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.
Husband: "You gotta stop that."
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.
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: