Monday, October 11, 2010

Just Be Thankful YOU Didn't Write It

So pretty much the only reason I ever clean my house is because all the outrageous, orgiastic parties I have would make it impossible for CSI to find a killer if one ever visits me because of all the sexy body fluids that get splashed everywhere, and if there's one thing I can't abide by, it's justice not being served.* HAHAHAHAHA! Just kidding. No one would ever try to kill me. Even all my dubious colleagues at the International Shadowy College of Sexy Cat Burglars treat me with respect because they all feel, and I am very comfortable speaking for them, that I have a certain quiet dignity about me which comes from being the most awesome person ever.

International Shadowy College of Sexy Cat Burglars Class of '09 RULES!!!

Actually, the only reason I clean up my house is so I don't accidentally kill my children, because THAT is one ugly pile of paperwork to fill out when it happens, and I would rather not have to sign a thousand documents that start "Accidental Homicide Investigation Form" (again). Turns out, once you have those things, they totally expect you to keep them alive like, THE WHOLE TIME before they turn 18. Sheesh. I don't think thwarting natural selection is the right decision for our species, guys. I'd rather know my children have the cunning and wit to stay alive then keep them that way because as a species we've gone soft. Also, think of all the trapping and hunting and tourniquet tying skills they could learn along the way!

The other day, I was in the bathroom contemplating how awful it must be for people whose shit does stink, when I saw a little glass bottle of The Girl's perfume on the floor under the shower curtain. Wait...don't go. This story is awesome. Check it out. I'm about to do some radical shit up in here. So I'm about to leave the bathroom and go back to testing my hypothesis that if I alternate between eating raw hot dogs and drinking shots of vodka I will puke and then pass out and not the other way around, when it occurs to me that maybe I ought to pick up the bottle of perfume, because what if somebody trips and falls and kills themselves when I knew it was there. How would that make me feel? Almost guilty is the answer. And I can't have that.

So I pick it up, and that's when I realize how handsome I must look to a passerby, and even though my bathroom is on the second floor, I think if someone was shot out of a catapult and flying past my window, their last thought would be "Well, Hel-LO!" and then I think that the only reason I have for doing any work around the house is to keep these goddamn kids alive and from getting sick, so maybe I DO deserve some kind of humanitarian award. I should totally call back the Nobel people.
My Humility as personified by a bear with a machine gun surfing on a shark.

MORAL: In M.I.A.'s international smash hit "Paper Planes" she claims to have "more records than the KGB", but this seems highly unlikely because the population of the Soviet Union at the height of the Cold War, when the KGB was most active, was 286.7 million people, making her claim highly suspicious at best. She could possibly be laboring under the delusion that with the fall of Communism in 1989, the KGB was disbanded...but even if that were the case, which it is not, any records they may have kept would STILL be in existence. It's all just foolishness to think otherwise, M.I.A.!

ALSO MORAL: Go read The Roaring Dork today, because THAT guy is awesome.

*As long as "justice" doesn't include subpoenas** because I hate when those motherfuckers are served. Whhaaaa! So, I crapped in the front seat of your YOU'VE never got high huffing Aspercreme©.

**When I said "subpoenas" in my head, I pronounced it "sub-penis" which is technically, according to my incredible command of Latin, "below penis" or in layman's terms "balls".

ex: "Your mom can kiss my hairy subpoenas!" Knowledge is power.

Bonus: Because Pandas Fix Everything:

Monday, October 4, 2010

I Found A Funny Picture. Learned An Interesting Fact. And Then This Happened.

This is what your period would look like if it was turned into an animal. Do you think it's a coincidence I choose a cat to personify it? Than you don't know me at all.

I don't like to always write about periods, but I learned something really interesting this morning about you girls and your secretive lady-time and I wanted to share it with the world because I would rather teach a man to fish and feed his knowledge about menstruation for a lifetime. Or something.

What I learned was that the thing where girls who live together all sync up their periods is not some type of vaginal witchcraft as I previously had suspected, but is rather a proven medical phenomenon known as the McClintock Effect. I thought it was just a freak occurrence like The Perfect Storm, where instead of waves coming together to capsize Russell Crowe's boat, there is irrationality and bitchiness and ice cream and tampon wrappers in the garbage can to capsize my life.

The McClintock Effect is, of course, named after John Wayne's character from the movie McClintock!* who "likes his whiskey hard...his women soft... and the West all to himself." And maybe you think it's weird that they would name vagina magic after The Duke, but remember his real name was "Marion", and that's a girl's name and girls get on their periods, so really it makes perfect sense.**
John Wayne was an early proponent of Women's Rights.
Especially the sexy "Right to Get a Spanking For Not Cookin' My Dinner"

And I don't know whose bright idea it was to name it The McClintock! Effect, because that sounds boring and not even a little mysterious or supernatural and I personally believe that all the women getting on the same cycle is spooky as hell. That's the kind of shit I expect to jump out at me from behind the bushes on Halloween night. I would have called it "Lady Bloodworth's Voodoo Pussy Enchantment" to really put the fear of it into men. That's why you guys don't get paid as good as us... you've never utilized the creeping horror of your menstrual cycle to your advantage. Get in the game, Ladies!

Words To Live By:
Go read my review of Let Me In on The Roaring Dork. *Spoiler*: I'm handsome

* Now I don't know about you, but I think any movie that has an exclamation point right in the title is pretty goddamn arrogant and need to get over itself.

** Three seconds of research would have told me that John Wayne has nothing to do with pussy voodoo, but those are three seconds I could be looking at myself in the mirror and deciding if the abs I just drew on with a Sharpie© look real enough before I go to the gym. So really it just makes sense that I didn't do the research.