Oh No, Please Don’t Go!

Every time I watch this video, all I want to do is give Jonathan Richman a rim job.

I’m not normally a rim job kind of gal, but I am rendered helpless by handsome men crawling around on stages while wiggling their asses.

And in case you didn’t know, Jonathan Richman is not the old man talking at the start of the video.  He’s the young handsome brute crawling around on the stage.  Wiggling his ass.

I Preferred the Pupa Stage

So I’ve been thinking about that personality disorder test I took this morning, and how it claimed that I was fairly well adjusted.

I think it’s bullshit.  I’m all over the wrong side of town.

I have these anxiety issues that may or may not require medication/substance abuse, recurring nightmares about haunted houses and bugs in my hair, trust issues, insomnia, a complete inability to perceive any long term goals, mild weight fluctuations due to my emotional roller coaster ride from stress to depression and back again, a body image that ranges from body dysmorphic disorder to hyper-inflated ego, a face that hosts both wrinkles and zits, and now suddenly, all I want is love.

Wait.  Love?  Real love?

Me, of all people.  The one who has been avoiding commitment like the plague, the one who claims that long term relationships are for gaylords and that white picket fences are created from the broken dreams of heady situationalists who have taken the wrong turn in life, this gal – right here – me – is lonely for love.

What the fuck?

Is this some kind of grass-is-greener syndrome, or am I merely fed up with being brushed aside/vilified/grouped into a harem/idealized/objectified/patronized/martyred/studied from afar while ignored from up close?

Because it sure as hell can’t be an authentic and healthy step to take after having been sufficiently single long enough to gain a more well rounded perspective on myself and to recalibrate my wants and needs.  That would be a move that is far too well adjusted to make by accident.

I suppose I could just learn to love myself and find other interesting things to do in life.  Oh wait, I already do that.  The wide range of hobbies, the schooling, the baking, the writing, the learning how to make things, the random performance pieces, the light social entertainment, the various and ongoing attempts at self awareness.  It’s all there and I know I’m fucking worth it.

Well, hell.  Pat me on the back, I took an emotional step forward that I had no intention of ever taking.

I think I was much happier being jaded.

Step Away From the Mirror and Wash Your Hands! With Soap.

I just took a personality disorder test.  I wanted to see if there was anything wrong with me.

There isn’t.

In fact, my results show that I’m way less fucked up than the average person who took this test.

Well, sort of.  I’m slightly more narcissistic and anti-social than the norm.  Which basically just means that I’m slightly more high maintenance and insensitive than most people.  Big surprise there!  Just date me for a month and you’ll know what I’m talking about.  Unless I don’t talk.  If that’s the case, you’re probably even more narcissistic and anti-social than I am, and I can’t date you, because sometimes all a girl wants is some love and attention.  Really, is that too much to ask?  Unconditional love, constant attention, and little engraved gifts?

But apparently most people who took this test have a huge problem with obsessive-compulsive behaviour, paranoia and schizoid issues.  Or maybe I just have a huge disregard for these things because I’m too busy masturbating in front of a mirror.

Whatever, tomato/tomato.  Hmm, I guess that translates better when it’s spoken.

Magic 8 Balling

I found a Magic 8 Ball online.  Let’s behold its power:

Is there a god?  “Ask again later.”

Should I wear underwear tomorrow?  “Definitely.”

Do these jeans make me look fat?  “My sources say no.”

Does the TTC suck donkey balls?  “Definitely.”

Literally?  “Maybe.”

Will I ever successfully hatch a get rich quick scheme?  “Outlook not so good.”

Am I still hot, even with these crow’s feet?  “My sources say no.”

Are your sources a bunch of blind assholes?  “Yes.”

So am I hot then?  “Outlook not so good.”

Do you want a punch in the face, fucker?  “My sources say no.”

Am I at least kind of cute?  “Yes.”

Is it because of my looks?  “Definitely.”

My charm, grace and wit?  “Yes.”

Are you bullshitting me now?  “No way!”

I think he’s bullshitting me.

These Things Happen Sometimes

I met Mitch Hedberg once.

Sort of.

It was right after I met his opening act, and his opening act hit on me in the candle store where I worked.  I got two free tickets to their performance at . . . some comedy club near Bloor and . . . um, somewhere near the ROM?  This was a long time ago, back when minimum wage was $7/hr and Mitch Hedberg wasn’t dead.

Anyway, right after Mitch Hedberg’s opening act hit on me, Mitch Hedberg came into the candle store and bought some dripless candles.  He said “Sweet” a lot, and hid behind his hair.  I had no idea who he was.

I saw his performance, and it was really good.

The opening act who hit on me wasn’t there, because he got his work visa revoked for getting caught smoking pot in an alley.  But I still managed to make out with him a couple times before they left, even though he promised me and my friends that he had shitloads of pot to smoke, and it only ended up being a single pinner.  And he really seemed to want to fuck my two gay male friends.  And there’s a lot more to this story that involves betrayal, heartbreak, ganglion cysts, starvation and Lou Reed’s Berlin album, and it makes me feel sad to remember the experience in its entirety.

I didn’t make out with Mitch Hedberg, though.  He was out of my league.

Does This Count as Multi Media?

A limerick:

There once was a silk screening lass,

Who suffered from pains of the ass

Try as she might,

To do the job right,

She just couldn’t conquer the task.

Or maybe a haiku:

You stupid silk screen,

Would you please stop fucking up,

I think I hate you.

Born of Frustration Indeed

Why is it so hard to remember which bands I like when I go into a music store?

I know that I’m not the only person afflicted with this problem; it seems to be a common issue.  My brain seizes up and I regress back to my adolescent tastes.

Do you know how many times I’ve gone into a music store in recent years and ended up looking at their selection of James cds?  I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I last listened to James.

Sweet Jumping Jesus, not long enough.

The same thing happens to me in book stores and libraries.  I got myself a library card recently, and the only book I could find in the entire building was a mystery novel about a cleaning lady who got embroiled in some kind of murder scandal.  It was called Scrub-a-Dub-Dead, and it took me a really long time to decide whether or not I wanted to read it.  In the end, I left empty handed.

I need to organize a list.

Going the Extra Mile for You

WordPress has a tool that shows me what people are googling in order to reach my page.

There’s a lot of the usual crap, like “Amie Scott,” or “sniffing dirty panties,” but there’s someone out there who keeps looking for “Irish Bukkake.”

This, of course, piqued my interest, so I’m going to try and help this poor lost soul.

The Urban Dictionary has no listings for Irish Bukkake, but they do have the “Irish Blumpkin.”  Irish Blumpkin, in case you were wondering, is when the person receiving the blumpkin barfs on the cocksucker’s head.

Makes sense.

So with this logic, I will have to assume that Irish Bukkake is when a group of drunken people take turns barfing on some lucky person’s tits and face.

More likely, it’s when the Guinness keg blows and squirts foam all over everyone sitting at the bar.  That’s boring though, so let’s just go with the barfing definition.

Irish Bukkake: When a group of drunken nogoodniks takes turns vomiting on one particular member of their party.  Presumably the one who either drew the short straw, or had it coming anyway.  I’ll remember to mind my manners the next time I get drunk with a large group of assholes (my birthday’s coming up, so my timing is perfect).

And thus it was spake; Irish Bukkake is now a proper dirty phrase.  You’re welcome.

Desert

I’m sure that you’re familiar with the old tale of the scorpion and the frog.

The scorpion asks the frog to ferry him across the river, and the frog’s all like, “Uh, no, you’re a scorpion, you’ll sting me.”  And the scorpion goes, “Duh, if I did that, we’d both sink.  Trust me, Baby.”  And so the frog ferries him across, and of course, the scorpion stings him and they both drown.  As they sink, the frog asks, “Motherfucker, why?” And the scorpion responds with, “Sorry, but I’m a scorpion, it’s what I do.  See you in hell, Bitch!”

Zing.

And as we all know, this is a cautionary tale about tangling with the badasses.  The heartbreakers, the mentally unsound, the vicious, selfish monsters of the world.  These scorpions can try to change their ways, but ultimately they can’t help what they are, having possibly been stung a time or two by other scorpions.

Personally, I’ve experienced both sides of that tale.  I’ve played both the Stinger and the Stung, and sometimes both at the same time, if one is willing to look at certain situations objectively.

Having lived both sides of the story, I tend not to feel quite so victimized when I get stung.  I chalk it up to life’s bullshit, and then I heal it.

But then again, maybe that’s just my nature.

Babyless Boomer

If you had told eighteen-year-old me that by the age of thirty-one I’d be sitting around baking meatloaf excitedly while reading some crap on cracked.com, I guess I probably wouldn’t have been too surprised.

Except for the cracked.com part, that “internet” thing would have blown my teenage mind.

When I was eighteen, I cut off all my hair, and once I realized that it would take me until I was twenty-three to grow it all back, I thought, “Meh, I won’t even care what I look like by the time I’m twenty-three.”

I didn’t really have a strong grasp on the distant future at that age.  If I had, I’d probably be a rocket scientist by now.

Heh.  Maybe I also never had a strong grasp on logic, either.

At any rate, I’m baking meatloaf excitedly right now.  It’s my second meatloaf ever, and I was so impressed by the first one, that I had to make another, and accompany it with some mashed potatoes.  And peas.

Maybe broccoli, too, I don’t know, I can’t see that far into the future.