Big Black Taco

I was driving to work this morning when my thoughts were interrupted by a Taco Bell commercial. Taco Bell’s new ‘Black Jack Taco’ commercial to be exact. The words, “Black eye, black sheep, black jack, black taco,” were cooed into my ear over some dance music.

I don’t have cable so it was up to my imagination to decipher what they meant exactly. However, when ‘black taco’ is whispered into my ear like that, there are only a few places my mind will take me. So yes, for a brief moment my mind went there. And all I could do was hope the ‘black taco’ didn’t come with sour cream, and condoms. (Which I found out it doesn’t, thank God.)

After my perverted mind came back into reality I became slightly offended. Either their marketing team needs to get laid or fired. I know the economy is bad, so I’m not going to be the person to write the angry black taco letter to headquarters to get someone fired. However, there is no way to incorporate the color of the taco shell into that ad without being offensive.

Some things are just better left unsaid. Black, red, white tacos all just sound wrong. Can’t it just be a taco? Why must they associate color with it. Ok yeah I get that it’s physically black, I can see the damn thing, but come on. I can’t help but give the side eye when the message of their slogan is basically, ‘come eat our 89 cent black taco’…

*Pulls out black card in one hand and misogyny card in the other*

I’m just sayin…

Here is a version of the ad:

Vomit Water

Yo, I don’t know what happened, but I’m still here blogworld. Not quite sure where exactly, but here nonetheless. I think part of it has to do with the fact that I actually have to work at my job and the rest of it is just lack of motivation.

What brings me back here today is something awesome that happened to me this week and I thought I’d share…

About a week ago, my roommate and I noticed that the water wasn’t going down the drain in our bathtub. At first we both just looked at each other and shrugged our shoulders as if to say “oh well’, too lazy to call the landlord. However, when the funk at the bottom of the tub started to leech onto my feet while I was trying to take shower I knew I had to take action.

So the next morning I decided to call the landlord on my way to work. I usually make my roommate call, because after three years the landlord can still never seem to remember my name. I’m assuming a first name basis with someone guarantees better results. Anyway, I call her and tell her what the problem is and at first she tells me, “why don’t you just call somebody?”

Um I live in your apartment. I pay you rent. You are that somebody. (Although looking back now I should have took her advice). After spelling out my name and number for her a few times, she finally sets it up for her son to come and take a look at my tub. He usually takes care of things, so I figure when I get home everything will be copacetic.

Sometime during the day my landlord calls me and says that her son couldn’t fix the problem, to just call someone and foot her the bill. Ok? I get home and my bathroom looks like someone took everything out of its place and put it in a different place. And the tub is still clogged * sigh *.

I decide to wash the dishes while I wait for Roto-Rooter.

As I’m forcing some old Chicken Alfredo, spinach and chunks of other questionable food down my garbage disposal, I can hear something having to do with water in the background. I shut off the disposal, running water and hear again what sounded like a tidal wave and it’s coming from my bathroom…

I don’t know what my landlord’s son did in his efforts to “help”, but now not only was the tub clogged, but the water from my kitchen sink was being drained out of my bathroom sink! And it smelled... smelled like vomit. Vomit water and spinach was splashing everywhere, the floor, into drawers onto my personal things.

After Roto-Rooter left it took my roommate, and I and a ton of bleach, to clean the crusty vomit water out of our lives. The memory still haunts me. * shudder *
On the bright side, it could have been the whole apartment. And today my girl posted on her FB status that she had to call 911 because there was a snake in her house. My glass is half full of vomit water :)

Yes, Brett and I have a thing going on. Jealous?

* Disclaimer * This post only kind of has something to do with Brett Michaels

Well I was going to write a post on the Swine Flu, but even I’m sick (figuratively) of hearing about it.The only thing I was worried about when I first heard of the “pandemic spread” was whether or not I could still eat bacon. And as long as no one sneezes on it, I can. Problem solved, next topic.

In other ‘personal’ news, the ex randomly texted me at work today…

The ex:“Who’s Brett?”

MsP: “Michaels?”

The ex: “No, lmao, not Brett Michaels. Are you dating a Brett?”

MsP: “I’m sorry, what is to you who I date?”

The ex: “I can sense that you’re still angry. Why don’t you blog about it, it might make you feel better.”

*Side eye*

Rest assured I’m not going to directly comment on that conversation, because similar to the time not to long ago when he called me to get his Method Man CD out of my car, (circa 2009 what the fuck do you need a Method Man CD for?), he is probably reading this and getting a stiff one by me even mentioning him.

I only posted this because it's funny. Oh the irony. Soooo, yeah, let’s all have a laugh and move the fuck on.

Dr. Nosey Ass Asshole, this is me blogging about you.

* waves *

Surprisingly enough, I still feel the same as I did when I woke up this morning, but thanks for your concern. Do you feel better now that I posted about you? Does it make you feel like turning up your Method Man CD and whacking off to the idea of me and Brett Michaels on the Rock of Love tour bus?

It does? Oh goodie!!!

Bleh.

Your Publicity Stunt Is Gross

My ex used to make fun of me because I think that everything is gross.

Onions. Gross. Herpes. Gross. The sound of a banana when being chewed. Gross! Gross! Gross!

Not to mention, Kanye West’s ego, Tori Spelling’s boob job, Christian Louboutin’s new sneaker line, Amy Winehouse and waking up the next morning to find vomit in my hair that I didn’t know was there the night before, can all also be classified as gross.

However, I would rather watch a Billy Bob Thornton and George W. Bush rendition of two-girls-one-cup, while eating a Fear Factor delicacy on the toilet before exposing my eyes to this ever again…

Aubrey O'Day sucking on Kathy Griffin's tongue.Ew.

MsP and The City

(This is a long post, so grab a cocktail and stay awhile. My posts have been few and far between anyway, so you have time to get drunk and enjoy ;p). MsP

I was sober on New Year’s Eve.

It wasn’t intentional, believe me, I did everything possible to try and get drunk. I brought my flask to the party I was attending, but couldn’t get it passed security. I dressed like a skank, but so was every other heffa in there. I did the Tyra walk with Oprah’s enthusiasm, but almost ate sh*t in my hooker heels.

Still sober by 11:50 p.m., I gave up and took it as a sign of how I should embrace the New Year.

And as I drove home that night passing up at least five different cars being pulled over on the side of the freeway, for once I was proud of my sobriety. There was a new year ahead of me full of opportunity and enterprise. It was time to start thinking positive and about my future.

In other words, I’m getting too old for this debauchery sh*t and if I don’t get my ass together in the next couple of years, I’m going to be living alone watching Lifetime with my cats or my AA sponsor. Tragic.

So in order to get my ass in gear, I started applying for jobs in my related field. No more hooking or doing other odd jobs with midgets, it was time for the real deal. Not too soon after applying (surprisingly) I landed an interview, in the city, for a fashion website. Perfect.

I woke up for my interview and was tempted to cancel. Honestly, why do people get up so early in the morning?

After getting ready I typed the interview location into my TomTom and headed out. A 45-minute drive later I found the street I needed to be on, located the cheapest parking garage and parked. I figured I could just walk the rest of the way. I still had twenty minutes to get to the interview.

Unfortunately, when I got to the main street the interview was on and I checked the numbers I was in the 1300s and I needed to be in the 600s.

I thought to myself, “Once I figure out in which direction I’m headed, I should be fine.”

I swooped into a little clothing shop and the lady told me I was headed in the right direction, however, she also told me that I might want to catch the bus. I told her thanks, but I was convinced I could walk it. I still had ten minutes to spare. I continued walking in my four-inch stilettos, convincing myself to remain calm and positive.

Another block down I began to realize that I was a little over dressed for downtown in the daytime. Other women had on flats, over sized sweatshirts and dragged mini luggage-on-wheels behind them. I had on skinny jeans, four-inch heels and matching purse. I could feel the male species eyes upon me.

I was now officially a walking rack-of-lamb, fresh off the grill, ready to be served with A1 and mash potatos. And that's when the inevitable happened. Not because I’m so unbelievably, ridiculously good looking, but because I was walking around downtown, looking lost, dressed like a slut.

As I walked past this rent-your-own-cheap-ass-furniture joint, there was a group of guys out in front staring, taunting and whispering to me as I walked by. Whatever. I had other things on my mind aside from sexual harassment. Like, I was going to be late and for some reason I couldn’t feel my big toe. Eventually I realized that one of the guys from in front of the store had fallen into stride with me.

“Hey there beautiful, can I talk to you for a minute?”

I looked to my left to discover a young man with his pants hanging somewhere between the lower half of his ass and his knees, a gold grill and some Sisqo colored hair. Really!? I’m not one to judge, but really?

“I’m sorry, not right now,” I said. “I’m kind of in a hurry.”

“Me too,” he replied. “See I’m walking with you, we can both be in a hurry.”

“Um not right now,” I said. “I really got somewhere I got to be.”

“Well then we both got somewhere to be,” he responded.

I sighed heavily, he was a persistent little f*cker.

“Sure whatever,” I said slightly under my breath. Stupid four-inch heels, I could just not walk fast enough!

“Can I get your number?” he asked.

“No I’m sorry, look I really have to get going,” I said.

“Well fine then, BITCH!” he said.

Yeah, he said it.

Suddenly not only was I late, but I was also a bitch.

And to prove it, he hawked the fattest loogie and blew it in my direction. Lucky for me with a little quick maneuvering I was able to dodge the wad. WTF!?

Did he really just spit at me?

“You’re lucky I didn’t spit on you bitch,” I heard his voice echo in the background verifying my lingering thoughts. And with that, I stuck my hand in the air and hailed a cab.

Five minutes later I arrived five minutes late to my interview. (Depending on whose watch you’re looking at). My hair was in my face, I was a little out of breath and sweaty. However, on the bright side of things I didn’t get spit on and it is still only just the beginning of 2009. I could do nothing but laugh at my little mini adventure.

So I took a deep breath, put a smile on my face and stepped off the elevator…

Friends Without Benefits

I love my friends. I especially love my guy friends. I learn so much about men from them.

Like for example, I didn’t know that it was possible to have a brown ring around the inside of a toilet bowl for two months without catching hepatitis A,B, and C. I also didn’t know that it takes four 24-packs of empty Coors Light bottles to cover an entire coffee table. And who knew somehow in the midst of old fast food bags, dirty laundry and beard shavings my best guy friend could maintain a healthy relationship. Huh. They must spend more time at her house than his. I’m not sure.

Still, it’s just interesting to me how different guys think compared to women. This particular guy friend of mine not only has a messy abode, but he has some interesting convictions about me and another female friend of ours. You see, him, this other female friend and I all basically grew up together, so we’re all close. In fact, they're like brother and sister to me.

Anyway, he called me yesterday just to say, hi, and he got to talking about how the three of us should all get a hotel room and “get crazy”. Now from a female’s perspective, I took this notion as him suggestion a potential threesome? He immediately bursts out laughing and says no, he meant like just hang out, catch up, blah, blah, blah…

Then he pauses for a minute and says, “Wait, you two have never messed around?” (In reference to me and my girl).

“Um no”, I responded, “Are you fucking retarded?”

“No I’m serious,” he said. “Like you two have never gotten drunk, come home and bitched about how shitty guys are. Then got naked, kissed and one thing led to another?”

“NO!” I yelled (laughing at this point). “What made you think that!?”

“I don't know, but nothing,” he asked again. “Not even like a little kiss?”

Really??? Wait, so guys think that females who are really close have lesbian tendencies? Is that the fantasy?

Well, let me clear this up right now. When I come home with my friends drunk and bitch about a guy, we usually do it stuffing our faces with Jack-n-the-Box and then pass out in our heels and make-up. Waking up the next morning looking like a raccoon and wondering why our friend is face first in the toilet…imagine that.

A Nice Shade of Blue

This is what my roomie busted out for breakfast yesterday. Hot dogs with ketchup and a waffle with syrup. On the same plate. At the same time. I thought I was going to throw up. And yes that is hot sauce in the background.

Times are hard man.
Wha wha wha wha.
My baby left me.
Wha wha wha wha.
I can't find a job.
Wha wha wha wha.
I'm so hungry.
Wha wha wha wha.
I got to eat hot dogs!

Oh! Damn right, I got the blues.

Would you rather...

...get caught cheating...

...get caught rockin' this outfit...

... or get caught in between Aretha's big ass titties...

The ABCs of Watching Porn

Creepy older guy is at it again. No not you, that other guy…

Apparently one of the most recent problems in public libraries is “second-hand porn.” It’s not like second-hand smoke, because it can’t kill you, but “oh my eyes! my eyes!”

The concern is that since the library is a public place that serves the community, anyone can come in and use the facilities. That means any guy (girl?) off the street can come use the computer to download porn and whack off. There have been a few instances where officials have actually caught a man strokin’ his shaboinka in a public library.

Another concern of “second-hand porn” is from parents who want to filter the computers so that their kids don’t come across any unexpected pop ups. But if we start filtering the computers the next victim could be their child. Hey I’m just saying. Don’t shoot the messenger. And little Johnny and Betty Sue are going to learn someday. Might as well make it educational. I used to learn from pop up books. There can’t be that much of a difference.

Well, in the meantime, I’ve come up with a solution I think would solve this problem. The library should have a Champagne room. Why not? If we can give people off the streets a place to come in and get a load off, it might reduce some of the crime rate. Of course there is “no sex in the Champagne room,” only self-gratification.

And while we’re at it, why not go ahead and put a bar or lounge in the library too. Libraries are too quiet. Oh and a stripper pole. If there is a stripper pole right in the children’s room, it might scare the children out of the library altogether and we won’t have anything to worry about.

See how good I am at problem solving?

second-hand porn

Funky Town in My Face

I’m starting to get the feeling people are giving up. They wake up in the morning and just say, “f*ck it.”

I’m not talking about someone doing a nosedive off a seven-foot building, after chasing their last prescription of Paxil with a bottle of vodka. I’m talking about hygiene people. People be FUN-KY! Not James Brown funky, Pepe LePew funky.

I shouldn’t have to hold my breath when trying to have a conversation with someone. And when I take a step back, this maneuver does not invite their funky ass to take a step closer. Back up!

In addition, on my way home from work yesterday, I saw a man pull his pants down around his ankles and take a whiz. It was in broad daylight out on the corner of the street! The weird part is I can only be grateful it was number one instead of number two.

I’m still a little traumatized. And so I thought I would go over the basics of cleanliness for folks. Please pay close attention to the photos below...

Item A: Soap.

A very simple mechanism used to clean the body. Works best with water. Most people use it in the shower. For best results, it is recommended to shower daily.

Item B: A toothbrush and toothpaste. (Can’t have one without the other)!

These tools are used to clean teeth. If they fail to work, other alternative solutions are, mouthwash, gum, or perhaps a mint.

Item C: Deodorant.

This product works best after showering. Apply to the underarm area. I’m not sure, just a thought here. But if one were to continuously cake this stuff on, without showering, it might not have the same effect.

These are just some basic steps. When people get more advanced I can go into detail about perfume, body sprays, lotions, etc. Right now lets stick to the basics and try to stay oh so fresh and so clean…

Excuse Me, I Have to Fart

Ever since Bottle Blonde told her story about blowing a fuse at the gym, I got to thinking...

It's 2007; women are thriving in their professional and personal lives. Women are no longer destined to live a long life pregnant and barefoot in the kitchen. (Unless they want to, of course). Women have options, important jobs and such. Women are making their own decisions and sometimes even wear the pants in a relationship. Sh*t women can wear pants!

So my question is this, when is it going to be socially acceptable for women to fart? When will society accept a woman's flatulence along with her demeanor?

I heard that the average person farts about seventeen times a day. However, I'm pretty sure the average woman farts about three times a day. I know, because I've been pinching my butt cheeks since 1998. Which isn't healthy. I'm surprised I haven't popped a blood vessel in my eye from trying not to break wind in front of a boyfriend or potential employer.

Guys, I know you sometimes think your girl is PMSing, but she might just have to fart. Sh*t, she might have had to fart all week. She might have a really bad case of the BGs (bubble guts) and since it is socially unacceptable for women to let it out, she's in a bad mood.

There is a rule of thumb in dating: IF YOUR MAN FARTS FIRST, THEN IT IS OK FOR YOU TO FART. IF HE NEVER FARTS, YOU'RE ASSED OUT, LITERALLY.

I want to put an end to this. It's not fair. We need to unite and open up the butt cheeks of women everywhere. It's just air, it will evaporate. I propose the right to allow women to fart whenever and wherever they have to. And until justice is released, ladies, here are some places and times you cannot fart: in church, on a first date, meeting the parents, while he's going down on you, at a job interview, at a meeting, any public place i.e. mall, grocery store, bank, post office, restaurant, nightclub, etc, ever,....

Here is A place you can fart: at home, in your room, with the door shut, when no one is home...

*My computer hates me. So I will stalk other blogs when it lets me...

Not my used condom, not my problem

My friend called me yesterday to tell me that she had a story for my blog.

“It better be good,” I said. “Because I only put top notch stories on my blog.” Unless someone is getting hollered at by the human projectile sprinkler or locking their keys in the car, in the ignition with the car still running, then it just isn’t up to Puddin’ par. I feel her story passed the Puddin’ taste test, so today I steal her story…

My friend E* (no not the drug) has six male roommates. One of the guys she lives with is this close to me sending his picture to Hot Chicks With Douchebags. His friends have even suggested the only two things in life this guy cares about are pussi and money. Not necessarily in that order. Douche actually has a girlfriend. Well not really. It’s this one girl he hangs out with all the time and they do everything a couple would do together, but I have gotten into plenty of heated debates with him denying her status.

“D* is not my girlfriend,” he will say, until he is blue in the (balls) face.

“Ok, ok she is not your girlfriend,” I reply. “You guys just cook, shop, eat, sex, go on trips, and spend every waking hour together. Makes perfect sense.”

I guess it isn’t entirely his fault either, because his not girlfriend thinks she is going to be the one to "change" his douchebagness. Not going to happen. Men don’t change. The only drastic transition I’ve ever seen in a man was Michael Jackson’s skin color. And I’m not even sure MJ is still a man or if that transition counts.

So back to the story, on Saturday, (when I was at work), they had a party for one of the roommates at a bar (go figure). Douche of course gets drunk and ends up bringing this hot Australian chick home from the bar and has sex with her. The next day at work, he calls my friend E* and asks her for a favor. This douche asks E* to go in his room and get rid of the used condom, because he forgot his not girlfriend is going to stop by.

First of all, if it’s not his girlfriend, what is he so worried about? And second, who asks someone else to deal with their used condom? (My posts are starting to get really gross, aren't they?)

“You didn’t do it, did you?” I asked E*. “Oh sh*t you did.”

“Yeah, I went in there with some chicken tongs,” E* said laughing. “It smelled like a boys locker room in there too.”

*memo* If I ever had to write a list of top ten things I would never do, going into my roommates room to remove the evidence of a used condom would be at the top of the list.