Astro Turf

Just when I thought I wouldn’t have anything to write about today, some crazy astronaut bitch* decides to drive 900 miles across the country (in diapers) to spray another space ho in the face with pepper spray, in an obvious attempt to subdue her, pulverize her with a steel mallet, and then neatly tuck her body in garbage bags like packages of big league chewing gum (or tang). And this is all because crazy moon bitch suspects the space ho of vying for the relations of her space pimp (a fellow NASA pilot).

After crazy space bitch was arrested, they found a knife, a steel mallet (she’s so screwed,) rubber tubing, and garbage bags in her car. She was charged with attempted murder and attempted kidnapping and her lawyer had the audacity to tell reporters that the charges were bogus and “speculative”. Speculative? Right, because driving from Houston to Orlando in a pair of Depends and following someone around in a disguise with the aforementioned mafia starter kit on hand, doesn’t seem like premeditated murder at all.


*Contrary to popular belief, Crazy Space Bitch, Space Ho, and Space Pimp are not official positions held at NASA, and do not, in any way, reflect my feelings about NASA, it’s wasteful space exploration, or the fact that Pluto is no longer considered a planet.

Lactalicious

I feel it’s my civil duty to speak out against these people who think breast feeding in public is inappropriate. Like most things, there are probably a few places where such activity should be given consideration, like a fine dining restaurant, a job interview, or your high school prom for instance. But otherwise, I think people should stop trippin’ about the boobies. By no means am I a Lactivist (that's what they call themselves I swear,) but let’s be frank here, if we’re going to allow advertisements of practically naked women every where and entertainers to excessively grab their genitals, then I think that we can allow a minimally exposed mammary for the sake of feeding a baby from time to time. Besides, I’m all for quieting a crying baby.

People are so frivolous to concern themselves with such nonsense. I would much rather outlaw hairy ass dudes wearing wife beaters or big girls wearing booty shorts than breastfeeding. Where is the adamant outcry against these people? Give me a freakn’ break already. Look, if you deem it absolutely necessary to feed your baby while I’m eating my steak, by all means get up and go somewhere a little more discreet. I have no problem. To everybody else, if you happen to see a woman breastfeeding, for the love of Buddha, leave her the hell alone and don’t act like you’ve never seen a f**king breast before. Geesus!

Nippsicles

It’s a thousand degrees below zero today (okay not exactly, but frigidly close,) and apparently I felt as though a t-shirt and scarf would suffice in confronting the elements while I warmed up the car this morning. As soon as I stepped outside, I was greeted by an unforgiving arctic blast of chilly wintry air, freezing my golden brown nipples on contact. Instant nippsicles. It’s windy AND freezing. Two things that singularly can be managed, but together, form an unrelenting blizzard of icy polar wind instantly freezing all exposed flesh, including poorly protected nipples (regardless of their perfect light brown hue).

I absolutely hate the cold, and now I’m pissy. Not a good start to my day. The only thing I hate more than frozen nipples (and 29 year old unregistered sex offenders posing as 12 year old boys enrolling in school to prey on children), are dentists. Dentistry, as you may know, happens to be the profession with the highest suicide rate (it’s statistically suspected anyway). Mine was not elated when I told him this. Even though I’m not going to the dentist today, (unfortunately I do think he is still alive), I am still stuck with the numbing dilemma of my frozen teats. If men can have such things.

Wheel of fortune

I hate those fu**ing wheeled shoes kids are wearing these days. Darting around everywhere, as if walking was so last year. I hope you get shin splints you ungrateful bastard . . . . . and Chicken pox . . . . . . or maybe just an ingrown toenail. Chicken pox seems rather harsh.

Breast man

Thank God I don’t have breasts. I mean, besides the fact that they would look extremely odd, no one would ever take me seriously (not that they do now anyway). I feel for you women and your breasts (no pun intended). How difficult it must be to constantly be judged on the size of your tits. Whether you have them or not, they seem to be a hindrance to your endeavors, and to the healthy development of your self esteem. (How vain we are). Unfortunately, they also play an integral part of a man’s initial impression of you. Naturally, we were born with an insuppressible desire to impregnate anything with breasts. (Another reason I’m glad I don’t have them). Consequently, our boob-centric minds are already in conflict between conforming to proper social etiquette and primitive physiological desires before we even engage in conversation with you, putting us at an immediate disadvantage. (It’s difficult to think with a hard on, or pee, of course. Unless you’re in the woods, then it’s not so hard. Ahem.)

We must constantly fight every thing that comes naturally to us, evolutionary behavior that has been ingrained in our brains since the beginning of human existence as a means of survival. On top of that, from the day we’re born, we are taught that they are the source of our nourishment. And for another 9 months or so, the ritual of breastfeeding will serve to reinforce and solidify this instinctual obsession. It is through this maternal bond that we are drawn to the tits, they are our life force.

Cyclone

“You need to turn that fan off”, said Manhater. “Why?” I replied. “Because it’s sucking all of the air from my side.” She snapped back. “Sucking the air from your side of the room?” I asked sarcastically. Are you fucking serious? (I didn’t really say that, but my face surely did). Because I wanted to be absolutely sure that I heard correctly, (and I wanted everyone else to hear as well), I asked one more time, but in a slightly louder voice, “You want me to turn the fan off because it is sucking the air from your area?” “Yes”, she steamed. I could not believe the words that had come out of her mouth. She claims that my piddly little table fan, was actually drawing air from her side of the room, and leaving her with what exactly? No oxygen? Dumb ass. Instead of getting into the dynamics of exactly how electric fans were designed to function (by their uniquely shaped blades generating a flow of air as they rotate, and not by sucking in air,) I decided that this is one of those moments where you simply bite your tongue and allow the inevitable fruition of stupidity to momentarily triumph. This particular battle was not necessarily lost it just wasn’t worth beginning at all. So, I turned the 16” supersonic, dual propeller, gas turbine, 5500 horsepower jet engine, house fan off and returned her fragile oxygen deprived ecosystem to its original state of homeostasis. Because apparently, on it’s lowest setting, the Cyclone (as it’s been dubbed) has enough power to create a suffocating vortex of death in its wake, as opposed to moving air around and creating a cooling effect like it was intended. I really wish that I had made this shit up. Seriously.

Candy Crack

Some genius at work decided it would be fun to purchase an economy size bucket of Twizzlers. What possessed her to buy an over sized container of chewing rubber I’ll never know, but damn they’re tasty. I was practically forced to have one (I don’t eat junk food, so my co-workers find it amusing to tempt me as often as possible,) and as you probably know, you can’t have just one. So, inevitably, one leads to two, then two to three, and then BAM! You’re fat. Twizzlers are the marijuana of the candy world people, the “gateway” candy if you will. You eat them until they’ve pacified your sweet tooth for a while, but as time passes they no longer satisfy the “itch” that needs scratched. Eventually, you’ll move on to cookies, candy bars, donuts, and cake. Like a candy crack head, you’ll gorge your face until your life is ruined. You’ll lose the feeling in your lower lip and your first child will be born with a third testicle. Damn you Twizzlers. Damn you.