“What Meat Do You Want?!”: Free Food, Electrocution, Camping, and Other Things That Don’t Normally Happen But Are Occurring This Week

I was having some kind of out of body experience yesterday morning.

It all began at 5 a.m., when Soldier Boy texted me because he was sitting in Maine on a lay over on the way back from his latest stint in Afghanistan. At the time, I was all sorts of disoriented – I could comprehend that the text was from him, but for the life of me, I couldn’t read what it said. I groaned, rolled over, and started dreaming of Werebears and unmitigated violence against cubicles.

Then my alarm rang, because it was two hours later and time to get up.

In the shower, I was so distracted I couldn’t remember if I had shampooed my hair. There was something off. Someone had tried to contact me, and I suspected it was Soldier Boy, but I was kind of creeped out because dreaming about your exs is just not kosher. Finally, soaking wet and frustrated, I picked up my iPhone and discovered this:

Soldier Boy: “I know its early and I foot expect a response but boo!”

Umm. Well, I certainly felt better about not being able to read the damn thing. It didn’t make any fucking sense. Homeboy was either drunk, or more tired than I was.

I texted him back.

We ended up launching into a text message conversation that lasted the entire length of my before-work routine, and nearly caused my unfortunate demise.

See, while holding the iPhone in one damp hand, and the blow dryer in the other, I tried to plug in the blow dryer and somehow ended up with my wet fingers on the prongs when they made contact with the socket. I have never made this mistake before, no matter how disoriented.

OH MY HOLY HAIR STYLING.

I don’t think I’ve ever been electrocuted. Except for that one time on purpose in high school science class for a lab project. I had zero idea of what was going on, except that my right hand had acquired some kind of spontaneous disease in which it fell asleep and was stabbed a million times with a million invisible needles.

3.7527 seconds later, I was like, Oh holy fucking hell, I am a retard, I JUST ELECTROCUTED MYSELF.

Quite the Monday-morning shocker, if I do say so myself. (Haha, I just realized I made a pun. Go me.)

If Monday sets the tone for the rest of the week, than me electrocuting myself makes quite a lot of sense.

See, this Friday, I, Blonde Beyonce, and Culture are hitting the road to potentially be murdered on a vacant lot two hours away from Los Angeles. We know this totally awesome volunteer from work and she invited us to go camping on the property she and her husband own north of Santa Barbara.

We were all like, Hell yeah, we’ll go camping with you awesome volunteer lady whom we all adore!

And then, last night, The Source is like, Wait, who the fuck are you going camping with?!

And we’re like, it’s cool, she’s really bad ass! And she’s going to set up the tents beforehand during the day, so we don’t have to set up in the dark on Friday night!

Which means, of course, that we have to drive up there ourselves in my ancient Mercedes which hit an astounding 200,000 miles last night.

Why in my old car? Well, because Culture’s car is less powerful than my once-top-of-the-line Mercedes and more likely to get stuck when we DRIVE ON A DIRT ROAD IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT TO RENDEZVOUS WITH OUR VOLUNTEER BUDDY!

Plus, apparently, when we get there, the only cell reception we will have will be in the ocean.

So, in summary: We are taking an old high mileage car onto an isolated dirt road after dark to meet a woman we barely know, and the only way we can contact the outside world is by running into the ocean with our cell phones.

This is turning into another one of those serial killer posts.

It’s all okay though, I’ve got a plan. In the case our buddy turns out to be a murderer who has lured us unsuspectingly onto several acres of vacant property to stab us and throw us into the Pacific Ocean, one of us will grab the tent stakes, while I get the car – we will fight her off while we get into the Mercedes, lock the doors, and then floor it into the ocean, where we will call 911 and turn my car into a boat by using the tent as a sail – because her large four wheel drive vehicle will surely destroy us and beat us to the highway if we try to make a run for it.

[Obviously, I will be the first to die, since I am inside the halfway submerged vehicle. If your car is sinking, you have to wait until the pressure is equalized (aka, your car is full of water) before you can open the door to escape. Not my best plan.]

Brittany and Crew, 1. Serial Killer, 0.

Please, don’t doubt my ability to stay calm in the face of danger or take on serious missions. I have the determination of a college kid on Adderall the night before a final exam. In fact, today, I was so determined to eat breakfast that Culture and I sprinted out of the office while yelling, “We’re on a secret mission! Be back later!” and rushed to Subway because they were giving out free breakfast sandwiches and coffee before 11 a.m.

And, if there’s any fact you should know about my town of residence, it’s that the homeless population is larger than the population of people with homes. This means, when Subway announces free food, the place is instantaneously transformed into a mental health ward that smells of toilet-bowl moonshine and sweat.

Culture and I didn’t care. We stood 6 inches behind Smelly Toothless McGee and got our free breakfast sandwiches. When the Subway lady yelled, “WHAT MEAT DO YOU WANT?” to Smelly, he replied, “Ghhhharrrrg, myyantabal jusrter nuts!” and we nodded our heads like, “Yeah, get that dude some jusrter nuts! I’ll have sausage!”

[This is the part where you're like, wait, doesn't this blogger work in a homeless shelter and shouldn't she be nicer in her portrayals of homeless people? Okay, look, if you worked with homeless dudes, you would understand that I am being very fair and accurate. Plus, I have a true fondness for these smelly nut jobs because I've kept their shopping carts from getting stolen. That's more than you can say.]

And that, my friends, is why I’m not going to get murdered this weekend.

P.S. Thanks to Soldier Boy's cousin for telling me that "What Meat Do You Want?" would be a good blog title. Because, truly, it is.

My Poetry is Sexier than Your Old Smelly Chotchkies

Every other Friday, my keepers let me out of the windowless dungeon that is my office and send me off to make money for them by working in the local volunteer-run thrift store.

I used to hate thrift stores.

The thought of paying money to wear the nasty, smelly old duds of some (probably) diabetic crotchety old lady with head lice made my gag reflexes act up. Now days, people use the word “vintage” in the same way they use “designer label” – like it’s a good thing. These people need mind enemas. The word vintage makes me think of urine-colored lace that reeks of mothballs.

However, working at the thrift shop has become a tiny beacon of light in the shitty dark tunnel of lameness that is my work week. It’s like being Johnny Depp in Pirates of the Caribbean – you’re locked up in jail, and then one fine day you’re busted out and you take to the high seas to look for buried treasure. And while I don’t get to carry a sword, I do get to battle completely bat shit crazy people and hunt for interesting loot.

When I say interesting, I mean the funkiest crap on the planet. Some of the stuff I’ve seen makes me wonder not why someone bought it, but how it was even manufactured in the first place.

Even better, the store is often teeming with loonies.

Looney type number one is the type of customer who smells like death and tries to get discounts on things that were only a dollar to begin with. They mostly live under bridges.

Looney number two comes from the super old volunteers who are on power trips because they’ve volunteered longer than other people. These crazy woman have become dictators of thrift – they ask you ridiculous things like, “Do you know how to properly use a hanger?” Shut it, grandma. I’m not retarded.

Well, anyway, I realized the other day that I had quite the little collection of camera phone shots of weird thrift store merchandise. And, what better way to express their complete and undeniable lameness than through haiku?!

Hence, my photo slash poetry essay on the high culture of thrifting:

Oh! Michael Jackson
Mated with a French hooker
On polyester.

Bedazzled denim
Once met a pink tutu
And never let go.

High School Musical
Was not about teen trannies
Or girls named Ryan.

Fairy salesman
Goes leaf to leaf with products –
Angel dust and meth.

This rusted razor
Promises sunbeams on your
Wrists, emo slut.

Bozo the clown was
A custom shirt, but is now
On the dollar rack.

Fred, the gay cowboy,
Loved his sequined get up –
And zoophilia.

Creepy siblings
Assault your eyes and brain,
Assault each other.

Stop staring at me
Alligator brown bear thing –
You got a boob job?

I Don’t Even Know What I Want From Life Anymore, Except for Dogs to Stop Peeing on My Face and - Oh Yeah - a Real Job

Ahhh, Monday. A fresh new week to conquer. I smiled, stretched out my arms, and then, like a gruesome and swift omen from God, a dog pissed on my head.

Not a joke.

Okay, well, actually my roommate's puppy missed my face with his stream of urine by about two inches. And therefore urinated on my pillow. I should have heeded the warning, but instead I got up and readied myself for work. And threw my wet, smelly pillowcase in the sink.

[God did not want me to even attempt getting through this Monday unscathed, obviously.]

As I got in my car, I was still smiling. The world was sunny and peaceful – that is, until, a completely inexplicable power outage struck just as I was about to pull into an intersection. The red lights flashed, and then died. It was my turn for a green, so I started to drive – albeit slowly – like the other cars in my lane. But the power was back on as swiftly as it had gone out, and, apparently, God thought the traffic moving in the opposite direction should have a green.

I only barely made it out of that one alive.

When I finally made it to work, Blonde Beyonce gave me the news that the Big Boss was trying to sabotage the event we had been working on for weeks – and, it was very possible that we would have to call up the volunteers we had already informed of honoree status, and tell them they were no longer being honored. Because Big Boss didn’t think they were worthy. Even though we had gone through all the other directors to make our decisions. And the event is less than a week away.

Ah, hell no.

This is all on top of our impending homeless situation – one of the roomies is fighting an epic battle with the economy and is unfortunately losing. But we can’t get out of our lease anyway, so it’s kind of like being trapped in a sinking ship full of Ikea furniture.

Also, my Americorps service ends in July, and there is not one job in all of Los Angeles that is not a soul sucking fuckhole with 300 other applicants.

Hello? Life? This is not how our relationship is supposed to be! I’m supposed to be fabulous. I’m supposed to be spending my second decade of life vacationing on the beaches of remote islands, counting my butt loads of cash. And having sex with super models. And rocking four inch $600 heels on the deck of a yacht.

I’m totally going to break up with you, life.

Oh. Wait.

If I keep running with this analogy, I’m going to have to commit suicide, huh?

Scratch that.

I’m just going to get drunk and practice archery in an illegal location, like the beach at midnight. (That’s fucking awesome, right?!)

Luckily I have coworkers who don’t question my sanity – they just assume I’m preparing for the zombie apocalypse.

My Epic Drunken Pole Dancing Skills Have Already Made an Impression on the Expat Population in Korea, and I Haven’t Even Gotten There Yet.

[I realize that drawing a picture of myself pole dancing on a pole holding the South Korean flag is incredibly disrespectful. But, umm, it's totally relevant. And it's funny, right?]

I have excellent friends.

The kind of friends that abandon me and move to Korea. Which, actually, is very nice because then I have an excuse to return to Korea and a free place to stay. But not nice, because when I get there I will have to fight off the hoards of men who think I’m some kind of crazed drunken whore.

Kirin – the friend who has relocated to South Korea – has apparently been talking about me. To dudes. We were talking on Gchat this morning (well, it was morning for me) when she drops this bombshell:

Kirin: My co-worker Desert Boy is disappointed that you are bringing The Boyfriend to Korea.

Me: Umm, why?

Kirin: [ridiculous emoticon that means “I’ve done something horribly un-friendly and you will soon want to murder me”]

Me: Errrr…..

[30 minutes later]

Kirin: Yeah, my friends are excited to meet you. Desert Boy in particular.

Me: Uh oh.

Kirin: …I may have told him that you like to dance on poles when you get drunk.

WHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAATTTTTTTTTT????!!!

Okay, dear readers, yes, if there is a pole, and I am drunk, logic alone dictates that I will probably dance on it. But I do not actively seek out poles when inebriated. I do not swing around on things that are not stripper poles, just because I am drunk and require a pole. And this paragraph is beginning to sound very phallic and wrong.

But this drunken pole dancing has nothing to do with trying to look sexy. I only drunkenly pole dance because it is fun. It’s like a swing set for adults!

So I had to explain to Kirin that drunken pole dancing was the sort of thing you wanted a boy to be surprised by, not the sort of thing he should be expecting when he meets you.

Well, no biggie, she explained. It only came up because I was trying to explain my connection to your Korean Boyfriend!

(This is what I get for hanging out with gay chicks who do not care whether or not they are impressing guys. Yup. Haha, my friend Brittany is so funny. She drinks too much and dances like a stripper. Oh you want to meet her now? Cool beans!)

[See, there’s this boy in Korea who I met last time I was there, and he is completely adorable and I call him Opa. And he has now started hanging out with Kirin because she moved to Korea.]

Okay, well that totally makes sense….no, wait, it doesn’t.

Kirin: I don’t remember why it came up….

GAH. Okay. Let’s retrace the steps of this conversation Kirin had with Desert Boy. She hung out with Korean Boyfriend, and Desert Boy was like, how do you know this Korean dude? and then she was like, oh, well, my friend Brittany knows him, and she dances on poles when she is drunk…

Nope. Sorry. THE DOTS ARE NOT CONNECTING.

I mean, it’s all very nice and all that my amazing drunken pole dancing skills have already impressed the population of expats living in Seoul before I’ve even arrived in Seoul.

And I’m sure it will make a great talking point when I get there. And I will have many instant new friends. Like last time. Because I am blonde and my name is Brittany, and every Korean guy thought it was awesome when I lost a drinking game so they could sing, "Oops, I Did it Again."

But...

...Goddammit, I am so going to have to cancel this trip.

Please Sleep With My Friend Turco. He Rides a Motorcycle and Doesn’t Have Herpes. [UPDATED]

The Boyfriend’s roomie Turco has been a little dry in love department lately, but I assure you, it is because he just hasn’t met the right kind of girl. And, apparently, if I find him such a girl, I win a pizza. Or a personal check for $30. And since we all know I’m poor and hungry, please forgive me for compromising this blog’s integrity in the name of nourishment and cash.

So here goes it.*

[Turco can get very philosophical, especially when it comes to food and death.]

Turco can offer you a chance at internet stardom in his closet. Your fans will include his old drum set, the bodies of deceased girlfriends, and a cat called "Baby Grey".

[Only you, and this sexy feline, can repair the damage done to Turco's heart by neglect.]

It’s true, Turco does have a few flaws. One of these is that he is really much too buff and certainly not fat. Another is that he is simply too good of a drummer to be fully appreciated by the inferior ears of members of the human race.

Turco promises to shower his future gal pal with large sums of money in the form of bad checks.

He enjoys long motorcycle crashes into parked vehicles. Also, he loves to eat carrots - but only if they are followed by the words “cake” and “marshmallow filling.”

Females with expert zombie hunter skills are preferred, but not required.

Inquiries can be made in the comments section.

*This post was co-written by Turco via Facebook chat.

[UPDATE] Turco would like all his potential lady friends to know that he lives in an exclusive area called Rolling Hills Estates. He will escort you to his beautiful four bedroom home, and show you the rustic scenery and his (occasionally) heated pool.

Also, his fingers are extremely strong and agile from playing Left for Dead on XBox sixty hours a week. Take from that what you will.

A Heroic Tale About How I Defeated the Mexican Supermarket and Their Bigotry Against Hamburgers

I do all my primary shopping at a Mexican grocery store because shit is cheaper and I am poor. This wouldn’t be so bad if said supermercado carried all the normal things a grocery store should carry – but often it doesn’t.

However, what it lacks in cheese and produce selection, it (usually) makes up for in ridiculousness. Such as chicken feet and beef tongue. And insane mariachi tunes that are cranked up so loud you can’t hear yourself think. Until today, when my beloved Mexican super store failed me in a way I wouldn’t have thought possible.

It didn’t have hamburger buns.

What the hell?! This is not possible. How can this damn store not have hamburger buns?

I began searching high and low. And, as if it could sense my desperation, the grocery store resorted to trickery.

It became blatantly obvious that whoever ordered the bread products for the supermarket was a deranged worshipper of hot dogs. There were hot dog buns everywhere. Shelves and shelves of them. And whenever I thought I had finally found hamburger buns – alas – they were really hot dog buns in different packaging than the previous hot dog buns.

Insanity, I tell you!

Now, it’s true, I could have changed meal plans. But I had come too far. My shopping cart was already filled to the hilt with hamburger ingredients. I couldn’t give up now! Blonde Beyonce and I appealed to an employee, hoping he could help us track down the secret location of the hamburger buns.

The conversation went as follows:

Blonde Beyonce: Excuse me, where are the hamburger buns?

Employee: Ay, senorita! Esta en aisle tres! (or something like that. With much more English)

How had we not seen them? How silly of us! We rushed over to aisle three.

Ummm…what?

There were no fucking buns or bread of any kind in aisle three. But there was flour…

Blonde Beyonce figured out the puzzle quicker than I did. Duh, our Hispanic homeboy thought we wanted to bake our own buns! Of course!

Well, I am not that awesome. Or that committed to my hamburger making. I was about to give up entirely when I spotted some pan de leche. OH HELL YEAH. I’m making fucking mini burgers! And sticking them on some tiny sweet rolls! Problem solved.

Oh, sweet victory.

[That's a mighty tiny burger. But it's filled with awesome!]

Take that, Mexican supermarket bitches!

So, the Real America Doesn’t Have Hills and a Goat Wants to Piss All Over My Inevitable Internet Fame

I returned to Los Angeles from Dallas, Texas, yesterday afternoon and nearly kissed the graffiti and gum covered sidewalk at the airport in my elation.

As much fun as I had picking up dead animal parts and being chased by beavers – not to mention tortured by small children – I think I was meant to live in an area of the world that doesn’t look like this:

But I should probably go hide now, because I might get my ass shot by a Texan with a shotgun. Those people have more pride in their state than is even possibly healthy. Oh yeah, and they sincerely believe California is a foreign country, as demonstrated by the barber who cut my brother’s hair in Coppell.

Barber: So, ye go to school, eh? (I can't write Texas accents - only pirate ones)

Brother: Yeah, I go to Whittier College – it’s basically in Los Angeles.

Barber: Ah, well, welcome back to America!

Brother: Umm, yeah, I’m actually from Los Angeles.

Barber: I see. Well boy, welcome TO America!

So, as it turns out, I’m not American. I’m Californian. This is totally okay, because if the real USA is a tribute to strip malls and BBQ, I totally understand the perception that the rest of the world has of us.

I liked Texas. I really did. The neighborhoods were beautiful – all the houses were in brick, and life was quiet. I gained a million pounds gorging on fried chicken and country gravy. And laughed at all the freeway-related things that were named after George Bush.

But I’m really hoping there are some more happenin’ cities than Dallas, because I had run out of things to do by the second day of my Texas expedition. So, if I am completely out of line here, please set me straight! Is Austin awesome? Are there some balling night clubs? Is my view completely skewed because I spent my whole trip trying to keep a nine year old out of a turtle pond?

Well, either way, Los Angeles still wins because it has hills.

Yes.

The lack of hills in Dallas was literally giving me fucking nightmares.

It was like I had landed in a never-ending, landmark-less, apocalyptic wasteland. All the buildings were brick, all the grass was green, all the trees were the same kind of tree, and I never had any freaking idea where the fuck I was.

In Los Angeles, there are fucking hills. With iconic shit on them.

So, yeah, the biggest problem I had with Texas was how retardedly flat it was.

Hence, me making out with a Los Angeles sidewalk.

So, my first order of business upon returning to “faux America” was to establish a financially secure future by becoming famous on the internet, so that I could afford to live in a place with hills. And a beach.

AND IT’S TOTALLY HAPPENING, YO!

Well, not the financially stable part. But I got my first comment from a person I don’t know personally, and it was a good one:

And, even more exciting, NICOLE ANTOINETTE LINKED TO MY TWITTER ON HER BLOG!!! GAAAAAAAAAAH.

Nicole is one of my top five favorite bloggers, because she’s totally bad ass. And hilarious. And I totally did not solicit her in any way, shape, or form. Nope, people. Nicole was inspired to link to my Twitter because my bio gave her a “heart boner”.

I am officially awesome. (Evidence below)

["And also I forgot to tell you that I have a new hobby: stalking people's Twitter bios to find ones that give me the biggest heart boner. Like this chick (ME!) whose bio says, 'Basically starving to death because the economy sucks and I have an Asian Studies degree.'"]

Plus she follows me on Twitter now, and direct messaged me to tell me she had linked to me.

Well, basically my brain was exploding with blogger internet nerd happiness and I completely failed as a girlfriend because I was really, really distracted.

See, while I was madly commenting on Nicole’s blog post and tweeting simultaneously, The Boyfriend’s goat was chilling at his bedroom door.

And I was all like, eh, he’ll stay there.

And suddenly there was that sound that you only hear when A) someone turns on a faucet, or B) they release all the fluid in their bladder.

Oh. God.

THE GOAT HAD CROSSED THE THRESHOLD. AND HAD IMMEDIATELY STARTED URINATING.

DAMMIT!!

I threw the laptop aside and stood up, so that I could start yelling some incoherent phrases at the baffled animal while looking like I was somewhat in charge. What came out of my mouth was something like, “What the…goat…shit….fuck…ummm….GET OUT!”

Well, Surly (the goat) just stood there. And continued to urinate. Is this goat fucking disrespecting me??! Something tells me that when a goat stares dead in your eyes and continues to piss all over the carpet, what they are really saying is, fuck you, human person.

ARRRRRRRRGHHHHHH.

Sadly, before I could resolve the situation (and before Surly had emptied his extremely large bladder), The Boyfriend marched in to see what all my incoherent muttering was all about.

What he saw was his girlfriend, standing in the middle of his bedroom, letting a goat piss all over his carpet.

Well, he started screaming obscenities, and it became obvious that the goat was much, much more respectful of him because it got the fuck out in two seconds. But then it took a dump on his porch.

Wow.

Then The Boyfriend turns to me with an accusatory why-the-fuck-were-you-letting-a-goat-desecrate-my-bedroom stare.

Which, really, was completely appropriate given the situation.

Luckily, The Boyfriend understood that I had been so swept up in my dreams of internet fame and glory that I didn’t realize the goat had entered the room. And, it was only upon hearing the sounds of goat pee flowing like the Niagara-fucking-Falls that I fully grasped the situation unfolding in front of me.

If I have learned anything from this experience, it is that lusting for fame is dangerous.

And potentially smelly.

P.S. So, the million dollars worth of medication prescribed to me by my dermatologist is working. And by "working" I mean that my face is on fire. And it's falling off. I would cry, but the tear trails would burn like a mutha fucker and probably become permanently branded on my skin. Fuck.