Flights of Lunacy

I wish that when I got lost in Wikipedia, the results weren’t traumatizing.

Yesterday, I started by googling Heather Dubrow (yes, I was watching Real Housewives of O.C. Yes, you can judge me). I tend to keep my internet searches as vapid as possible. Or odd. Like when IT inquired about my googling ‘Harry Potter Horse Cock.’*

I usually don’t intend on my internet searches leaving my in the fetal position on the floor, wide eyed and staring at a wool sweater, scared to death of it.**

Somehow, after reading about some Hollywood drama, I was reading about OJ Simpson.  And by ‘somehow’, I mean that I’m sure it was by way of the Kardashian’s (I’d like to lie to you and say that with the Olympics coming up, I was reading about your boy Bruce Jenner. Alas, it was about Kim’s failed relationships). From there, I ended up reading about the Menendez Brothers. I then reached Richard Ramirez.

In the middle of half feeling sad for his childhood and half hoping his execution would involve a Sharktopus attack, I noticed that a slight fellow in a top hat staring back at me through my screen. I’d never heard of him, and he was akin to an olde timey swindler who carries a pocket watch. I clicked on his link to see what he was up to during the Great Depression.

Fatal mistake.

I should’ve turned back but I have trouble coming out of a Wikipedia stupor.

The second sentence is: He was also known as the Gray Man, the Werewolf of Wysteria, the Brooklyn Vampire, the Moon Maniac and The Boogey Man.

He had 5 nicknames. Most serial killers only have 1 or 2. Intrigued, I read on.

20 minutes later, my computer was shut while I gave it the side eye, mindlessly wiping down my kitchen counter.

1.5 hours later, I was watching True Blood and thinking about how it PG-13 it is compared to the new knowledge I’ve so recklessly acquired.

3 hours later, I was convinced that the noise coming from my blinds was one of Albert Fish’s grandchildren climbing through my second story window to murder me and cook me with carrots and celery.***

And that fucker doesn’t even know that my oven tends to cook too hot and that I’ll be overdone as hell when he’s done roasting my body.

Joke’s on you, I hope you like jerky.

*The kid who plays HP was in a play. The play was about a horse. The Harry Potter kid showed his crank on stage at said play. I couldn’t remember the name of the play.

**If you do read about Albert Fish, the wool reference is near the beginning. I’d stop there. Or not. Maybe you’re as sick as I am. HAPPY SLEEPLESS NIGHTS YOU DUMBASS.

***I’m not condoning reading this. It’s severely disturbing. If you like reading serial killer bios, you’ll be okay. If you like insomnia and fearing anyone in a rounded top hat, by all means, hit up wiki with glee. If you don’t like horrifying cannibalism, DO NOT READ ABOUT ALBERT FISH.

This took me a month and a lot of thought to write. You should know that up front.

You know when people do really weird and outlandish things on vacation?

Not in the sense of going to Vegas and coming back and repeating, “what happens in Vegas, staaaays in Vegas,” and you look at them and think, “Gosh, I am sorry that your vacation was terrible that you resorted to platitudes to describe it because all you really did was lose money (which, coincidentally, did stay in Vegas) and get drunk and cry in a bathroom because you couldn’t meet the right guy on the dance floor of Marquee.”

Or like when people come back from the Caribbean with corn rows?

I did something exceptionally out of the ordinary on my vacation in June. It’s not something I’d like to admit, but I’m kind of reeling about it.

You see, it is a long ass haul from Sarasota, Florida to San Francisco, California. I downloaded 6 podcasts with the greatest intention of listening to them to keep me occupied on my 8+ hour travel day.

I never got to the podcasts.

I was pleasantly surprised with a first class seat and my own mini tv, so I spent much of my flight from Tampa to Houston watching a Law & Order SVU marathon on Cloo.

After a quick layover in Houston, we boarded our flight to SFO and I was gung ho to get back into my marathon. One episode in, I grew tired of grisly rapes, murders and Freudian complexes. A girl can only take so much legal banter and prowling rapists, and Christopher Meloni stays hot for like, 4 episodes, until you’re like, “Dude, the brooding concern is adorable, but show some range and maybe shoot your gun at the perp for Chrissake…”

My hopes for getting to my podcasts or any music were shattered shortly thereafter because stock iPhone earbuds start to hurt my tender ears after too much use.*

I was trying to figure out how to occupy the next 2 hours and 50 minutes of my life when I remembered that my sister recently emailed me three “novels”, which I had downloaded to my iPhone. 

So, yes. I read Fifty Shades of Grey, Fifty Shades Darker, and Fifty Shades Freed in 3 plane rides and some vacay downtime.

I’m not proud of this, but I can’t take it back.

I am by no means condoning my behavior, since this book is referred to as ‘Mommy Porn’ and I AM NO MOM.

All I can conclude after engulfing myself in all 3 books is that the age old confusion about women still stands: there are women out there who want to be the one that changes a man and make him a better person.

I’m sorry, but that’s all I truly retained from it. And that is a giant negative. If Sex and the City taught me anything, it’s that women will fuck over any guy to save the Bigs of the world and in the end all that gets you is left at the altar should you agree to marry the shlub.**

Let’s focus on the handful of positives, shall we?

These books aren’t meant to be hilarious, but they are. The writing is abhorrent, and the main character refers to her vagina as her ‘sex’. She is 22 and can’t use the proper anatomical term for her VAGINA. It’s called a vagina. Maybe she would’ve learned that while waiting in the exam chair all stirruped and looking at a poster of a cross-section of female anatomy if the gyno made her come to the office rather than visiting her in home. 

Then the author tries to make even the most cringe worthy, horrific moments sexy.**

I had anxiety while reading this. The male lead is an awful, possessive, over bearing, maniacal, egotistical maniac. And this broad loves it.

More than anything, reading the mommy issues were also comical to me. I once dated a guy who hated his mother and really all I can remember is that she got a boob job (which is pretty standard for women in Florida) and he hated her for it. She was no crackwhore like the mom in the book. I should send him these to read so he can reevaluate some life choices and reunite with his mom.

I’m basically a modern day Mother Theresa.

I’m not going to give anything more away that is in the book. But when you read it and want to discuss it with me, here are some key talking points:

• Who will play these two in the movie? I’m thinking Steve Buscemi and Natasha Lyonne circa 2001 when she was living in a gutter in NYC and blowing dudes for crack. That’s how highly I think of this novel.
• What do you call your lady parts? Do you have a children’s book version of what a vagina should be called? Then by all means, call it your peepee while I give you a cold side eye.
• What is a “hard no” for you? I recently read in Cosmo that you should put some coins in the freezer and then put them on your ‘sex’. That’s a hard no for me. If your motto is “see a penny, pick it up, put it on my labia,” I will chastise you to the fullest degree. 
• Did 50 Shades of Grey inspire you to shake things up in the bedroom? Here’s my face for that: :( Here’s my response: Get a grip.

These books, while entertaining (FINE, I ADMIT IT, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW E.L. JAMES?), are absolutely 100% asinine. And not in the way that Anastasia Steele is described (her face a 4 but her ass a 9). I feel like maybe the author could have benefited from hiring an editor, or firing her 9 cats for doing a shitty job. 

If it’s all the same, I’ll go back to my regularly scheduled reading. Andy Cohen’s book is calling my name, and I’ve yet to meet a Vonnegut book I don’t love.

*At age 11, my father had to rush me to a hospital in Jacksonville because I had massive inner ear infection after too much headphone use. I almost blew an eardrum. I do not take inner ear tenderness lightly because of this. Also, I’m glad mapquest exists now so that when crises occur, I don’t end up in a hospital in the ‘hood where the nurses sit behind bullet proof windows and the doctors call the prescription in to be filled on site, rather than having you go to the nearby pharmacy for it because YOU SHOULDN’T BE IN THIS NEIGHBORHOOD AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT.

**Obviously Carrie and Big got back together, I stayed til the end of the movie. But I always felt like she’d have been better off with John Slattery and his pissing on women ways. 1. He’s a hot ass silver fox and 2. I just feel like Carrie really needed to get peed on because she was an idiot.

***The guy pulls this chick’s tampon out of her snatch after she says she’s on her period and EL James tries to make it ‘erotic’. PARDON ME WHILE I VOMIT MY DINNER RELIVING THAT MOMENT.

I know nothing about curry.

Tim Curry? Sure. I know about that guy. He’s a fantastic actor/scared me to death in Criminal Minds. Seriously, I can’t even stomach those episodes. When he’s on camera as Billy Flynn I dry heave. Clearly, he has mastered his craft.

What I’ve not mastered is cooking with curry.

I love curry. I order it while dining about. Tikki Masala gives me raging heart burn, but fuck if it doesn’t feel great going past my taste buds.

So, tonight I found a recipe for slow cooker chicken curry. It seemed simple enough. It had apples and bananas in it, which intrigued me to try it.

I began dicing my vegetables and fruits. Things were going well. I was listening to some Black Keys on mah spotify and singing along to the sweet falsetto of Dan Auerbach. There was a storm a-brewin’ outside, so I was feeling extra whimsy in the kitchen.

I saw lightning. Then thunder struck.* That shit rattled the building and I sliced my finger on the knife.

I proceeded to get mildly depressed as I compressed the cut on my hand. Sometimes I think it would be really awesome to be on Top Chef. I don’t have any prerequisites except that I served tables and tended bar in college and regularly ate a shift meal. Those chefs would never want me on their team. I don’t knife right. Or well. 

I got over my case of the sads and started cutting the onion. Cried, that little asshole was ripe. Then I cut the jalepeno. THEN, I decided to wipe my tears.

Spoiler alert: KITCHENING 101 states that you never never ever wipe your tears after touching jalepenos. 

Then I flushed my right eye for 4 minutes. Capsaicin is no friend of mine.

Then I tripped on my maxi dress.

I normally don’t dress up to cook, but I had a pretty VIP 1 year old’s birthday party to attend today and maxi dresses are comfortable like jammies, so naturally I left it on.

After being treated like a battered wife by my own kitchen, I got everything into my crock pot and set it to high.

Then I realized that curry comes in powder form, and I used some janky ass sauce from the Publix ethnic aisle.**

Needless to say, I think I did curry wrong. From now on, I’ll stick to Tim Curry. He has a pleasant accent, has never physically assaulted me, and was AWESOME in Clue.***

*Thunderstruck is the only good song by AC/DC. I once served Brian Johnson (who hasn’t in Sarasota?) and he tipped me really well so I feel like I have to throw him a bone. Hey, Brian Johnson, work on better music. Start with Thunderstruck as a platform and build from there. YOU’RE SO VERY WELCOME FOR MY ADVICE, I HOPE YOU LIKED THE CRABCAKE AT BARNACLE BILL’S.

**My Indian friend will probably read this and chastise me. And that’s fine. I’ll ask her to cook me a steak, medium rare. It’ll probably taste worse than most cow carcass as she is vegetarian and doesn’t know anything about the temperature of meat.

***If you’ve never seen clue, lock it up. It has everything you need in a campy thriller. Sex, murder, and Tim Curry as the UN SUB (I can feel detective Hotchner nodding with approval as I typed that..). Spoiler alert #2: I just ruined the movie.

I think bears are fantastic creatures. So much so, that I’ve tagged every single blog post with the word ‘bears’. I probably should have named this blog Bears of Lunacy.

As a blog novice, I just figured I’d tag my blogs with funny words. I amuse me.

Tonight, I decided that I’d search tumblr for the word bears because I was hoping I’d find some lovely, majestic bear pics to reblog. I thought that maybe I’d find other bear lovers like myself. Maybe I’d even find some neat pics of bears swimming and doing silly things.

Apparently, I did?

I have never regretted clicking search so badly in my life.

So, if you feel the need to do this after reading this post just to see what I’m talking about, I have an apology for you and one for everyone else that has been forced to see my blog when searching bears.

I know that the term ‘bear’ is used to describe big, hairy men. But I was gravely mistaken when I assumed that tumblr was classier than say, Craigslist. So, when I searched bear tonight and was bombarded by nude men with hard ons, I was completely confused, alarmed, intrigued, and a little sad.

Where were all of the pandas and polars and kodiaks?

Not there*.

All I saw tonight was firefighter penis, beach pecker, small dick, big dong, old man wrinkled wiener, young rod, a wang gif and a guy calling himself a cub seeking bears.

I flushed my eyes, proceeded to say 20 Hail Marys and then painted my toenails (I have a pretty stringent schedule going on).

Apology #1 to anyone who is reading this and not looking for dick:

I am sorry to anyone who has come here, clicked that tag and ended up in a black hole of nudes.

If you were aware that clicking bear would lead you to a land of trouser snake, I suppose I should say, “you are so very welcome, that was my plan all along, enjoy all the bologna pony.”

If not, like you, I’m kind of in a place of WTF right now. Everything I’ve ever believed about bears was shattered tonight.

If I inadvertently led you down a path of tallywacker when you were just looking for a nice little black bear cub playing in a tree, I am so very, very sorry.

And now, for apology #2:

For those of you that have stumbled upon this blog because you were searching for some nude, hairy meat thermometers, I apologize for wasting your time. I can’t imagine how many of you with raging bear fantasies must despise my musings right now.

I guess it was ignorant of me to assume tumblr didn’t contain pornographic images. If you came here for pork sword, who am I to judge.

I just feel bad if I thwarted your precious dolphin waxing efforts by clogging your bear feed with an image of the Ambien Walrus (you have to admit that he was very precious and polite, though).

It was callow and callous of me.

I’ve tagged the word bears on this post so you see my apology, and seriously, happy porning! I promise this is my last time getting in the way of all of the Long Dong Silver you’re seeking.

*You can for sure find real bears here and here, and I promise not the skin flute kind.

(Source: kaylieamber)

It’s only Tuesday, and I’ve had a bit of a rough (read: clumsy) week. I clamped my right ear in a 410 degree Fahrenheit hair straightener, I somehow severely injured my right hand on a LIGHT SWITCH and, while entering my apartment this evening, I got stung by a bee.

Being the positive ray of sunshine that I am, this shit will not bring me down.

Why?

I have a week long vacation beginning on Saturday.

I WORK WITH A RAPPER.

And, this week at the ol’ salt mines, we are boosting morale and building a sense of team by hosting our own after hours Summer Games.

I couldn’t be happier with this endeavor. The way most women feel about having kids and raising them properly, I feel about friendly competition with winning side bets.

Thanks to tonight’s race, I’m 1 for 1 (so far) this week.*

Today, two very distinguished company men put on their best ‘I get swole at Lifestyle Family Fitness once a month PEEP MY WHITE SOCKS YO!’ gear and ran a 50-yard-dash in the office parking lot.** This race had been a long time coming, and the office was torn over who would pull out the W.

Sure, a race to a bottom of some Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia would’ve been easier for the two, but watching two men that are 25% in shape sprint across a parking lot is more amusing for the rest of us.

The above video is that race.

Sadly, the only reason the winner crossed the finish line faster is because the loser pulled both hammies. Alas, a winner is a winner, so homeboy gets his title and glory.

It was an incredible feat by two middle aged men who are better known for their ability to kill pitchers of Mich Lite waters than their ability to hit the pavement and pull a Usain Bolt.

Side note: I apologize for holding the iPhone wrong for the video. I’m a complete and total jackal.

*I should’ve bet on me being stung by a bee soon. After the genocide of all of his hornet second cousins, it was inevitable.

**Ladies, IT WILL BE HARD, but please try to keep your pants on while watching the video. It’s the equivalent of watching Channing Tatum and Alexander Skarsgard strip down and shake their hot and fluffy fresh biscuit buns at you. But, it’s hard not to be smug as I show you this pair of human tape-loving lightning rods that I work with.

It could be fun. But we gotta get nekkid, too.

Two things have happened this week that have left me barely functioning:

• I found out that a co-worker had a lucrative rap career in the early 90s. Like, he was actually important enough in the rap game that he was interviewed as recently 2008. (I can’t even go near him ‘til I find the words for how I feel…)
• I forgot the second one, because I WORK WITH A RAPPER!

I’ve spent far too much time trying to come up with my very own hip hop handle. I’m thinking I can use this person to give me a good “street name”. Left to my own devices, I’d call myself the Rhymenocerous, and that is already taken.

I asked my extremely white friend to help me with this but every name he comes up with starts with “lil”. It’s stupid and offensive. Even lil Wayne dropped the lil and went with Weezy F Baby.

I really need a rap handle. He’s less than zero help.

Once I garner the nads to talk to my soon to be new celebrity friend and we get past me asking him why he hasn’t been on any D List VH1 shows, I’m going to have to ask him to dub me something. It’s like being knighted.

I’ll be able to handle this in 10-12 months.

I’ll keep you posted.

jose-ariel-cuevas:

Fabulous bear.

This is why I bathe.

HOW TO mourn the death of disco:

Perhaps you may read this as me glorifying this culture, but trust that I know that things were much different in the 1970’s during the peak of all things disco. I love disco music. And though I enjoy the smooth sounds of ELO, The Village People and Gloria Gaynor, I probably would’ve suffered a massive stroke had I entered a discotheque in the mid to late 70s.

I absolutely loathe night clubs. The sweating, the writhing, the girls puking in corners while strobe lights and $12 well drinks incapacitate their friends. It’s a notion I’ll never truly understand.

I’ll take a hole in the wall bar that smells like Bud Ice and cat piss any day.*

I imagine that nightclubs in the ’70s were at least 284 times worse than they are now, mainly because everyone was high off their asses on Quaaludes, poppers and cocaine (And goddamnit if my own personal hell isn’t being surrounded by people talking about nothing at an exceedingly rapid pace, others that can barely function other than to drool while grinding on themselves, and it’s a known fact that people on “poppers” regularly shit and/or pissed themselves). I took my 5th grade D.A.R.E. course. No, thank you very much.

I love disco music, and am not embarrassed to announce it. I like other music that ups my street cred. Don’t you worry.

The past few weeks have been a little rough on the disco center of my brain, with the death of Robin Gibb (pouring out some brown liquor) and Donna Summer (some champagne to the floor for you, sister), and the scandal surrounding everyone’s favorite dancing queen, John Travolta.

Just come out and date men already. Begging bears at high end spas to give you the business end of a one man salute is just tacky. No one cares what sex you prefer, John, you’re the one making it weird.

Also, I get that technically John Travolta became asexual the day he signed on to do Wild Hogs, but when I think of Travolta, he is Tony Manera.

Whatever John Travolta you prefer is up to you. Some people like Vincent Vega, others enjoy Chili Palmer, and the schizos of the group probably have a soft spot for Sean Archer/Castor Troy. Anything is better than the bathhouse Travolta.

So, if you’re anything like me and you’re having some trouble ever since your disco dreams came crashing down around you like Jim Croce, I have some ideas that may help you get through this trying time.

• Just look at the picture above. I’m not condoning smoking. This isn’t even about the Salem brand cigarettes. Just check out the sweet ‘stache on Tom Selleck. The 70s don’t get much better than the Selleck manstache. I think a lot more women would be a lot more pregnant if more men looked like Tom circa ‘77. Classic American mustache grooming never goes out of style.

• Star Wars IV: A New Hope was released in May 25th, 1977. Celebrate the best thing to come out of the 70’s on Friday night with a marathon. Call your local baker and have them fashion a cake into an exact replica of George Lucas’s face. And last, nothing screams ‘Happy 35th Anniversary, Chewbacca!!!!” quite like the Star Wars drinking game. Pay homage with a technicolor yawn of chewed bits of George Lucas’s face cake!

• Watch a few episodes of Family Fued circa 1978, then garner the nads to go open mouth kiss a gaggle of broads who look loosely related. If Dick Dawson can do it, so can you. Just the thought of Mr. Dawson’s dusty breath near my mouth makes my disco problems fly out the window and turn into wrinkled, old man, chapped lip problems.

Now that you’re running down the street, away from elderly men you don’t know trying to lay their slug-like tongue in your mouth, duck into your local bakeshop and order your Lucas face cake.

If all else fails, just know that every November it’s now a trend for men to grow a mustache in honor of Movember. You only have 6 more months of mourning the disco greats before being distracted by a sea of wannabe 70s porn stars. Try to keep your pants on!

*I’m not a complete nightlife disaster. I can go to nice bars, beach bars, beach clubs, lounges and yes, nightclubs. I can and I will. I just prefer the ones that look like the bar is covered in hipster sweat. It’s much more sanitary than the clubs where the bars are sticky with cranberry and covered in a layer of Drakkar Noir and precum.