Reason #385 Why I'm Going to Hell

I studied Spanish in school for about seven or eight years. I can understand it enough to get at least the gist of what someone is saying, but that’s pretty much it. It’s sad really. And I don’t want to offend anyone with this post, because I love the language and culture.

However, we just weren’t meant to be.

After working in the restaurant industry for six years and then living with my roommate who is Mexican for three years, I honestly know more Spanish slang than whatever I learned in school. However, I still can only speak Spanish as well as that Russian chick on For The Love of Ray J show speaks English.

I’m with Ray J on that one, she’s hot, but wtf is she saying? I guess on VH1 it really doesn’t matter does it?

I digress.

For someone who is fluent, having a conversation with me is probably like talking to a retard. I wonder if Hispanics really do think I’m retarded? In fact let me clear that up now.

No estoy retardada. En serio.

Anyway, I still like using my battered Spanish from time to time. It’s fun and most of the time people humor me anyway. They act impressed that I can say, “hi, how are you?” or “those jeans make your ass look fat”, in Spanish.

Unfortunately, when I get drunk and I’m around other people who speak Spanish it’s all bad, because I tend to try and get into the conversation too. And if alcohol isn’t enough to help me make an ass out of myself already…Remember the night that I puked in my hair?

Well that was the night that I thought I would become a Spanish speaking intellectual. Uh huh. My roomie and her friend came to pick me up that night. They had also been out partying and decided to stop for some food on the way home.

They stopped at this Mexican restaurant called, Tacos al Carbon that is open until 3 a.m. Kind of like what Jack in the Box is for white people. I decided to stay in the car, but after I puked (not in the car), I felt better and ended up joining them inside.

I remember it being crowded and I probably was the only biracial, non-Hispanic person in there. We all sat at a table, my roomie and about five of her friends’, guys and girls. To the far left of us sat a table of about six Hispanic guys all decked out in black and tan cowboy hats, western buttoned up shirts, tight jeans, the works.

My roomie ordered me some nachos to try and sober me up. Surprisingly even after just recently vomiting through my nose, I was starving. Eventually, in between bites of chips, cheese and chicken, I noticed one of the guys at the other table to the far left motioning for me to come over. Yeah right. I had beans and cheese dribbling down my chin, how was I even going to be able to walk? And how the hell did he find me attractive?

So I decided to mess with him. I started yelling across to his table, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”

The whole table I was sitting with and his fell out laughing. I looked around and was like yeah, yeah. I’m pretty badass. My Spanish is muy bien. So I started up again, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”, “¡¿Tienes Papeles?!”

You see in my mind, I thought that meant, “do you have paper?” Roughly similar to saying, “Are you ballin’?” Like if you want to talk to me you have to have paper, money, cheddar, etc.

Right? Wrong.

I guess what I was really asking the guy was, “Do you have your papers?” Like as in, are you even legal in the United States of America? Like as in I’m a total drunk jackass.

Needless to say he left me alone after that.

Stop and ask for a GPS system...

*disclaimer*- this blog post has nothing to do with the show LOST. Sorry.

I recently gave my parents two options: they can either buy me a new car with a GPS system in it or they can buy me a Blackberry GPS. It’s a win, win situation. Just because they cut me off doesn’t mean they can’t but me gifts, right?

And trust me, it’s an emergency. I have so many old folded up mapquest papers in the side of my car door, my friends keep asking me if I run a secret escort service. That’s a good idea, but negative. I just have a really bad sense of direction.

And when it comes to stopping and asking for directions, I’m like a guy. For some reason I’d rather drive around in circles for hours, than stop to ask for directions. Unless, of course, I have to pee and then I miraculously turn back into a girl.

Actually, I’m kind of used to driving around in circles. I get to know the area better to prevent it in the future. So until I get a GPS system in some shape or form and you are riding with me, be prepared to take the scenic route.

Picture of the Week

Man, so much for change.

I've been trying (not very hard) to steer this blog away from its usual debauchery, however, this picture was too priceless not to post and make a banner out of. I just had to put it up. I’m so deep and meaningful it hurts.

What were we doing? I have no idea. a) totally making out and getting hot and heavy outside the bar. b) cement wrestling. or c) we were just plain old sloppy drunk bitches who fell and could not get the fuck up.

Anyway, I’m trying to start something called 'drunktalk' on my blog. With that said, if anyone knows how to take video from a digital camera and make it youtube style, holla at me…

Bitch should have taken the stairs...

Also, now I need a word for the fear of old people or a phobia of old people, something in that nature. I think once we diagnose it and get me some medication, I can solve this problem and people won’t think I’m so mean.

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?

She Set Me Back A Load

I was using a public bathroom the other day. * Gasp * No actually this is normal. I’m not one of those people who hold in their bodily fluids until they get home. If I got to go, I’ve got to go.

In fact, I’ve mastered the pop-a-squat-put-toilet-paper-around-the-entire-seat-don’t touch-anything art of peeing or what have you in public restrooms. It’s an acquired skill that comes from bar hopping and having four brothers who don’t understand the concept of aiming into the giant toilet bowl. (Honestly guys, is it that hard?)

So anyway, I had to go pee in a stall the other day. I had just went to get change and I'd forgotten it was in my pockets. When I pulled down my jeans all my laundry money fell out of my pockets and rolled into the stall next to me. I leaned under as I’m peeing to try and grab it and I see the feet of some chick. “Crap.” So I decide to wait until she leaves to start collecting.

I hear her leave and think to myself, “ok good, now I can get my quarters.” Mind you I’m still sitting down with my pants around my knees. I look under as I hear her door swing open and ALL MY CHANGE IS GONE! WTF? Did this heffa swipe all my quarters?!

She had on cute shoes so I assumed she might help me out and give them to me when I got done. But by the time I got my pants on, flushed and came busting out the stall, that heffa was gone.

Since when did people start stealing quarters in public restrooms? Ok stupid question. It’s not the money.It’s the principle, dammit.If I ever find that chick, I’m going to make her separate
my lights and darks…

MsP

An Interview with Heidi Montag

Well as some as you might know I have it out for The Hills “star” Heidi Montag.

She fits into that category of people-who-make-you-want-to-stab-yourself-in-the-eye-with-a-fork, repeatedly, as in over and over again. A neverending blinding irritation. I just don’t like her. Something about her makes me want to shoot her in the head.I would never do something like that.I don’t own a gun.I don’t know what it is though.I’ve never met Ms. Montag and I hope I never do. Seems like a conversation with her would be a waste of time. However, (in my mind) for some reason, I interviewed her…

MsP: How’s it goin’ Heidi?

Heidi: Good. Thanks.

MsP: That’s good. I guess. I heard you just recently launched your own clothing line, did you hear about this?

Heidi: Oh yeah! It was my idea.

MsP: Good for you, you had an idea. Fantastic.

Heidi: Yeah, it sucks though because I didn’t get as involved as I would have liked to. I was really busy getting all the fat sucked out of my thighs and running around on the beach in my bikini.

MsP: You have been looking a little slim lately, tell me, when was the last time you ate?

Heidi: A couple of days ago. I think. Wait, um yeah, it was Monday.

MsP: Really, almost a week now. What did you have?

Heidi: A grape.

MsP: Just one grape?

Heidi: Yeah, but then I threw it up after. I was afraid people were going to be able to see the imprint in my stomach lining.

MsP: Oh, I see. So what made you decide to get into music? I don’t know if anyone told you, but, um, well how do I put this lightly? You have NO talent.

Heidi: Really? I thought I was good. Huh. Well anyway, my fiancé told me that my boobs make me look smarter and I was a good singer. I took his word for it. I mean I need something to fall back on after The Hills.

MsP: What about getting an education? Have you thought about that?

Heidi: It’s crucial that I focus on the show, my music, my clothing line, getting plastic surgery, fighting pointless fights with people just as pointless as me, bleaching my hair, staging my relationship, before I worry about those things.

MsP: Oh well you got to do what you got to do. Although, you do look smarter maybe it’s your new boobs and nose, hmmm. Real quick, what’s one plus one?

Heidi: *thinking *

MsP: Nevermind. Well I think I’ve had about as much as I can take. Thanks for joining me on my blog today.

Heidi: Two!

MsP: And we're done...

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

Another reason why my mom is pretty awesome...

I’m sorry ya’ll, I meant to post last night, but my couch ate me. I woke up with the longest string of drool hanging from my mouth and an imprint from the remote control on my forehead. I guess that’s what happens after eating a box of jumbo candy, some popcorn, pizza and washing it down with soda. (My diet starts next week, so don’t trip, I’m good).

Speaking of good, I sure did get my mom good yesterday. She was the only one I knew who would fall for all that April Fools mess.

I was lying on the couch when my roommate came home and tried to tell me my car was messed up.

“Girl, go outside and look at your car, it’s bad,” she said. “No I’m serious girl. Go look at your car!”

It’s not that I didn’t believe her, but my butt was too lazy to get up off the couch to see what had happened to it.

“Damn,” she said. “You’re too hard to fool.”

“Oh! Now I get it, you were trying to trick me,” I said.

I had forgotten all about April Fools day.

“Hmmm”, I said. “I know who we can get, my mom.”

What should I tell her? I’m pregnant? No. I got a tattoo? No. (I really did get one recently that she doesn’t know about yet). I don’t want to give her a heart attack. I know, I’ll tell her that I ran away to Vegas and got married. No, I tell her that all the time, she wouldn’t believe me.

So I called and told her that I spent all my rent money on my hair. Do you know that she believed me!? Dying, because she was really about to Western Union me some money.

Damn, now I feel bad.

A Stoner Tale: The Toothless Blonde

I broke down and rented that movie Good Luck Chuck with Dane Cook and Jessica Alba. I thought it looked stupid, but the guy at Blockbuster said that he thought it was funny. So I thought, “hey why not, he works at Blockbuster, he must know his sh*t.”

Anyway, I get home and I’m watching it (hella high), when there is this part where Jessica’s character falls and busts her face on some ice. She ends up breaking her front tooth and then swallowing it. (Or at least that’s how I saw it).

“I think I just chipped a tooth,” says her character.

I immediately start cracking up and have to pause the movie to take the time to call my friend E (no not the drug).

You see about a year ago my friend E was four wheeling with her boyfriend and knocked out her front tooth. She was cool for a minute, but told me after they got her in the car to take her to the doctor she started crying. A delayed reaction to the fact that she didn’t have a front tooth made her emotional. In the end, she had to go to her dentist and have her tooth realigned. After that experience, she was traumatized and for a long time had nightmares about being toothless.

Being a good friend, watching my highly recommended BB movie, I called her to laugh at her. The whole scenario reminded me of her story.

“I think I should blog about this,” I told her.

“Well just promise me that you keep me anonymous in your blog, so no one knows what I did,” she said.

“What if in my blog you are a 5’10” model chick, with long blonde hair, blue eyes and big boobs?” I said.

“Ok that works,” she said. “If I’m hot then you can totally talk bout me.”

What is the moral/point of this random ass story? Don’t get high and write blog posts…

I Got The Hook Up

I officially buried my razr this week.

I was getting out of the car with a pile of stuff in my hands and of course the only thing to fall onto the ground was my cell phone. It broke into two pieces, separating the neck from the body.

Oddly enough it still worked after that.

Well, up until the next night when I set it down on the couch next to me and then accidentally bumped it with my foot, knocking it onto the floor. Kind of similar to a power outage, it sizzled on and off a few times before completely shutting down.

So I sucked it up and went and bought a brand new phone, with no insurance and a no commitment plan. A painful $250 later, I upgraded. All the jobs I have and that one still hurt. I don't know why, it's not like I was buying drugs or some booty. It's just that the only thing I ever spend that much money on guilt free is shoes.

However, the next night at work I got a party of 30 guys who requested a female server (sexist much?). Two bottles of jager, three bottles of patron silver, fifteen jack n cokes, four car bombs, ten vodka sodas, 100 beers, one lap dance and a couple of hand jobs later, they tipped me out for my new cell phone. Score!

Tis' the Season

Every year my mom, who is also a writer, takes a little bit out of each of our lives and shares it with friends and family. This year I was a little offended reading the holiday letter, because my mom wrote that I have a bizarre sense of humor. My sense of humor might be a little different, but no one in my family has any room to talk when it comes to how talented and disturbingly entertaining we are.

Just last week my dad called to tell me that my mom had got her foot caught in the strap of her purse while trying to get out of her car. She fell onto the sidewalk and clocked her face on the driver’s door trying to get back up, giving herself a black eye. My dad is already on crutches, because he recently fractured his ankle. So he was sitting on the passenger's side looking over at her like, “what is going on?”

Mom, my sense of humor might be strange, but you sure are talented.

In the holiday letter she also wrote about my baby brother. The poor kid is the last of the siblings, stuck at home with good old mom and dad. At sixteen the kid just got his drivers license and an iphone. (I guess my mom really wants grandchildren)...

Anyway, at my parent’s house, in the kitchen, there is a walk in pantry. My mom wrote about how my brother managed to lock himself into the pantry just before dinner. (The doorknob is broken and he knows it. He was messin' around and got stuck in there). While my dad went to find a screwdriver to take the door off and get my brother out, my mom heard a muffled voice from inside, “Mom, I’m going to have a cookie, OK?” He actually managed to jiggle the doorknob and get the door open shortly thereafter. (“Was it all just a ruse to get a cookie before dinner,” my mom thought to herself).

My mom also wrote in the holiday letter that she went on a rant about how bad soda is. “Soda is not food, it’s one of the worst things you can put in your body,” my mom said. My brother replied, “No Mom, crack is one of the worst things you can put in your body.”

Touché.

My other brother goes to school in southern California. In May my mom received an email from the school, warning parents that there was an outbreak of syphilis on campus. Parents were encouraged to remind their son or daughter not to have unprotected sex. My mom forwarded the email to my other brother. He called her and said, “Mom, everyone’s parents are calling them about that email.” So she said, “Well just promise me that you will have protected sex.”

He replied, “Mom, I promise I’ll have as much protected sex as possible!”

My family, gotta love them…

Just Say No

Well so much for posting on time...

I don't know how old this is, but someone just put me up on it this weekend. It's about a PD who eats some pot brownies with his wife. Then calls 911 because he thinks he is dying. The first half is hilarious to me. It reminds me of myself when I used to smoke. It's the exact reason why I don't smoke weed anymore. I start trippin' out and think I'm dying...



Crackin' up @ "please send rescue", "time is going by really, really, really, really slow" and "I think we're dead, I really do"...

I’m All Shook Up

I was lying in bed last night, doing a little bit of nothing and a whole lot of spacing out, when an earthquake hit (5.6 to be exact). I had just finished eaves dropping on my neighbor’s routine of yelling at their 3-year-old daughter and was in the process of returning a friend's phone call, when the room began to sway.

“Damn,” I thought. “I know they mad at that little girl, but do they have to shake the whole damn building.”

“Hello,” my girl said on the other end of the line, the exact same time the whole apartment building vibrated harder, (ha ha, okay get mind out of the gutter) knocking a few pictures off the shelves.

“Oh sh*t! It’s an earthquake,” I said into the phone, finally putting two and two together.

I could hear my roommate yelling from the doorway of her bedroom for me to get my lazy ass up. It was weird too, because the friend I was on the phone with, lives about 45 minutes away. After the quake was over for me (and I had finally sauntered into the doorway) the quake was just then hitting her house. Creepy.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN! Anyone wanna party with this guy?

The reason why I would never work at Hooters...

I meant to post this last week, but I never got around to it. Thanks to anonymousnupe I now have one more reason to continue my ed-u-ma-cation…

The Moral of Porn

I was chatting with my guy friend today. He was informing me on how his new porn collection had just come in the mail.

“Porn is like a good action movie,” he said. “You can only watch it a couple of times, because once you know what’s going to happen, it’s not exciting anymore.”

I asked him if I could borrow a copy of his new porn.
“Not until I watch them first,” he said. “I get the first date with my new porn.” Um, ok. Fair enough.

I read in Cosmopolitan that guys masturbate A LOT. I mean women flick their bean occasionally, but guys jack off like their penis signed up for an intensive aerobics class.

I personally don’t mind porn. I watch it sometimes, but I am THE worst person to watch it with. I once dated a guy and we would watch porn together. I remember watching a porno with him one night, which killed any future opportunity of us watching it together again. I forgot what the porn was titled, but I'll make something up to help paint the picture. I'll call it, "The Punani Party."

The “storyline” of the poon, was about a couple of hot (airbrushed and plastic) chicks who get invited to a house "party". When they get to this party they end up being the only two chicks who show up. (How original). So the two hot chicks are chillin' at this so called party with the two guys who threw the party. Eventually one guys leads one chick onto the couch, while the other guy takes the other girl upstairs. (Didn't see that one coming). One thing leads to another and well, um, yeah, soon everyone is doing the nasty.

However, the whole time we are watching the porn I’m lying in the bed asking a million questions like, “didn’t she have a purse when she first walked in? Where did her purse go? Why are they the only ones who showed up anyway, shouldn’t there be more people if it’s a party?”

Meanwhile, the guy I’m dating is getting frustrated, because I'm totally killing the mood. And starts yelling at me, (well not literally yelling, because he still wants to get laid).

“It’s a porn!" he said. "The point is they have sex! Stop over analyzing it. They are at the party to have sex!”

Oooooooh, that’s right. They are at the party to have sex. Ah that makes so much more sense now. Not only is this film low budget, but it was directed by another man’s penis. Gotcha.

The moral of the story? I shouldn't watch porn.

The End.

Dork Moment

Last night the sexiest man came into my job. I’m talking tall, dark and I-wanted-to-f*ck-the-sh*t-out-of-him, handsome. Homeboy was fo-ine!

Once I noticed him I spent the next 45 minutes stalk watching him. I imagined him coming over to me to tell me how beautiful I was. Then asking me for my phone number, so he could take me out to dinner and buy me flowers. When everything worked out we would eventually get married and make babies. (Yes, I said babies. That's how hot he was).

As my little fantasy bubble floated over my head, I noticed him walking towards me.

“Oh sh*t!” I thought. He is coming over here to tell me how hot I am! I quickly whipped out my berry flavored Victoria Secret’s lip-gloss and smeared it over my lips. The whole building shifted into slow motion as sexy man strutted over to me. I’m not kidding when I say sexy man even had his own theme music. I don’t know what it was, but it was something cool and sexy.

As his stride brought him closer, I started going over in my head how I would react when he told me he’d been watching me all night and it was love at first sight. I stood up a little straighter and flashed him my award winning smile. This was it...

Sexy man strutted right up to me and asked, “um excuse me, where’s the bathroom?”

“Oh, it’s ah, um, it’s (stutter, stutter, stutter) it’s over there,” I said and pointed to the back of the building.

“Thanks,” he said, walking off, leaving me with my glossy mouth hanging open.

I walked around the rest of the night with a big "L" stamped on my forehead. Man, I got to get up on my A-game...

Speaking of being racist, crazy and sniffing way too much coke during happy hour…

Remember that one girl Adrianne Curry, who won the first season of “America’s Next Top Model," then later went on to be a reality TV whore and married that one guy from the Brady Bunch, Chris Knight?

Well apparently she blogs. Curry is boycotting BET because she thinks the network is “racist”. In a crazy-reality-TV-whore-nutshell, she wrote on her blog that celebrating Black History Month is racist, something about Native Americans should have their own month and television show, the gracious “Jews” and her being called a “n*gger lover”.

“Yes, I get it. Black people were slaves here once. You know what? That does suck some major balls, however, it is time to move the fuck on. Do we hear the Jews crying that they were made slaves for thousands of years?”

(Yeah exactly what I was thinking… I think Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. just rolled over twice in his grave)…

-Wait, I’m sorry Mrs. Curry, um err Knight? Can I call you Adrianne? I’m not sure how slavery can be considered to, “suck major balls.” I mean I agree with the idea that slavery does indeed suck something, because of slavery and racism the system is kind of f*cked. When minorities aren’t dealing with institutionalized racism, racial profiling and the self-fulfilling prophecy of our society, I would say they are sucking more than just balls.

Hold up. Why am I explaining this to you? Don’t you get paid to model? And when you aren’t modeling, doesn’t VH1 pay you to burp, fart and get drunk in front of billions of people? I’m just curious. I mean your good at it and I think you should stick to it, because comments like, “How dare we have Black History Month!” or “So, I will no longer tune into BET. This is going to suck, but I do NOT like the idea of having a channel for only 1 race,” are not gonna fly…

Although I’m sorry you got called a “n*gger lover” for f*cking a black guy back in the 12th grade, I don’t think Jewish people will appreciate you calling them Jews or confusing an entire race with a religion. However, I do think that giving the Natives Americans their own television network is a great idea! What should we call it, NET? Or would you boycott that as well?-

I don’t know but personally I think that over 400 years of slavery and oppression deserves at least one month of recognition and a television network. That is part of being an American, celebrating, reminiscing, and learning our nation’s history. Besides, there are more people who get their fifteen minutes of recognition, not just black people...

*please note*: I do not have any proof whatsoever of Adrianne Curry sniffing coke during happy hour. I also don’t have any clinical or medical records of Curry being diagnosed as crazy. And according to her blog, Curry is not, I repeat NOT, racist. However, from her description of racism I have come to the conclusion she is misinformed of the definition and concept of racism, which might in fact mean she is racist. Although Curry did shed some light on some important issues in her blog, her endeavor to express her opinion was displayed in a very tactless manner...

Thoughts???

Quote For Today

Has anyone seen my sunglasses? I misplaced them along with my short-term memory. -J*

NFL Bound With Bad Car-ma

First of all,

(Yes, I said it).

Second of all, I love football. It is the only sport I understand. I know that when a team scores, it’s a touchdown. When the guys bend over in their tight spandex, there’s going to be some good action. Thanks to Just A Girl, I know a touchdown is six points, a field goal is three (one) point(s) and at the Super Bowl there used to be a great halftime show. (That was until Janet Jackson showed her nippleage).

The only problem is my favorite team sucks.

Hi, my name is Ms Puddin’ and I am a Raiders fan. (The first step is admitting you like a sucky team). If anyone follows this sport, they know that my team has sucked for a little over five years now. (Ok maybe longer). Instead of betting on whether or not the Raiders will make it to the Super Bowl, fans bet on whether or not they will actually win a game each season. I should rep my team with more pride, but it’s starting to hurt how much they suck. They're good at sucking. They suck like College Call Girl at a Player's Ball.

My boy, however, is a die-hard 49er’s fan and he had some extra tickets for the game last night. The game was close enough to home, so I said why not? A football game is a football game. What girl is going to pass up an opportunity of a night of beer, boys, boys in spandex and more beer? Not Ms Puddin’.

Although going to a 49er’s game when you’re a Raiders fan, is not smart. I should have known bad things were going to happen. I’m already accident-prone. It also didn’t help that I wore all black.

So we get to the stadium (after four hours of traffic) to meet up with my boy, who has been tailgating all day. He is already done, smashed, hammered, three sheets to the wind. On his way to hand us our tickets in the parking lot he starts puking. Mind you he has on all his 49er’s gear to the niner. I’m talking a 49er’s jersey, head shaved into a Mohawk, painted red and gold like an official 49er helmet. After puking he yells at us for being late, because the game is already into the first quarter.

We get into the stadium and after spending $71.75 on beer, we go find our seats. This fool ends up passing out for the whole second and third quarter of the game! (Great game by the way). By the fourth quarter, we decide to take his drunk ass home. The whole way to the car his drunk ass is like why are we leaving we’re missing the game. I’m like, “you slept through half of it!” Reluctant to leave, we end up leaving him at his truck and call some of his buddies (who are still at the game and have his keys) to remember to pick him up.

My girl and I head home. On the way out the parking lot, she notices that her gas light is on. We can’t find a gas station, so we decide to just stop off on the first exit. On the ramp heading home, her car runs out of gas. Now let me tell you I will never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, call road side assistance in the city again.

First my girl calls her AAA and they tell her she owes a payment before they can come out to help us. Then I call my AAA, who tell me the wait will be up to an hour to bring us some f*cking gas! So I call 911, because we are halfway almost in the middle of an on ramp onto the freeway. I figured at least someone can help give us a push into a safer spot. But oh no, the dispatcher lady has the nerve to have an attitude. She tries to tell me I’m in a whole other city than I’m in.

B*tch I am not retarded, I just ran out of gas! (Ok probably bad idea to say, “ran out of gas” and “not retarded” in the same sentence).

My girl ended up having to walk to the nearest Shell station to get gas. According to her she got into a fight with the gas station attendant, who wouldn’t help her figure out how to get the gas into the canister and she squirted gasoline in her face. When she finally got back to the car, the damn spicket they gave us at the gas station wouldn’t work, so we had to pour the gas into a water bottle and then into the car. (Well she did). By the time she got enough gasoline in the car to get us to a gas station, she was covered in gasoline and the car smelled like an atomic bomb.

Then covered in gasoline this b*tch trys to light a cigarette! I had to yell at her, "you are just as crazy as the dispatcher!" We finally made it home by 1 am. SH*T happens, but I think that experience was my punishment for going to a 49er’s game.

49er's 20. Cardinals 17. Ms Puddin' 0.