Tag Archives: funny

ZING!

6 Nov

If you’ve been reading this blog for any length of time you should realize by now that I amuse myself so much.  It’s true, I don’t think anyone laughs at my jokes as much as I do.  If I had my own show on Comedy Central, I’d be my number one fan.

This morning at work I was hanging out with two of my mail friends.  They’re almost the total opposite of one another: where one is totally buttoned up and conservative, the other is totally laid back and casual.  Casual Dude made a comment about how nice Buttoned Up looked today, so Buttoned Up proceeded to tell us how every election year he’s always caught by a camera crew and asked for an interview.  My take is because he dresses the part.  His take is that he has to be prepared in the event they ask him.

Meanwhile, Casual Dude has what appears to be a bunch of schmeg all over his pants.

  • Me: What the hell happened to you?
  • CD: What do you mean?
  • BU: Your shirt is totally wrinkled.
  • Me: And what’s that all over your pants?
  • CD: God damn it!  What is that??
  • Me: Guess we know who’s really excited about the election today.

Maybe you just had to be there…You totally should have been.

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A New Take on Passive Agressive

1 Nov

Yesterday afternoon I had lunch with Biggie.  After a rough weekend, he felt there was only one way to turn things around: with bacon.  When he extended the invitation he said he was on the verge of killing someone and he had to get off campus, PLUS he offered to pay.  How could I say no.

Once in the car, and after we exchanged pleasantries (which of course included comments on my fine rack and his disappointment when he saw I was wearing pants), he proceeded to tell me why his weekend had been so shitty.  It wasn’t one thing, but a series of things that led him to his breaking point.  His dog decided it was time to eat his favorite shoe, then proceeded to vomit pieces of it on the brand new white carpet in the living room.  Someone keyed his car at the grocery store.  Saturday morning he went to open the fridge for the cream he puts in his coffee, only to realize he had forgotten to buy some the previous day.  His mother-in-law showed up unannounced and decided it was time to reorganize some closets – for four hours.  After leaving, his wife harassed him all night about going.  He refused since because of the weather, so she decided to stand in front of the TV while he tried to watch a little college football.  And to top it all off, on Sunday night, his wife took a brand new gallon of ice tea out of the fridge and proceeded to drop it on the just mopped kitchen floor.  The bottom popped off and the tea spilled EVERYWHERE.  This set him off and he went into freak-the-fuck-out mode.

He went on a tirade on how much life sucked and why people don’t listen, and blah, blah, blah.  He yelled so much and so loudly that two sets of neighbors proceeded to show up to make sure he and his wife were not in some kind of danger (read: that he wasn’t beating his wife).  When they asked if everything was okay, he proceeded at yelling again.  It all ended in a massive headache.

When he woke up in Monday morning, the dog refused to get up for his morning walk.  It took an extra 15 minutes of cajoling to get him on the move.  He took a look at the car and realized it would require scraping all of the ice off the windshield – making him late to work.  Once he was done with the dog and the windshield he went back inside the house to say goodbye to his wife.  She rolled over, and asked him if his headache was gone.  “Yes,” he responded.  “Good.  You were a total prick last night.” and she rolled over and went back to bed.

As he told me the story I was rolling – especially when she called him a prick.  That’s when he started sharing what she typically does when she gets mad at me.  Her wonderful and creative techniques include hiding his good socks, and clearing out the DVR.  So he’ll wake up to watch a TV show he recorded, only to realize it’s completely gone.  But my favorite – this one had me weeping – is when she walks into the kitchen while she’s there, takes out the pitcher of iced tea he’s just brewed, walks over to the sink, and pours the entire thing down the drain while she stares at him.  She then puts the pitcher on the counter, leaves all the tea bags in the sink, and just walks out.

Almost makes me want to have a boyfriend so I can pull that kind of shit.  Good times.  Good times.

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8 Jan

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Meme’s And Tags Are For Suckers, I Guess I Can Suck It

5 Jan

The tagging and meme’s are to blogs as chain letters are to email.  Take that analogy, SAT professor.

Usually when someone decides that I’m worthy of a tag and/or meme, I pretend like I didn’t notice it or that I’m too busy and important to bother carrying on the tradition.  Recently, however, Acorn King tagged me and the concept is a good one.  The tag has evolved as each blogger has decided to give it their own spin.  When Father Muskrat had it, he changed it to 7 random acts by 7 random whores.  Acorn King decided that he’d change it to 3 embarrassing sex stories involving his friends.  Oh, and I decided to change the tag all over again.  Now it’s 3 stories that involve my exes making jack asses of themselves.

I’ve dragged my feet at getting the post up, but mainly because I was trying to come up with good stories to share.  You’re in luck, kids, I finally have the stories!!

Sleeping In The Wet Spot

My college boyfriend, Smalltown Boy, is now a professor at our alma mater.  I’m sure he would be more than delighted to know that I am sharing this story with you and the rest of the free world.  One night in the fall semester of our Senior year, Smalltown Boy and his roommates decided to throw a huge party-which they pretty much did every single weekend.  On this particular night, Smalltown Boy got butt wasted.  So wasted that I had to take him up to bed early.  After some unsuccessful attempts at groping me, Smalltown Boy passed out with his hand down my pants.  I quietly cursed him, removed his hands from Vageena Davis, and rolled over to my side of the bed and fell asleep.

A few hours later, Smalltown Boy woke me from a dead sleep by crawling on top of me.  I thought that he was trying to start things up again, and promptly told him to get off of me and let me sleep.  “I want to sleep on your side of the bed.  I need the window,” he told me.  “Bastard is going to get sick,” I thought, so I let him roll over me to get to the window.  As I made my way to his side, I suddenly felt it: a giant wet spot.  “Did we secretly have sex in the middle of the night and I just don’t remember?” I asked myself.  Nope, the wet spot was way too big for that.

I think you know where this is going.  That’s right, he peed in the bed and he wanted me to sleep in it.  Look, I’ve heard about sleeping in the wet spot before, but there’s no f’ing way that I was going to sleep in someone’s pee.  I got up, got dressed, andwalked home (thankfully, we lived on the same street about 3 houses apart).  The next day when he came to find me he looked awfully sheepish.  He pretended not to remember anything that had happened the night before.  Nice play, but I didn’t believe it for a second.

How to Make a Peen Turn Blue

In the two-some years that Un-boyfriend and I dated, we only went away on vacation one time.  One miserable time.  We took a week long trip to the beach.  I was so excited!!  In preparation for our trip, I went out and bought all sorts of accessories: gold circle coin condoms, flavored ones (not that I was going to stick them in my mouth), ribbed ones, and green ones.  As far as I was concerned, we were going to be spending the bulk of our time knocking boots.  Unfortunately, he seemed to have other plans…

The second we got to the hotel room, I started getting undressed, and he turned on the TV.  He completely ignored me for 2 hours because the NBA playoffs were on and he’s totally gay for the NBA.  No, really.   After 15 minutes of trying to “talk him” into turning off the TV, I ended up throwing a fit and then reading my book.

Blah, blah, boring details, it was finally time to hit it.  I chose the green condom for our first romp of the trip.  About 18 seconds into it (literally), he started saying, “Ouch, this hurts!”  Puzzled, I told him to shut up and keep going.  “NO!!  This really hurts!!  It feels like it’s ripping off my skin!!”  He climbed off the bed and went running into the bathroom with the green (glow in the dark) condom on his upstanding citizen.  We both cried: him like a baby and me from the hysterics I was in.

“It won’t come off!  I can’t get it off!  What did you give to me??”  I fell off the bed laughing.  “I’m losing sensation!  I think I might have to go to the hospital!”  More weeping from me as I got off the floor to try to help him.  He was buck naked in the bathroom, hunched over his Oscar Mayer weiner, trying to pull the condom from the tip.   The second I saw him standing in the bathroom trying to take the thing off, I lost it all over again.    “It’s not funny!  It’s turning blue!”  I swear I have never wept like that before.

Remember the Time We…

Mr. Big X and I loved going to New Orleans together.  The first time we went was about 6 months into the relationship: it was our Valentine’s gift to one another.  Bliss.  It was bliss.   Months later we broke up.  A year later, we got back together.  We were living in different cities at the time, and decided it would be romantic to meet up in New Orleans to rekindle the romance.  We booked the same hotel, and met at the airport.

The 2nd trip was just as great as the 1st one.  The hotel was beautiful, the food was delicious-as was the sex.  We spent the days walking around the French Quarter, and the evenings locked in our hotel room.  On our 4th night there, after a toss in the hay, we were laying in bed.    I was sure that I was laying in the arms that I would one day marry, and remember thinking that life couldn’t get any better than this.  “This reminds me so much of the last time we were here,” he said to me.  I asked him to expand.

Mr. Big X: Don’t you remember?  It was that night that we went to [insert restaurant night here].
Me: What restaurant?  I don’t remember that.
Mr. Big X: How can you not remember!!  We had that bottle of wine and that really funny waiter!
Me: Nope, no recollection.
Mr. Big X: The day we went to the aquarium?
Me: Um…no.
Mr. Big X: Come on!  You loved that place.  You had that martini with the candy in it.
Me: I’ve never had a martini with a candy in it.
Mr. Big X: Of course you have!
Me: No.  I have not.  I would remember if I had had one of those.  I think you’re confusing me with someone else.
Mr. Big X: NO!!  It was you!
Me: No, it was not.  Oh, and I hate to tell you, but I’ve never been to the aquarium here.
Mr. Big X: Are you sure?
Me: Yeah, I think I’d remember spending the day with a bunch of fish and then having some candy martini.
Mr. Big X:  I thought it was you…

For about an hour he tried to convince me that I was totally wrong.  Until it all came spilling out.  Such a gentlemen.  Mr. Big X had confused me with his last girlfriend.  Who he had just happened to also take to New Orleans.  And stayed with in the very same room.  Man, was it fun trying to see him dig himself out of that hole.  Such a wonder that it didn’t turn out…

As I mentioned at the beginning of this post, I’m not one for tagging, but I’m dying to know what Pistols would have to share with the world.  Do with this as you will.  Write about 7 whores a whoring, 3 embarrassing sex stories involving your friends, or 3 stories in which you illustrate how your exes were jack asses.  Or do something different.  Get all Nike up on it (ie: just do it).

Pistols, don’t say I never gave you anything.

Protected: La Migra! La Migra!

1 Dec

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Motorboat This

29 Sep

This one goes out to Newmie and Jane Wonder:

They there, bitches.  This set of moobies is brought to you by the leprechaun and the sub at Wegmans.

Did you like the picture?

Did it remind you of the time we spent together on Friday?

Did you tell your friends about it?

Which friends?

Do they know about us?

What did you say?

Do you like me?

This interrogation brought to you by 3D.

More Conversations with Mom

10 Dec

Every once in awhile, my mom tries to “get with it”.  She likes to pretend that she’s cool from time to time.  Inevitably I end up having to explain things that she will never understand, and will immediately forget the second we’re through.  Witness the following exchange:

  • Mom: Do you know who JC is?

  • Me: Jesus Christ?  You’re not going to lecture me on religion, are you?

  • Mom: No.  The rapper.

  • Me.  Oh, you mean Jay-Z?

  • Mom: Yes, I guess so.  I thought it was JC, though.

  • Me: No, mom.  JC stands for Jesus Christ, and unless he just signed up with Def Jam records, I’m pretty sure that you’re talking about Jay-Z.

  • Mom: Okay, Jay-Z then.  Doesn’t he date a famous singer?  Bianca, right?

  • Me: How about Beyonce, mom.  Not Bianca.

  • Mom:  Oh, well, it looks like it would be pronounced Bianca.  What kind of name is Beyonce?  Why don’t these people have regular names?

  • Me: I don’t know mom.  I didn’t name them.

  • Mom: So what songs does he sing?

  • Me: I’m sure you wouldn’t know any of them if I told you.

  • Mom: Just tell me what he sings!

  • Me: Fine.  He sings Dirt Off Your Shoulders, 99 Problems, Hard Knock Life, and some others.

  • Mom: I don’t think I know those.

  • Me: No, you don’t know them.  I told you wouldn’t know them.

  • Mom: How does 99 Problems go.

  • Me: Are you serious?

  • Mom:  Yes.  How does it go?

  • Me: [Proceeds to do a terrible rendition of the chorus]

  • Mom: I don’t like that very much.  Why does he have to use the word “bitch” so much?

  • Me: [Irritated] I don’t know, mom.  I don’t consult with him when he’s writing his freaking lyrics.

  • Mom: Well you don’t have to get angry with me.

  • Me: [Even more irritated] I’m not angry, I just don’t understand why you’re asking me these questions about something that you really don’t care about and will never be interested in.

  • Mom: Fine!  We’ll talk about something else.  How do I check my bank account online?

  • Me: Jesus Christ. . .