I'd Like To Say I'm Bigger Than Sliced Bread But I Don't Want To Make The Bread Cry.

Technically it's almost sort of end of the year and it's the time people wake up and make promises and look back at the last year and say "Holy crap that last year totally ass-raped me and I'm still extremely sore from it!" or when you look back at it and you say "Holy crap, I just ass-raped that last year and I'm going to give this new year an ass-beating too!" and then you move on and forget about any ass-rapings you may or may not have received and focus on the new year.

But until I can manage to do that I've got to look back at this year and what this blog is and how awesome it's been sitting here in front of the computer pecking my little fingers to death to bring the humour and the laughter and probably make all of you feel as if I've soiled you.

And it might also be because our plans to head home have been delayed by a day and I don't have any funny travel stories to tell you because that probably wont happen until tomorrow. So you're sort of suck with this cheap year-end-round so I can forcefully show you how awesome I am.

How I Ass-Raped My Readers (Or, Top Ten Blog Posts Of 2011)

10. That White Stain You've Been Sleeping On? Yeah, That Totally Could Have Been Your New Brother.

9. It's Like She Does This Everyday.

8. Because When You Eat Soup You Automatically Have To Shit.

7. Being The One Not Pushing Out The Baby, I Am So Tired.

6. Poop University, I'm Going!

5. Polygamy Just Sort Of Made My Life Awesome.

4. What DO Meth Stains Look Like On A Carpet?

3. I Had A Give Away.

2. Unicorns: Judgemental Asshole Prudes.

NUMBER ONE:

The Littlest Hobo? More Like The Stupidest Hobo.



And that totally sums up my blog for 2011 and you can be rest assured that this blog will be pumping out more of that pure, offensive, Orphan hating gold that it's known for. Or maybe more kitten punching just because.

Christmas: It Totally Fucked Us Over.

So just when I thought that Christmas wasn't going to do anything stupid and destroy our holiday and I was politely tipping my hat to it and extended the hand of truce, it reared it's ugly head and kicked me square in the lady balls and then spit on my face and stole my hat. Because that's what Christmas does -- kicks you in the lady balls.

Our vehicle, we learned, is a ticking time bomb that can explode at any time it damn well chooses and stop working on us because somewhere inside of it there is a hole that's spewing liquid like it was diarrhea and that? That is bad, I guess. I don't know dink all about cars but I'm assured that it is a horrible thing to happen and so beyond expensive to fix that it's just laughable to even fix it.

And then the roads that we need to take home are all full of of avalanches and danger because once again Mother Nature is bleeding out of her soiled vagina and refuses to take out her tampons and let us catch a break.

Christmas: No One Died This Year.

Christmas has basically come and gone and considering that I haven't lost any limbs and The Pilot still has all of his limbs and the dog hasn't been stolen or murdered, I'm going to have to say Christmas was a complete fucking success.
We all got great gifts and some great gifts where given and everyone had a great time.

Did I mention that no one was murdered yet?

Christmas with The Pilot's family has been different, that's a good safe word for it right? This is the first time in my twenty-three-odd years of life that I haven't spent Christmas with my family and The Pilot is French and we all know the French are fucking weird so I wasn't sure of what I was going to encounter this Christmas.

Basically Christmas boiled down to the fact that The Pilot and I had to creatively come up with a way to avoid Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve because we are Godless heathens and sit around watching Gremlin's while everyone else was trapped at an extremely boring Mass that left a bitter taste in their mouth and complaints.

The Pilot and I had no complaints over Gremlins.

And then at Midnight we got to open our gifts because that's how the French roll and then after that gift opening? Yeah, we had a big ole French feast of meat pie and other delicious stuff and when we finished eating? It was totally 3:00am Christmas morning.

And then we slept all Christmas day and then had Turkey dinner.

Oh, and watched The Green Mile because that's totally what the spirit of Christmas is all about.

The Pilot and I totally also messed with his mothers nativity scene and when she found it under the tree Christmas Day, The Pilot totally got the blame for my horrible misdeeds.

And then we made shortbread and The Pilot got banned from decorating cookies because he wanted to be offensive and I totally got called the best genuis ever when I made a Bigfoot and Mr. T cookie.

Christmas: Still Alive But Will Probably Change

One of the wonders of being on Christmas Vacation is not having to get up in the morning and drag my ass out of bed because I've got to work. Instead, I get up in the morning and drag my ass out of bed because someone may or may not be making me homemade blueberry waffles because that's how it rolls in The Pilot's house. Waffles, bitches.
We got to The Pilot's parents house on Saturday after a sleepless night at the Disco tech because when I book a fucking hotel I apparently book the party hotel and don't even get invited to the fucking party. It's like high school all over again where it's the Womb Mate throwing the party illegally at my parents house while I'm away for the night babysitting and when I get driven home by the parents of the kids I'm babysitting? Yeah, kids are totally puking over the balcony. Talk about awkward. That's what that hotel stay was like.

High school kids can suck my dink, is what I'm saying.

And then we nearly died on the road because it decided it was going to be a bitch and just suck. Ice? Snow? Rain? Icy Snowy Rain? WHY THE HELL NOT? Mother nature wouldn't be doing her job if she didn't wake up in the morning and decide that "You know what's the best part of waking up? Fucking with those two assholes trying to have a Christmas vacation." and that's totally what she did.

And then she put in her tampon because she was obviously bleeding out of her vagina and flipped a logging truck for good measure so we'd get stuck on the highway for an extra two hours.

Mother Nature can suck my dink, is what I'm saying.

But thankfully The Pilot gets us there while I spent a majority of the time napping and his parents welcome us with open arms but more importantly dinner I didn't have to cook or order at a window,and all is right with the world.

Ha, as if I was totally going to leave this with a fairy tale ending because what type of person would I be if I did that? Probably one that punches cancer kids in the face to steal their wish from that magic foundation and sees nothing wrong with what she did when Hospital security begin to question her credentials and connection with the cancer victim.

We decided to go shopping and that apparently offended Mother Nature because she decided to piss all over the hill leading to The Pilot's parents house and then freeze it so that we almost crash into the ditch and off the face of a cliff and nearly ruin our tires to get up the hill because sliding down it backwards wouldn't work because it'd be a domino effect and just kill the people behind us but that's slightly OK because hopefully their mangled bodies and broken cars would soften our fall.

Mother Nature can massage my balls, is all I'm saying.

Christmas: It Hasn't Killed Me Yet

My Christmas road trip has officially started and so far I'm proud to say that the drive to Calgary hasn't killed either of us yet and we haven't killed each other yet even though we sort of maybe came suspiciously close to dying when The Pilot saw an airplane in the sky and paid more attention to that then the merging traffic in front of him. So, we only almost sorta died.

Our road trip was riddled with arguments that started in fits and crackles over who was in charge of the music and several of my face book statuses totally explain what happened there:

Surprisingly, I haven't jabbed out my ears yet.

And then I fell asleep and woke up to endlessly repeating Christmas music and a boyfriend who was read to through the radio out of the window after ripping it from his vehicle because it just wouldn't stop and he had misplaced his own iPod so he couldn't listen to something better.

And then I pointed out cows.

Then we got to our hotel which actually turned out to be a motel and now I think we're going to be murdered in our sleep because the front desk guy was protected against the worst possible case scenario by sitting in a cage made out of bars because at any moment monkey's on tanks will attack a horrible motel.

And then we got a room that happens to share a wall with what I am assuming is an Indian Techno party because that is the only way I can describe the horrible music radiating from the wall.

Favorite part of the trip so far? When I asked The Pilot if we could stop for gas by innocently saying "Is that a gas station we can stop at?" he responded with, "No, that's a rape station and we are never stopping there."

Which, honestly, is pretty good advice to live by.

Is It Considerd A Good Gift If You Wrap The Cancer First?

Because we are going away for Christmas this year and most likely will die on a road trip or divorce each other and go into a custody battle of who doesn't want the dog, I've come to the critical choice that I'm not doing butt-hole-all to decorate this apartment for Christmas because this obviously must mean I'm the worst person in the world and ruined Christmas for a dozen orphans who later got Christmas cancer and Christmas died. Or so The Pilot might claim when he retells how I so cruelly denied him the pleasure of putting up Christmas lights all over the place because for some reason he treats them like mood lighting and if he had his choice they'd be up all the damn time.

Last year I let him go all out and he had Christmas lights over everything and if I hadn't of stopped him the dog would have been strung in lights and wrapped around the tree as a Christmas decoration. And he would have suddenly become a Christmas Tree Nazi that would hold me at gun point if I dared come close to his tree while it was being decorated and lo any who dare not to delightfully fluff the tree so it looks more real-y and less cheap-y.

I'd be a liar if I said it didn't make me laugh cruelly every time we'd walk outside of our apartment and find everyone's door decorated with Christmas stuff or see that ours is basically the only balcony that isn't lighted up like the entrance to a Gay Bar because he'd get a sad, frown-y face and point out all the Christmas cheer while simultaneously calling me the Christmas Devil. It's not my fault that his soul dying is a sweet, sweet nectar I'm shockingly addicted too.

But eventually his sad, Christmas puppy dog eyes got tired of pleading and begging with me for Christmas cheer, and decided that they were going to take matters into their own eyeball-y hands and do something about Christmas. Because that's what his fucking eyeballs do, can make Christmas happen.

And what did those eyeballs do? They stole my fucking Christmas sweater that I totally forgot that I owned and that may or may not have been hiding in a box inside of a box under another box in our avalanche prone closet and he wore it to work.

And he became a fucking celebrity. 

Everyone at the airport found themselves gravitating towards him and complimenting him on my sweater and I, Christmas sweater thief victim, had to read all of his texts about how stupidly awesome he was and that I should suck someones dink because I nearly ruined Christmas but he saved the day and the world from my Christmas Cancer Giving ways.

And then he gave Kayne a Christmas mustache ride. Because that's how you save Christmas. 

 

 

But joke was on him because he later had to wear that into the grocery store and he went from being a Christmas Celebrity to that guy who wears clothes that makes everyone else think he's going to murder them in their sleep and turn their faces into Christmas sweaters to wear into other grocery stores to lure more people into being Christmas Sweater victims.

If I Don't Get Slaughtered, I'm Considering It A Good Christmas

Christmas is almost upon us and the one thing about Christmas that is almost a dead certain is the fact that I'm going to be going on another road trip to British Columbia and it also certainly means that something terrible is going to happen on this road trip. It's not like I'm being a road trip grouch or anything but considering that the last few times I went on a road trip we had several dead animals flung at our windshield and that one time I started hysterically crying because our hotel got messed up and I ended up having to sleep in a grocery store parking lot. Yeah, that time was fun.

This year we are driving down to The Pilot's parents' house for Christmas because for some reason it always ended up in the last two years my parents got all the holidays and The Pilot's family was neglected. I'm not sure how that ended up happening as it did but I'm also not saying it may have been rigged that I always won the road trip destination lottery. Because it's fixed. That's what I'm saying.

Of course this means that we're going to have to pack that asshole that lives with us into the back seat and it's always fun to be on a two day road trip when your dog acts like you've punched his mother in the uterus and destroyed his siblings in front of him or something because that's how he totally acts.

I'm anticipating horrible things to happen that will eventually turn out to be something we can laugh pompously about in years to come because I imagine myself to be rather pompous in my old age and the type of person that will drink Bourbon from fancy glasses and wear golden underwear and blankets made out of thousand dollar bills.

Basically, I picture myself as Donald Trump when I'm older and that's fucking weird because I'm a girl and don't have a penis.

The Littlest Hobo? More Like The Stupidest Hobo

Oh hai, I'm going to ruin your fucking life.

Now, I’m sure some people would be ecstatic when a stray dog wanders into their town and instead of spreading rabies and shitting on lawns, he goes around and solves mysteries or kidnappings or prevents a murder from happening. Like, that dog would be a fucking hero and every attempt someone makes to adopt that dog sort of goes along the lines of the person begging the dog to stay with them because he just solved a fucking murder but the dog just straight up ignores their request and wonders off to the next town to solve more mysteries.

And then the town is left a better place because this dog totally did some awesome shit and made everyone happy.

But you know what? If that was my town and that dog started to solve my mysterious, I’d straight up lose my shit. Like, those are my mysteries to solve if I ever get around to it and who needs a fucking dog stealing my thunder and preventing me from being a town hero and having people beg me to live with them because I’m so fucking awesome.

Or what about the criminals that actually committed the crimes and made the kidnapping of little Orphan Jane seem all mysterious and unsolvable? How do you think they feel that some fucking dog showed up and ruined their shit by finding the little girl and causing the criminal to go to jail? It doesn’t matter that the criminal kidnapped an Orphan and wouldn’t have ever got some type of ransom because no one cares about Orphans. But it’s the principle of the matter. No one wants to be the dude in prison who has to announce in the showers, “ I’m only in jail today because I was outsmarted by a stray fucking dog. If you decide to shove something up my ass, that’s OK. I deserve it because I got outwitted by a dog.”

Do you know who the real victim is of The Littlest Hobo? The towns dog catcher because whenever he attempts to do his job and catch that stray dog and throw him in the pound where no one will probably adopt him because if he’s trapped in a pound he can’t solve mysteries, he looks like the biggest asshole because he’s trying to jail a dog hero.

I guess the biggest question is why hasn’t that dog been eaten by a bear yet?

That’d be the best episode ever.

Let this be a lesson to all you potential mystery solving dogs out there: You solve my fucking mysterious and I will personally see you eaten by a bear.

Acting If Your Dog Can Write A Blog Post = Legally Insane

Dear Kindly Readers,

Some of you may know me from my first starring role as the little dog that tattoo'd that man that sort of looked like a Greek pornstar but in fact he's just the man that lives with me and sometimes feeds me but mostly let's me get away with murdering little babies. That is, if there was any little babies in my house. They'd be so murdered. And that man, yeah I totally threw up in his mouth once too because he was giving me lip.

Others might know me from the fact that I can't ever let the people who live in my house take a dump in private because them being away from me? Yeah, totally makes me go bat-shit insane with jealousy because they could totally be playing with another dog in that bathroom or just not. loving. me. So I have to burst down the door, preferably with a mouth full of food, just so I can excitedly jump all over them and spray food in their lap because that food was totally sprayed in love and not at all because I'm a giant asshole.

What you might not know about me is that I'm a giant dick. Like, last night for example when that chick who pays my bills couldn't sleep and kept getting up to check the clock because her life sucks and she has to be up early. Each and every time I decided it was going to be the best joke in the world if I sneakily stole her spot on the bed and kick her pillows to the floor because it's funny. And when she has to clean up that mess, yeah I totally do circuits around the room before I jump on her stomach to show her who owns this house. Then maybe I'll jump on the Greek guy who sleeps next to her.

Or maybe I'll leave the room to eat my food and come back with a mouth full just to drop in her face because I'm an asshole who likes to fucking share my food.

And then when she is awake in the morning and ready to go to work, I'll turn the other fucking cheek when she tries to give me a kiss or a pat because she's a bitch that doesn't get a good "Chewed Food In You Face Joke".

But mostly because I'm an asshole.

The Tattoo Could Of Got Awkward But It Was Just Mostly Awesome

When The Pilot grew a mustache for the month of November at first I was like "Holy crap that is a cool idea" and then my feelings quickly went to "Holy crap, you look like a greek porn star from the 70's that fell from fame because he molested like little greek boys or something.". So when it came for him to shave it off because November is over, we did what any kickass couple would do when one of them looks like a Greek Porn Star/ Boy Molester and we made a movie.

Poop University, I'm Going!

Last night, after a few months of thinking, I came to a decision about my life that I am absolutely overjoyed about but I’m also so pants-shittingly terrified that I’m afraid before the New Year I might actually shit my pants at least ten times over and I don’t think I’ve got a pants budget big enough to replace every pair of pants I ruin with poop. And no I am not going to just wash my poop pants so I can wear them again. That’s just gross.  I don’t want to be known as the girl who’s wearing poopy pants. It’s bad enough that Womb Mate has been calling me Auntie Pissta because my nephew pissed ALL OVER ME RIGHT AFTER I PUT MY NEWLY BOUGHT OUTFIT ON! Like, god, babies are so fucking rude. I cannot handle being called Auntie Poopta too because of wearing pants that were previously pooped on.

Wow, that poop metaphor really got out of hand really fast.

Oh, what is that? You want to know what that life decision I made is that might possibly make me shart myelf?

I totally changed my Major in University from Elementary Education to Film. Yes, FILM. Why? BECAUSE I AM BAT SHIT INSANE, that’s why.

For a long time I wanted to become an Elementary School teacher because I knew I would be good at it because I have this amazing ability that no matter how annoying a little kid is I don’t punch them in the face. It’s a true talent because the amount of times I’ve punched a kid in the face? Zero. Anthony Hopkins? Yeah, he has totally back-handed a child before on screen. It makes me happy that I’ve beaten less children than Anthony Hopkins. Consider that crossed off my bucket list.

I could be a good teacher but I know I can be a great film person – either it be behind the camera during the filming process, or editing it all together in post-production because it’s something I’m stupidly passionate about. I love everything about film and I want to be a part of that world.

Since going to University full-time is coming up in the new year opposed to doing University full-time and working full-time is coming to a close, I started to panic about what I was doing with my life. Was it what I wanted until I died? Could I handle it for years? Would I be happy? Which educational choice wouldn’t end up with me murdering someone or punching children?

Obviously, Film was the answer.

And then I had to tell my dad that I’ve changed my major because even though I am paying for my education myself, he really fucking wanted a teacher in the family and now that I’m dropping the mantle to go to artsy-fartsy Art School it was going to break his heart and destroy his life and probably cause him to drop kick the neighbours ducks one by one until there was no more ducks to drop kick and only angry neighbours left.

Needless to say it was a call I was dreading and all week I’ve been putting it off in hopes that maybe I don’t have to tell him and when I graduate he can be surprised then when he has to show up to said Artsy-Fartsy Art School to congratulate me. Or drop kick me like a duck while angry neighbours watch in disbelief.

Last night I called him and when my mother answered I had to ask her “is Dad in a good enough mood to have all his dreams broken and shattered because someone is going to poop on them?”  and then having to tell my mother “please don’t panic it’s not like I’ve got cancer or something I’ve just decided to go to Film School but maybe that’s a type of cancer but either way, Dad’s going to take it hard.” And only when I had to convince her I wasn’t blowing smoke out of my ass was I able to talk to my father and ruin his dreams and crap on them. I expected him to react like someone who had just been crapped on.

Badly, you know?

“What do you want?” He said with barely concealed boredom that I’m pretty sure was supposed to come off as unconcealed excitement, “I’m watching television.”

“Dad,” I said in a voice that showed him this was a very serious important matter that he should be sitting down for, “I’ve got something horrible to tell you that might crush your dreams and kill your hope.”

“Make it quick,” he said in suspense, “my show is about to start again.”

“I’m no longer going to be a teacher dad, instead I’m going to Film School and majoring in Film.” And then I held my breath because I knew I was about to hear my old man cry like he had never cried before because his best child just crapped on him. I was prepared for the awkwardness of hearing your father cry but all I heard was a grunt and the television in the background.

“Well, as long as you can get work but I’m watching All In The Family and it’s the episode Edith dies and I haven’t seen it in 30 years so I’m going to go. Have a good night, bye!” and then I heard the silence and the dial tone as he hung up on me to go watch television.

I looked at my phone for a minute as if it were a grenade or like it was going to poop on my hand before I shook my head and shrugged.

That was fucking easier than I had thought and I learned a very valuable lesson.

When I’ve got to tell my father about my eventual cocaine habit after I attend Film School (because that’s what you do in Film school, right?  Cocaine?), I should do it while he’s watching retro-television.

It's Like Dodge Ball But SURPRISE! It's A God Damn Dart In Your Face

One of the coolest things about growing up on a large plot of land in the middle of a forest surrounded by other forest dwellers, besides treating my parents going grocery shopping as the worst thing in the world, was the fact that my father worked over seas. Weird, right? That the best part would be that my father would be gone over seas for one month gone and one month back because wouldn’t that lead to some type of daddy abandonment issues that may or may not show up later in life in the form of an internet blog where there may or may not have been a post about having sex on something your parents had sex on? In reality it was mostly awesome. While my father was away it was six kids against one mom. The kids fucking ruled the place. Except, for like, when my father came back and it was a month of punishment to make up for all the horrible things we did while we were gone.

One of the things my father liked doing when he was around for the month was teach us all manners of awesome stuff to make it easier for him to babysit us because he had a life too, ya know? And who wants stupid, stinky kids running around like a bunch of frenzied pack animals looking for love and approval. Like the time he taught me how to knock the wind out of my older brother when I complained too much that he was a bully, or how he taught was that it’s fucking impossible to catch a cat on an acreage for two dollars. He was the master of showing kids cool stuff to do and if that stuff just happened to distract us and make us leave him alone, who cares because they were awesome.

Except for the time he taught my older brother and sister that it was possible to make darts at home because all you need to do is take your mothers sewing needles and thread and tie them to tooth picks, cut up some cards to make the end and holy crap you’ve created a death machine for your younger children but who cares because guess what? Month is up, time to go back to Kyrgyzstan!

I’m not sure what he was thinking when he taught a bored older kid how to make homemade weapons because you just know they weren’t going to use a dart board when they’ve got three younger moving targets and a toddler who thought everything was hilarious.

One of the crueller games that came out of Weapon Craft Time With Daddy was sort of like dodge ball but instead of a ball you had darts and instead of playing in a gym you played in a basement with no windows with the lights off as the walls and younger siblings where covered in glow in the dark stars and it was up to older brother to play a game called “Let’s just convince the little ones this is awesome because it involves stickers and I’ll just randomly throw the darts until I hit someone in the face or something.”.  And of course when you are little you think these things are awesome as you are hiding amongst the other stickers and you hear your little sister start freaking out because she got hit with a dart and you don’t think your giggling will make you next , because it totally does, and then the game fucking sucks because you just got a dart in the face.

Another game my older siblings like to play with these darts was to drag Womb Mate and I out of bed in the middle of the night to go down into the basement and pretend that it was some type of shoddy bar downtown where all the patrons drink beer and smoke cigarettes. And when I mean “patrons drink beer” I totally mean “drink pop” and if you replace “smoke cigarettes” with “make the younger two kids stand against the wall and have a dart free for all to see how close you can get the dart to them without actually hurting them but it’s a lot more fun if you actually hit them with it”.

I couldn’t ever figure out why they had such shitty aim during this game and I was sometimes left with several darts sticking out of my arms until I was eventually forced to pull them out to give them back just so the game could start over again.

It's Like Fear Factor But Someone Always Gets Punched In The End: Why I Should Have Destroyed My Mothers Womb Week

For some cruel twist of fate the universe decided that I needed five siblings and it wasn’t even going to make sure that I was born the oldest so I’d have all the power or the youngest so I’d get all the awesome stuff and never be blamed for anything. No, it decided that I was going to be a middle child.

With my experience as a middle child I’ve come to the conclusion that God must hate middle children because we get the shittiest end of the stick, always. And we aren’t even allowed to wear gloves to handle that shit stick because that honour is reserved for the oldest and the youngest never gets to handle shit because that’s gross.

Growing up we lived on a nice size of land outside of a small town that was basically in the middle of a forest and the only way you were going to interact with anyone who didn’t live in the forest with you was if your parents drove you to town to have fun. And SURPRISE! Your parents hate you so they never drive you to town to have fun. Because of this lack of readily available entertainment my Older Brother got bored a lot.

Unfortunately for us, he had four younger siblings that he could easily terrify into doing anything and I mean anything he wanted. When my parents would go grocery shopping we would beg for them to take us with them and save us from the horror we knew was going to come. And what would our parents do? They’d laugh at us and drive away still laughing because there was no way in fuck they were going to ruin their own chance for escape by bringing us along. If we got tortured in their absence, who cares? Because they got to have a kid free day.

My older brother had a game he’d play and it was sort of like being in the Military, in his mind, because if we didn’t do what he said he’d beat us until we cried, begged, and eventually did what he wanted. This game just so happened to be called “Eat whatever horrible thing I can make on demand” and he’d line us up and attempt to poison us with creativity.

Basically anything he found in the fridge and could be mixed in a cup to look like liquid vomit is what he created. We all had to drink it or die. But the youngest? Nah, he got cookies and pudding and stuff because he was just a toddler and it’d be wrong to do something to him. Oh, and when older brother was feeling generous, yeah the toddler would get to make food we’d be forced to eat.

I’m sure when my parents got home from grocery shopping and we were so overjoyed to see them that sometimes we’d sob and beg them never to leave again they totally figured it was because they were awesome parents who have mastered this whole crazy parenting thing and patted themselves on the back later.

When, really, we were just so god damn happy to have been saved from the Tyranny of older brother.

Why I Should Have Destroyed My Mothers Womb Week

I’ve got a shit ton of siblings because at one point my parents must’ve decided that not buying condoms was an awesome idea and that children are the joy in the world that prevents cancer.

Growing up there have been multiple times in my life where I totally wished my first act after being born was to completely and utterly destroy my mothers womb to prevent the birth of anyone after me – I’m totally looking at you Womb Mate.

To just mangle it so badly that it was left unfit to grow new life and anything that attempted to grow in there? Would become mutated and eventually just abort itself because even it couldn’t handle how it was developing into a freakish monster.

But then I realize I would have needed a lazar eyes to accomplish this.

And then I get sad because I wasn’t born with lazar eyes.

Then I think how awesome it would be if babies were born with lazar eyes.

And then I get afraid that if babies were born with lazar eyes they’d decide to take over the world and since they are just babies no one would want to punch them in the face to save the world. Oh, and they’d have those eyeballs that shoot deadly, radioactive lazars.

And then those babies would shoot us with lazar eyes.

But then they’d eventually get radioactive and die.

And then the world would be awesome.

But I’d still have shit tons of siblings.

But then I wouldn’t be able to kick-off “Why I Should Have Destroyed My Mothers Womb” week where I share all the horrible stories of my childhood that made it really fucking kickass.

That White Stain You've Been Sleeping On? Yeah, That Totally Could Have Been Your New Brother

Do you know what I think is gross besides old people? I know, it’s really hard to imagine that something is grosser than old people because these old people? Yeah, they totally sit around in homes that are designed to make them understand how unwanted they are and then they’re left to shit their pants. That right there? Disgusting. And the only thing that can be the mostest grossest is having sex at your parent’s house.

No one should have sex at their parent’s house because who wants to take the chance that their parents have already had sex on every single surface ever and you know what that means? If you even just think of having sex on something you’d most likely be rolling around in your ejacuborted siblings that will never have had the chance to grow into human beings that will steal some of your inheritance because your parents didn’t want anymore kids and figured why not throw them on the ground where they belong, because they are unwanted. Why is that sperm all over everything? Because your parents are too old and carefree for condoms so they just use the good ole fashioned “pullout” method and since they’re retired, they don’t have to clean up ever.

Who wants to be doing the nasty when you’re potentially sitting in a sperm graveyard made up of siblings that weren’t loved as much as you were?

Nothing kills the moods faster than sperm graveyards.

This post is brought to you by Family Vacations; the only vacation I will not have sex with you.

Sometimes I Think I'm Martin Scorsese But Then I Realize I Don't Have An Old Penis

Polygamy Sort Of Just Made My Life Awesome

(This conversation took place after watching an episode of 'Sister Wives' on Sunday)

Me: "I think our lives will be so much better if I were able to have another boyfriend. You could have a Brother Husband and he could do all the stuff you don't want to do."

The Pilot: "Like what?"

Me: "Like, buy me a Bobcat for Christmas. Or an Alligator I could ride on."

The Pilot: " Good luck with that one."

Me: "Fine, I actually hope that your Brother Husband makes the dog love him the most and Bowie will never love you ever, ever again."

The Pilot: "Yeah, let's see him try."

Me: "If you ruin my plans for a Brother Husband for you, I'm going to email your mom about how you are forcing me into Polygamy and your hedonistic ways."
The Pilot: "Yeah right, all I have to do is go onto skype and cry mmmmooooommmmyyyy and she will come up here and murder you with her bare hands."

Me: "Are you threatening me?"

The Pilot: "She's got a black belt in Ninjitsu and a brown belt in Judo, only because she doesn't have the flipping power need to advance to the black belt stage."

Me: "You just used your moms Karate skills to threaten me out of giving you a Brother Husband for Christmas?"

The Pilot: "It's not a threat. I'm just letting you know that my mom is perfectly capable of murdering you with her bare hands at my request."

Me: "I'm totally asking your mom about her radical kung-fu over Christmas dinner."

The Pilot: "Do it, and she'll murder you with the same hands she uses to dish out Christmas pie."

Halloween Revisited: Because I Couldn't Actually Care About It Earlier

Dr. Butts Will Be My Name & I Will Be A Doctor Of Butts

Lately I've been getting a lot of emails telling me that I could totally become a doctor without having to ever go to school because I can simply pay someone to create me a fake novelty totally real and totally valid and not at all fake doctorate for only fifty dollars. And it's like, "Fuck yeah, that will totally be a deal because why go to school and learn how to save lives when I can pay fifty dollars and probably save some lives but most likely destroy more!" and being able to purchase such a prestigious degree has really made me think about what type of doctor I would be.

Like, I would want my patience to trust that my diploma totally isn't drawn in crayon on a place mat from the local Arby's and feel comfortable enough to tell me all their embarrassing ailments that I totally wont immediately tell the Internet about because if you've got a hot wheels car up your anus you can so bet that I'll call my mom about it.

And perhaps my practice will be handled out of a back alley because the rent is cheaper or out of a small outhouse in Mexico because I'm pretty sure Human Rights Violations don't count if they happen in Mexico.

Or maybe I'll become a plastic surgeon and when people come in looking for botox injections or eye lifts I just turn their faces into giant butts and be all "Oh, I thought you said Bu-ttucks on your face! My bad." and when people come in for Tit Inflation I'll totally put a butt on their chest and be all "Oh, my bad, I thought you wanted an ass on your chest. My bad." and they couldn't do anything about it because I'd be in Mexico.

I could be a Lawyer, if I wanted. I'd be a public defender and drunkenly show up for Night Court and blatantly lie about everything my client may or may not have done but who cares because I'm drunk and it's night court. " It's not his fault he murdered that prostitute, your Honour, he specifically asked for a Julia Roberts Prostitute and they clearly sent him a Meth Addict. It was perfectly reasonable for him to slice her up and hide her in the closet. Who wouldn't?" and so what if he was just fighting a traffic violation and not, actually, a murder trial? And then the client will go to jail for murdering a prostitute that may or may not have existed.

Or maybe I'll get a degree in Astronautory just so I could go into space and piss all over the Earth so my urine will rain down on everyone I hate and everyone I don't hate in a golden shower that is totally disguised as normal rain and when it tastes funny when it gets in your mouth? Yeah, that's my pee.

Trivia Skillz, I Have Them. Maybe.

(This conversation takes place while watching a BBC documentary about the evolution of people starting from the walking apes.)

BBC Narrator: "What makes these Homo Agasta Unique from the other walking apes of their time?"
Me: "Telekinetic mind powers!"
The Pilot: "Seriously?"
Narrator: "Their ability to fashion tools."
Me: "Damn, I thought I had this one."

BBC Narrator: "Out of these two species, Homo Agasta and their cousin Boszi, which one will become the forefathers of modern man?"
Me: "Those Boszi ones, all they do is fuck and eat. Eat and fuck. I know people like that."
The Pilot: "I think this one is pretty obvious."
Narrator: "The Homo Agasta because of their ability to adapt. The Boszi, with their one trick trade, cannot adapt to the changing Africa around them."
Me: "Wow, so I guess they literally fucked and ate themselves too death. That sucks."

Top Three Reasons Why My Dreams Are Better Than Yours

1. A group of Smurfs come upon me while I'm eating out and declare that the only way to save the world would be if I banged Fuckity Smurf and when I was like "No Smurfs, he's like two inches tall and that means to have sex with him he'd totally have to crawl up inside my snatch and that's terrible. How about you let me go back to my baguette?" they started to attempt to chew my arms off and suddenly, when the succeeded, I couldn't finish my baguette.
2. I was this guys fifth wife and I may or may not have killed one of his many children by accident and the whole time I was trying to find ways how to avoid being blamed for the supposed child killing and the only plan I could come up with is that "He has a fuck ton of children, it'd probably take him like six month to realize one is missing."
3. A wizard that may or may not have been a homeless person told me that I was the worlds only chance at survival and because of this I had amazing shape shifting abilities that I must not tell anyone about and after he disappeared or died, I immediately began to brag to everyone about my shape shifting abilities. But they didn't work so in desperation I began gluing animals to myself to trick people into believing in my powers. In the end, I totally had sixteen cats glued to me.

It's Not A Road Trip Until Someone Is Hysterically Crying For Hours Pt.2

Remember yesterday when I posted about how my vacation started off so fucking terrible that I spent a majority of it crying in a hotel lobby, our vehicle, a grocery store parking lot that we later had to attempt to sleep in? Yeah, I totally remember it, and I still want to punch it in the face and sleep with it's mother out of revenge. I left off with how I believed we were probably going to freeze to death or be stabbed by marauding homeless people but fortunately all we had to show for those two hours of sleep was the paw prints on our faces from where the dog figured it was the perfect time to perfect his elaborate circus act of balancing on people's faces while they tried to sleep. I don't know why he needs to practise because he's a fucking natural at it.

Let me tell you, it's hard work sleeping in a grocery store parking lot because there are lots of lights and it's a parking lot next to the highway and did I mention that even though I am just a teeny bit taller than a dwarf even I found the vehicle cramped. The Pilot? Yeah, he's easily over six feet and he had to curl up on the back in attempts to stretch out. It also didn't help that while I was sleeping I may or may not have kicked the keys in the ignition and it turned the whole car on with a blaring radio screeching white noise at us as if it was personally offended that we were sleeping in a vehicle like animals and not in a hotel bed like people.

From that point we decided "Fuck it, we might have had only two hours of sleep in the past day so what's our next logical step? CONTINUE THE ROAD TRIP!" and after slapping each other in the face half a dozen times in a game of "Let's see who is awake the most" we started to drive to Jasper. I lost that game, so I was the one who had to drive. And I drove, and drove, and drove and drove until I reached the National Park and decided that it's probably not a good thing to be imagining five extra sets of roads in front of me because it's confusing and one would probably lead me to our death. Or a violent gang of Mountain Sheep. So I did what was only natural and starting slapping The Pilot awake in attempts to switch spots and when he feebly fought me off like a five year old I decided it was probably best to pull into the truck stops along the way and try to sleep again.

That lasted for an hour until we almost got side swiped by a Semi-Truck that had pulled into the truck stop too wide as if he was personally offended that an SUV was sitting in a Semi-Truck stop and figured the only solution was to murder us in our sleep. It was only when I threatened to start hysterically cry again did The Pilot take the drivers seat. I tell you, hysterical crying will get you anything.

You see, if we were just going to my parents place the drive would have been over once we started again in a mere five hours and we could have found a blissful sleep awaiting us but because we were going to Womb Mate's, well...we still had another ten hours to go because God hates us and wants us dead. Like, super dead. As it just so happens we have to drive through my parents town anyways and my loving, spiteful parents thought it was an awesome idea that we should pick up my Little Brother on our way through so we can at least attend some type of school and pretend to learn something that day. Before we got there, we switched driving and while I was behind the wheel I kept trying to get The Pilot to use my phone to text my bother to give him an update of when to ditch school to meet us. Despite my best efforts The Pilot would only send polite, abridged versions of what I wanted texted so my Little Brother would not know what I truly thought of him and the fact that he was probably most likely adopted from homeless street urchins. The Pilot has shitty dictation skills, is all I'm saying.

By the time we grab my Little Brother The Pilot is complaining over the fact that he's literally starving too death right next to me and we probably should get him some food and I turn to my Little Brother and tell him "We are taking you to lunch not because we like you but because you just happen to be here with us. AWESOME TO SEE YOU AGAIN!" and we head off to lunch. And we eat. In a shitty diner. Who's bathroom probably gave everyone AIDS because they were disgusting.

And then we started our drive. And let me tell you, by this point I was getting near delirious because of the lack of sleep but The Pilot was worse off then I was and my Little Brother fails at life because he doesn't have his learners so he couldn't even drive for us.

And you know what makes total sense while driving with very little sleep and having a sixteen year old Little Brother in the back seat that is now forced to listen to you for the next six hours? Imitating banjo music in every conversation.

"How was school *banjo music noise*"
"Oh it was great...*interrupted by banjo music noise*"
"Will you stop...*interrupted by banjo music noise*"
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU OVER MY AWESOME BANJO SKILLS!"

The Pilot, who was trying to sleep, couldn't really sleep because his girlfriend had just finally snapped and was willingly destroying the population of the vehicle with epic banjo renditions.

And then the truck in front of us decided to throw a kink in my whole plan and totally fucked everything up for a short period of time. It kicked up a stick or a dead rabbit body or something that got flung at us and it almost caused me to swerve off the road but my awesomely delayed ninja fast reflexes prevented us from crashing.

But if The Pilot was to tell you exactly how it happened while he was trying to sleep it would have going a little something like this:

Me: "BANJO MUSIC BANJO MUSIC I TOTALLY WANT A BANJO! BANJO MUSIC BANJO MUSIC----- HOLY FUCK WHAT IS THAT?" Vehicle swerve, vehicle swerve, vehicle swerve, fast recovery save by awesome girlfriend.

Since I saved our lives, we were able to continue with our normal program and I slowly progressed from imitating banjo music to terrible singing of every single road sign I could find. Until the road signs started creeping me out because they started getting prophetic. If I called my Little Brother awesomely hilarious names such as "Penis Mouth" and "Anus Eyes'' a sign would suddenly turn up that would proclaim "God Judges You By The Words You Say To Others" and since it was already determined that God hates us and wants us to die, that was a little off putting. And when the topic of drugs were brought up a sign came up that said "DRUG DEALERS NOT WELCOME HERE" and it's like rude, drug dealers are people too. Who just happen to deal drugs. And destroy today's youth. But they are people.

And when sign singing got boring? I used my Little Brother as my personal Secretary and had him text things to my little sister that basically went a long the lines of "Little Brother likes dinks in his mouth" or "Little Brother wants to move to Dink Town USA" and when we were asked about our location I had him text "DINK TOWN USA BABY!"

So, basically it what I am saying is that Little Brother has far superior dictating skills then The Pilot ever will have.

It's Not A Road Trip Until Someone Is Hysterically Crying For Hours Pt.1

Now, I’m not sure what a road trip looks like for you but the last road trip I took a week ago it ended up with me hysterically crying in a hotel lobby and you know what? A road trip ain’t a road trip until someone is left hysterically crying, is all I’m saying.

The Pilot and I made the mutual choice that once again, for Thanksgiving, we were going to make the trip to my parents cabin and force my mother to make us a turkey dinner and while she was at it, she might as well do all the laundry that I had stored up that I was supposed to do but she’s my mom so it’s sort of her obligation to do all my laundry. And make me delicious finger foods. But because we are ambitious and suckers for pain, we decided that “Hey, why not have Thanksgiving at Womb Mates’ because she just crapped out a baby and she’s willing to cook the turkey for us!” and despite the fact it would have doubled the length of the time on the road for an already long road trip, we all high-fived over the idea. And by “we” I totally include the dog in that high-five moment but his was more of a “frantic face slaps” then a high-five.

The day of our trip started off great enough. I had taken an extra day off of work because I wanted to have a lot of time to properly pack and prepare for our voyage and by “prepare” I mean sleep in, lounge around in my sleeping clothes and realize that “Holy fuck, I’ve only got four hours left before we go so I better clean the kitchen, and do laundry, and pack.” And I was left scrambling around to get everything done.

Now, if The Pilot was to tell you about how I got us ready for our trip he would give some rant about how I didn’t really pack but just threw everything into a suitcase and closed the zipper but what he doesn’t realize is that when I was packing our clothes I started out packing it nicely and folding the clothes but then I got tired and bored and wanted to do something else so the rest of the clothes I may or may not have just dumped into the suitcase and closed it. Now, it’s not my fault that all the clothes that got folded before I got bored were mine and it was in no way intentional that the clothes that got thrown in once I got bored were his. So it totally wasn’t my fault that my mother may or may not have made fun of The Pilot when he wore his first wrinkled shirt. Or that my dad may or may not have given him a look as if saying “Hey, you lazy ass bum, don’t you know how to fold clothes? Asshole.”

With the packing done, fantastically might I add, we were ready to go but The Pilot didn’t get home on time because he may or may not have forget to leave his corvette keys with his corvette so a friend could put it into storage for him while we were gone so it may or may not have added an extra half hour to his trip home and put us that much farther behind schedule. I may or may not have yelled at him because he broke my schedule that I had so carefully crafted a week before.  I may or may not have kicked a baby kitten angel with cancer afterwards out of frustration.

When The Pilot got home I threw everything at him, I grabbed the dog, and we locked up and drove off into the sun set singing show tunes. Or, got stuck for an extra hour and a half in the drive thru of a popular fast food chain because when it comes to “fast food” in my town it’s more like “Asshole, we going to make you wait soooo long because we can food”. By the time we got out of that line-up I was frothing at the mouth and The Pilot was frantically searching for his emergency stash of holy water. Or gun. Never sure with him.

And then we drove off merrily into the sun set singing show tunes while cartoon birds flit around and feed us golden grapes.

Or, got stuck in fog that was so thick I refused to watch the movies on my Ipad because I had to diligently watch The Pilot to make sure he didn’t kill us in the fog by driving off the road or hitting a skunk or getting hit by other vehicles. It’s extremely stressful, you know, being the protector of our family’s safety by criticizing everything your partner does. They just don’t appreciate your safety conscious attitude and long suffering martyrdom.

And then we drove off into the sun set singing show tunes and having little cartoon woodland creatures braid our hair and adorn it with flowers.

Kidding!

After hours of driving we pulled into our destination for the night and because of all of the delays and the fog and that stupid Asshole Food place, instead of getting in at 11:00pm we ended up reaching our hotel at 3:30am because that schedule I so carefully crafted the week before? Yeah, it totally fucked us in the ass and didn’t even take us out to dinner first.

This hotel I had booked was booked for one reason and that one reason is my dog. You know, the asshole one who spent the whole trip thus far throwing an Emo tantrum in the backseat because “OMG WHY ARE YOU TRAPPING ME IN THIS MOVING HELL? YOU TOLD ME WE WERE GOING TO THE DOG PARK! I HATE YOU! YOU AREN’T EVEN MY REAL PARENTS! I WISH YOU NEVER ADOPTED ME!”? Yeah, we couldn’t leave him in the vehicle so I had to find us a hotel that allowed pets and had a free room that could have pets. I was assured our dog was welcome. So welcome in fact that they were going to charge me an extra twenty dollars for him!

So after checking in and confirming that our room is still there and waiting for us we go outside to grab our things and bring the dog in and the lady at the counter? Yeah, when she saw the dog so was all “SURPRISE! U CAN HAZ NO HOTEL ROOM CUZ WE SCREWED UP UR BOOKING! LOLZ!” and both The Pilot and I shit our pants. I was beyond tired so it took me a few minutes to process what had just happened and when I realized that we had lost our room and had no place to sleep at that moment I did the only thing I could think of. I started hysterically crying much to the dismay and horror of the hotel lady and The Pilot.

And I continued to cry.

And cry.

And cry.

I cried until The Pilot directed us back into the vehicle and started to search the other hotels in town while frantically trying to make me stop crying.

I cried when The Pilot went to all the hotels in town to find out that SURPRISE! This town that normally has hundreds of hotel rooms open all the time is suddenly fully booked because there’s some type of Lumber Mill shut down and thousands of workers have flooded the city.

I cried when The Pilot broke the news to me that we’d have to find a parking lot and sleep in the vehicle because there was no other option.

I cried when The Pilot found a 24hr grocery store and attempted to purchase us blankets and pillows and the old man working the nightshift kept trying to sell him fucking lawn chairs instead of blankets. Fucking lawn chairs.

I did stop crying when we both tried to go to sleep but I did start crying again when our fucking dog decided that “Holy shit, this is the coolest thing in the world, CAMP OUT IN THE VEHICLE!” and figured it was a good time to start jumping everywhere. For two hours.

I figured by that time we were either going to freeze to death in the vehicle or be stabbed by a homeless person.

It could have gone either way, really.

Back To Your Regularly Scheduled Posts About Poop...Sort Of.

After what seemed like the world's longest Thanksgiving, I'm now back to work and life and have to actually show up to my job because I'm techinically being paid for it and you know what? Some days I'd rather be a pimp because I don't have to do nothing but collect the money my skanks collect. That's a job I think I can handle. But even that sounds trying because it's still a job and that's what I'm trying to avoid.

I need to find a rich old man that wouldn't have a problem with me keeping The Pilot on the side because who would want to have sex with a rich old man if you could continue to pork your young, virile boyfriend? Me, I wouldn't want to have sex with a rich old man if I could continue to pork my young, virile boyfriend. Maybe I can keep him on the side. The old man or The Pilot. Either or, just as long as I don't have to work anymore.

Considering that my vacation decided it was going to start off with giant flaming balls of crap that shattered my soul and left my crying hysterically in a hotel lobby I'm going to have to say it was a success but an epic failure because it had to end. Vacation fail.

Of course  I will let you all know why my vacation took epic dumps and left me crying hysterically in a hotel lobby and grocery store parking lot but today? Yeah, I'm not bothering with it because I've got to slowly ease myself back in to it. Read: Lazy ass fingers.

Also, I sort of set myself up with this blog to talk about poop so...poop.

That is all.

Thanksgiving Isn't Thanksgiving Without The Penis Talks

Right now I am currently away with my family at their cabin in the woods that will probably be the perfect setting for an ax murdering to happen and you know what? I'm going to make sure I am on the right side of the ax in that scenario.

I'm just giving a quick update because I'd like to go on record that I may or may not have embarrassed The Pilot by staging a fake blow job so it looked like he was an extreme pervert while watching television in my parents livingroom.

Or how I spent my whole Thanksgiving dinner talking about the horror of uncircumsized dinks.

Or stuffing my nephew into a pumpkin against his will.

You know, the usual.

Because When Eat Soup, You Automatically Have To Shit

I’m not sure about you but I’m pretty sure boys are one of the most disgusting things on this planet. Like, anything that doesn’t daintily sit down to urinate just screams DIRTY! DIRTY PENIS THING! And, honestly, I’m pretty sure there isn’t anything dirtier than a penis. Like, have you ever looked at a penis before? It’s hideous. At least vagina’s have the decency not to flop out there for the world to see if you happen to be wearing no underwear and those sport shorts. Not to mention uncircumcised wieners. Those make me sob. If I was ever faced with one up close, I’d have a nervous breakdown.

Now, I bet you are all wondering “What the hell is with all this penis talk? Like, I come on this blog for friendly advice on how to de-cancer my baby kitten angel and she’s talking about the horror of uncircumcised dinks? I WANT MY MONEY BACK!”

SURPRISE! You can’t have your money back because this talk about dinks? Yeah, it’s totally segwaying into the fact that someone in my household who has a penis and isn’t a dog totally decided that it was now OK for the people of the world to eat their lunch while sitting on the toilet taking a big old dump. Because, what makes your soup taste more delicious and flavourful? Why, sitting on the toilet taking a crap!

Needless to say I was horrified when I burst into the bathroom with some type of bathroom area emergency and since we only have one bathroom in our apartment it’s pretty much a given I will burst into the bathroom for any given reason to do whatever. Or maybe it’s that sometimes he hides in the bathroom to get away from me and I just have to burst in and find him because I am the champion of hind-n-go seek. It’s pretty much even more of a given that the dog will kick at the door until it opens up so he can, GASP!, realize that you aren’t in fact dead and he will be alone for ever, and ever but you are just going potty and you know what? It totally wasn’t worth kicking the door open so he wanders off to eat balloons. No joke. Balloons.

So imagine my surprise when I burst in and he’s sitting on the toilet taking a dump, reading a magazine and so casually sipping the soup that he so conveniently had in a cup. Imagine his surprise when I started going “Ew, who the hell eats when taking a dump? ARE YOU EATING WHILE GOING THE BATHROOM? PEOPLE DON’T DO THAT! ARE YOU AN ANIMAL? ARE YOU A FUCKING HORSE? THEY EAT AND POOP AT THE SAME TIME BUT THEY ARE HORSES! THEY HAVE AN EXCUSE!” and I’m pretty sure I yelled that loud enough for anyone in the hallway to hear or maybe or neighbours but it’s OK, I’ve screamed out a lot worse stuff and it totally explains why they don’t make eye contact with us in the hallway.

After my scream fest The Pilot casually said, while sipping his soup and reading his magazine, “Let me be a man. Men do this stuff. If I want to save time and eat and use the toilet at the same time I have that right because I AM A MAN!”

“No, you’re a fucking horse.” And then I took his soup and his magazine to teach him a lesson in that he’s being gross and he couldn’t chase me because he was on the toilet.

So, tell me, pooping while eating? Gross? Yes?

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.

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.

Sexy Naked Midget Rides White Stallion. Yeah, It's Totally What You Think

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.

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.

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.

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.