Wednesday, September 28, 2011

What DO Meth Stains Look Like On A Carpet?

Because I've got a morbid curiosity over my blogging readership or that I may or may not have anything else to write today, I'm completely fascinated over those delicious Google Keywords that are used to find my blog. I've covered this before because, honestly, wouldn't you want to know if people were finding your blog with terms such as "Sperm Faces" or "Bill Cosby Drunk"? It these types of searches to my blog that sometimes makes me reconsider what, exactly, my blog is all about because these search words make it seem like my blog should be illegal and anyone who reads it should automatically gain eyeball cancer. In their eyes. Because that's what eyeball cancer does to you. Eye cancer. Look it up.

So, I was sort of surprised when I looked at it today and instead of seeing "Magic Puppy Sprinkles" or "Baby Kitten Angels" I found "Over 9000 penises" and I was like, "Holy shit, that's a lot of dinks." and then I started giggling because could you imagine how big of a room that it'd have to be to hold 9000 dinks in it? That's a big room. Full of floating, bally, dicks. Naturally, after reading that, I had to google search for myself and see what post brought that up because I don't remember righting about that much dinks before.

And the post it ended up being from was where I took stupid pictures of myself and wrote a letter to myself from the future explain how awesome I am and I may or may not have mentioned penis length in it, I think, but I doubt it, it's probably the side part of my blog where it promises to increase the length of your penis and somehow that makes 9000 PENISES! Because that's Internet logic, right there.

Right under the penis stuff happened to be this gem of "What do meth stains look like on a carpet" and are you kidding me? Of course I had to google that one because now I'm curious about what meth stains look like on a carpet because, you know, I'd like to be able to walk into someones house and properly diagnose that strange stain on their carpet. Like, is it wine? Juice? or Meth? And I wan't to proudly point out that it's from their failed meth lab and that they can't question me because I'm a google expert on what Meth Stains look like on a carpet. Interested in what a Meth Stain on a carpet looks like?

Yeah, it looks like Poo. Who knew? Once again I looked up what it was about my blog that would lead a concerned carpet cleaner over yonder and wouldn't you know it? Just about every thing I ever wrote could be linked to meth and carpet stains because that's all that showed up in the google search. My blog posts. One of which was actually about a carpet stain.

I can't help but feel like I learned something about my readers today and that thing that I learned isn't some happy morale lesson that will make me a better person. No, what I learned is that my readers are all about the 9000 penis and secretly run meth labs in their carpeted basement and this knowledge? Yeah, it's pretty cool but it also makes me want to have a shower.

Or find 9000 penises.

Tuesday, September 27, 2011

And Then I Made Him Cry & The Universe Thanked Me.

The Pilot, who I should mention off the top of my head is someone that I love dearly and truly wish to have his Guido babies even though he isn't really a Guido but more of a Frenchman so I'm basically saying I want to his have Froglet's, has this thing with his pillow. It's an odd thing, with his pillow, that I'm not sure I fully understand.

You see, his pillow is an old and I would like to call it stinky but I haven't actually found it to be stinky and  I can only assume that it's because when The Pilot sweats he sweats delicious smells but I'm probably just mistaking his sweat for Fabreeze or something and this pillow is flat and gross looking and he demands that he cannot sleep without it because it's his lifeline and his very, very, bestest pillow friend in the world and he'd just die without it. He's also had this pillow since he was a toddler and despite the fact that he asserts a "wizard gave this to me as a gift upon my birth" it's just a ratty pillow long past it's time and I hate the thing with all my heart.

Because it's gross.

And it touches my pillows. All five of them. That I sleep with. Because I like making a Captains Chair out of them so I can feel as if a space ship flies me away in my sleep.

This pillow happens to be one of the only problems that plagues my golden relationship because I'm in the position where that pillow is almost 30 years old and I'm pretty sure it doesn't have fluff in it anymore but just ten pounds of human skin dandruff that attracts bed mites that then have sex on his face while he sleeps and I can't kiss someone who's face has been sexed up by bed mites. He's in the position that this pillow his is only reason for living and that without it he'd be a broken husk of a man and if I ever did anything to it he'd probably break up with me and take the dog with him. Or something like that, I usually tune out when he goes into his pillow hysterics.

Naturally, because of his attachment I've taken a stance that I'll go above and beyond the call of duty to hide this pillow and attempt that he'd never find it and be forced to buy a new one. So far it hasn't worked and as he'd claim he's spent several hundred nights of being tortured because his pillow has gone missing.

Last night, I came close to throwing it off the Balcony of our apartment and if it wasn't for the fact that The Pilot threatened to break-up with me, take the dog and never tickle my back before bedtime I would have thrown it. I can't do without those back tickles, you see.

So I had to consent to give him back his pillow and enjoyed it while he begrudgingly gave me back tickles and he made me promise never, ever, to do this again and I could only promise "I wont touch your pillow for another six months" because, honestly, we are moving in six months and it wont be my fault if that pillow doesn't make the move with us.

Or, maybe it totally will be my fault.

Because, honestly, I can handle it if those bed mites are having more sex than I. On my bed. Where I sleep.

Monday, September 19, 2011

My Relationship Is Better Than Yours. Ever.

Over the weekend the worst thing that could ever have happened and when I say the worst thing? I totally mean that it’s more worse than a whole tribe of Orphan babies catching cancer and you know what would make it even more worse? Those Orphan babies have baby kitties that got thrown in a bag and drowned in the river. Oh, and they also had cancer. Drowning cancer.
The thing that is worse than all that? My internet and television didn’t work all weekend and I was actually forced to interact with The Pilot. Like, we had to rely on our imaginations for entertainment and I know what is in my imagination and it isn’t something you should use as an entertainment based activity because SUPRISE! Everyone gets cancer and then you’d end up in jail. Or kidnapped by a Polar Bear.
Like, instead of watching movies together we had to lovingly stare into each other’s eyes and express our love for each other. Gross.
And, instead of watching all the items on my DVR I actually had to have a conversation with him about our hopes and dreams for the future. Blech.
Rather than cruise around on the internet and play games or taunt random strangers, we had to take romantic dog walks with the dog and act like a super happy awesome romantic couple.
Maybe instead of social networking, we had to make a delicious dinner together and talk about how we are the most kickass people in the world and everyone else? Yeah, they totally blow goats. Because they are gross.
Wouldn’t it be funny if it turned out like that instead of how it actually turned out? The Pilot was sick because this man has still decided it would be a good idea to bring illness into my house so while he was quarantined in the other room I had to like read, a book, a real book. And since he was sick I couldn’t really go into the bedroom because each time I did I couldn’t resist the urge to scare him awake or smother him with a pillow before I catch whatever it was he had.
And when he proclaimed smothering your boyfriend isn’t a healthy form of “relationship bonding” I started spanking him until he shut up with his psycho babble and made me some lunch. A bonding lunch that I didn’t have to make for myself.
Because that’s how relationship bonding goes. He makes me a sandwich.

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

It's Fun For The Whole Family. Or Maybe Just That Creepy Uncle.

Out of curiousity I find myself intrigued over what searchespeople use  for my blog and a lot of times I am surprised that people can accurately use google to find me. Other times I'm pretty sure illiterate criminals have found a way to learn how to turn on their computer, or apply for a public library card so they can ineffectively create searches that lead them to me and then I imagine how dissapointed they must be when they find me and not what they were actually searching for.

It's got to be how a kid on christmas who asked for a puppy all year wakes up early to find a dead puppy underneath his tree because mom and dad got too drunk to remember to give the box air holes.

My blog is sort of like that, a dead puppy under a christmas tree. But slightly better.

Like, if I was google searching "spermfaces" I would be disappointed too when I came to this website and found out that no one has a face made out of a sperm because I'm sure that's what they are searching for because I like to imagine that they have a giant sperm for a head and they want to connect with other people who have a sperm for a face, and not that they are looking for people with sperm on their faces because that's just gross. And smelly. I also like to imagine their sperm tail makes for the best mullet ever invented by protien.

Or the people that find me by searching for "kicking small dogs" because they have a small dog they want to kick and figured the internet was the perfect place to teach them how to perfect their form and then they just find posts about how much of an asshole my dog is and not, actually, anything helpful in the proper way of kicking small dogs.

And then there is the people who find me by searching for "mutated babies" and those are the ones I feel for the most because they might have an actual mutated baby and they are reaching out for support groups to help them through the fact their baby has flippers but instead they find this post I did where I make fun of mutants that look like they have a mutant baby exploding out of their chests. But, if they just happen to be searching for mutant baby pictures to laugh at, I'm sure they will have enjoyed that post too.

Tuesday, September 13, 2011

Because I Just Can't Shut Up Before Bed

The Pilot: OK, it's bed time. That means you put your head on your pillow, shut your mouth, and be silent. No more noise, no more questions, no more conversation. Bed. Time.

Me: But all I'm saying is that if I paid for a penis transplant, I'm sure as hell going to show it to everyone that I can. I'm not just going to tuck it in and forgot about it like a vagina! I already have one of those.

The Pilot: Silence, it's sleep time!

Me: Oh c'mon, I just want to talk about my hypothetical, mythical penis transplant.

The Pilot: No, seriously, it's bed time. I'm going to sleep. I'm not talking to you anymore.

Me: But...have you brushed your teeth yet?

The Pilot: Yes.

Me: Your penis?

The Pilot: I will brush your vagina if you don't stop talking to me like that and go to sleep.

Me: Stop being such a prosititute.

The Pilot: You're a messed up chimp and I hate chimps. Good night.

(Ten Minutes Later)

Me: Psssst, did you just call me "a messed up chimp"?

The Pilot: Yes.

(Ten Minutes Later)

Me: Pssst, why can't I be a well-adjusted, socially responsible chimp? Why do I have to be a messed up chimp from a dysfunctional family. Why do my parents need to be alcoholic drug addicts?

The Pilot: Seriously?

Me: I want to go to Chimp University and have a bright future! I want to be a socially responsible chimp, you know.

The Pilot: I'm sleeping on the couch.

Monday, September 12, 2011

And Then He Punched Me In My Lady Balls.

I spent my weekend having to deal with The Pilot who had the audacity to come home sick from work on Thursday night and infect my apartment with his germs and the icing on the cake? He kept demanding that I baby him as he sat on the couch with snot dripping out of his nose and coughs that sent he dog running in the other direction.
The Pilot kept looking at me and demanding that I acknowledge his sick puppy eyes that are pleading for me to take on the role of Florence Nightingale and when I was like “Maybe you can take this down time as a chance to train the dog to be a Triage Nurse?” it wasn’t taken very kindly and I may or may not have repeatedly spanked him when he was being lazy and sick and didn’t want to go grocery shopping with me. But it was justified spanking. I was teaching him to be a man. He had to man up, you see, to get over his sickness.  He may or may not have referred to our apartment being a concentration camp and he may or may not have called my German heritage into question.
So wouldn’t it be funny that when he was slightly more recovered from his illness  I got sick with the same god dang thing and turned around to demand that he look at my sick puppy dog eyes and it was his responsibility as man of the house to play Lawrence Nightingale and nurse me from sickness back into health? And that he wasn’t allowed to treat me the way I treated him while sick because I don’t have a set of testicles so it is physically impossible for me to man up and get over it? And that instead of him being able to spank me, he had to snuggle with me on the couch and feed me Gatorade like a baby would be feed as I made us watch terrible, terrible Netflix movies? Or that when I forced him to go grocery shopping alone because even though I made him go out into the heat sick on a day that was melting everything because “He needed fresh air and sunshine for healing” it would be bad for me because sick people shouldn’t be out in the heat but it was OK for him to bring him home a surprise present and when he got home the present was Halls and the SURPRISE!  Was him throwing them at me when I pointed out those Halls are just candies and not actual medicine. Nor does medicine count as a present and he needed to buy me an extra present to make up for it.
Obviously, compassion doesn’t come as second nature to him as it does me. He can’t be that perfect, like I am.

Friday, September 9, 2011

I Am Sort Of Hoping He Melts To The Side Walk

Right now, I am sort of wondering if the weather has decided to turn around and fuck us all over again because at the start of the Summer it was mildly hot and riddled with forest fires and then it started to rain and give us floods and now it's all "I haven't broke your spirit yet? Well, here's some more terrible times to fuck you up and by the time Fall comes, I hope you are dead." and that's exactly what it's been doing.

It's been so hot the last few days that I am kind of hoping that when I take the dog out for a walk he melts to the sidewalk because I am tired of him sitting around and hiding under the bed because he thinks it will make it colder for him.

And he always gets stuck.

Because he's special.

And I don't want to save him because I am already held up by the heat that I just want to lounge on my couch with an over sized fan, a mint julep and talk with a Southern drawl while asking for the help of handsome strangers to do menial work for me. Shirtless.

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

Did A Bear Just Donkey Punch Your Balls? Yeah, It's Called Life.

Sometimes life is like being on a comfortable inflatable pool floaty thing (You know those noodle things right? That when you were little and stupid you used it as a fake penis to bash into the faces of the other kids who stupidly used it as a floatation device and not a surrogate penis? Yeah, I'm not talking about those. I'm talking about the floaty pool thing that you lay on.) while floating down a gentle river creek that leads you into a lovable forest full of deliciously cute critters that want to bring you cocktails and nudey magazines and once you are all comfortable and relaxed it's all SURPRISE! That little creek you were floating on and drinking cocktails on and enjoying those nudey magazines? Yeah, those animals totally made you those cocktails using stagnant lake water that contains beaver fever because they hate you and want you to die.

But sometimes life is like white water rafting where they stick you in a boat and a life jacket and advice you that screaming at the top of your lungs while barrelling down a dangerous river full of rocks and hard pointy things that can cut out your eye wont do anything to prevent your eye from being cut out. And you know what? You hit one of those rocks and it flips your boat and everyone who you love that was on that boat drowned and died because a rock cut out their eyeball. And when you managed to avoid drowning and crawl to land to start the grieving process, SURPRISE! That's a fucking bear. And it just donkey punched your balls because it's a bear and it doesn't give a fuck.

What I'm really trying to say here is that animals are assholes and probably should all be eaten. And what? No! I didn't write this blog about eating and killing all the animals in the world because my dog happened to jump on the table last night and eat my dessert while I happened to take a bathroom break. And no, I didn't come close to skinning him alive but he ran under the bed where my little T-Rex arms can't reach him so he never got punished for what he did.

All I am saying is that life sucks sometimes and animals need to be destroyed before they destroy us. Is all.

That, or I want another piece of pie.

Saturday, September 3, 2011

It's Like She Does This Every Day

It's The Pilot's Birthday but I am not going to write about that today because I've got something far more important to share with you and that is a video of my sister dancing around during her labour because it's funny.

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