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!

Oh.

Wait.

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.

Lock Up Your Axolotls, Korea

Me: THEY HAVE AXOLOTLS AT THE COEX AQUARIUM IN SEOUL!!!

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!!

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.

Amaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaziballs!

(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.

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.

DID YOU JUST SEE THAT GUY ON THE SIDE OF THE FREEWAY?!!! I yell.

You scared me! she says.

WELL, YEAH, THERE’S A GUY LYING ON THE SIDE OF THE FREEWAY! SHOULD WE CALL 911??!!!

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!

Fuck.

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.

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?

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.

Me:HAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Topher:Right.

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.