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‘Massage’ this

Thursday, July 29th, 2010

I admit it:  I love Craigslist. I almost never buy anything from there, but I love the massage-therapy ads. And by “massage therapy,” I mean ads for whores.

I love them for being transparent and easy to mock in their poor writing. Ladies, maybe if you’d paid a little  more attention in school, you’d be NASA engineers instead of selling cooch online.

Take this one:

“Be happy, healthy, and wholesome, with a darling masseusse!!! ”

I’m not sure one can be “wholesome and healthy” with this “masseusse!!!” But you can probably be pretty happy, briefly. As long as you don’t mind a little exclamation point abuse. Won’t anyone think of the exclamation points?

“Perfect hour glass figure, Sandy will perform a therapeutic/sensual bull body massage using Swedish, yoga stretch, sesnsual Thai, for a most relaxing, warm and wonderful full body massage.”

Because studies have shown that an hourglass figure makes the massage so much better than one given by a woman built like a refrigerator box. Just watch out for the “bull body massage.” It hurts. A lot.

“The father of holistic health Edgar Cayce recommended massage over 1200 times as both curative and preventative for disease, so be fortunate enough to have a healthy habit that actual feels marvelous.”

Cayce also said that China would be converted to Christianity by 1968 and that 1933 would be a good year, so screw that guy.

“Free mini pedicure is included and shower is also available. A little pampering would be the best possible thing to feel #1. Regal Treatment.”

If you want me to feel regal, you can give me the full pedicure. Seriously.

“Please call for appointment 7:am to 1:am. 4 Hand is also available and birthday week specials too.”

Four-hand is available for what? And whose hands? Never mind, I think I know. Also, why is her hair covering her face? Was she horribly disfigured with sulfuric acid in her past life as a district attorney?

Don’t mind me. I’m just bitter because Sandy made more money today than I did all week.  And her job is cooler than mine.

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No silver linings, please

Thursday, July 22nd, 2010

If you’re one of my Facebook friends, you may have seen the Salon column I linked to titled “I trusted my gut and got screwed” by Cary Tennis. If you’re not one of my Facebook friends, you can clicky the linky. And you should send me a friend request, because I rock and would make an awesome addition to your stable of “friends.”

In short, the column is about being honest with ourselves about what we really want in order to avoid making gut decisions that make us want to disembowel ourselves so our guts can never ruin our lives again with their dirty, sweaty lies.

Red Flashlight pointed out that the column was good for not saying crap like, “If you just change your attitude, everything will be moonbeams and kittens, and moonbeams shining out of the asses of kittens, and kittens shining out of the asses of moonbeams.” I paraphrased her there.

I got to thinking about how much that advice to look on the bright side pisses me off. It generally means, “If you just delude yourself into being happy, you will be.” Of course you will be. But you’ll also be deluding yourself. There’s a word for people who do that shit, and it’s “Scientologist.”

I’m not always successful at the brutal self-honesty thing. There’s no evidence that Mom can hear me when I talk to her from the toilet or that asstastic people will meet with bad karma, except in the sense that they generally attract each other in a vortex of suck. But if I’m unhappy, there’s probably a good reason, so I’d rather be genuinely bitter and pissed off when the occasion calls for it than floating on a cloud of false optimism.

Sometimes, you gotta tell a kitten to piss off and take her moonbeam with her.

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Critical hit to keyboard

Tuesday, July 20th, 2010

It turns out my laptop’s keyboard likes honey vodka a lot less than I do, which is why I’m abusing office technology and posting this at work.

My laptop will be gone for about two weeks, which means no WoW, no Facebook and no midget porn. I’m taking votes as to what to do with my time. I’m sure laundry will be part of the deal. Tonight, I’ll be taking a belly dancing class. Gotta work off the honey vodka somehow.

Place your votes now!

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You need to see this 8-mile-wide vagina

Friday, July 9th, 2010

Find it here.

It’s my new favorite song, thanks to The Bloggess posting the link to it on her site. It’s embarrassing how much I heart her. I would tell her, but she might get wise to the surveillance equipment I have in her bathroom.

P.S.: Bloggess, if you’re reading this, your tile is getting a little grimy. Seriously, step out of Storm Large’s vagina long enough to do some housework every once in a while.

P.S.S.: Ignore that part about the surveillance equipment in your bathroom. You’re on a need-to-know basis.

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You graduated. Now what?

Tuesday, June 29th, 2010

Dear Graduates,

You have reached the end of a journey, about to embark on a brand new one. Maybe you are graduating from college and are about to claw your way to the top of your daddy’s company. Maybe you were a philosophy major and are planning the only career for which you qualify: graduate school. Maybe you are wrapping up high school and are just glad to be done with that wretched hive of scum and villainy. In any case, pull up a chair and let Old Grandma Dirty Hooker give you some advice.

1. No matter what your mother told you, you can’t be anything you want to be when you grow up. Just like you have natural talents, there are things you naturally suck at, and it’s important to know the difference. If I’d decided to be an engineer when I was in college, there would be a lot more shit breaking and blowing up today, which is why I fix sentences for a living.

2. Be practical. It’s great to love what you do, but it’s even better when what you do comes with a paycheck. Being broke is fine when you’re 19 and rotating cots with 27 of your closest friends, but it gets old fast, much like you. If you’re going to take a risk on a high-poverty career (for example, theater, art, writing), be realistic about your own talent. Again, don’t ask your mom for her opinion on this (unless your mom is a bitch and willing to tell it like it is).

3. Don’t fall into whatever happens. It’s easy to explain why you had three jobs in two years when you’re 23. People expect you to be a flake, so try new things now. If you’re switching jobs twice a year at 40, people will assume you have a drug problem.

I’m sure there’s lots more to say, but this is a blog, not a dissertation, so I guess you’ll have to sort out the rest yourselves. Good luck with all that.

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God hates it when I fly to Denver

Thursday, June 24th, 2010

A TSA employee is the proud owner of two Leathermans thanks to some seriously incompetent customer service on the part of Delta.

The day did not start well. The Fatass, who tends to pee and shit when she’s nervous, did both on Devon’s suitcase on the way to Dad’s house, where we were leaving them for the week. We got to the airport in plenty of time, but that didn’t matter, because Delta kept us on the baggage-check line for an hour because they hate us and want us dead. And because they were letting people cut the line ahead of us and were generally stupid poopy faces, but mostly because they want us dead.

By the time we got to the desk, it was too late to check luggage, so we had to take it through security. We lost $60 in knives because we had to take through a bag that should have been checked — a bag that was ultimately checked by the flight attendant anyway.

I’m gonna hire Wayne Brady to choke a bitch.

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I’m more awesome than Urban Dictionary

Monday, June 21st, 2010

I Googled “Dirty Hooker” just to see what came up (and did it at work, since I apparently hate gainful employment), and I was pleased to see that I was the second hit, right after Drinksmixer.com’s recipe for a Dirty Hooker. It looks really fruity and gross, but I’ll have to check it out when we finally finish off the wine and beer we had leftover from the wedding party.

Urban Dictionary’s entry was third. The first definition: one who is not only a hooker, but is dirty.

Thanks, Urban Dictionary. You’re the bestest.

Also, check out my eHow article on making a small bathroom more inviting. They paid me 15 whole dollars for this.

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Assholes are so convenient

Thursday, June 17th, 2010

I don’t mean the kind like the guy who called me a “fucking idiot” in a PuG because my Oculus-fu was weaksauce. I mean literal assholes, the kind that serve as ejection holes for feces (and entrance holes for people who dig that sort of thing).

Really, assholes are way more convenient than colostomy bags. You can hide them with pants when they’re not in use, and you can direct your waste into even more convenient receptacles, like toilet bowls. The last few months have made me appreciate my asshole like no one has ever appreciated an orifice.

Why the ode to my asshole? Dad finally made it home, so the topic has been of some importance. I think we’re all in for an adventure, and by adventure, I mean the kind where you ask your husband to kill you and he says no because he’s lame. I marvel at people who find spiritual rewards in this stuff, and by marvel, I think they’re probably high or lying to themselves to get through it.  I think they’re also the kind of people who believe suffering brings us closer to Zombie Jesus.

The colostomy and urine bags will be emptied and changed; he will be bathed and be given his medications; the pacemaker will be monitored; and we’ll take him to the doctor on schedule. But I wonder whether the Dad of 20 years ago would hate us for doing what we did to make him live this long.

I would.

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It’ll be fine

Monday, June 14th, 2010

We’re cleared to bring Dad home Wednesday. Full disclosure: I’m so nervous I wish I had a permanent catheter, ’cause I want to pee myself.

I keep telling myself it’ll be fine. I turned the living room into a functional hospital room when Mom came home, and Dad is in much better shape than she was in, so it’ll be fine. That’s my new mantra: It’ll be fine.

The nurses will finish teaching me how to change the colostomy bag Wednesday. They’ll tell me everything I need to know to take care of the catheter. They’ll tell me how to bathe him to prevent the catheter from getting infected, and where to go to buy all of his supplies. They’ll give me prescriptions for all his new medications. I’ll get the wheelchair and bathtub chair off of Amazon if Medicare won’t cover them. The home aides are set up and ready to go. Still need the weekend aide, but that’ll get done in time, too. I’ll do the food shopping, since no one’s been living in the house for almost three months. It’ll be fine.

Most of the time I feel woefully incompetent, like: “Who the hell put me in charge of this? Shouldn’t we get an adult over here?” And then I’m like, “Wait, I’m 32 years old. How the hell did I get to be 32 years old and know so goddamn little?”

I was promised wisdom! Understanding! I’ve been robbed!

It’ll be fine.

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Don’t take trite advice

Wednesday, June 9th, 2010

I was reading an article by a woman telling people to live every day as if it were their last, and it occurred to me how awful life would be if people actually did that. You’d show up at your friend’s house every morning, tears in your eyes, telling her how much you love her, and how you’re sorry you vomited on her bed after that frat party in college, and she’d be all, “Yes, yes, I know, you make me late for work every day with this. It’s OK. Don’t you have a job?”

And you’d have to tell her that you haven’t worked that dead-end job in months, because really, who wants to spend their last day on Earth moving stacks of paper from one part of their desk to another while listening to co-workers fart? No one, that’s who. So you quit your job and are homeless now because your landlord is NOT living every day as if it were his last, and God, how you need a shower. Also, you’re enormous, because when you had money, you were eating cheesecake sandwiches, which you’ll never eat again when you’re dead. Now you have to fight bums for their lunch, but at least that’s keeping you active.

So take my advice: Do not live every day as if it were your last. Your friends don’t want to hear your decades-old angsty bullshit, your ass can’t afford the calories, and bums need to eat, too.

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