Drink to This

I don’t think it’s any secret in these here parts that I like to drink. I like to drink a lot.  And I don’t mean alcohol (although I like to drink that too),  I just mean drinks in general.  Liquids.  Because I dehydrate easily. Even when I was a child I was more thirsty than hungry ever.  When my parents would take us to a local cafe for ice cream, I’d ask for a Coke instead.  In a glass bottle. With icy condensation running down the bottle and a stripy paper straw. You can keep your ice cream and your * milk shakes. I love drinks.  They are so ultimately satisfying.

*Milk shakes are not drinks.  They are melted ice cream.  Ok?  OK.

These days I’m trying to be good where my drink intake is concerned.  My biggest vice is Diet Pepsi. Sure it has no calories and tastes ok but it does have artificial sweeteners that apparently make you insane and deformed and give you a hunch back and a forked tongue and make your belly button close up.  Like a dirty-minded, motor-cycle riding, tobacco spitting boyfriend, I know it’s no good for me, yet it’s so damn tantalizing.  That icy coldness.  The intense aggression of the fizz almost burning in your throat.  I love it.  I am addicted to it.  I would happily drink it until I explode in a giant blast of C02 and happiness and guts. I need my Diet Pepsi, damn it.  For the sake of all humanity and any future peace on Earth.
 
But I have been limiting myself to one small bottle a day.  One small bottle.  It almost hurts me to say it.   The rest of the day I drink water  as I am clearly insane.  Because water doesn’t have a taste or any thrills at all.  And because I am quite inconsolable about drinking it when I could be feeling that chilled, caffeinated bottle of Aspartame drip down my throat like sweet, sweet honey.  Only, you know….fizzier and Pepsier.

I have my one Diet Pepsi with either lunch or dinner.  Whichever I choose, I will fixate on it for hours before.  “Only three more hours till my Diet Pepsi” I mutter under my breath while trying not to twitch in anticipation.

It’s really as sad as it sounds. 

The other day there was no Diet Pepsi in the house but a foreign bottle of Coke Zero on a shelf of its own in the fridge, shunned by vegetables and cheese alike, due to its alien presence.  Even the condiments didn’t want to be around it and those little sluts will hang out with anyone.  So reluctantly I drank it. And it was satisfactory I suppose.  For an inferior beverage.  It was too….Cokey.  I felt like a spy infiltrating foreign waters. But it was ok.  I mean it wasn’t Diet Coke at least. That trashtastic whore. I draw the line at Diet Coke. Diet Coke steals all your money and tries to sell sex tapes of you to the National Enquirer.

And it tastes like ass.

So yes, I’m determined that my water intake needs to be constant and gigantic.  I need to flood my innards with cold, refreshing aqua. Flush out my toxic system and let my skin bathe in the glow of health it contains.  I need to drink so much water I am 99% water and make water-bed noises when I move or else I’ll turn into a reprobate or a serial killer, according to all the health articles I read.

On the alcohol side of the fence, I also have a substantial urge for some icy cold beer and possibly some Malibu.  I love me some Malibu. I know, I know, it’s a lame lady drink but it tastes so good. So good. All coco-nutty and fruity and rummy and delectable.  I want it in a tall glass with ice, a wedge of lime and chilled 7UP.  No substitutions.  No Coke.  I know Malibu and Coke is the norm, but since when am I the norm?  Huh?  Since never that’s when. I dilute all my liquors with 7UP or Sprite.  It’s the only way to be a classy lady like me. Coke mixers are for Plebians and perverts.

Tomorrow, I may have to stop at the liquor store and procure a bottle of Malibu and just put myself out of my misery. 

Yes I did.  I wrote an entire entry about drinks.  Worship my deviance.

The State of Current Affairs (COCK)

Man, what a depressing week.  No wonder January’s supposed to be the worst month of the year.  Haiti had a giant killer earthquake (because that’s a country that really needed another challenge), Dexter’s got cancer and still no one’s killed The Situation on “Jersey Shore”. Crazy. 

For the record, I’d like to volunteer for the last one.  I’d beat him to death with a cookie sheet while yelling, “Here’s your situation here, you little orange fucker!”

I have to admit I tend to avoid the TV news these days.  I can’t take it anymore.  It’s not that it’s full of depressing stories and distressing scenes, it’s just that it’s so damn sensational.  It’s like the news stations sport a giant chubby whenever disaster strikes, so they can broadcast 24 hours a day repeating the same crap over and over again and when there’s no new crap to report they can report rumours.  I’d rather read my news online where I can control the madness and get a condensed picture, even if it’s the BBC who seem unable to write an article these days without grammatical errors or spelling mistakes.  WTF, Beeb, didn’t you used to be all about quality? 

Check me out being all ballsy, hollering at a world famous and respected news organization. Honestly though, all their quality people must be on TV or out in the field, leaving a bunch of coked up monkeys to write their online content. I’m talking your bogstandard coked-up monkeys, not clever ones like The Japing Ape here.

Anyway, I’m starting my own news channel (in my head) where only good, funny and totally irrelevant news will prevail as well as a daily cake forecast, which I will dedicate to Maussie.

And I will call my channel “COCK” because it is my channel and I can call it whatever I want and this would enable my head reporter (me) to say things like, “This morning on my COCK…a lady tucks her skirt into her panties in the Senate and we have a delightful Tres Leches Cake.  All right here on my COCK.”

Or, “All COCK all the time!”

Because I am twelve.

There will be no wars.
No natural disasters (only unnatural ones, like Lindsay Lohan showing side boob)
No murders
No kidnappings
No politics

Doesn't that sound awesome?

Be good.

Playing Catch-Up

I just returned from four long fabulous days in the country, with zero access to the Internet. Who knew how refreshing that could be? It was like the old days or something. I practically expected to fetch water with a pail and read by candlelight while some slightly deformed, one-toothed gent said things like “Aaar, don’t be out in them thar dark forest alone, me lady, queer things be afoot in them thar woods...” before giving me a knowing, dark look and shuffling off to the cellar where he lives incestuously with his sister.

So yes, it was four days spent drinking long cups of coffee, having two hour breakfasts, lots of naps, sitting in gigantic recliners nursing hot drinks and skidooing like a fiend, through the open fields and hills while cackling maniacally to myself things like, “Yeah baby, I am Evel Knievel!” as I flew over hills and valleys and frozen lakes, terrorizing deer and getting snow burn on my face and snow in my pants.

Which is better than bugs in my pants, as you all know by now.

And if there’s one thing that frightens me more than bugs crawling up my ass it’s standing on frozen water that might give way at any moment sending me to a watery, very chilly grave. But you’d have been proud of me as I skidooed over that lake like a demented ice nymph.

Ok so maybe the the water right there was about a foot deep but still. That shit is cold.

All in all pretty satisfying. Plus when you’re skidooing alone as I mostly was, you can talk to yourself and guffaw out loud at unlikely things and no one can give you the look. You know the look… I am not the only person who knows the look, people.

Then yesterday, after a gruelling, snowy seven hour drive home, I was greeted at the door by my Google Reader with a frown on its face, yelling, “I am stuffed to the gills with posts, fucker, do you think you could read some blogs before I burst?”

That thing is so damn demanding!

So yes, I am a bit behind with online life, so forgive me that I haven’t read any blogs or done much commenting lately, I am overwhelmed with bloggyness. Do you know how much I ache? I feel like I’ve been body slammed by Mike Tyson. Goddamn skidoos.

So I will get to your blogs in a bit, but there are a lot of them and I am busy as a little fuck therefore, I may be a bit silent on commenting until I am current again, capiche?

Random Thought of the Day

I often wonder why someone wishing to commit suicide would choose to do it by jumping off a tall building.  I mean, if you must check out early there are so many more dignified and less messy ways to go about it.  What happened to taking a bunch of pills and some Chardonnay and falling asleep listening to Joy Division?

Jumping off a building seems to have too many pitfalls.   For example, it gives you at least a few seconds to actually contemplate what you're doing on the way down.

If you've swallowed 50 painkillers at least you have a window of time to panic, change your mind and have your stomach pumped before the inevitable happens.

But if you jump off a building what happens if you're halfway down, the sidewalk is coming up fast and you suddenly remember, “Shit, I’m never going to find out what happens in the last season of ‘Lost’ now!”

Boy, are you going to feel stupid!  Though admittedly, not for long.

All Aboard the Immaturity Express

I think there might be something wrong with me.  I think I’ve mentioned this before, but I cannot burp.  I’ve never been able to manage it and God knows, I have tried long and hard.  Because it is an awesome talent and it is goddamn hilarious.  

I maybe belch once a year if that and even then it’s so tiny and silent and so entirely surprising to me that I have to grab passing strangers by the arm urgently and go, “Did you hear that?  I totally burped right then and it tasted like Irn Bru!”,  then when I pick myself up off the ground and wipe the Mace out of my eyes, I am delighted with myself.  Because I never burp!  It’s a momentous occasion worthy of a national holiday.
 

I envy you burpers, I really do. I am jealous. I come from a family of excellent burpers.  Well, except for my mum, who is a lady and I’ve never heard an explosion of gas come out of either end of her, ever! I bet she doesn’t even poop.  I bet her digestive system turns all her food into rose water or something.

My grandma on my dad’s side, however, was possibly a world champion of burping, although I never saw a trophy or anything “official”. The woman was tall, sweet, cheerful, athletic and sprightly even in her older years, but she could belch like an overfed trucker in a vat of Pepsi.  And because she was old, she could belch with complete impunity.  People over 70 can do that you know.  They can burp or fart anytime they want and they don’t even have to acknowledge it or blame the dog.  They don’t need manners or etiquette anymore.  They’re all “Screw you guys, I’m 70, I have earned the right to expel noxious gases from my person anytime I want, just you try and stop me, paaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrp.” 

And it’s hilarious.  It is. It is the funniest thing ever in the history of funny things (except maybe that funny thing with The Hoff and the cheeseburger).

So we’d be sitting there at Christmas dinner, my whole family and grandparents and everything and in the middle of the trifle, my grandma would be producing this sound that I imagine wasn’t unlike the reaction you’d get if you stuck a tube into Michael Moore’s belly button and screamed the word “REPUBLICANS!” down it.  And of course the adults at the table would politely ignore this like it never even happened,  because grandma is old and she can’t help herself.  My grandma would be telling a story and there’d be a giant, five second mega-burp half way through a sentence and she’d continue like nothing happened. My jaw would hit the table with delight and only a warning glance from my mum would shut me up. And, as we kids learned, the response to this giant Tuba of a belch was not to rip a fart that sounded like someone had torn their pants, no matter how funny that is.  Grandma’s belching can be ignored, but we get sent to our rooms, that was how it went.

My sister inherited my grandma’s prowess in the belching arena.  She can belch entire sentences and I’d rupture things laughing at her.  My favourite thing was my sister’s ability to belch “YOU TALK BOLLOCKS!” on demand.  It was an art form.  Trust me on this.

She is also better at farting than I am and could produce the most obnoxiously stinky eggers you ever experienced, which, as we shared a room in our early years, wasn’t a great triumph in my opinion.  But she could also out-volume the stereo which was funny.  See how it goes? Loud = hilarious, stinky = not at all hilarious, unless I did it. 

A few years ago, while being evacuated from the Keys due to Hurricane Rita, she and I ended up in a beachfront hotel in Fort Myers, Florida, in the pouring rain with nothing to do but drink beer and eat pizza in our room.  Our typical conversations that week were a bit like this:

Her: Well it sucks that we didn’t get to stay in the Keys but you know what?

Me: What?

Her:  PTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTTHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHPPPPRP!

Me: DUDE….REALLY?

Her: Better out than in.

Me:  I guess at least we’re on the beach with a view and everything.  It could be worse.

Her: I know.  You know what would be a lot worse?

Me: What’s that?

Her: BBBBTHHHHHFFFFFPPPPPPPPPPPPP!  PPPPPPPRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRP!

Me:  Jesus fuck.  Open a window!

Her: Hahaha.

Then to rub salt in the wound, she’d belch.  My peeps.  We be classy.

Stuart Enormous

Last week, while lounging on my bed early one morning about to take a nap, I heard this faint clicking noise coming from the other side of the room by the TV, so I had a quick glance over there to see what was what. Just as I did, this THING sprung out from behind the TV and flew at the apparent speed of sound, clean across the room and got behind the couch. It moved so freaking fast it was a black blur. I couldn’t even tell what it was, except it was ginormous and obviously wanted to suck out my organs.

I know this because I heard it hiss from behind the couch, “I am coming for you Veg.”

So I acted in a logical, mature and sensible manner by jumping to my feet in a nano-second (think of the movement of the Vampires in “True Blood”) and shrieking “WHAT. THE. MOTHERFUCKING. FUCK. WAS. THAT?”

I was the only person there yet I’m pretty certain I heard a deep, echoey hiss from the couch, “I have come for your soul.”

I think I stood there for about two minutes in a state of shock before I could move. The thing was huge. It was like a giant, fat Rhinocerous, only you know…one built for incredible speed. And possibly featuring a long, skinny tail. It blacked out the sun it was so huge. I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees in its shadow. It was a demon straight from Hell (or sent by Lindsay Lohan after calling her a skank ho the other day). It was a monster-devil-demon-entity-thing.

Well, OK it was a mouse. But it was a BIG FUCKING MOUSE. It was the Darth Vader of mice and it wanted to eat my eyeballs.

Naturally, I had chosen that day to have the worst headache ever in the history of headaches and had gone back to bed to hopefully have a little nap and wake up cured, but after the monster mouse event I was too skittish to lie back down in case it decided to pitter patter all over me while I slept and nibble on my nose and try to get in one of my holes.

Jesus Christ, I have problems enough worrying about bugs crawling up my ass, let alone something with teeth and bad intent.

Finally, I was so cranky and tired I decided I’d deal with the situation later and just lie down, so I cocooned myself like a burrito into the comforter with just my face peeking out, after I turned on every light in the apartment, opened the blinds and put on a “Golden Girls” marathon. I figured if anything can keep a murderous mouse at bay it’d be Bea Arthur and her big eighties’ shoulders and penis.

And then I didn’t see the mouse again for two days. I opened cupboards and closets with trepidation. I didn’t see it, I didn’t hear it, I checked for signs, there were no signs. And on the third day I thought “Did I IMAGINE that whole mouse thing?” Because there was this one time I imagined a ton of spiders in my bed and one of them told me a riddle and well….I won’t get into that. So I started doubting my usually extremely reliable and legendary sanity.

Until on that third evening, while lounging around on my mattress, I saw this little dark presence creep out from its new home under the dishwasher and stare right at me. With beady-eyed INTENT. And I swear I heard it say, “Tonight bitch. Tonight is the night. Tonight all your holes are belong to us.” before laughing in an evil manner (i.e., with lots of reverb) and darting back under the dishwasher.

And that night sure enough I heard it running around the hard wood floors like a tiny poodle after a lobotomy, but luckily I had reinforced all my holes and got right under the blanket and I thought, “Well victory is mine tonight but we need to get a trap, ASAP before I am violated by this undead creature from the darkside.”

So tonight a trap will be procured. A non-killing trap because I don’t like to kill things and I don’t want to be dealing with mouse guts or anything nasty like that. Then he will go out to meet his new home – the dumpster - where he can keep warm among the trash and eat like a king and leave my eyeballs the hell alone.

Your days are numbered, evil motherfucking mouse overlord.

Happy New Year (Crappy old Cera)

Happy New Year, fellow delinquents!

I hope your festivities were trouble free and that you woke up yesterday with all your limbs/money/dignity intact. Well, your limbs anyway. I also hope your private regions weren’t violated by a stranger or that dirty Lindsay Lohan.

Me, I had a nice, quiet New Year’s Eve which I liked. I didn’t even drink. Yes, you heard me correctly. No alcohol passed my lips and before anyone suggests it, that doesn’t mean I poured it in any of my other holes using a complicated series of funnels. I also realize just saying that makes it look suspiciously like I put way too much thought into that scenario and that it might just have happened. Well screw you guys! Pffft.

I was actually impressed by my clean living self. “Self!” I said, "This is great practice for when you’re 92, don’t drink and can’t stand up anymore.”, to which my future self retorted, “Shut up and get me some tequila, motherfucker!” before throwing a Yellow Pages at me and screaming, as I dart out the door, “And get off of my lawn.”

So yes. A new decade. I refuse to call it “twenty ten” though. It’s “two thousand and ten” because I have class and am not lazy. Twenty ten doesn’t mean a goddamn thing. It’s just two random words thrown together. You might as well shout “Eighty Orange!” or “Madagascar Brownie!” or “Guilty Taint!” But you make up your own mind. You know, even if it's wrong.

Completely unrelated because I have a short attention span, did you see there’s another youth oriented, Michael Cera movie coming out? I used to think Michael Cera was sort of bumbling and appealing in a “be yourself” geeky sort of way. Used to. Now I just think, “Dude, Michael Cera. What are you thinking? You keep playing the same character over and over again. I’m starting to think you might be that guy in real life. *And I’m getting annoyed by your bumbling and nervous nice guy routine.”

Because in all honestly, can you really ever see Michael Cera playing any other sort of character? No. No you cannot. He’s hardly going to play a Mexican drug lord or a Mad Max kind of hard-man, right? He wouldn’t know how. Druglord Michael Cera’d be all, “Um…call this blow, this is like uh…flipping icing sugar, motherflipper, I’m going to slap you silly! You know, if uh…you don’t mind.”

I mean OK, there was that little clip of Michael Cera having a tantrum at ‘Funny or Die’ from last year, but that was only a joke. And he was less badass in that than he was a little bitch. And I am willing to believe that when he has his period, Michael Cera might really be a little bitch. But even Funny or Die recognized that Michael Cera can never be badass.

This new movie gives him an evil twin Michael Cera and that Michael Cera is supposed to signify that he is the badass bitch side of Michael Cera because he has a little ginger moustache. It actually makes him look more like he bothers goats but whatever. But do you buy that? I don’t buy that. Michael Cera is about as badass as a packet of Skittles. And seriously, I believe the Skittles could take him in a fight, even just the red ones.

Realistically, they could give the dude an AK-47, a bullet wound in his leg and a full-body tattoo of “Hellraiser” and he still wouldn’t scare anyone’s granny.

* Before you all start bleating ad nauseum about how fantastic “Arrested Development” was, let me get this off my chest. I hated “Arrested Development”. I tried to like it, I really did. People raved about it. Yet I found it the most over-hyped show on TV. And not even all that funny. So there. I said it. And I am right.

To summarize; new Michael Cera movie is going to make me frown. When you think about it, I could have said all the above using that one sentence.

Anyway, time to go and do something productive that may or may not involve Malibu (the drink, not the place, sadly). Happy New Year again. May it be the best one yet.

P.S. Has anyone ever said the words, "Michael Cera" more times in one entry than this? I think not.