If It Ain’t Broke, Don’t Fix It

In a recent interview Heidi Montag told Extra that she wanted to make her boobs a size ‘H’ for Heidi. This was surprising to me, only because I wasn’t aware Heidi was up to the letter ‘H’ in the alphabet.

Heidi, who is only 23, is already a triple D after her second breast augmentation. And I’m guessing those breasts don’t feel nothing like sand. Nor do they feel like juicy clumps of fat as God intended.

By now I’m sure the news of Heidi’s interview with People Magazine on her 10 hour plastic surgery procedure has been well spread. If not, recent photos of Heidi should suffice. She looks like a young Donatella Versace blow up doll. Don’t stand too close folks she might be exuding her toxins.

Yikes is right.

Bitch if you need 10 hours of cosmetic surgery to fix things just give up. Find something more satiable in your life besides your looks. Even her douche of a husband Spencer Pratt tried to talk her out of it beforehand. He suggested she might need therapy and thought she was losing her mind to go through with it.

I always joke around about getting my boobs blown up, but I think if it came down to it and I had the opportunity I’d pass it up. Although if they can find a way to make my big toe smaller so the nail lady doesn’t gawk at it when I get a pedicure, that would be nice…

If you could get work done, would you? Or have you and for what reason?

A Good B Job

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Accessorizing Your House = FAIL

I was minding my own business today. Really I was. I was just sitting in my cube, drinking my tea and working. Yes, actually working. That was until someone sent me this…

What the fuck is this? Extreme Makeover: Hood Edition? I know if somebody did my house like this I would scream in horror instead of excitement. Louis Vuitton is cute as a purse, ok on your nails and just borderline wtf-are-you-doing on the inside of your car, but this shit right here???

*extra side eye*

Please feel free to throw in a few words, a caption, an explanation, etc…

Another Bald Headed Beezy

I first heard about this from the folks over at Oh Hell Nawl! Solange knew the paps would be outside to capture that fuzz puff. The least she could have done for my eyes was worn a hat or at least gotten lined up with a design. Halle, Amber, Rihanna, etc. hella women cut their hair short and made it look good. Solange looks like she didn’t even attempt to pro-style the edges.

I want to sit here and clown that mess of a haircut, but I kind of feel bad.

In my opinion when women cut all their hair off it’s because they are really going through something. Even Amy Winehouse’s beehive recently got significantly shorter. And we all saw Brittney with the umbrella and the I’m-going-to-eat-your-babies-bitch look in her eyes.

Solange posted something on her twitter earlier today about how she had too much to worry about versus her hair. And that she was just taking her son to school. She said that she didn’t get a style, because her intentions were never to make any type of trend or statement.

Honey, that haircut says a lot. That haircut says pay attention to me now damnit! That haircut says I don’t really have a career, I live in my sister’s shadow and I don’t know where my life is going. Someone. Please. Help.

Whatever she is going through emotionally, understandable, we all have our days. However, financially? Shieeeet. Her sister is Beyonce and her brother-in-law is Jay-z. Please tell me they couldn’t toss this heffa a couple dollars to go get lined up???

Would you still hit it, again?

Well I came over to my boyfriend’s house the other day, (yes I have a boyfriend) and he nonchalantly had a porno playing on the TV. It wasn’t a plastic titty DVD with bleach blondes, big fake boobies and airbrushed booty. It was one of those real raunchy pornos where the viewer can see the chick’s razor bumps on her cooch during the penetration close-ups.

“Why are you watching a porno right now,” I asked. “And why this nasty one?”

“Oh my boy let me borrow it, I was just checking it out,” he replied. “I’m not really paying attention.”

Oh.

I was silent for a moment as I checked out the porn. Some perverted looking white guy was eating out this fat black chick’s pussi.

At least it was embracing biracial relationships.

“I’m sorry, but that chick is gross,” I said.

“Why,” he asked.

I don’t know, she just is,” I said, making a face, before asking the inevitable, “Would you have sex with her?”

“Ummmm, yes,” he said turning his head from left to right looking at her intently. “You will be surprised to find out, my dear, who a man will have sex with.”

Then he went on to tell me that given the opportunity he would have sex with Omarosa, Whoopi Goldberg, Star Jones (before and after surgery) and Paris Hilton. Thus opening the door to one of my most infamous debates, would you still hit it???

Usually for the fellas, but ladies feel free to toss in your oh so necessary two cents, because you know we always do…

Fellas, would you have sex with Oprah if she was broke? Doesn’t matter bigger or smaller, without money is Oprah still f*ckable?

What about Octo-pussi Nadya Suleman? Sure she might have a gaping vagina, jumbo sized stretch marks, be able to make her nipples hard with her knees and even attempt to pull off the condom during sex, but she looks like she can give a mean blow job...

And if the rumors are true and Rihanna did give Chris Brown herpes or the clap, does her sex appeal override the possibility of attracting a life long std???

Suddenly, I was in the champagne room...

As I’ve mentioned before, I frequent strip clubs because they are the easiest place to get free drinks. See most guys in the joint think that if they liquor up the girls who don’t work there, they might get lucky and catch a last minute amateur show. It’s usually a hit or miss. You never know. I have seen it happen, but it’s never happened to me. Honest. (See my halo :0).

The last time I went to a strip joint, I bumped into a friend of a friend. I love the male reaction when I bump into them at strip clubs. First there is the initial reaction of, “oh sh*t, I’m caught.” Then second there is the, “wait, what are you doing in here, you’re a girl? And last but not least, they second guess, “you don’t work here, do you?”

No I don’t work here, just enjoying my tax-free beverage thank you very much.

Anyway, I bumped into this guy who is a friend of a friend and apparently he got into his head me watching ass and titties was some sort of pastime. So he went ahead and called me up Friday night inviting me to a “gentlemen’s party” at the Hilton.

“Oh is someone getting married or something,” I asked him.

“No,” he said. “I’m just throwing a party, invite only.”

Cool. I'm special. I'm V.I.P. Sounds good.

In my mind I was naïve enough to think that maybe he was just throwing one of those parties where it was a good place to network, but half dressed women were part of the mingling crowd. No worries, I can handle that.

Or so I thought…

I get up to the 18th floor where he had rented a Suite. When he pushed open the door, it was like the scene from The Players Club when Eboney got beat up and raped, except with a younger crowd. Intrigued, I decided to stay. What girl doesn’t want to put herself into that situation?

There was a portable stripper pole in the center of the room that three dudes were desperately trying to readjust. Unfortunately from the look of the thing, one swing and any lucky lady might learn how to fly that night.

There was a bar, but it was old school house party style. Audaciously drinks were $10. I was too anxious to see how the night was going to play out to even worry about getting a drink.

I was also a little embarrassed, because I had invited a new girlfriend of mine to go with me. I guess I felt guilty because I haven't really broken her into the situations I get myself into, yet. Although, she seemed just as eager as me to find out what was going to happen next.

Every ten minutes or so, a handful of guys would saunter through the door of the Suite eagerly awaiting the festivities.The girls were hidden in a room adjacent to the Suite, digging through suitcases full of plastic high heels, bikini tops and bottoms and other bright colored accessories.

Eventually, the girls started filing out into the Suite room. They looked nothing like the Rock of Love/Flavor of Love girls. It was more like Phat Booty Hoes meets BET Uncut. Soon that didn't even matter, because it all became a blur of ass, titties, dollar bills and private lap dances. Rap music blaring in the background.

Wait, what the...how the...hold it. Am I in the champagne room? Hmmm, it's different than I imagined. This was definitely not the same experience as a strip club.

Why in the hell would somebody think that I would enjoy a party like this? I go to strip clubs to get free drinks not lap dances. Even if I did get a lap dance, this seemed like the type of crowd that was paying for a boner. Praying for a blowjob.

Um, I don't have a penis. I might have been sold if it was open bar. Otherwise, I have ass and titties, why would I pay to see someone else’s that are not going to turn me on because, I, like, dick?

The icing on the cake was when one of the girls turned to me and informed me that some of the girls were in fact performing in front of family members. It was then that I decided to make my exit. Parties like that should only be seen on VH1...

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.

Fatty's Workout Plan

[nice shorts!]

Are you sitting down? If not you should sit down for this one…

I joined 24-Hour Fitness. (Insert loud gasp of shock here).

I know, I know, me in spandex, not the business. But fatty’s hungry. Fatty’s got to eat. And fatty doesn’t want to feel guilty for ordering a drink, an appetizer, the whole left side of the menu, desert, a cow and a little something extra to go. Ya know, the works.

If I don’t like jogging, I really don’t like jogging in the rain. I hate the rain and by the end of October it’s going to be way to cold for me to do any outdoor activities. I might have to even cut back on my stalking and fence hopping, because I’m a baby when it comes to being cold.

So now I get to join the meatheads and tiny bitches in spandex. Can’t wait. I updated my iPod, so hopefully I can drown everyone out and will only have to put up with the smell of sweaty metal and balls. Yum.

Wish me luck bitches! I start tomorrow.

MsP

Fresh Sealed Eye Candy To Go, Please

Ok kids, never eat candy and then masturbate. Side cramp. Ouch.
Wait, what? Yeah I said it.

You know I’m really trying hard not be one of those girls who had a bad break with the penis and becomes really bitter. And then today my coworker took his wedding ring off and asked me out to dinner. Really? I can still see your tan line homie. Do I look that stupid? Desperate? Maybe. I woke up this morning cuddling with my laptop. How romantic, I know, right?

It just sucks because before my ex I was a fucking pimp. A P-I-M-P. I’m serious. I had hooooosss. Same area codes, but they were there nonetheless. There was always a guy on call good for something. And now my status is so dried up it’s going to take a spatula and some baby oil to get this girl in gear again.

However, I did meet this guy out on the town with the girls over the summer. He gave me his card and I’ve been emailing him, to kind of show him I’m not that interested. The catch is that he is older, but he does own a casino, btw. Apparently, he came into my job the other day when I wasn’t there and was asking about me.

Hmmm, what say you????

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.

Skinny Bitches Only Jog if They Can't Afford Surgery

I’ve decided that after thirty I’m not working out anymore. I’m just going to go and get all the fat sucked out of my body. I’m serious, I want Dr. Rey or somebody to take that big long metal knife and chop me up into little pieces.

Maybe also do some rearranging, like pull the fat from my thighs and put it into my ass. Then mold my gut into some kind of boobage/cleavage creation. That’s right. Get creative! Make me beautiful bitches! By the time I am thirty they will have discovered new ways to make me look like a ten-year-old on crack.

Until then I must eat right and exercise. I say this like I’m on a Jedi mission. Which is the only reason why when my so-called friend asked me to go jogging the other day I said, “yes”.

I don’t jog. Wait, let me rephrase that, I can’t fucking jog. It’s like the Special Olympics. I look like a four-year-old in the grocery store, when their mom just told them they couldn’t have something. You know and they do that run where their head turns into a bobble head and their arms flail around uncontrollably. And they whine, “but mom whyeeeeeeeeee!?”

Yeah that’s me, in spandex.

The last time I went jogging was at the gym and it’s been a few years. I remember huffing and puffing on a treadmill, when this chick like eight months pregnant hops on next to me. No really, not fat she was fucking skinny and pregnant.

After about 5 whole minutes of running I couldn’t take it anymore. My chest started to burn, I needed a hip replacement and I lost all feeling in my knees. And here this bitch was next to me just casually jogging for two.

So anyway, my friend and I ended up on this two-mile trail through the woods. All of which I probably only jogged a good fifteen minutes. The whole time I was thinking about what I was going to eat next. Three days later, my knees are still swollen and I don’t feel any skinnier.

I’m telling ya, I can’t wait until I’m thirty…

The Art of Stalking

The difference between a female and a male stalker is this: A female stalker will call you repeatedly, hanging up as soon as you answer. If, and only if, you tick her off she will speak, cussing you out, but then hanging up before you get a word in edgewise.

A male stalker will stay on the phone long enough to breath into the phone so much that your ear may become moist. He might even dry heave a few words at you like, “What are you doing?” or “Do I make you horny baby?”

I can appreciate a good stalker every now and again.

Sometimes they come in handy when I forget the password to my MySpace page or can’t remember which gas station was the cheapest. Not only do my personal stalkers bring me the paper and Starbucks, but also I can occasionally get some lurkers to comment over here every now and again. Thanks guys. :)

Don’t feel bad if you fit into any of the categories above, for I am a certified grade A stalker myself. I’ve master sliding into my camel-toe-tight-cat-suit and then lurking beneath my ex’s window in the bushes. Waiting to see what he is up to or watching his cable for free in through the window.

Ok let me rephrase that, it’s not so much a cat suit as me naked and not so much me hiding in the bushes, but more so me drunk, inconspicuously (eagle spread) passed out on his front lawn.

Ok so maybe I lied and I’m not the best stalker. So what, I’m a liar and a really good trespasser. Whatever.

Anyway, the last few nights I’ve been receiving an anonymous phone call. Last night anon caller called me 27 times! At 2 a.m.! All of which I answered once, where he proceeded to breath inauspiciously into the phone and then say in a low voice, “I just want three minutes of your time.”

I was really struggling to imagine what kind of low life f*ck would keep pestering me. Was it the hottie I gave my number to last weekend at the bar, through my blurred vision?

Aw, crap-on-a-condom. It probably was. Well, there are better ways to ask a girl out on a date. I just hope I don’t end up a victim like in some made-for-TV horror movie…

I know I haven’t posted or whored around on other blogs in almost a week, but can I distract you with the fact that *gasp* Britney Spederline looks almost normal!!!!!!!!!????????

Would you rather…

…adopt four kids and then give birth to twins…

…give Kevin Federline custody of your kids…

…or find out you’re an immediate relative to the Hogans???

But enough about me...

What am I doing right now?

Well, if you really must know, I’m sitting at home on a Saturday night, nursing a hangover with a Bloody Mary and popcorn. (Weird combo, I know). I just don’t get it, when I am bored as f*ck, pumped up and ready to go, no one calls me or answers their phone. When I’m tired and not in the mood to socialize, everyone and the f*cking president calls me to go out.

I think even Jesus just called me to see if I wanted to go cloud hopping with him, for real.

Sorry Jesus, but I’m in for the night. I'm sitting on my couch, ah, um, reflecting. Yeah that's it, reflecting...

I had my first job interview last week. I probably shouldn’t be posting about it, seeing as how I’m trying to get a writing job and most potential employers have asked for a link to my blog along with my resume. Haha. Maybe that’s why I still haven’t found a job?

Anyway, during my interview, she kept coming back to the same question of, “so what do you like to do?” or “so tell me about yourself.” By the third time she asked me what my hobbies were, I was really tempted to go ahead and tell her.

“In my spare time I dress up like a dominatrix, stalk the evil lurkers in the night and break dance. (I can do a killer robot). I also enjoy getting drunk, hopping my ex’s fence and passing out on his doorstep.”

Violá! So there you have it. I’m just your average Puddin’.

Seriously, how much should people be allowed to talk about themselves? Is it just me, or is it awkward to continuously toot your own horn? Ok kind of funny how that last sentence can be interpreted in more ways than one…

Can't you see my halo?

I went on a date last night with married guy. He’s divorced now. It’s funny how things happen. My very first post on this blog was about having an affair with married guy and here I am dating him. Well let me clarify, his wife had up and left him for eight months before he met me. Why? That is their business, not mine.

Anyway, we actually had a really nice time. It sucks because besides from all the drama, him and me really have a great friendship. Yes I agree, Ms Puddin’ has bad taste in men. Yes I agree, I probably have no business giving him of all people a second chance, but he took me to Maggianos.

Fatty’s hungry, fatty’s got to eat.

Then he took me to a nice little bar tucked away where we could enjoy each other’s company. Man he had all the tricks up his sleeve that night. Taking me to a bar is like taking a five-year-old to Legoland, just heavenly, simply the best.

No sex, but I don’t regret bringing him back into my life. I think time is on my side on this one. Not to mention, the ex, (my most recent trespassing victim) called to say that he has up and moved to Atlanta. Good. Maybe I will finally get over getting drunk, hopping his fence and stalking him.

Time for MsP to find some new hobbies… sewing, pottery, cooking? I told my guy friend the other day that I was going to go grocery shopping.

He’s all, “why, since when do you cook?” And then he started busting up laughing.

Damn.

“Ok maybe I can’t cook, but I can make a mean cocktail,” I replied.

“I don’t doubt that,” he responded back.

Things not to do, because I’ve done them and they worked out not so much…

Ok I don’t why I thought I was Kid n Play in the club last night, but don’t ever do this, drunk, in four-inch heels…

Yes I fell and busted my ass. Not cute.

Also, don’t go out drinking two nights in a row, then wake up to go and do a 10 hour bar shift. Not fun. Making cocktails after a night of drinking is like having sex after eating Thanksgiving dinner.

Hangover + martini shaker = barf.

Furthermore, I’m a completely selfish b*tch btw. I met this guy a while ago, who lives like a couple hours away. We’ve managed to keep in touch via technology. Cyber dating, I guess. Anyway, he called me out of the blue last night to tell me that he wanted to come hang out. I told him I was going out with my girl, but he was welcome to tag along.

To make a long story short, he drove out to my city and was a total gentleman. Opened my car door, offered to buy me drinks and looked past the fact that I was a total drunken party whore.

After he walked me to my door, I told him that I was tired and should probably pass out since I had to work in the morning. I didn’t think twice about the fact that it was 2 a.m. and he had a two-hour drive ahead of him. I totally went upstairs and passed out. I woke up the next morning to text messages and missed calls about him possibly crashing on my couch.

Whoops!! My bad.

So tell me, how was your weekend? Anybody else learn any lessons that involve alcohol and a sex driven donkey??? Wait what?

Well if you really must know...

Armpit! Yay!

F*ck tagged, I got attacked by, Hadassah, Afrodite, Lady c, and Monie. Canon tagged me too, but then he took it back. Whatever, I don’t know why y’all want to hear more quirks about me anyway. We already know I suffer from insanity. If I give up anymore information, someone might have me committed.

Well, here goes…

1. I think I have OCD. Every time I leave the house I have to come back and check and see if I locked the front door or turned off the flat iron. God forbid my apartment burns down because of something hair related.
   
   
2. I’m a really big movie buff. If I haven’t seen it, I’ve heard of it. I also like going to the movies by myself. I can sit where I want.
   
   
3. I really hate cuddling, especially after sex. I’m feeling DL when he was like, “move, scoot over, it’s hot!” lol Don’t get me wrong I like a nice bear hug every now and again, but you can keep all that spooning to yourself, playa.
   
   
4. I really need to clean out my refrigerator, my car, my closet, like pretty much everything needs some attention.
   
   
5. I like going to strip clubs. The ones that serve alcohol preferably, because it’s the quickest scheme to getting drunk fast. You see, the guys that go to strip clubs think that if they liquor you up then you’ll hop up on stage and they’ll get a nice random amateur show. Not gonna happen, but thanks for the cocktail homie!
   
   
6. I really hate when I bump into someone I haven’t seen in a long time and they’re like, “damn you look like you lost a lot of weight.” Um, thanks for the compliment, but I don’t ever remember being that big in the first place????

There! Now I’m taggin’ kiki, smitty, Q, that saddity chic, 12k and Sabina.

1. Link the person who tagged you…

2. Mention the rules in your blog…

3. Tell about 6 unspectacular quirks of yours

4. Tag 6 bloggers by linking them

5. Leave a comment on each of the tagged blogger’s blogs letting them know they’ve been tagged

Single and Sober

I went to my friend’s engagement dinner/congratulatory party/death sentence on Friday and there wasn’t a bar. We toasted the soon to be bride and groom with sparkling apple cider. Boo.

Yes folks it’s gotten to the point in my life where if someone tells me their pregnant I can say, “congratulations!” instead of, “Oh sh*t, what are you going to do?” And when someone announces an engagement I have to show up and pretend to care. Well, deep down I do care. I’m really happy for my friend, but engagement parties and baby showers are not really my forte. I prefer something a little more erotic and captivating, with a bar.

There is nothing like a Friday night, mingling sober with other singles who ask you stupid questions like, “when are you getting married?” Well, you have to have something called a man to get married to first, genius.

Then I started to panic. Why am I single? Should I go to the Humane Society to start picking out my 20 cats now? (Naw, f*ck that, I hate cats). Could it be that I’m greedy klutz who has no idea what she wants? Eek! My disastrous dating past started flashing through my mind…

I remember this one time, when I used to date this one guy, (and this one time, at band camp) I was over at his house waiting for him to get off of work. On the coffee table there was a giant glass bowl of M&Ms. Instead of reaching and grabbing just a few M&Ms, my greedy ass went and grabbed the whole bowl. The glass crushed in my hand. (Stupid cheap bowl, grrr). M&Ms flew everywhere and my hand started squirting blood.

I called 911, but they wouldn’t give me any medical advice over the phone and it wasn’t serious enough to call an ambulance. So with blood running down my arm, I quickly picked up all the M&Ms and glass. When he came home about ten minutes later he had to help me get the circulation back into my hand, which had turned a nice shade of blue.

Another time I was dating this other guy (not at band camp) and right before he came over, fatty ate a whole package of red licorice. When he got there we got into this discussion of things we liked and disliked in the opposite sex. One of his vices was when girls threw up, it was a turn off to him. Needless to say, not too soon after that conversation, all that red licorice kicked in and I started projectile vomiting (uncontrollably) a funky red liquid all over him.

Oops my bad. :(

The first time I had sex with my ex, I had stuffed my bra with socks. Usually when I (would *ahem*) stuff my bra I’d do the quick pull out when nobody’s looking. Unfortunately that night I wasn’t quick enough and when he felt me up, he found my thick ass socks. (On the plus side he did end up wearing them to work the next day).

Dating sucks. So do engagement parties without alcohol. I don’t see what the big deal is about being single. I’m enjoying this thing called life people!

MsP

The Buddha Made Me Do It

Has anyone else ever been out drinking with a friend, who for some reason decides to steal a Buddha head from the bathroom of a bar?

No. Just me. Ok. F*cking fantastic.

Ya know, I love my friends and I’ve come along way as to whom I choose to associate with. As my mom would put it, one of my boyfriends in high school was three days out of his orange jumpsuit before taking me to prom. She’s a little dramatic, but I can’t say that she is wrong, exactly.

And I’m definitely no angel. For example, how else would I be able to tell you that espressos and vodka mixed, are not a good idea? Kind of like a Chihuahua on crack.

Anyway, I went out with my friend and her roommate Monday night. (The same friend who lives with the guy who told the “Angry Pirate” story). So, three bars into the night we end up at this upscale spot. When we walked in and sit down at the bar, the bartender looked at us and started pouring three waters. Thank God, because one more drink and I would have been butt naked on that bar while my friend made a cocktail out of my ass.

“I’ll be right back,” says my friend.

“Ok,” I slurr. “Whoo-hoo, it’s Monday night baby!”

Ten…twenty minutes go by and she still has not come back from the bathroom. Either she’s taking a sh*t or she is passed out, ass up, on the bathroom floor.

“Um, I’ll be right back,” I said to her roommate. “I’m going to go and see if she’s ok.”

On the way into the bathroom I’m thinking, this is going to be bad. I open the door and this b*tch is like a spider on the wall, hanging on for dear life to a giant Buddha head that is screwed into the wall!

“WTF are you doing!?” I yelled.

“I’m trying to get this off,” she replied.

“Where are you going to put it!?”

“In my room.”

“NO! I mean like how the f*ck are you going to get it out of here?”

“I’m just going to carry it up under my shirt,” she said.

Mind you, this b*tch has on like THE tightest tank top ever and the Buddha head was not small. It wasn’t big, but it wouldn’t make three drunk girls look any more discreet.

All of a sudden, like a bomb went off in the building, she comes flying back, clean across the whole bathroom and lands on her ass. She is still holding onto the Buddha head like someone had super glued it into her hands.

I run out of the bathroom and tell her roommate, “um, we need to go…”

We tell the bartender that our girl is throwing up in the bathroom and we need to exit out the back. Five minutes later three drunk girls come stumbling out of the bar, running, with a giant Buddha head. My friend with the Buddha eats sh*t and I’m like Forrest Gump, gone.

Yes, I could have stayed and tried to talk her out of it, but when this girl gets drunk she gets stu-born. I wasn’t about to go to jail for jacking a Buddha head.

Hell maybe, but jail, no thanks. ;p

MsP

Would you rather...

...get caught cheating...

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

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