. No woman will fuck you, EVER. Carry on. 

And now you can kinda see why I stopped writing this blog for seven months. You try to make a crass, insulting joke about old people like any good person would and it turns into a freak show about terrifying things found in nature.* Very discouraging. But hey, I won't wait so long to post this time because I recently discovered that I have a fantastic talent for always whacking male flight attendants in the dick with either my elbow or my face, so I'm going to ruminate on that for a bit, try to cheer up** and then tell you all about it! 

*but not Kardashians. This time. 

**DRINK LOTS

Versatile, That’s Me (fart jokes AND dick jokes!)

While I have been neglecting my blog and fogging the Twittersphere with fart jokes (@shirleyewe, follow me! please -- somebody has to), unbeknownst to me, a real person has read my blog and bestowed another award upon me! 

At this rate, I will be a multimillionaire by the end of the year!

SHUT UP, IT COULD HAPPEN. 

Here’s what I won, yo:

Versatile, that’s me: fart jokes AND dick jokes!

Mommy Rotten (http://blog.mommyrotten.com) gave me this shiny award

 -- thank you, Mommy Rotten! 

The rules of the award are that you thank the person who awarded you, write seven random things about yourself (I can do the SHIT out of random) and then choose another ten deserving recipients.

So here’s mah Random Things:

I can burp like nobody’s business. No, really. My husband is not a fan. My children don’t think it’s funny anymore, either. Even the 9 year old. That’s how you know that I have worn this gift out.  And it IS a gift: I can burp “supercalifragilisticexpialidocious”, but I don’t like to brag.

When I was a kid, my big sister taught me how to swallow air and burp it back out. In high school, she won a little plastic trophy (that she will deny to her death) in a lunchtime burping contest. The other contestants had to use soda to achieve their burps, AMATEURS. Her current husband has no idea. It occurs to me that this is valuable information. 

If I had been in a kiddie pageant, one where burping was prized instead of parading around like a whore, I would have won Ultimate Grand Supreme every time. I would have been famous for ruining other little futuresluts’ chances of winning this event. It would have been sad. For them. For me… "blalalalalalalalalalalalahhhhhhhrrrrp". *pageant wave*

Like many artists, I may not be completely appreciated in my time.

Me: "Buuurrrrp!"

Husband: "You gotta stop that."

Me: "Why?"

Husband: "Cuz it's gross."

Me: "Buuuurrrrrpppp!! BUUURRRRRRPPPP!!!!"   *cackle* 

I was just looking up burping on the internet, hoping for funny synonyms. There aren’t any. I should get on that.... it could be my personal E=MC2. Imagine the legacy for my children. But I DID find the following woman’s profile on the OkCupid dating site (not kidding, it’s a real profile):

>>>Richmond, Virginia. I can burp funny words or phrases. ... I masturbate, sing on the toilet, pick my nose, burp, and watch reality tv.<<<<

So, she sounds neat.

Could that be a fake profile? You know, like when my sister’s ex-husband was on match.com and we created a female profile so we could laugh at keep tabs on him? Our female was a “little person”, but super obese and a big drinker and I’m sad to say that NOBODY contacted “her”. People can be such judgy assholes. 

I know all the words to “Bust a Move”. In fact, I know all the words to all the songs on this CD:

So, you know, honky better back up.

I like math. I know, it doesn’t really fit, the burping, the dick jokes, the wooly bewbs. But it’s true. Probably what I love about math (besides all the Math STUDS, amiright??!!) is there is a right answer and there is a wrong answer. I remember in college taking a philosophy course and even though I fancied myself a deep thinker (example: why don’t eggs taste like chicken?), I felt that any field open to that much interpretation was just some bullshit happening. It’s like OHMYGOD WHAT ARE THE RULES? We can’t just be out there pulling theories out of our asses, people. I looked up an example of some philosophical thingies and found that CRAP IT’S BORING EVEN INTRODUCING IT, SO I’LL JUST COPY AND PASTE SO I DON’T WEAR OUT MY BRAIN:

“Kierkegaard, conversely, held that "truth is subjectivity", arguing that what is most important to an actual human being are questions dealing with an individual's inner relationship to existence. In particular, Kierkegaard, a Christian, believed that the truth of religious faith was a subjective question, and one to be wrestled with passionately.” ^

(^this info is from Wikipedia, which I don’t even trust, because HELLO it’s a bunch of nobodies just writing whatever they want!! Who approved this madness!?!)

And excuse me but, “wrestled with passionately”? I have a whole different connotation for that sort of behavior. (Boom! Hello!)  My making light of his SUPER IMPORTANT work would prolly severely chap Kierkegaard’s hide. Here he is:

Plus, some halfwit from Central Illinois, accomplished only in burping-on-command, is using his work as an example of yawningly boring philosophical droning and also using his likeness because LOOK AT THE COOL HAIR,YO! For serial, it’s like RPattz!

“I like wrestling passionately with Kristen Stewart.”

 Related: some poor jackass was probably pretty proud of this cake:

Y u so stoned, RPattz? (or is that Kierkegaard)

Sometimes my kids drive me nuts. Other times they drive me up a wall. Seriously, at times they are on my very last nerve. Today was one of those days when I thought I would blow a gasket, blow a fuse or blow my top. (husband  is like, “Keep on going with the ‘blowing’ idioms!” I’m like, “Keep on dreaming buddy!”) I may fly off the handle or foam at the mouth.  I may go off the deep end/go through the roof/get steamed up/get hot under the collar or perhaps my blood will boil. I'm not supermom, I'm just stumbling blindly through this parenting thing and doing the best I can. It’s like the blind leading the blind. Or the drunk leading the blind... yeah, more like that. 

I like fixing things. Not only do I enjoy not paying some dick to fix things I can fix myself, but I actually like the process of figuring it out and doing it on my own, it makes me feel like I gots smarts. Recently, my refrigerator froze (literally. It was 9 degrees in there. Do you know what that does to MAYONNAISE?), so did the water filtration system, which then developed a crack. And therefore, a leak. This is a $2,000 motherfucking refrigerator. I’ll spare you the reason I have such a stupidly expensive refrigerator -- let me just assure you that it has broken down 100% more than my previous $438 refrigerator. *sigh*

Through the magic of google, I figured out what was broken. Seriously people – if you can READ, you can figure out what’s wrong with a lot of your shit that needs repair. I then called a friend of a friend, who’s an appliance repair dude (dude’s name is ‘Davey’ but DON’T JUDGE), so I could use his parts supply account to buy the part wholesale. So I get the part, unbolt the cracked thingy, bolt in the new thingy, hook it up, turn the water back on. BLOWING OF CELEBRATORY HORNS…. IT WORKED. I texted Davey the appliance dude to thank him and let him know it all worked out. He texted back that he was “really impressed” and that “I don’t know of any woman who could have done what you did.”

Now. I’m sure he thought this was a big compliment to me. That I am a class apart from the room-temperature I.Q., slack-jawed, ignorant whores that encompass womankind, apparently.  Let’s keep in mind the changing of this particular part could have been completed by a semi-drunk chimpanzee. Honestly, it was not difficult. In fact, it probably wasn’t even the most difficult thing I did that day.

You see, Davey, I am a mother. I work outside the home, I manage the bills, the budget, the taxes, the shopping, the cooking, the cleaning, the laundry, the errands, the appointments, the HOMEWORK, my GOD, THE HOMEWORK. I keep small annoying people happy and well-fed, I keep large, well-hung people happy (when I’m not bitching at them) and well-fed also.  I operate as sheriff as well as shrink in my little fiefdom, I wear so many hats it makes my head hurt. I really was tempted to ask Sir Davey what HIS I.Q. is. I mean, an accomplished professional such as himself, who manages to select a new stained t-shirt daily (dude, where did you get that tit-dirt?) and keep his pants pretty much pulled up most of the time.

I can see why a MERE WOMAN doing his super difficult work (operating a screwdriver AND a conversion van, all in the same day!) would be impressive. TRY GROWING NEW LIFE INSIDE YOUR UTERUS SOME TIME, DAVEY. 

In college, I slept with my stalker because hey, obsessive people GET STUFF DONE. Who knew it would get all WEIRD right in the middle. #truestory

I think farting is REALLY FUNNY. I know, I am classy. You might think this is the same as the burping thing but it’s SO not. Farting is special because you can’t even CONSIDER doing it in front of people who don’t live with you.

Like, if you accidentally let a burp out in public, you can apologize or laugh it off, but if you FART in front of other people, you die inside. But your own family? FAIR GAME, BABY!!!! My children hate when I fart. Because I always laugh uproariously after, possibly.

First rule of Fart Club: you do not talk about Fart Club. Second rule of Fart Club:  ***Faaaaahhhhhhrrrt***

Here’s a peek into my magical existence:

My gut: "gurrglesquee!"

Me: "U hear that?"

9 YO: "Yes!" *smiling*

My butt: "BlaAaAtttTtttt" (horrific, flappy fart)

Me: "U hear THAT?" *cackling*

9 YO: *major eyeroll*

I found this product, which for any product that actually mentions SBDs right on it, amazingly pretty much takes the fun RIGHT OUT OF LIFE:

But I suppose it's less obtrusive than this:

How the heck do you eat cheetos in this thing?

I have never been accused of helicopter parenting but I have

cropdusted the shit out of my children, that’s a fact!  

They know that when I go to wake them in the morning there will be some patting, then a little bit of whispering, then some shaking... and then I shall commence CROPDUSTING WITH EXTREME PREJUDICE.

Possibly as a consequence, my oldest has learned to bolt upright as soon as she hears my ninja-like steps on the carpet. Spoilsport.

But I happen to be a GOOD sport (SMOOOOOOOTH SEGUE!), so let me announce my 10 LUCKY LUCKY recipients of this Versatile Blogger award! Let me know if my links don't work, as I am a bit of a dipshit: 

www.gweenbrick.com

www.outofthemouthofdave.com

www.simone-says.com

www.mommamiameaculpa.com

www.stillhatepickles.com

www.theoffendedblogger.com

www.mindofspaz.com

www.busybusybusylife.blogspot.com

www.becausemotherhoodsucks.com

www.abeerfortheshower.com