Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Sisters beware...the law aint on our side...

Courtesy of Perez Hilton....

Man Shoots Friend For Eating His Cake Without Asking!
Filed under: Icky Icky Poo > Wacky, Tacky & True > Legal Matters
Well refrain from the obligatory 'let them eat cake' joke because this is actually pretty messed up, apart from its innate ridiculousness. A Philadelphia man is on the run today after he reportedly shot and severely wounded his friend - and all over a piece of cake!
According to authorities, the two men were in a car together late Monday morning when the passenger began eating a piece of cake that belonged to the driver. The man became so furious that after a heated argument, he got out of his seat and shot his friend in the chest!

The investigator reveals:
"They weren't supposed to be sharing. One was eating the other's food, they got into an argument and 'Bang! Bang!'"

The victim, a 31-year-old, is hospitalized and in critical condition. The driver has yet to be apprehended.

Holy shiz!

We know it's rude to take food without asking, but HELLO?! It's a lot more rude to shoot someone in the chest - and a lot more ILLEGAL!

We hope that this guy is caught quickly - if he's willing to fire a weapon over cake, we don't want to know what he's like when he's really upset!

***FYI Perez...the bitches on this site find it perfectly acceptable to kill for food.***

Monday, January 17, 2011

The used Merecedes..

I'm back from my 20 minute oil change. As usual, whenever one dares enter the depths of my cavern, there's a traumatic story to follow. Let's begin at the beginning. I always arrive early for scheduled maintenance. That's how you get the good magazines. Arrive late and last year's issue of "Parenting Magazine" is all yours. That sort of literature puts my vag in emergency lock down. Besides, what use would I have for a magazine that clearly illustrates the consequences of sex? I'll remind you that verb is not used in my household. In any event, I got to the crotch doc 45 minutes early. Not planned. 20 minutes gets you the magazine. 45 gets you the cover of OCD Weekly. My plan was to get there a shad early and grab a bite to eat. However, memories of last year's oil change overthrew my urge to graze. I made an executive decision. Nix  consumption until after the weigh in. As if this strategy was going to make a difference. I needed to lose 20 lbs in 45 minutes. Mind you I gained 30. I should have puked in the parking lot. I had at least 5 lbs of undigested french fries from the trip up. My only hope...Dumb Nurse. There was just no way that was happening. With 45 minutes to kill, pre-poke consumption nixed, and purging not plausible ...what's a girl to do? Why plan a meal of course! I can't think of a better thing to do when you can't eat than plot out your next binge. After all, the 5 hour drive to VA gave me an opportunity to do some research. I'm sorry to report my section of 95 North offers the run of the mill Burger King, "MacDonald's" and so on. It's like revisiting a one night stand. Why? Been there done that and the portions aren't suitable, thank you.  I need the Brad Pitt of fast food. A hot meal with a boat load of meat hold the bun. Something to twinge my twat (it was that sort of trip after all). I give you...Long John Silvers.

So, there in the parking lot of the place where neither my legs or my weight loss would come together, there was hope. I pulled out my phone and began looking for LJS locations I may have missed along the way. Clearly there should have been a sign. Vegas style complete with flashing lights. "We have planks & Crunchies." On that note, if you are a true LJS fan, pause for reflection. Mother use to take me to LJS every weekend. Yes, I just said that. That was back when they gave you the crunchies for free. Now in the age of the food pyramid and stupid healthy people, you have to ask & pay extra for them "Um, yeah, I'll have the 3 piece chicken plank dinner, add a plank, super size, throw in the fried fat drippings and a Diet Coke." *random sign of the cross* Whilst the end result is sheer pleasure, ordering is a bit traumatic. As my humongous paws were pounding away at my keyboard I realized something...even if I found a LJS it would be 3 days before I could get to it! Panic. Focus. I managed to find every one within a 100 mile radius. My f'n mouth was watering for batter dipped chicken and it was just 7:30am. Somewhere along the way I lost track of the fact I was suppose to be losing weight in the parking lot not planning my next binge. It's a sickness people!  As I Mapquested (Sarah Palin style word) the closest one, I realized I didn't have anything to write on. Crisis. I grabbed a used deposit slip and wrote frantically over the numbers that represented my worth to my employer. Too shameful to report I fear. A bad thought ran through my head. It would be just my luck. I would die in a car crash trying to find a LJS and the world would come to realize my obsession with eating via a blood stained deposit slip. I can't think of a more fitting exit.

After meal planning I thought it safe to head to Beaverville. I was still 15 minutes earlier than the 15 minutes early they had asked me to be. I wasn't sure there would even be magazines at this hour. I walked in and my heart sank. New Nurse. I don't like New Nurse. She was less than attractive and appeared to be a "by the book type." I don't like her kind. I prefer everything my way. She looked a little old. I prayed for blindness. Mean receptionist wasn't in yet. I was sure she would scold me for being too early. She scolds me for everything else. Having a long distance number, an out of state check and moving too much. Obviously I'm running from the law bitch. Go change your diaper. When mean old receptionist arrived, I decided to pick a fight with her. I was bored and I didn't feel like reading the latest literature on crabs. It was too early and I didn't want to spoil my post-poke appetite. My plan....when she asked for my co-pay I would tell her she was only getting $15- not the $30 on my card. Like a good fatty about to get fingered I filled out everything she asked me to. When I gave her the check for $15 she scowled. "Your card clearly says $30 for a specialist." I explained to her that the Mercedes was here for a routine check-up and wouldn't be going up on the lift. She backed down before I had a chance to impress her any further with my keen Blue Cross Blue Shield knowledge. Fatties 1, Mean Receptionist 0. A frugal fatty knows $30 is a bit steep for 20 minutes of prodding.

As New Nurse called me back I started thinking about something that would make me cry. This visit would require tears in order to explain how I went from heavy to morbidly obese. I started thinking about the 72 hours I would have to wait before I could munch on crunchies. Tears began to stream. Damn. It was too early. She would think I was crazy. Allergies. That's it. In the last 12 months I had random allergies to everything in the outer aisles and was forced to feed on Little Debbie until such time they could find a cure. It wouldn't be necessary. She didn't catch the tears. Instead she went straight for the gut. It was like, "Hi, how are...what do you weigh?" I didn't know which question to answer first so I went with, "Hello, I feel like shit and alot." She wasn't amused. I gave her the number she was digging for. In turn she gave me the death stare. She would go on to give me something of a compliment/insult. "You don't look like you weigh that much." Hmm. How does one respond to that? "And you don't look like the whore who's going to ruin my day." Nouf said. Moving on to blood pressure. I'm all for technology except when it works against me. "Your blood pressure is 138/83." No, that's my goal weight/the number of times I have failed to reach it this month. What?! My first thought was a one way ticket to the fat farm. Surely death was looming. I needed one last meal and then "New Me" would have to come out to play. Then logic kicked in and I asked for a recount. She looked offended. Whatever. You want to be offended? I'll drop my thong. I always get my way. She took it manually. Amazingly it dropped to 123/79. I chalked it up to one part nerves one part KFC within the last 24 hours. I'm OK with rising above the bar. It's what I do.

I made light of my weight gain to try and get her on my side before hot doctor got involved. I explained I had been hit by a car and wasn't able to run for months. I left out the part about me being in a car when I was hit and being able to do other exercises. Ughum. No need to get lost in the details. It worked. She grabbed my arm and asked me if I was doing ok now. Well right now, no. In about 20 minutes when I'm at Bojangles, yes. She took me into a room with cold utensils that would soon explore my nether regions while I laid patiently in my paper dress. Clearly there has to be a better way to declare my vag crab free. I think sex with the hot doctor should do it. But I played her game. I started undressing as she left the room. Much to my surprise, she came back in to retrieve a folder as I was prying the thong that claims it doesn't creep (and it does) from my ass. She will remember to knock next time. I'm sure of it. Of course like the non college grad I am, I put the "dress" on backwards. Whatever. Ties go in the back. Everyone knows that. You want it that easy, it'll cost YOU money. The doctor came in and I instantly attacked him with all that is me. "So I'm sure the nurse told you I was in a near fatal car accident thus resulting in this horrific weight gain." "It's fine. Certainly understandable in this situation. You'll bounce back." Of course I'll bounce. Did you peep the number? That's what I love about my doctor. I could tell him I have AIDS and he would tell me it's certainly a manageable situation and not to worry. Mind you we will never be having that conversation bcs it requires sex. In fact, I dare say I owe him a thank you note for dusting my cobwebs. He felt the need to address the fact that I could be 90 years old and still on the pill if I wanted to avoid menopause. Um yeah. I'm on the pill to avoid crumb snatchers. Not plausible at 90. Perhaps sex will be. Dreamer...

After all was said and done I realized, you can never have a bad day as long as you have a good excuse. Loser words to live by. I headed to Panera for a treat. What? Doctors don't give stickers to 38 year olds. I wanted to see my friend Laurie and she works by Panera. Strategic. Of course I gave her a courtesy call beforehand. "I'll be there at 10. I'll be the fat one in the 4Runner in case you don't recognize me." It's Fatty 101. Always forewarn friends of weight gain. It sets up the instant compliment, "You look great." Or in Mother's case, "You don't look that bad. I've seen you bigger." After visiting with Laurie for an hour it was time for lunch. You do the math. So I ate and ate and ate until I was time for me to go home....aka LJS. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to DC. If you ever get the chance to go you should do what I did, sleep and eat. Thank you Susan. On the way back to NC I started to feel like I was getting sick. Sure. Now I can puke. Nothing would keep me from LJS. I scouted the exit like hunter honing it's prey. It wouldn't be easy. There was a reason it wasn't on the sign. It was about 40 miles off the exit. No matter. When I arrived I felt a bit climatic. I decided if I had come this far I would go inside like a civilized human. As I waited in line I noticed the booths were named after coastal towns. Nags Head. Virginia Beach. It was a sign. I was home. I stood there thinking...this is a fish place and I just went 40 miles out of my way to get here and....order chicken. Yes, yes I did. Like a true fatty I got my order to go and ate it in the car. I didn't want anyone to hear me moan. In a flash it was gone. Add a plank, crunchies, super size diet wondrous wonder gone. Depression set in. Maybe I could sneak up here once a month. My husband would think I was cheating, follow me and realize I was having an affair with plank of chicken. Meat is meat. I'd still get half. It's the law.

The Mercedes is back home safe and sound where it will remain unscathed for another year. A 38 year old Mercedes with 2 miles on it. It was used when I bought it....

Wednesday, January 5, 2011

New currently unavailable

She doesn't want to come out and play. I tried bringing her out for "New Me Monday" (as per SIF protocol) but she opted for $1 drafts and pizza. Who am I to deny her Frugal Fattness?  It's not like I was unprepared. At 11:59pm on Sunday evening I hung motivational statements on my mirror in an attempt to put the transition to the other side in perspective. "You are a fat whore. Fat people suck. Your husband won't bang you bcs weigh more than he does." I can't imagine why I wasn't fired up come Monday morning. In between making homemade "Successories" I saw something staring back at me I didn't recognize. It sorta looked like me but..... right above the top of my jeans was an inflatable disk that hung against my seams from front to back. It appeared to be extraterrestrial in nature. Aliens trying to get in my jeans? At least someone is. There also appeared to be some sort of handles underneath my shoulder blades? When I stretched my arms to flatten them I gained a cup size as they reformed in the shape of DD breasteses. I attempted to bend over but this mass inhibited me from touching my toes.  Definitely some sort of stage 9 cancer. Not sure how I got it. The aliens must have brought it on the space ship. In case you haven't had the occasion to be in this "situation," I should warn you..."what lies beneath" is always scarier than what's staring back. As if one needed more motivation than Diabetes, Death and Divorce....I give you... THE HUGE VAG. Yes sisters I speak the truth. You CAN super size the pink taco without giving birth. Here's the recipe...1 part MacDonalds, 2 part KFC and 0 part sex. It's a wonder the thing doesn't spontaneously combust. Reason #1 to jump on board the "New Me Monday Express"- Big Beaver. That's all I can really say about that. Oh...except to say if you are a Brother in's not a reciprocal issue. If I thought I could get me some mammoth willy by way of a BIF..I would have been there done thought. Myth busted.

Moving right along. Loser. That's me. I literally ate myself into a coma between Thanksgiving and New Years, in preparation for the big day of course. I was truly at the point of making myself sick with all the sugar and fat when January 3rd crept up on me. Letting go isn't easy. It's like breaking up with an asshole boyfriend. You know it's the right thing to do yet something compels you to let him linger in the background for rough sex and self pity. I find food very orgasmic. The word "lunch" makes me salivate. That's the most excitement I get these days. When the word "lunch" equals salad (and not with ranch dressing)'s like sex with the hot older guy who forgot to pop the Viagra. What's the point? If I wanted to eat such trash I would get down on all fours, grow utters and graze with the cows. I think if I were an animal I would be a Chupacabra. Don't know what that is? Exactly. Hiding out. Eating what I want. People wondering if you are for real. That's my gig. For now, I'll have to live in the plus size plethora of phat that is me. It's out of control. I don't want to be photographed. For good reason. I saw pictures of me at New Year's and it looked like I was trying to eat my friends. When your face looks like a weather balloon and your fingers look like dick daggers, it's best to stay clear of the photogs.

Since coming to grips with my shortcomings, I started thinking about all of the things I "can't" do. I can't grow a beard, I can't grab my dick, I can't let someone wait on me hand and foot without giving them sex, I can't fight the Taliban, I can't cut my own hair and would appear I can't lose weight. I watch the Biggest Loser. I keep thinking, "If they can do it so can I." That thought expires at the commercial break when I head downstairs for some Doritos and Peanut M&M's. What? Dorito breath doesn't get you sex? Nor does Dorito breath laced with Peanut M&M's. I was just trying to make a point. I just don't happen to recall what that point was. Ughum. My point you know there are people eating tapeworms to lose weight? Really?! I eat worms. Gummy worms. I don't find they reciprocate. Fuckers. My point is...can I get on the Biggest Loser? I'm not 300 lbs but I can work on it. I think Bob is hot. I fear he's gay. I love the gays. Not sure he would love me at 300 lbs or with a vagina but you never know. I could be his mercy fuck. I'm okay with that. I know this...that Jillian has a penis.

You'll be pleased to know in the midst of "New Me Monday" which is now "New Me Next Monday," I am headed off to see my favorite doctor! It's time to take the Mercedes to Jiffy Lube! One problem. You'll recall last year's incident with "dumb nurse" wherein as she single handidly made me lose 20 lbs by reading the scale wrong. That one. My short term goal at that time (12.5 months ago) was to actually lose the 20 lbs and come out even. Goals are for losers. I gained 20lbs (at least). I plan to sell her down the river with some random story of her telling me I needed to gain weight as I was too thin. Or something. I don't know. Maybe she'll be working. Problem solved. Unless she got glasses or a clue. This will involve tears. My Dr. was so happy at my fake weight loss. I hate disappointing him. He's so freaking hot. I wonder if he enjoys looking at vag all day. I wouldn't. It's like looking at wrinkled neck fat. Yummy. My dick would be hard when I got home. Not. I wouldn't want to look at penis all day either. Unless it was hard, 10 inches and ready to strike. I would be ok with that. I'm getting off track...

So...due to "inclimate weather," New Me Monday has been rescheduled until January 9th. However comma, my Dr. may admit me after realizing I need to be weighed via horse scales. Should this happen, I request to be fed bacon grease by way of an IV. I'm sure my vitals are tragic. They say you should listen to your body. I can't hear a thing over my ass. Fucker won't shut up. In any event, if Susan is any sort of friend she will force feed me all weekend and send me home with all sorts of motivational advice to the contrary. Susan, hear my prayer.