Tuesday, March 30, 2010

I Swear to Prevent the Decapitation of Giraffes and Provide Sandwiches to Those Who Lick Crack Off Dirty Socks (and You Should Too)

Today at work we were holding a homeless census count – which basically means that you bribe a bunch of bums with sandwiches, socks, and McDonald’s gift certificates to fill out paperwork. Some of the staff even went so far as to drive around town picking up homeless people in their cars and bringing them back to our office. To me, this seems a little dangerous and unnecessary. I’m all for giving hungry people sandwiches, but it doesn’t mean I want to put a possibly unstable ex-crack addict in my passenger seat. But that’s just me being prejudiced against people without houses. Which is stupid, considering I need 3 roommates to afford my apartment. Hell, I’m practically almost a homeless person. I’m just a few snorts of blow away from living under a bridge – wait, do you snort blow? What is blow? Cocaine, right? – so I really shouldn’t judge. But you should really give me a sandwich and the census (in that order) if you see me licking crack off a dirty sock. Because that would make you a good friend and a decent fucking human being.

And just to prove that I, too, am a decent human being in the face of people who lick crack off dirty laundry and think they can talk to aliens, I babysat the grocery cart of a homeless man while he filled out the census and collected his sandwich. (Well, okay, I stood where I had been standing for the past hour, and casually glanced in the direction of said parked shopping cart every so often, because really, who is going to steal a cart full of smelly plastic bottles? I mean, there was a higher chance than usual of that happening – we were inviting bums off the street to partake in our festive census activities. So there. I kept a homeless dude’s cart from being commandeered by other homeless people. I’m a good person, dammit.)

Well, anyway, during the defense of the grocery cart against an army of unfortunates, my office mate decided to tell us a little story about a field trip she once took.

And I cannot get it out of my head, so I thought I’d share it. Because holy shiz, it could have been so much worse.

So, said office mate played chaperone to her much younger cousin’s school field trip a few years back. The school sent a group of 4 year olds on a “safari” through a wildlife center – Wild Animal Safari in Pine Mountain, Georgia – which apparently supplied the children with cups of animal food. The kids sat on a bus, which drove through the park, and were supposed to be feeding the animals out the bus window.

First of all, this whole premise sounds like a lawsuit waiting to happen. Toddlers? Wild animals? Food?!

I can tell you first hand that the aggressiveness of animals in captivity when they are surrounded by tourists with food is often traumatizing to children. I still love telling the story of my family’s last big road trip – to Arizona, to see the Grand Canyon. On the way back to California, my brother and I grew ecstatic upon spotting a “Deer Farm, Next Exit” sign. My sap of a father was dumb enough to pull off the highway and buy us each a cup of deer pellets (for some astronomical price, I’m sure) and send us in to meet the deer.

As a smaller-than-usual elementary school student, facing down a herd of ravenous deer became immediately terrifying. They literally charged in our direction. My theory is that these deer had only a sole source of sustenance – the pellets brought in by idiot tourists. I let out a scream, and my younger brother – who was equally terrified – threw the contents of his deer pellet cup into the air and ran, full tilt, out of the enclosure. I followed – hell, there was no way I was going to get trampled by a squad of antlered beasts – and we quickly locked ourselves into the main pen, which was conveniently full of hungry goats.

Believe me, getting our shoe laces eaten by goats was preferable to feeding a herd of starved deer.

[ This is a photo from The Grand Canyon Deer Farm website, and it is a BLATANT LIE. They probably shot this deer with a stun gun before this picture was taken. The site states, “At the Deer Farm you don’t just look at the deer, you walk among them, you touch them, you let them eat right from your hand.” Yeah, and you let them MAUL YOU.]

Well, anyway, I always thought that was a good child-versus-animal story until I heard my co-work’s safari tale.

Apparently, the 4 year olds were completely horrified by the safari as a whole. But the panic came to a raging head when a giraffe stuck its head inside the bus.

As a small child, I believe that having an animal with a tongue about the length of my body take food right out of my hands would be horrible enough in and of itself. But the inevitable trauma does not stop there.

No, in fact, it was near the end of the tour, and the bus driver was blatantly unaware that the giraffe that had its whole fucking head inside the vehicle. He probably mistook the stunned silence of children close to terrified tears as the silence that comes with contentment. But if he were smart, he’d know that 4 year olds are never quiet!

So he stepped on the gas.

This was the point in the narrative where I was all like screaming, NO HE DIDN’T DECAPITATE A GIRAFFE IN FRONT OF A BUS FULL OF 4 YEAR OLDS!!

Well, relax. Release that breath you’ve been holding. He didn’t.

Luckily, my office mate is a kick ass chaperone, and she started yelling to the driver to stop chopping off the head of the giraffe with the bus window. Or something shorter and more urgent sounding. Apparently the giraffe uttered a few disgruntled choking sounds (it was behind a gate and couldn’t follow the bus – yes, that’s right, it totally would have been beheaded. As in, its fifty pound noggin would have totally fallen on some kid and knocked them unconscious. Can you imagine being the kid who got knocked out by a bloody giraffe head?! I’m pretty sure that shit stays with you the rest of your sad, animal-hating life) but no permanent damage was done to the giraffe (I don’t know about the children).

So, kudos to my kick butt VISTA sister who saved a bus full of children from severe emotional distress, their parents from paying thousands of dollars in therapy bills to repair the damage, the bus driver from losing his job, and the giraffe from losing its head. Because a giraffe without a head would be super awkward looking.

You’re an American hero.

This dramatic retelling is completely my work and I take full responsibly for any errors or gross exaggerations.

Monday, March 29, 2010

My Non-Imaginary Blog Readers, a Skulk of FrankenFish, and a Trip into My Torrid Past

The other day, I happened to log on to my old Gmail account and discover that my roommate from my freshman year of college had sent me a happy graduation email back in June. This was pretty exciting news, because said roommate is totally awesome (I mean, seriously, no one else emails me about their little sister’s adventures as a knife salesman in Wisconsin, or writes about their life in the format of the character descriptions at the beginning of a stage play).

I had thought I no longer had her contact information, so the existence of this fairly recent email was pretty fucking sweet. I promptly responded from my current email to see what was up.

Funnily enough, what was up was that my ex roomie has been reading this ridiculous blog!

Brittany! My stalkee!

I have been up to very little. I moved back home late last year and have been looking for a job/applying to grad school/doing various volunteer things since then. It is a lovely calm little life but one that is completely unproductive. Besides the obvious financial problems of unemployment, I find that I fill the hours with stuff to do and completely forget that I am now a social problem. Until, of course, I am reminded.

In any case, you should know that I have been stalking you. I think you may have linked to your twitter account on facebook at some point. Twitter led me to a blog, and later to your new blog. Which I have to say is quite lovely. But, I’ve been feeling creepy reading it, like a paparazzo in a tree. So I’m glad to have your new e-mail so I can come out of the closet and say: Hello to Mr. Frankenfish!

The Ex Roommate

P.S. It occurs to me that Mr. Frankenfish must have a plural. School of fish, sloth of bears, a clowder of cats. I can’t imagine a school of Frankenfish, so might I suggest, were Mr. Frankenfish ever to find a mate, that they be called a Skulk of Frankenfish? It is used for foxes currently.

Well, I must say, a Skulk of FrankenFish sounds absolutely wonderful. Which means I’ll have to acquire more taxidermy. (The one small problem is that Sir FrankenFish came out in my last post as a lover of lobsters. What do you call a half lobster, half FrankenFish? And what do you call a group of lobsters and FrankenFish? A skulk of FrankenLobsters?)

The other awesome thing about rediscovering was ex roomie’s email was that I got to re-read my ludicrous responses to her emails.

Wow, things have really changed over the past few years.

Below is my response to the ex roomie’s life as told by stage play character descriptions. This was at a time when I though having multiple boyfriends was a good idea (aka, March of 2008).

Main Character - Me: Antisocial, angry student who desperately wants an adventure. This desire prompts her to do very odd things, like travel to Reno, Nevada and Texas and Berkeley and Boston for a few days at a time, or spend her weekends as a drunk groupie on the floor of a dumpy recording studio with an indie band, or plan her post-graduation move to Seoul, Korea. MC has men issues - she doesn’t want a boyfriend, so instead she has a pack of crazy boys/men that she leads on for ages and has constant contact with via text message. She has yet to make good friends with other students.

MC’s “Boyfriend” #1 - The Graphic Designer: Totally emo, artsy 28 year old that MC worked with over the summer. He is constantly depressed about life, and wants to succeed as a graphic designer, so he moved to New York. Despite the distance, this emo graphic designer still manages to have contact with the MC every day - through emails, text messages, and phone calls. He gets drunk on weekends and calls or texts the MC with very raunchy messages. MC has adapted very quickly and might have a possible career in writing very smutty romance novels (the type with Fabio on the cover) because of all the experience she is gaining by composing sexy text messages.

MC’s “Boyfriend” #2 - The Alum: When MC’s mother told her to date a boy from her college, she did not mean an alum from the class of ‘99! Somehow, MC ended up on spontaneous date with the Alum, who is a 29 year old lawyer with a BMW. MC hates all that the Alum stands for, but finds he is a very nice person. Now she just needs to get him to stop acting like her sugga daddy and to stop saying things like “Let’s go to New York…Right now!” and “Yeah, I decided to take the MacBook to my office, and buy a MacBook Pro for my townhouse.” If the MC had any desire to be a trophy wife, she’d be on the right path with this guy. She does wonder from time to time how he manages to afford everything, since he is almost never at work and always asking her to skip class and hang out with him.

MC’s Best Guy Friend: MC and her guy friend used to always hang out - until the Guy Friend got a girlfriend! MC doesn’t mind, except that Guy Friend is now acting like a retard. Guy Friend’s new lady love has decided to go to grad school in Georgia - and now Guy Friend, who has only know this girl for 3 months, is determined to follow her. MC would explain to him that moving across the country for a girl you barely know is probably a bad idea, but she never sees Guy Friend anymore because he is too busy being depressed and plotting his move to the South.

MC’s Crazy Ex: You probably remember [Soldier Boy] - MC’s crazy (now ex) boyfriend. [Soldier Boy] put MC through much pain and suffering, until one day, MC had simply had enough. Since the break, [Soldier Boy] has managed to drop out of college and enlist in the military. MC now finds his antics funny, and hangs out with him from time to time so she can laugh later about his stupidity. Most recently, [Soldier Boy] was upset that his new girlfriend doesn’t have a car, wastes his money, is fat, and is constantly high. MC thought this sounded very familiar - and then realized that [Soldier Boy] was dating a female version of himself. Unfortunately, he did not see the irony and thought the MC was very rude for mentioning it.

MC’s Roommates, aka Turtles: Kung Pao and Bok Choy are MC’s tiny green roommates. The Turtles are very badly behaved. They pretend to be starving to death to inspire sympathy when they have, in fact, eaten a truck load of turtle pellets. They can often be seen chewing on inedible items in their tank (suction cups, water heaters, filter tubes) or trying to escape while the MC is cleaning their habitat (Kung Pao did a swan dive into the trash can last week). Their goal in life is to make outsiders think that the MC mistreats them - even though they get fatter and larger everyday.


Oh. Wow.

Well, on a side note, Best Guy Friend (who is no longer, since I basically haven’t seen him in years) seems to be doing very well with his lady love. And Soldier Boy has not be blown up in Afghanistan yet. Which is a good indication that I should stop being so cynical. Sorry guys. You know I think you are both wonderful.

To The Graphic Designer, okay, you did text me again. On Friday. What can I do to help you meet some hot New York girls? Because every time I respond to your texts, you launch into a dirty, erotic tangent that I somehow wasn’t expecting. You’re insatiable. In a bad way. And all those pictures you send me fit perfectly and hilariously into the dick picture rules in this fabulous article. Which makes you kind of ridiculous. I mean, I think you’re a nice guy. I just think you need to stop drinking and texting at the same time.

Oh, The Alum. I can honestly say I don’t wonder at all where you are. Every day when I wake up, I give thanks for having the presence of mind to not engage in BDSM activities with you. That is all.

And me? Well, I ended up with the lead singer of that indie band I mentioned. Yes, The Boyfriend. And I’m still an angry, antisocial nitwit. But I’ve improved drastically. I can honestly say I like a lot more people now. Plus I get out more. And I hear I’m a really fun drunk.

Oh, and my turtles are now the size of dinner plates.

So thanks ex roomie! I’ve enjoyed this little trip down memory lane. And I’m really excited about my possible future skulk of FrankenFish!


Friday, March 26, 2010

Chatroulette, A Dead Fish, and A Lot of Sweaty Dick (Slightly NSFW Because I Was Too Lazy to Censor My Screenshots)

The only entertainment the roomies and I can really afford is the free kind, so any internet-based phenomenon is fair game on a Saturday night, especially if the experience can be enhanced by alcohol consumption (because we’re more likely to spend our hard-earned money on booze than food).

So, a few weeks ago, I was sitting at work reading Zoomdoggle (as usual) and happened to see a post about a website called Chatroulette.

Okay, 17-year-old Russian creator of Chatroulette. You win. Because it is the Best. Website. Ever. And I’m basically suicidal over it, because somehow I didn’t think of it first. And it KILLS ME.

The only thing keeping me from offing myself over my failings as an internet entrepreneur (preferably in a dramatic manner involving chainsaws and cottage cheese) is the sheer amount of fun I’m having on Chatroulette. Like, really. And if you don’t know what Chatroulette is, I’m mentally slapping you right now for living under a rock that isn’t Wi-Fi equipped. Because good lord, you are missing out!

Basically, you get onto Chatroulette, it connects with your webcam, and then you talk to other people on their webcams. If you don’t like what you see, you just click the “Next” button and move on to another webcam.

But there are some things you should know before you get started.

First, half the people on Chatroulette are sitting around like assholes waiting to be entertained. Then a whole fuckload of dudes are poised in front of their PCs with their cocks hanging out, furiously masturbating (to what, I wonder? The disgusted look on people’s faces? My smiling countenance as I yell, “You’re SO TINY!” into the microphone before I press “next”?). And then, there is the small but awesome percentage of people who are on Chatroulette to do something creative. You really want to be in the last group – your time on Chatroulette will be much more gratifying!

(Also, I think Chatroulette is much more rewarding a group setting. You usually whisk right by the sad dudes sitting alone in their rooms. But I always give groups of people the benefit of the doubt.)

Well, I wasn’t about to sit around all night and wave to naked guys. Instead, I pulled Sir Fitzwilliam FrankenFish down from his perch and commenced unusual online activities!

The roomies and I set YouTube to play the Jaws theme song, and started hitting next. The following is a description of what a typical viewer experienced.

The Setting: The empty living room of an apartment.

The Sounds: The Jaws theme song growing louder.

The Story: A toothy fish head emerges from the lower corner of the screen. It “swims” across the shot, and then towards the webcam…

Well, our antics were astoundingly well received. As in, people were fucking laughing their asses off. As well as offering alcohol to my taxidermied piranha, pretending to fish for it, screaming, pulling out available stuffed animals for comparison, etc.

But you can see for yourself. Because we fucking documented that shit!

I think the most important characteristic of our little Chatroulette spiel is that no one, in the fucking universe, expects to see a hideous dead fish upon pressing the “Next” button. Yes, you see masks. And cocks. And signs saying “Show us your titties”. But not tacky taxidermy.

[First, there were other pranksters.]

[Then there was cock. And cock. And more cock. So I’m only including one cock picture.]

[And space aliens.]

[And dumb bitches at slumber parties. Umm, is the chick with the soda can curlers trying to be Lady Gaga’s uglier little sister from the Telephone video? Because we all know how I feel about that.]

[And terrified dudes.]

[Some people even got so excited that they grabbed the nearest stuffed animal and joined in.]

[Some people wanted to fight Sir FrankenFish. But lost because they’re lame.]

[And some people inspired Sir FrankenFish to come out and talk about his sexuality. You see, he is attracted to lobsters. But the other creatures in the river in South America where he came from aren’t very accepting of his preferences.]

When the roomies and I first began, we naively set the goal of getting a screenshot of Sir FrankenFish with a dick. Well, that goal was met. Many, many times.

We need a new goal.

As a matter of fact, I think this could make an excellent drinking game – take a swig every time you see a cock!



I’m not sure I want alcohol poisoning.

P.S. This post is dedicated to Turco for the following Facebook comment:

P.S.S. Baby Grey is a very slutty feline that lives with Turco and The Boyfriend.

P.S.S.S I also realize he was refering to taking pictures, not alcoholic shots. But I have booze on the mind. As I do. Everyday.

P.S.S.S.S Plus cats eat fish. Although I’m fairly certain piranhas would be able to eat a cat. But a fishy alcoholic drink would be appealing to a cat, right?

P.S.S.S.S.S Yes. I’m shutting up now.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Lock Up Your Axolotls, Korea


The Boyfriend: What's that, the creature you like?

Me: YESSSSSSS! I'm goooonnna see an axolooootl! yay!

The Boyfriend: Babe, you can't take it home with us, okay?

Me: But...but...I've already started planning my international heist!!

Monday, March 22, 2010

Why I Think My Boyfriend Might Have Brought About the Apocalypse (And How it was Sort of My Fault). My Apologies.

About every six months I start getting an itch – an itch that can only be scratched with expensive airline tickets and a destination at least 14 hours away from Los Angeles via 747.

It’s a pricy addiction. But I’ve never regretted a single penny I’ve spent going to Asia.

Why Asia? I’m not sure. It might be the BA in Asian Studies. Or my first real romance – which started during a night of debauchery in Shanghai, China, and ended two and a half tumultuous years later when I rediscovered my spine on a trip to Korea. Or maybe it was the two months I spent being dirty and sweaty as hell, traversing East Asia and contracting tuberculosis.

I think everyone has a part of the world they adore. (Mine’s pretty obvious. Check my passport – China, Korea, Thailand, Laos, Vietnam, Cambodia, Myanmar…and, randomly, Costa Rica – which was completely amazing, but didn’t give me quite the same high.)

So now, here I am again, negotiating with my boss for time off to travel to Korea. “The Motherland” – a joke between the students I attended the Korean Studies Workshop at Korea University with. So yeah baby, Britt’s going back to the Motherland – with a surprising travel companion!

If you know The Boyfriend, you know that he doesn’t leave Southern California unless you threaten his life. And even then, it’s more likely you’d just have to kill him. Just last week, he was giving me some speech about how his home was his “empire” and he would rather rule his empire than go anywhere, because he has plenty of fun at home. Even funnier is his perception of travel – I was worried about being late for a flight to Sacramento, and he responded with, “Don’t worry, you can just catch the next one.” Umm, wow. That is SO NOT HOW IT WORKS.

Which is why I didn’t even bother to invite him on my Korea expedition.

But yesterday, The Boyfriend starts asking me about my trip. And so I fill him in on the dates and details – and then he asks, “Will you miss me?” which I respond to with my usual lack of tack: “Well, yeah, but I’ve got to get used to that sort of thing, since you’re never going to go anywhere!”

I mean, I bug him all the time about taking a trip. Like, homeboy, we’ve been together for two years now – are we ever going to go somewhere?!! to which he always responds, yeah, sure…someday, meaning hell no, crazy bitch, I’m staying right here! I’d pretty much decided that for the remainder of our relationship, I was going to travel the world as I saw fit, while he sat at home. I mean, I’d bring him postcards. And give him a bad time. But I’d know he was content ruling his empire and I was having a fan-fucking-tastic time despite his unwillingness to experience the world with me.

Then, he says, “What if I went?”

Okay, cut me some slack people. I can’t even convince this boy to go to Las Vegas for the weekend. I started laughing. “Well, that’s cute,” I said. “No really,” he says back. “Well, that would be awesome, but it’s not happening.”

At this point, it is dawning on him that I am not taking him seriously. AT ALL.

“No, really Brittany! I want to go!”

You guys, it’s the fucking apocalypse. I would have bet that anything would have happened before The Boyfriend left the continent. Flying pigs, the complete domestication of zebras, the emergence of Liechtenstein as a world power – ANYTHING.

Which is why I still didn’t believe him.

“Really? Because we’re buying the tickets tomorrow.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.”

OHMAGAWD – what did I miss? Has he contracted a terminal illness? And he sees this as his last chance to experience the world? Did he fall down and hit his head and knock something loose? Should I take him to a hospital for CAT scans?

I’m trying to accept it, but I’m still in denial.

But don’t think for second he’s made a complete turn around. I wondered aloud how he’d do on the flight, to which he responded, “Oh damn! I forgot about that part!”

OH. NOOOOOOES. The Boyfriend thought we were going to teleport to Korea! I’m going to have to drug him! Not to mention, I have no idea how I’m ever going to get him to the airport on time! (For those of you not familiar with The Boyfriend, he cannot be on time to ANYTHING. He is late to his own parties and he can’t seem to eat lunch before 3 in the afternoon.)

This could be an unprecedented travel disaster.

This could also be THE MOST AMAZING TRIP OF ALL TIME. Mostly because I am going to be witness to THE MOST EXTREME CASE OF CULTURE SHOCK OF ALL TIME.


(Just to be clear, The Boyfriend has been out of the United States. He’s been to Mexico – which basically doesn’t count because it’s next to California, and he’s been to Italy. Well, as he describes it, he was “forced” to go to Italy. But had a “good time” once he got there. What kind of crazy person doesn’t want to go to Italy?! Oh. Yeah. I forgot who I was dating for a second.)

But, basically, I still don’t understand what just happened.

He told me he “owed me a trip.” First of all, nobody owes anybody a two week long trip to Asia. Secondly, umm, he’s never agreed to owing me anything. Anything. I am soooo confused.

But I am also extremely excited!! GAH!!!*

Oh god, is he going to survive this?

What if he loses his passport?

Or gets lost?

No, no…it’s going to be fantastic. It is. I swear.

We’re going to Korea!!!!

*But, please, let me know if you have any information about the impending apocalypse and/or the state of The Boyfriend’s brain. It is important that I be notified.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

If You Don’t Want to Look Like An Asshole, Alert the Authorities When You See What Might Be a Dead Body on the Freeway

In elementary school, adults were all like “Don’t call 911 unless it is an EMERGENCY!” and they made the consequences of calling during a non-emergency seem extremely dire. Basically to the point where I find myself questioning the validity of seemingly emergency situations to this day.

While I know useless 911 calls are not punishable by death (proved, quite poignantly, by an ex’s young cousin from the Philippines, who tried to order pizza but instead contacted the authorities – apparently the phone number for the local pizza joint in Manila starts with 9-1-1), but I still run through about 12 million scenarios before picking up the phone to call for help. Scenarios like, I was trained in infant CPR! Okay, it was like 12 years ago – and I’ve only ever done it on a plastic baby doll, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Oh wait; or I’m sure someone’s already called this shit in; or how allergic to peanuts is this guy, really?

Needless to say, 911 operators don’t hear from me a lot. Well, twice, actually – until yesterday.

My first ever 911 call was not in the least bit funny or entertaining – in fact, it was pretty damn traumatizing – so I’ll just omit that whole story.

My second was absolutely fantastic – and I daresay I wish I had the whole thing on video, because there is nothing quite like yelling “I’M GOING TO CALL THE COPS!” at a tiny Japanese man, who is clinging to the hood of his wife’s Prius, and screaming back: “SHE’S LEAVING ME FOR ANOTHER MAN!” in a thick accent.

(I have to admit, I handled this quiet nicely. The security guard even thanked me – he had lost his phone or something – and the 911 operator was completely riveted by my compelling description. Plus I saved said Japanese dude’s life. Though, sadly, probably not his marriage.)

My third 911 call was a complete disaster, however. Total and complete FAIL.

Yesterday afternoon, my roommate and I decided that the perfect after work snack was a big cup of frozen yogurt from Yogurtland in Long Beach. And, upon finishing our yogurt, we decided that the perfect dessert was an order of garlic French fries from La Creperie. (How we both aren’t 300 pounds is anyone’s guess.)

While on our way back home, I discovered that my roommate is even worse off when it comes to deciphering whether a situation merits a 911 call. Yes. WORSE.

To be fair, I’m pretty sure she thought I was just insane.

I had just gotten onto the 47 freeway towards San Pedro, when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man splayed out on his back – sans car, companions, or motorcycle – in the right shoulder. I scream.

My roommate screams back, because I’ve startled her.


You scared me! she says.


Sadly, this conversation denigrated into the least helpful conversation on the planet. It wasn’t until later that I realized my roommate had not even seen the man on the side of the freeway, and basically thought I was fucking bonkers – which, if I had known that, what ensued might have made a tad bit more sense.

Roommate: Maybe he’s homeless.

Me: Why does that make a difference?! Homeless men don’t lie on the freeway!

Roommate: Well, maybe he’s a serial killer. Or a pedophile! Yeah, he was a bus driving pedophile, and the children mutinied, and threw him off the bus – and now they’ve escaped. And if you save him, YOU’RE SAVING A PEDOPHILE AND PUTTING CHILDREN IN DANGER!

Okay, so now I have gone bonkers, because I am laughing hysterically at the absurdity of this situation. I mean, there is a guy SPRAWLED OUT ON THE FREEWAY. And he might very well be dead, and it’s PROBABLY ALL MY FAULT – but my roommate is trying to convince me that it’s no big thing because the only reason he would be on the freeway is because he’s either a bum or a child rapist.

(The sad part is, we both work at a homeless shelter. You’d think we’d be slightly more compassionate towards possibly dead bums.)

Anywho, my cell phone is in the back seat, and my roommate isn’t about to listen to me and call 911 because she thinks I’m a complete nut job. So we get home, and I’m all like, shit! I need to call 911! And she’s all like, seriously? And I’m all like, FUCK THERE WAS A FUCKING BODY ON THE FREEWAY!

And then she says, Umm, oh. I didn’t even see it.

GAHHHH, so then I call 911 and try to explain to the operator that there is a man, lying on his back – yes, a man, no car – on the side of the 47 freeway. And the bitch starts asking me for the specifics! Like, where? Near an exit? Am I sure it was the 47 freeway? Was he on the Vincent Thomas Bridge? No? Well, the Vincent Thomas Bridge is the 47 freeway…

So, she basically made me feel like a total ‘tard, but as it turns out, I was right, and the 47 freeway does extend to Long Beach.

So the operator finally gets fed up with my idiocy, and connects me to the local fire department. I describe the scenario again, only to be asked how long ago the sighting took place.

Well, okay, I didn’t want to sound like a bad person – so I frantically said, five minutes ago! and she said, Well, we’re with a man on the side of the freeway now – but we got there eleven minutes ago.

Me: Oh! That must be him!

Firewoman: But you said five minutes ago. If this is a separate emergency situation…

DAMMIT! The bitch totally had me figured out. I had seen said sprawled freeway body fifteen minutes before, not five minutes before. And lord knows, this chick wasn’t so retarded that she thought there was a sudden and inexplicable sprawled-out-possibly-dead-body epidemic on the 47 freeway!


Me: Oh, no, I’m sure that must be him.

Firewoman: Well, thank you for calling it in. That’s a good thing you did.

Bitch, don’t try to rub it in – I KNOW I FAILED THE DECENT HUMAN BEING TEST. I waited 15 minutes to call in a man lying, on his back, in a high traffic zone. And I laughed at him!

So there. There it is. Your proof that I am the BIGGEST ASSHOLE EVER AND YOU SHOULD NOT TRUST ME WITH YOUR LIFE.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Life is Like a Fairy Tale. Well, Those Written Prior to the 19th Century, Because They Had All the Sex and Murdering and Cannibalism and Satanic Theme

I lead a charmed life in a magical little port town in California. And when I say charmed, I mean I’m terribly poor and constantly exhausted – because I spend 40 hours a week inside an office that used to be a closet, and get paid half of minimum wage because I’m supposedly contributing to the well-being of the United States of America (you’re welcome, people). And when I say magical port town, I mean the place where all the crazies end up. But we like to call that character.

I can’t lie; my life is pretty bad ass. And that’s because I’m teaching myself to appreciate the weird little intricacies of existence that tend to get ignored.

Like the antics of the mentally disturbed.

Said port town – San Pedro (pronounced “Peee-dro”) – is a Mecca for the not-quite-right-in-the-head crowd. That sort of thing tends to happen when you build a mental health facility next to the post office, and you let the patients check themselves out whenever they please.

The result? Full grown men swathed in sheets, declaring war on empty construction sites. Why? Well, the dude is Caesar, obviously. And he’s about to conquer some bitches.

Oh, you think that’s weird? Well the town’s unofficial logo is a three-eyed fish.

I adore it. Whenever I walk to work, I see all sorts of things that make me smile. For instance, last week, I watched a man ride down Centre Street – in a non-electric, standard issue wheelchair. He was leaning back, enjoying the breeze, and rolling right along in the fast lane. Next to cars. This was immediately followed up by a trip to hole-in-the-wall café for ice cream, which was interrupted by a homeless man yelling gibberish to get a meal. And, because this is San Pedro, the manager brought him a chicken panini and an iced tea. Then he turned to my roommate and started spewing random phrases in Tagalog. Say what?!

But one of the high lights of San Pedro is the collection of wacky shops that pop up in downtown. The rent must be freaking cheap as shit, because you would not believe some of the stuff you can find there. My new personal favorite? The Nautical Shop – which is apparently full of British treasures!

This store is basically what would happen if you took everything out of your garage and dumped it in a storefront. In no particular order.

I’m talking tea cups, old Nancy Drew hardbacks, a couple of Esquire magazines, a Titanic poster…oh, did I forget to mention the rotting fireplace façade?

Has the shop owner sold anything??!! EVER??

Honestly, my grandmother’s storage unit has more order to it than this store. My other problem is that “British Treasures” is a serious overstatement. A teacup is not automatically British. Nor is a model sailing vessel a treasure, per se. If there were some doubloons involved, I might be more open to a broad definition of the word “treasure”.

But there aren’t any.

The fact that this shop exists is pretty freaking awesome and magical, though. And so are The Boyfriend’s new pet goats.

Yes, drastic change of subject. But yet another thing that makes my long, crappy days better.

So, the boyfriend acquired an old, smelly, gimpy goat named Surly, who always looked really sad. He would basically sit around on his little gimpy goat butt and stare at me (unless I was in possession of an apple) and I suggested to The Boyfriend that said goat needed a buddy.

Well, Surly now has a new friend! His new friend is a year old, super intelligent, and the ultimate escape artist – and he unfortunately taught Surly a few new tricks. Surly never made noise or left the stable before he got his new friend; now he baaaaaaaaaaas all over the place and takes treks around the yard. This was all super adorable until 5:30 in the morning, when The Boyfriend and I awakened to clomp, clomp, clomp, BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! and discovered that Surly and his new buddy were incredibly determined to sleep on the deck right outside The Boyfriend’s bedroom. The Boyfriend led his goats back down to the stable, only to be re-awakened at 6:30 by a rousting clomp, clomp, clomp, BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA! at which point he gave up and stayed in bed.

Well, by the time I got up for work at 7:30, this was the scene outside The Boyfriend’s bedroom doors:

Okay people. There is nothing more magical than waking up to sleepy goats outside your window. It’s like I was in the country or some shit.

Speaking of shit, the one giant non-magical part of this rural scene was the insane amount of goat poop that was scattered across the deck and yard.

Well, I guess shit happens.

So, what sort of random stuff prevented you from burning down your office building this week?

Monday, March 15, 2010

Why You Shouldn't Ask For My Phone Number When I'm Inebriated

Topher: Hahahaha retard you gave this girl Courtney my number instead of yours.

Me:Whaaaaaaaat????? Oh shit!

Topher:Yeah this girl is asking me all these questions and I'm thinking 'I hope you're not trying to get info to kill me'....And she says 'I don't understand. My friend Britt gave me this number' and then it clicked so I pretended like I was psychic.

Me:HAHAHA, omg! Did you tell her you were my brother?

Topher:Only after I asked her if her friend lived in San Pedro, was 5'2", had blonde hair and blue eyes, and was always around a guy named Mykel.



Friday, March 12, 2010

If I Were Lady Gaga, There Would Have Been Waffle Ponies and Syrup-Related Midget Death

Okay, so yes, I’m an admirer of Lady Gaga and Beyoncé. There is a very large part of my being that wishes that I, too, could make that much money shaking my ass and belting cheesy pop – all while wearing a metallic animal print leotard. And basically sharing my glitter-dusted lady parts with the world.

But, sadly, my legs aren’t long enough. And I can’t sing for shit. But whatever.

Anywho, not everything dreamed up by the fabulous transvestite that is Lady Gaga can rock my world. Apparently. Because did anybody watch the “Telephone” video?! It seems everyone did, and according to Twitter they loved it. I think I may have missed something.

Now, okay, I keep reading these comments like “That was so original!” and “This is going to be the next Thriller!” (yes, those are real comments) but did anybody notice that Gaga and Honey B basically had a huge sequined orgy, and in the heat of the sparkly, hot, fabulous climax they FORGOT WHAT THEIR SONG WAS ABOUT??

So to the dummy who thinks “Telephone” is the next “Thriller”, well, at least Michael Jackson wrote a song about something evil lurking in the dark before he danced like a zombie. Gaga and Beyoncé wrote a song about dancing in a club and getting a bunch of annoying phone calls, but they threw all that mundane shit to the wind so they could wear bikinis in prison, burn their eyes with cigarette-covered glasses, make sandwiches, mass murder a bunch of unfortunate diners, and ride around in a bright yellow truck with “Pussy Wagon” painted across the back. Sorry, what?!

(If you haven’t watched this 9 minute and 31 second travesty, stop reading. Go directly to YouTube.)

See, here’s my problem. Yeah, the video is original – so fucking original it doesn’t make any goddamn sense, yo! I mean, I could be original too. Especially if someone gave me a multi-million dollar budget and told me that I didn’t have to relate my cinematic masterpiece back to the song it was suppose to be accompanying. Man, if it were me, I’d dress a bunch of miniature ponies up in waffle-suits, cover them in purple sequins, and let midgets simulate sex in pools of Aunt Jemima Butter Rich Syrup around them (despite the high probability that they’d be sucked down into the sticky mess and drown) while I did the Irish jig on a rotating platform in the center while wearing only a live python. BUT THAT’S WHY NO ONE WILL GIVE ME MILLIONS OF DOLLARS AND A FILM CREW.

Another thing. Beyoncé cannot act to save an orphanage chalk-full of starving, big-eyed, adorable unloved children. I mean, god she’s hot. And she can sing like crazy. But the second “You’ve been a very, very bad girl, Gaga” came out of that perfect mouth of hers, I nearly spontaneously hemorrhaged and died a bloody death. Oh, Beyoncé. Couldn’t they have taken some of the money from all that product placement (Polaroid, Virgin Mobile, Wonderbread, Diet Coke, Miracle Whip- did I miss any?) and hired you an acting coach? No? Maybe they could have hired an Oscar-nominated actress of some sorts to stand in for you. That would have given this short film some cred. And it might have eased my cringing.

And how original is this shit storm anyway? As I recall, Gaga already poisoned her lover in the video for “Paparazzi” – and wait, did Beyoncé just put on those freaky frames Gaga wore to poison her lover? Are these bitches already referencing their previous works? Okay, no, I’m sorry – you chicas are so not there yet.

I mean, it wasn’t all bad. I chuckled a bit when Lady Gaga was forcefully stripped by some dikey police chicks, who muttered “I told you she didn’t have a dick” – just as Gaga threw her mostly bare (albeit censored) vag up against the bars for all us doubters to see. Clever.

But really, this overly funded tribute to sandwich making (did I forget to mention that part?) and sequined unitards is a giant hot mess. I was wowed by “Bad Romance” – but then again, “Bad Romance” didn’t reference any specific situations for her to muck up. Gaga could be as freaking crazy as she wanted, because no one has any pre-conceived notions about what “I want your leather studded kiss in the sand” looks like. I mean, what the fuck is a “leather studded kiss”?! It sounds painful!

So, here’s my (not very expert) advice: Next time, you bitches need to write a song about mayonnaise, murder, and diva prison if you’re going to pull shenanigans like these. I have no idea what the fuck that song would sound like, but it might be awesome. Or I might just not know what I’m talking about.

“Telephone” should have been a sexy space age club video. Maybe they could have thrown some murdering and cigarette sunglasses in. But mostly a club/dance video.

Lady Gaga, next time, just hire me. I’m good people – plus I could use some cash. I’ll even wear a leotard.

I still love you, you freak bitch.

Tuesday, March 9, 2010

Why Part of Alaska Should Cede from the Union for the Betterment of the State as a Whole, and What that Has to Do With My Dead Fish

There wasn’t exactly a huge outpouring of ideas from readers when it came to naming my hideous dead piranha, but that’s not exactly surprising because no one reads this crap. Luckily, some creative types came up with Hannibal and Chainsaw – which are pretty awesome names – but my fickle heart was already set on something.


Ah, FrankenFish. The perfect name for my dead and scaly associate. I have given my eBay-bought taxidermy a whole new life after death – so I think the name is only fitting.

Except that it’s already taken.

Yes – someone else came up with FrankenFish first! And I thought I was being so witty! But the original FrankenFish has already starred in a motion picture. And is therefore, automatically, more popular than my preserved little friend. Barely.

You see, I Wikipedia-d that shit (yes, Wikipedia can be a verb. But, as I tried to explain to a little old lady yesterday, Amazon can not. You cannot Amazon something. It simply is not of Google or Wikipedia status) and found a film from 2004 called Frankenfish. Apparently, Frankenfish is like the worst movie ever, because Wikipedia had this to say about the plot summary:

Yes, Wikipedia is telling you that this plot summary is simply too fucking long and detailed. They don’t want this information, because nobody freaking cares. In fact, the jack asses that spent an hour composing this Wikipedia entry have completely wasted their time and effort, according to Wikipedia. Because Frankenfish is so lame, it only merits a sentence! A SENTENCE!

Wikipedia thinks you can IMPROVE this article by REMOVING details. Have you ever seen anything like this before?! I legitimately feel sympathy for Mark Dippe, because I bet no studio ever financed a film directed by him ever again. In fact, his Wikipedia bio is one line long. It says he is from Alaska. And now I legitimately feel sympathy for Alaska. Because it is the birthplace of a director who makes films that even THE FUCKING INTERNET doesn’t care about.

The horror.

Even more horrific is the film’s theme song, which was apparently retarded enough to merit a mention:

“Wata”? Really?

Anyway, because Frankenfish the movie has made such horrible use of a perfectly good fish name, I hereby claim it as my own, with the hope I can do it justice.

World, meet Sir Fitzwilliam FrankenFish! (The Sir and Fitzwilliam add some sexiness and class, don’t you agree?)

P.S. According to IMDb, Mark Dippe’s career is in a bit of a tail spin. He’s directed some straight to DVD cartoons about Garfield the lasagna-eating cat, a film called Gigi that doesn’t even have a plot summary, and – get this – his next project is The Legend of Spyro (yes, about that purple dragon from the Sony game series).

Alaska, if I were you, I’d cede the territory that bitch was born in, stat. Give it a flag, a king, and call it Lame Land. Problem solved. Our buddy Mark isn’t from Alaska anymore.

All hail Lame Land, home of mutant fish film directors and the arbitrary lost caribou.

Tuesday, March 2, 2010

Christopher Walken, a Boat, and the Whale Bone Stone

The craziest part of death is trying to figure out who the hell gets all the stuff the deceased left behind.

This sort of thing has always creeped me out something fierce. When my grandmother’s sister passed away a few years old, I refused to take any of her jewelry because rifling through a dead person’s stuff (especially a person I didn’t know all that well) seemed pretty jacked up. And disrespectful. But in this case, I’d known my grandmother my whole life, and hypothetically her stuff would have more meaning to me.

Well, it did - in ways I never could have fathomed. (Cue dramatic music.)

Firstly, my grandmother had pretty awesome taste in jewelry. Secondly, she kept everything. And I mean everything. Someone please tell me what you’re supposed to do with the single earring of a famous deceased movie actress. Can I auction that shit off?

If you’re curious, the actress was Natalie Wood – yes, the chick that pranced around singing “I Feel Pretty” in West Side Story and drowned after falling off a boat in 1981. A boat on which Christopher Walken was a passenger. (Remind me never to get on a boat with Christopher Walken. He obviously sucks balls at saving drowning people.)

Anyway, my grandfather bought Natalie Wood’s 1967 Mercedes convertible way back in the day (before she drunkenly drowned while Christopher Walken was busy snorting coke off the yacht hatch) as a gift to my grandmother, who found the earring in the glove box. The car sat in her garage for many years after she stopped driving, and was re-gifted to several female family members until it became my first car, much to my dismay. If you’re thinking who the fuck would give a 16 year old such a valuable car, don’t worry, I was too. (Think about the pressure you felt to not destroy a vehicle when you first started driving. Now times that by a million, ‘cause the car you’re driving was owned by a movie star and should certainly be in a collection somewhere – in fact, The Peterson Automotive Museum had offered to put it in an exhibit. Oh yeah, it was basically impossible to start, and the radio only picked up the boats in the harbor. And there was no power steering.)

Really, it’s a miracle I’m typing this right now. I could have crashed that fucker and been immediately chopped into a thousand tiny pieces by my relatives. I really think my father was trying to punish me by deeming me keeper of my insanely old grandmother’s dearest, and most expensive possession. Eventually it was just too much and I refused to drive it (this was after I backed it into a friend’s flower bed and got stuck for a panic-ridden moment), so my dad got pissed off at me, sold it to a collector, pocketed the cash, and told me that if I didn’t want that car, I couldn’t have any car.

But I digress.

Anyway, besides the earring of the most unfortunate starlet Natalie Wood, my grandmother also kept a bag of rocks.

And the other day, there was a magical moment in which my aunt pulls a leather satchel out of my grandmother’s box of belongings, opens it, and nearly drops it in confusion when I exclaim, “OH MA GAWD, I REMEMBER THAT ROCK!

“Wait, you REMEMBER that rock?

Okay, so this whole situation is living proof that very weird things influence us as children, and we carry them with us our whole lives. While other things go completely over our heads (i.e. portraits of mysterious “friends of the family” who turn out to be your half siblings; the purchase of multiple fax machines and toasters, for the purpose of furnishing two households after a divorce, but you think your dad must just really like toast and paper with perforated edges.)

So, yes, I remember that specific rock, ‘cause bitch, it totally looks like the center of a whale vertebra! (Or, at least, I was convinced of that when I was, like, five. YES, I KNOW, I’M NOT GOING TO PRETEND THAT I WASN’T A DERANGED CHILD WHO INEXPLICABLY KNEW WHAT WHALE VERTEBRAE LOOKED LIKE.)

So, anyway, in addition to the many lockets and metal Norwegian pendants I acquired, I also got myself a muther fucking bag of pebbles. To add to the other leather satchel full of geodes my grandmother gave to me many years ago.

Grandma, if you’re out there somewhere, I hope you know that every time I look at my bad ass whale veterbra-shaped piece of lime stone, I’m thinking of you. It’s only right.