Potty Time

Word of advice: if you are an exceptionally dark form of African American and feel compelled to dress in head-to-toe black, I would appreciate it if you could manage to cross the street at night in the designated cross walk. I’m not sure if you know this, but unless you’re wearing a belt made of reflective traffic cones, I will not be able to spot you until my headlights reflect off your spinner chain and by that time I’m forced to slam on my breaks to keep from a vehicular manslaughter suit.  He or she probably already contacted 1-800-411-PAIN or ASK GARY and pimp walking through the middle of the road at night is merely part of the scheme to bitch slap me with my own wallet. If skeezy lawyers didn’t make it so profitable to exploit injury, I would’ve long ago mowed down Lil Jon and the Eastside Boyz posted up in the median, taking turns pushing each other in front of moving vehicles. About a month ago, we actually had a bus flatten some moron that decided to camouflage in a black hoodie and play chicken with a public transportation operator. We don’t play that shit here, son. Talk to the tire.

I’m not certain as to the rationale behind people in the neighboring stalls of restrooms feeling the obligation to strike up casual conversation, but it needs to cease. I already possess a severe case of stage fright without some weirdo interrupting my concentration to tell me my shoes are cute. Not to mention once the faceless hob-goblin in the adjacent stall speaks, the image of a little reptilian eyeball peering through the crack watching me tinkle haunts me to the point that I’d rather discontinue with my futile attempts to piss in peace and run the risk of either my bladder exploding or developing a severe case of kidney stones. FACT: Awkward silences in restrooms don’t exist. So don’t muddy the pee party meditation and go around telling strangers in the bathroom that your child is an honor student just because you judge it appropriate to create sound at all times. More people need to take hold of the notion that silence is not awkward—silence is golden. I don’t need you to comment on every billboard, tree or mile marker we bypass during a car ride to know that you’re seated next to me. Your mouth breathing usually indicates that you’re present and accounted for. I despise small talk, unless it’s the type of small talking involving conversations with a small person because by nature midgets are exponentially more interesting than average-sized humans. Especially little people that can do tricks… like juggle or reach the top shelf. Case and point: if a midget talked to me in the restroom, I would develop a lifelong companion. If a standard human speaks to me in the restroom, I will ball up a wad of TP, dip it in the toilet and throw it into their stall, shouting: “heads up chatty cathy.” Then I will giggle and go tinkle in the men’s restroom, where inhabitants are too frightened of being dubbed homosexual to speak to another while peeing, which is the way it should be.

I also find it extremely disconcerting when people are clearly calling me while on the pot. It makes me uncomfortable to shoot the shit with you while you shoot a shit. And when I ask “are you really calling me in the middle of expelling some bodily fluid,” please don’t play me for a fool and tell me the flushing sound was the television. Do you really need to multitask to the point that you’re forced to make phone calls during your bathroom breaks? Are you really that busy? I’ll go ahead and answer for you: you are absolutely not that busy. Steve Jobs isn’t that busy. The worst is strangers in public restrooms talking on the phone next to you. I don’t need to listen to you make a lady doctor appointment because you urine looks like that shit in glo sticks. You can wait five minutes, WASH the germs off of your hands and then whip out your smart phone. You think it’s okay to play Angry Birds while defecating, then you go shake some innocent bystander’s hand with your feces fingers and they wind up waking up with an irate case of poop eye in a room full of jerkoffs frantically snapping pictures before she even has the chance to see that the hullabaloo is a direct result of the reptilian creature-of-the-deep eyeball that apprehended the spot where an exquisite blue lagoon once sat. (That definitely did NOT happen to me, I am speaking purely hypothetically) So do everyone a solid and stop spreading preventable diseases by bringing your smart phone into the bathroom with you. Unless you’re an on-call Neuro-surgeon, I seriously doubt that anyone needs to get a hold of you that badly. And since we’re on the subject, please teach your newly potty-trained toddler that locking the stall and then army-crawling underneath the door is not “cute”—it’s irritating and I’m one empty locked stall away from giving a complimentary swirlie to the next little monster I see slither out.

In other news, today I told the lovely employees of the bus depot that I will be moving across the universe in October, so I will not be able to continue my stint as their work mule. Twitchy was particularly distraught and used a very convincing/ intellectual argument in his attempts to persuade me to continue working in this inbred factory.

“There’s like lots of poisonous animals in Thailand. Big snakes and stuff. I saw it on animal planet. You shouldn’t go.”

Annnnnnd you’re an idiot. You were probably watching Andaconda and too dense to realize it was a fictional tale of a giant man-eating snake set in SOUTH AMERICA and that J.Lo is a terrible actress not a terrible snake wrangler. It was quite a compelling argument to prolong a gig making minimum wage while dealing with crackheads behind a barbed wire fence, but I declined to let temptation sway my decision to depart. I politely refused his dazzling proposal to continue contemplating lynching myself with the computer charger by 10 a.m. each day and then flicked him off behind his back as he walked away mumbling something about being too busy to talk. That’s Twitchy’s go-to jackass micromanaging move. The little razor toothed rodent creeps up behind my desk… reads whatever I’m “working” on over my shoulder… asks me what it is then tells me he’s too busy to discuss. He scuttles back into his office where he inappropriately fondles his GI Joe dolls then comes back out ten minutes later to ask me which showing of Green Lantern he should attend with his “church friends.” I usually exhibit some compassion for his companions and tell him the midnight showing, that way there’s a chance he will pass out during the film and allow the rest of the group to view in peace. I came in yesterday only to find a mini razor toothed demon eating a Happy Meal at my desk. Apparently some mental patient allowed that beast to inseminate her and the result was twin ginger gerbils. Clearly Twitchy could not only produce one soulless offspring—he had to double the evil. I’m just astounded that he wasn’t shooting blanks to begin with, let alone has the spermpower to procreate a BOGO deal. 

THAI Me Down

After months of fighting off the pressure to get a “real” job, I’m glad to report I successfully drop-kicked that 9-5 slut in the face and reverted back to my previous notion that the real world can suck it because I’d like to screw around a bit more before I button up my starchy business suit. So I decided to accompany two of my friends to the other side of the world, where I will spread my creepiness onto the people of Pattaya. I plan to solicit my services on the streets of Bangkok at night and package rice patties during hours of sunlight as a legitimate occupation. Kidding, I will be teaching the Thai people the American language for an entire year. Now, I find it mildly offensive that when I told people of my future travel endeavors, 50% of their responses were along the lines of “but you hate Asians.” I would just like to go ahead and set the record straight by stating I don’t hate the Asian people. Does it make me uncomfortable that they travel in packs and sometimes swarm in public places, encompassing me in a pod of tiny foreign people speaking very quickly and making wild hand gestures? Definitely. Does it completely irritate me to be stuck behind an Asian operating anything with wheels? Indeed. Does that mean I HATE Asians? Absolutely not. But then again, I’ve done my fair share of research and the Thai people—in addition to being a remarkably bronzed breed of Asian—are considered the most “euro” of the Asian population. Will I still experience some anxiety when plagued with a large crowd of these brown Orientals? Certainly. But I intend to take full advantage of the fact that in addition to being 7 inches taller than the average Thai, with my pale skin, light hair and sparkling blue eyes, I will undeniably be able to convince them that I am of Western royalty. I’ve already designed what I’d like my crown and scepter to look like, but I figured the materials for the construction of my royalty indicators would be cheaper there, not to mention explaining the jewel encrusted weapon-like object in my suitcase to customs might be an issue.

For those of you who have never opened an encyclopedia or aren’t aware that the internet can display photos of other geographical locations, Thailand boasts some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. The movie “The Beach” with my estranged husband Leonardo DiCaprio was actually filmed in Koh Samui, Thailand. However, for those of you that have seen “The Hangover 2,” which is probably a bit more, all of Thailand is not like Bangkok. Although, Pattaya is often referred to as the prostitution capital of the world (yes, the world). Mom, if you’re reading this, please stop crying. And although I will be travelling with two other blonde-hair, blue eyed beauties—making us one enormous target for the next shipment of sex slaves—I’m not worried. Why? Because first of all, my second dad is a threatening Jamaican ex-cop and I’m making him re-watch Taken to brush up on some pointers should the need arise. Secondly, though my mom stands a soaring five-foot-three and has never played a sport in her life, if she smelled danger on the horizon for her first-born angel, that broad would suit up Catwoman style, nun chucks in hand, hijack an airplane with my Jamaican cocoa crispy and those two would wreak havoc on the underground slavery ring. Plus I’m pretty scrappy and I took TaeKwondo last year… as an extracurricular class. And I’ve done my fair share of Billy Blanks DVDs until his wandering eye meandered into my nightly visions and scared off all the dancing sugarplums and I was forced to dispose of my TaeBo DVD collection. I do think I’d be a little upset if I was kidnapped and sold into slavery, especially since I turned down a job in Cali for this gig. The first four weeks of our excursion begins in Cambodia, where they teach us to teach English to people whose language we won’t understand. I actually tried to learn some Thai online, but the only thing I could make out of the little pictures were some McDonald’s advertisements, soliciting the sale of the ‘Chicken McRice Burger,’ which I am shuper duper exshited to try as my first drunk munchie abroad. In Cambodia, they take us on three excursions, one of which will involve elephant rides. I’m going to channel my inner Mowgli from Jungle Book and coax the world’s largest land mammal into being my taxicab and best friend for the next year, like that giant flying dog in A Neverending Story. I will ride around the streets of Thailand on my elephant chap with my crown and scepter, demanding the loyalty of my pint-sized subjects. Joking – I won’t actually exploit the Thai people with my intellect and lofty stature.

Believe it or not, I actually have a soul. I’m eager to be living in a place where I have the opportunity to give back while also learning about the culture and practices of a country completely foreign to anything I’ve ever known. The one drawback of going to Thailand was that I wouldn’t be able to accompany my BWOB crew back to Africa next week where they will construct a school building for the people of Burundi. Some of the kindest, most interesting people I’ve ever met were in Africa. It’s amazing to go to a place where the people have no running water or electricity yet continue to smile, dance, sing and be genuinely happy despite the fact that they have so little. Instead of basing their happiness on material things, which they don't have, they celebrate the little things in life that they do have and are completely content simply being alive. I’m ecstatic to experience the feeling of teaching people that truly desire to learn, instead of children whose privileged asses remain parked in front of some awful video game, where the only human interaction they engage in is with the 45 year old man on the other side of that creepy headset. I always encourage people to travel to places where they can remove themselves from their charmed lives and submerge their minds and bodies in someone else’s reality. It’s difficult to imagine the lives of people in underdeveloped countries and pictures cant compete with tangibly touching, tasting, hearing and feeling the poverty and pain that people endure on a daily basis. The last day of teaching the kids in Africa, we were saying our goodbyes and a little girl ran up, hugged me, handed me a brown paper sack and scampered off. I opened the bag and inside, covered in plastic, sat a card that read: “congratulation (the 's' was lost in translation) on your new baby girl.” At first, I laughing, knowing that this girl couldn’t read English and probably just picked the first pink card written in English that jumped out at her. Then I pictured her walking miles into town to buy a card for me with what little money she had and a feeling of unknown gratitude rushed over me. I received countless gifts that day and each one reminded me that although I have so much, there are people in the world that have so much less, yet still yearn to give what little they do have. I really encourage anyone that has the opportunity to travel to a place where they can experience a little about true poverty as well as true happiness through helping people to definitely take advantage of that opportunity--or at least commit to making such a trip in the future. Just two weeks in Africa completely changed my perspective-and while Thailand isn’t as impoverished-I’m know in a year I’ll be able to find even more opportunities to help improve the lives of people less fortunate there and meet countless more amazing people. 

This entry is a far cry from my normal posts oozing with mockery, sarcasm and cynicism, but I hope my holier-than-thou Oprah-like sermon resides with some. And while that broad with the giant cranium annoys the hell out of me (much like I annoy others) she’s got good intentions, which I also hope that I do. But then again, I think my aversion to Big Head Winfrey stems more from the fact that she refuses to sign the adoption papers I continually send to her lawyer. 

The Fart Chronicles

Someone in the office has been lighting it up all morning. Everyone ignored the stench the first couple of times although I’d assume everyone else’s nose hairs were also one gas bomb away from bursting into flames. Finally, the filterless guy in the cubicle adjacent to my own shouts: “okay, who keeps farting.” Whispered laughter follows like juvenile snickers during a middle school sex-ed class. Twitchy, trying to be funny, goes “Well we know it wasn’t Alex… girls don’t fart.” Now, I’m not a feminist, but I don’t deal with testosterone driven ignorant digs at my gender. And while I normally I’d consider this piracy of someone else’s labors; I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to elicit discomfort among coworkers.

“Actually it was me. Sorry.”

The culprit currently shitting themself must be thanking their lucky stars that the intern took the fall for their post-Mexican night fart fiesta.

“Girls don’t fart!” Filterless Fred shouts and everyone laughs other than my gay BFF and me. Now that’s complete bull… the one time I take the fall for someone else’s flatulence and no one believes me. Fine you go ahead and attribute the fart storm to fatty down the hall.

I don’t understand the necessity men feel to convince themselves that girls don’t fart, burp, poop, pee or pick our noses... even at a young age. I think my brothers are still convinced that girls don’t fart; they’ve just boiled it down to their unwavering conviction that their sister is merely a lesbian that engages in completely heterosexual behavior. I’ve met girls that can burp louder than a fog horn and smelled female farts bordering on chemical warfare. As a matter of fact, I’m often filled with so much escaped carbonation that I’m surprised my dress doesn’t double as a hot air balloon and send me floating into the sky above. And I sincerely hope every macho dude reading this is either choking back vomit or going to experience a vast amount of uneasiness the next time he runs into me in a public arena. Yes fellas, girls fart and burp and dig through our nostrils for giant boogers that we’d totally wipe on your arm if we weren’t afraid of driving you to the verge of tears. We don’t live in a gingerbread fairyland where we pretend that you don’t spend hours assaulting your aardvark to online photos and videos of skinnier girls with way bigger boobs than us. So don’t pretend that a burrito won’t spark the same response from our delicate flower bowels that it would from your own “I only eat red meat because chicken has the word chick in it” digestive organs.

Now women don’t have to go around farting in boys’ faces as an act of feminist defiance… that will do nothing but ensure your presence in a sperm bank in the upcoming years. But men should have enough respect for the fact that we limit our fanny burping to occasions when you are not present—unless accidental—and you should follow suit. However, I have zero issue with burping in front of guys. Farting I can hold back, but I feel my belch abilities warrant the involvement of others. In the words of the Jim the high school Athletic Trainer: “it’s better to burp and taste it than fart and waste it.” Since then, I’ve held onto those powerful words as a religious doctrine of natural gas expulsion and never looked back. It’s unfair for the male species to draw an imaginary line between what women are “expected” to do and what we’re “allowed” to do. I don’t expect you to take nightly candlelit baths, but I would allow you to enjoy the occasional bubble bath without relentlessly mocking your sexuality. My little brother went through a bubble bath phase in high school. He would fill my parents’ Jacuzzi tub, light 47 candles and deposit half a bottle of lavender bubble bath… then God only knows. At the time, I called him a pansy and convinced the family that he was a Liza Minelli album away from his closet departure. But today, I realize that those bubble baths were as cathartic for him as burping in public is for me… not to mention he has a long-term girlfriend now and the only person’s interest I’ve captivated operates buses . And given my brother’s enraged demeanor at the time, I’m pretty sure the candlelit soaks served as the one thing keeping him from beating the sarcasm out of me during one of my daily verbal torture sessions.

Now if you’re a girl and still maintain that you don’t burp, flatulate, pick your nose or poop, you undoubtedly also wear Lilly Pulitzer, own monogrammed bath accessories and your professional title fits under the category of Submissive Sandwich Maker. Even more than I hate a man telling me it’s gross when I engage in natural fume dismissals, I hate when women advise me that burping isn’t “ladylike.” Just for that, I’m coming to your next junior league meeting, using the wrong fork AND wiping boogers on each of the centerpieces. You keep telling me I’ll never find a husband if I keep “doing that” but I’m certain that if my future marriage fails because my husband is offended by my burptastic interpretation of Rappers Delight, we had bigger issues to start with. I live in a free society, so I will continue to take full advantage of the fact that I can drink a can of sodapop and make it rain belches without having my esophagus removed by the resident witchdoctor. And if I stay single a little longer than planned, so be it. I’ll come to your wedding stag, pretend to be happy for you and Jarad the Subway guy and post up by the open bar. And if you don’t have an open bar, I will decline invitation by way of fake root canal. Always the bridesmaid, never the open bar.

Rules of the Road Trip

Today’s post is all about road trips because the subject gorged 6 hours of my day yesterday. Twenty minutes on the interstate and I experienced the ultimate road trip nightmare: driving while wedged in between a caravan of Asian families in swagger wagons and a Lincoln land yacht packed with wrinkleys on a field trip from the assisted living center. Living on the west coast for three months, I gained an immense amount of knowledge regarding Asian culture. First off, they are indeed much more intelligent than the white race. Secondly, the walking habits of the Asian people are equally as terrible as their driving skills. They may breed astrophysicists and world-class growth-stunted robot gymnasts, but they can’t drive—or walk—worth shit. Never get caught behind an Asian in a vehicle or on a crowded narrow sidewalk. At first you think it’s just another tech-obsessed teen texting while strolling, however as you pass by the Asian you see no phone and instead witness an Asian deep in thought, calculating the implications of each step—as if it were the first they’d every taken. I don’t quite understand it because I’ve seen videos of Tokyo on TV and those little bastards move a mile a minute on their own turf. Personally, I think that they are all spies for the Koreans and have to walk slowly enough to pick up radio frequencies or maybe I’m just extremely paranoid. Now the elderly are just on a completely different playing field altogether. Number one, how is it comfortable to drive close enough to the steering wheel to potentially procreate with it? Secondly, if you’re lenses are thick enough to double as coke bottles, you may not have the eyesight allowing you to safely operate a moving vehicle. Finally, just because you think that you still have all of your faculties at age eighty-five, the train of vehicles travelling at idle speed behind you would beg to differ. My grandma had her license until age seventy, when my mom refused to allow her to continue driving on sidewalks and mowing down our neighbor’s mailbox on a weekly basis. The breaking point, however, was when mom and I were at a stoplight and were rear ended from behind. We both turn around and see good ole granny looking out the window pretending like she didn’t just rear-end her own family at a random intersection. My mom gets out of the car and grandma refuses to roll down the window. Knowing it's a battle we can't win, we travel home where grandma maintains that she didn’t in fact just charge us in the ass with her Pontiac Grand Am. That day marked a new era where granny had her license taken but covertly continued to drive illegally... without side mirrors but with a vengeance for any poor soul traveling in her path. 

Driving long distances by yourself blows donkey fetus, but I’ve made the 6-hour devil trek so many times that I’ve perfected the solo road trip. Speaking of fetus, when I finally win the Powerball, my first venture is going toe to toe with those abortion billboards. For every “my heart beats one minute past conception,” you get a giant Chuck Norris holding a giant aborted sheep fetus… or a billboard with a chainsaw and the Partridge Family saying "this could've been prevented...ask us how! - Planned Parenthood." I’d like to know how much cheddar these whacks spend on those awful advertisements. It's probably the same people that think the world is ending by way of scorpion assailants. We get it… you don’t want people to kill babies, well I don’t want people to step on my toes in crowded venues, but we can’t always get what we want. I digress, back to the rules of road trips. The first rule is ALWAYS have a solid set of jams. Choose wisely because the music genre you choose subconsciously affects your travel tempo. Techno=speeding—especially if you’re a toolbox driving a mini cooper, feeling the necessity to drive like you’re an extra in the Italian Job. Alternative=steady pace. Reggae=cruise control. Country=crashing point blank into a levy because you’re listening to awful music. During long trips, music is also catalyst for a number of other enjoyable road trip activities such as: practicing your So You Think You Can Dance audition routine, anally raping some Weezy rhymes and, my personal fav, perfecting my Elton John impersonation so next time the Panda I live with tells everyone she sounds “Just like Elton” during one of our Tiny Dancer renditions, I can step up and vocally bitch slap her.. like just like I did with that tomato on Spring Break. Taste it Panda (=P). 

The next road trip rule is making sure to pack a bevy of roadie snacks. Check mix, trail mix, chewy spree, Slim Jims, ham hocks—whatever you’re into. Just make sure you’re well stocked because otherwise you’re making a pit stop for cat food. But if you can stomach fast food, which is easily eatable while driving, then just make sure you prepare yourself for the nausea that ensues when you unearth a medium fry under your seat in the same physical state as when you acquired them straight from the roach infested fryer three months prior.  However, if you are a master of solo road trips, you have undoubtedly learned to Macgyver your way through a Subway sandwich or even a salad—if you’re man enough. I have perfected the art of driving with my knee; although, in all fairness, I was born with abnormally extended appendages giving me an obvious advantage. This also comes in handy if you’ve got something stuck to your windshield and need to pull it off while recklessly cruising at 85mph. On my trip home I managed to conquer an ultimate veggie and escape with minor shredded lettuce lap and a jalapeño P.O.W. lodged somewhere in my brassiere (and, no that’s not a race joke aimed at the Mexican community). I accomplished this feat while simultaneously changing songs on the iPod and dodging workers in a construction zone. I did inadvertently switch lanes a few times, but if you don’t overtly sideswipe someone, you can usually get away with playing it cool and giving them the “I meant to cut you off” wrist flick. Now this final rule is important. Sometimes jamz and snacks can only occupy your attention leading into hour four. But if you have the attention span of a retarded dog, yet find immense amusement chasing your own tail—this rule is for you. 

Rule numero tres: GAMES. When you’re alone you may feel like a dumbass playing silly games by yourself, but I am a dumbass so I don’t care. For beginners, I’d recommend just pretending that you’re an educated version of a NASCAR driver and pick an opponent to “race.” Now, don’t be an idiot and pick the guy in the corvette going through his mid-life crisis because I’d bet my first born that he’s already looking to race in his chumpmobile with the vanity plate reading: “NO WIFE." And since he probably practices his drag racing daily near the service entrance of whatever stuffy gated community he lives in, you’re absolutely going to lose. And no one wants to lose a game they created—especially not to prematurely balding 40-year-old man wearing an affliction tee and True Religion jeans. So instead pick someone who isn’t aware of the game you’re playing and for the next twenty miles or so: tailgate them closely and angrily, then whip in front of their vehicle, cutting them off. Hang back for a few beats and then repeat. While this sounds redundant and you may call it stupid, you wouldn’t believe how much time it kills… and you’re stupid. A second game I enjoy playing is The Cockbox—it’s not as dirty as it sounds. The object is simple: don’t let the asshole behind you pass. I get into the fast lane and slow down to about 75 then—like clockwork—there’s always that suped-up Honda civic that comes charging out of thin air and starts tailgating you, flashing their lights and trying to guilt you into changing lanes… don’t do it. Instead just when it seems like they are about to hurtle around you, speed up. They will think you decided to stop being a grandma and actually drive. Continue at increased velocity until you come parallel with another vehicle in the slow lane, then decelerate to their velocity, boxing in the person behind you. Then giggle and count the number of “F YOU’s” you receive. Finally, smile, wave and change lanes. This game once resulted in me being flipped off for thirty consecutive seconds by an 90 year old man hanging out of his sunroof. Sometimes you can be a little more creative with your gaming. During my mustache phase, we took a road trip to Mississippi that tallied somewhere near a whopping ten hours one-way. During this stint, I was fortunate enough to be copilot and had just purchased a “days of the week” stache pack that provided every adhesive facial hair opportunity imaginable from a Hitler stache to a curly cue. I doled out staches to the passengers like pez. Then myself and a passenger in the back seat stuck half our bodies out of the window, flagged down some truckers, covered our hairlips and gave them the sex eyes. And just as these disgusting men began making some completely inappropriate sexual gestures, we removed our hands revealing perfectly manicured female facial hair and contorted expressions. Other than confusion, we also nearly caused two wrecks and gained a joy ride-esque follower.

My Kinda Trucker

On a solo occasion, I one made a pit stop at the holy grail of service stations in an area near Lake City where it's perfectly legal—even encouraged—to be in a civil union with your sister. This wondrous fecally stained establishment boasted an entire section of prank toys and gag gifts. I completed my purchase with a tank of gas, a red bull and one of those pairs of incognito glasses with the bulbous nose and the bushy stache/brow combo attached. I rocked this disguise while ferociously weaving through traffic pretending I was the getaway car for DMX in one of his awful cop flicks. Then I got pulled over by a pig in khaki and the game wasn’t fun anymore. 

Gene-o the Dreamboat

I am delighted to report that I have an admirer at Terminus Busius (the bus station). His name is Gene, like the DNA strand and he makes my heart go pitter-patter—mostly just because I’m never confident of the location where he prowls. Whilst he once refused to make eye contact with me as I said ‘Good Morning’ and would promptly lock gaze with the ground as I meandered past, he now makes hourly trips into the copy room—where I’ve been stationed for the past week because Twitchy got his own hearing impaired intern (the only human willing to work for that psycho was a deaf chick) and she invaded my desk space so I was exiled to the mail room. Apparently having a slight handicap grants automatic grounds for someone else’s designated workspace. I’m slightly autistic and no one bestowed an office to my underdeveloped social skills and me. Okay I’m not actually autistic, but I do have a carnie hands, which makes typing quite the chore. I attempted to spin it as a learning disability when applying to college, but apparently “tiny pinkies” does not constitute admittance to Harvard. Fine you keep your geniuses with their normal sized hands… don’t come crawling to me when you can’t rescue the pin butterfingers Yao Ming dropped in the micro-scale fuel cell structure because you denied applicants with below average phalanges.

Anyway, that’s neither here nor there. Back to my new love interest. Gene’s day job is bus depot gatekeeper aka he has graduated from bus driving to front desk operation. Therefore, I am forced to pass through his province each morning so he can “buzz” me into the ultra-secure offices where sly looters could potentially pilfer staplers and copy paper. Gene-o bridge troll that determines whether I will be granted the right of passage into this hell-hole. As I mentioned previously, I was under the impression that Gene shared the same aversion to me as my other black coworkers. Then he began the weekly inquiry about my relationship status. The first time he asked I informed him I was in a deeply passionate and committed relationship with a man whose name I cannot for the life of me remember. The next time he asked, I told him the same thing, providing the name of a different lover. We’re up to about five different boyfriends currently, so he either thinks I’m a floozy or that I’m lying to avoid his dinner proposition, which would likely consist of us going splitsies on a Red Lobster entrée. 

The heart wants what it wants.

 However, this is indeed not my first rodeo in the quandary of Dateline worthy coworker affairs. At my summer internship in Cali, a lovely Hispanic man by the name of Joel took a liking to yours truly, which he expressed in charming emails depicting illustrations kittens and flowers. I shrugged the first few emails off and just thought he had a soft spot for disturbing clip art. Nevertheless, to this very day, I do not know where he unearthed my email address. My little Peruvian tree frog also discovered the whereabouts of my office and became a doorway fixture each morning in his bowling shirts and Jynco Jeans. Then he began cornering me in the cafeteria until I was forced to enlighten my boss of my stalking situation. He seemed harmless enough, until she informed be that he had engaged in “ this sort of behavior before.” But instead of being alarmed that this sexual predator continually lurks in the shadowy corners behind the communal refrigerator waiting for the next female intern, I felt a smidgen betrayed that I wasn’t Joely Poo’s first choice of prey. Eventually, Joel had to cope with my imminent departure and he seized the occasion to tell me that I will forever remain in his heart as a member of his “family.” I’m not sure what incestual practice Joel engages in during his off time, but I’m not convinced I’m completely opposed. At any rate, that ship has sailed and I’ve set my sights on a new Steamboat… Geneboat the Dreamboat.

I haven’t been asked on a proper date in quite some time and I am beginning to think that by shirking Gene’s proposals, I am allowing something promising to slip between my miniature fingers simply because I am shallow to the notions that he looks like Bernie Mac, has probably fathered 15 illegitimate children, operates buses as his profession and our date will probably conclude with me tuck-and-rolling my way out of a moving getaway vehicle on the interstate. But beggars can’t be choosers and I’m hoping at least the initial portion of our sizzling rendezvous will consist of an underground reggae club supplying special brownies, an abundance of beaded dreadlocks and a footwear-optional dance floor delivering a continuous array of scenes from You Got Served meets 8 Mile. So this afternoon, I’m going to try and remember the name of this week’s boyfriend and kill him off in a tragic airboat tour accident, rendering myself completely and utterly available for a preliminary Popeye’s engagement where we can discuss the possibility of something further over a cardboard box of Louisiana’s “best” fried chicken and biscuits. Aunt Jemima in the commercials had better not be blowing steam up my ass. 

Lords of the Ringless

CHeater in Training

I used to think that Lakers fans were the worst humans on the planet, having spent last summer in Orange County for the better part of the NBA finals. MiniMexis wearing Rapey Bryant jerseys chuggin’ along in their hydropowered low-rider matchbox trucks with three spinners and one hubcap because Tito Torres and his half a GED forgot that most motor vehicles have an even number of tires. However, post-2011 season, I’ve seen the light—and it’s reflecting off of the bedazzled Ed Hardy v-necks and pomade-filled windproof faux hawks of Miami Heat fans. Every team in the history of sports gains fans when they start winning—that’s a no brainer. I get that. Every good team has a wagon full of brainless cohorts that saw something shiny in the distance and hopped on with the rest of the Cuban cross-dressers in silk pants. Everybody wants a piece of a winner pie… even if it’s a pie riddled with morally bankrupt pre-evolution receding hairlined flying douches with bigger heads than a jack-in-the-box. True fans remember the Heat when Alonzo Mourning and Tim Hardaway played and I have a sneaking suspicion that half of the current “Heat” fans couldn’t name three players when they were actual “champions” circa 2006. I agree that heat players took a lot of flack this season, but they set themselves up for that when the “Big Three” danced around on stage like idiots after Bron Bron stopped sobbing and made his “Decision.” They set themselves up to HAVE to win the national championship to keep people from talking shit. But they didn’t and now the slough of Miami “fans” are going to have to burn those “2011 NBA Champions: Miami Heat” stickers that they had specially made in the colors of the Cuban flag to put beneath the oversized decal pasted across the back windshield depicting their last name in Old English manuscript. We get it, you are Hispanic and you can’t remember your last name. I’ve actually always wanted one of those for my car. Just to throw people off when I Fast and Furious my way in front of them and they see a pale blonde chick with the most unhispanic last name ever, leaning like a cholo in a wifebeater and blue bandana tied around my mouth.

If your day job consists of selling Sprint Cellular devices, but you moonlight as a South Beach club promoter…you may be a Heat fan. If you’ve ever worn anything made of the skin of a reptile or are a male and own more than one pair of designer jeans…you may be a Heat fan. If you’re convinced you treasure Chris Bosh for his talent and remain sightless to the fact that he resembles a black ostrich, a velociraptor, the alien from Signs or the biological son of Snoop Dogg…you may be a Heat fan. If you’ve ever been arrested for cocaine trafficking, are tied to the Colombian drug cartel, or were an extra in Bad Boys II… you’re probably a Heat fan. If you purchased a voodoo doll—named it Dirk—put some creepy Hispanic mystic curse on it and carried it in your Louis Vuitton bag to poke with pins during halftime… you’re most definitely a Heat fan. So no, Lebron, it’s “not 1, not 2, not 3, not four…not 7.” it’s not any of those… it’s zero. So continue working harder on promoting yourself in cheesy TV ads than on your walk-off game and finding a solution for that five-head and leave winning championships to the players willing to keep their mouths shut and let their balling do the talking. At least an uneventful offseason as mediocre runners up means that Erik Spoelstra can return to his weekly Hannah Montana themed slumber parties with Butler’s head coach; Dwyane Wade can write a ‘how-to’ book on the mastermind scheme of luring two NBA stars to compete in his shadow, get paid less and not win a national championship; and Bosh and James can give motivational speeches on the important role a lack of college education plays in your cognitive decision making abilities. And Pat Riley can go back to hanging out with Third-World gangbangers from Palm Beach and pretending he’s never killed a man. I may just be bitter because the Heat crushed my angelbaby Celtics… okay I’m definitely bitter. But I can maintain my shit-talking spree well into next season until BronBron grows a pair and decides to shut me (and the rest of America) up. Until then I will continue shamelessly rooting for every opponent matched up against Miami. And I will enjoy every second of it.

Birth Control

I’m pretty sure the only thing worse than a Heat fan driving around in a bean machine with “LOPEZ” plastered on the back windshield are those “SALT LIFE” stickers. What the F is a ‘salt life?’ Do you chauffeur an amphibious vehicle that can morph from car to boat? Were you born a gilled mermaid/man? Do you spend your days mining salt in Pakistan? No? Then you don’t live a “salt” life you shmuckstick. Actually I know the ab-so-lute worst: people that feel obligated to adhere figurines of their entire family tree to the back of their mini-vans, Toyota hatchbacks and soccer mom SUVS. We understand that you have five children, three dogs, two cats and an anteater; but we do not understand why we have to stare at your superduper happy family in Mousekateer Ears while we sit behind your vehicle attempting to see if ramming your bumper will create enough centrifugal force to propel off every smiley member of the brood. Yes you went to Disney World this summer on family vacation… no we do not care. The trip probably ended with you in tears while your husband flirted with Pocahontus and little brats took turns snot rocketing your forehead and beating you with foam noodles while you attempted to “relax” poolside. You just try and pretend that walking miles through a grimy theme park wearing Bermuda shorts and crocs holding two diaper bags and three half-eaten churros with 10,000 other families—half of which don’t speak your language and have ZERO conception of personal space—is your idea of a “fun” family getaway. After spending 8 hours fighting off pedophiles in chipmunk costumes and waiting in line for three hours so some random man dressed as Captain Hook can scribble illegibly into a $14 dollar notebook, the last thing on my mind would be dropkicking my way through crowds in the gift shop to pay thirty bucks for a set of stickers that inaccurately and irresponsibly portrays my family’s experience at Disney World. I think at that point I’d be face first in the housekeeper’s cart trying to get my hands on a pack of matches to set “THE HAPPIEST PLACE ON EARTH” ablaze before my kids can sign up to attend Mickey’s Magical (Mommy Wants to Pry Her Eyeballs Out with a Socket Wrench) Christmas Party.

In other news, I just pre-screened my cameos in the “commercials” that I was forced to make for the buses. And not only do I look like an idiot, I also look 200lbs. So I have now arrived at the conclusion that either the camera adds 100lbs and I actually look like heroin addict Angelina Jolie or I’ve been eating my feelings a bit too frequently these days. Regardless, for the next six months my diet will consist of ex-lax, water, celery and that shit the Jersey Shore Cast keeps trying to sell me that will probably have some adverse affect causing me to grow talons and sprout chest hair. Instead of the “bend-and-snap” my new go-to is going to be the “binge-and-purge.” I’m kidding, there’s nothing funny about eating disorder jokes… unless the punch line is Lindsay Lohan. 

Full Moon at 4 pm.

So today the blog gets dualies because I've just spent the last 45 minutes making my second TV debut. I walk in from lunch when my boss smiles and goes "Wanna be on TV again?". Not unless you got me a spot on Jeopardy... I do not want to be on TV.

"What do I have to do?"
        "Nothing big. Just look both ways and cross the street."

Okay seems simple enough. I thought 10 minutes max. Yeah, right, maybe if I worked for a company where employees don't wipe boogers on each other and steal lunches. In strolls Gilbert the Squirrelly camera guy who wore jorts to the last shoot but decided to dress for the summer heat today in a chic pair of black jeans. Gilby and I head down the road where he parks and we both get out. My first bus depot TV debut last month consisted of me crossing a two lane street during minimal traffic on a Sunday afternoon in a part of town unpopulated by students. This merry-go-round I had to cross the intersection between a Wendy's, the fire station and TCC... during near rush-hour... in 95 degree heat... wearing work pants and a sweater.

Gilbert the Gerbil films me crossing the road. Then tells me to do it again for a wide angle. Then tells me to do it again for a long angle. Then tells me to do it again so he can just film my feet. The tells me to look left and look right. Then tells me to do that again. Then tells me to stare into the sun. During this process I'm sweating like a 300-lb farm hand hoe-ing in overalls and flannel. Not to mention within the span of 45 minutes I recorded: 30 honks (five of which were from our own jackhole bus drivers), 15 barks, 5 hey baby's, one SLLUUUTTTTT and (my personal favorite) one spread-cheek smile from the depths of some asshole's asshole.

I was very appreciative that the student population of Tallahassee was so welcoming to an up and coming TV star. Gilbert didn't see the full moon I received from the rice-rocket full of underachieving JUCO students and asked why I stopped midstroll to flip the bird. I hope to God it's on camera. And also that the world ends before these commercials air.

Finally after 97 takes of me walking, sweating and fighting back the urge to tell the super mature Tallahassee Utilities guys who drove by 5 times making sexual swirling motions with their tongues outside the windows to 'go jump off a cliff,' Gilbert finally drives me back to the office. Dying of thirst after sweating off 15 lbs, I proceed to go to the scary vending machines in the uncarpeted area for the very first time. I am delighted when I see that the sketch-machine has Cherry Coke Zero... the most mythical of all CocaCola products. (shout out my mah giiiiirlfrannn!) So I put in my $1.50 (totally hoodwinked) and the effing cola gets stuck. Some bus drivers start laughing as I attempt to shove my arm up the vending machine's asshole and retrieve my beverage. After five minutes of struggle while five drivers playing pool watch and laugh, the fat lady in the white uniform kicks the machine and my soda is released. I grab it soda and immediately twist it open like an idiot. It, of course, explodes all over me, the floor and her white uniform.

"You're supposed to wait five minutes for the fizz to settle."

Walk it off.

Scorpions.

Today we had our second round of learning sessions for the new bus system. These basically consist of us handing people maps of the new system, them telling us how much they hate it and then us try and get them from whatever trailer park they live in to the nearest Wal-Mart. I’m not completely sure why I have to go to these things, considering I know nothing about the bus system, public transportation or even the names of most roads outside campus. So everyone is going around helping people and I just try and stay as far as possible from the man that shouted “I HATE YOU ALL” when he walked in.

The first man that attacked me smelled like an ashtray and was playing on his SUPERKEWL tablet, which was fine with me because I didn’t have to pretend to be paying attention to his questions. He proceeds to ask me questions that I don’t have the answer to and then asks about a certain area that he lives nowhere near that our bus system does not serve. I tell him he can walk a quarter mile and find a route. He spews his extensive list of ailments (all cigarette related, no doubt) and tells me he cannot walk 350 feet let alone a quarter mile. He talks to me like I am his house slave but instead of decapitating him, I merely smile and continue to stare at the shadowy spaces in his oral cavity where teeth once resided. This conversation ended with him telling me I did a lousy job engineering this new system and me responding that I’m actually just the janitor.

My next victim was a childlike black woman somewhere within the age range of 30-40 who felt it necessary to have me map out a route for every possible excursion she could take. “Can you tell me how to get to Women’s World?” …”How about to Tallahassee Mall?” … “My dentist?” I map out a route to each of these various locations, which she copies down into her Hello Kitty notebook with Crayola washable markers. This seemingly simple task actually took 30 minutes because she felt compelled to switch marker colors after every third word. In the end, her routes looked more like a game of Candy Land than an actual means of travel. Not to mention the fact that I would tell her the name of the road and she would write down a random word that she thought sounded better. “Basin.” Writes: Basil. “No, not Basil—BASIN.” Writes: Basting. I’m hoping someone either gets her a bike for Christmas or that she’s related to a member of Hell’s Angels and can finagle a sidecar deal.

“I HATE YOU ALL” finds me for assistance and he and his Yellow Raisin friend surround me, encompassing my body in the most foul smelling odor I’ve experienced in my 22-years of life—and I’ve been to Africa where there is no running water and people defecate in manmade holes in the ground. The one man’s hair looked wet, so I’d initially assumed he’d come straight from a shower. After three seconds enveloped in a cloud of 1920s coal miner feet eu de toilet, I quickly realized that he has probably never showered. He tells me that the new routes make his trip to the senior center much more dangerous… then he sniffs my hair. That is my cue and I travel to a seat on the other side of the room and contemplate using the pulley on the window blinds as a makeshift noose. For the next twenty minutes he uninterruptedly gazes into my soul while heavily breathing.

I stare at the floor because unintentional eye contact usually elicits some sort of interaction and at this point I would rather eat staples than interact. Suddenly smelly soul eater’s friend comes up to me and informs me that for the next five months until the true rapture, scorpions will rise and attack the human population. He follows this up with: “well that’s what I’d assume” and then asks me what time the next bus comes.  

Roachin Around

Polly in da Whip

I’m not completely sure if it’s cockroach season or if I’m like the roach whisperer, but those little bastards seem to be popping up everywhere that I am. There have been four in my apartment in the last two weeks and one that managed to sprout pterodactyl wings and fly over my cubicle yesterday, causing the gay woman at the desk beside me to sprint out of the room faster than Usain Bolt on meth. I found it fairly comical that this lady—who I didn’t actually realize was a lady until I spotted her chesticles two days into the job—was severely frightened by a bug. I thought boys and semi-boys loved that shit. I on the other hand, sat at my desk and continued to work, figuring that if this bat-sized airborne insect were going to land on me there was really little I could do other than hope that it lands on my arm and not in my hair—because then it would be lost forever in the tangled abyss of my caveman fro. The two other women bordering my office caught wind of the pest and proceeded to incite an office wide panic. Finally the little old lady in the finance department, Polly, took a break from running a vegetable Farmer’s Market out of her office space, whipped off her orthopedic shoe, smashed the roach to bits and returned to soliciting green beans from her desk in a matter of ten minutes. Polly is my hero not only because she is a ferocious roach wrangler, but also because she flips Twitchy the bird behind his back and is like 90 and driving a BMW convertible that I’m not actually convinced she can reach the pedals in.

The infestation in my home is equally as bad; especially considering we’re not talking about ‘is-that-a-beetle’ sized roaches… I mean mongoloid exposed-to-radiation somewhere in the Peruvian rainforest sized roaches. The type of bug that you could potentially strap a saddle on its back and exploit as a means of eco-friendly transportation. Encountering these shitholes in my own home, however, means that I will be the one doing the extermination. There’s always the person that spots the roach… greeting it’s presence with a high-pitched shriek and shouting “OHMYGODISTHATACOCKROACH?! Kiiiiiillll itttt!!!!” This is usually followed with that same person—joined by a few others—stating: “I don’t DO cockroaches, someone else is going to have to kill it. I just can’t.” Okay jerkoff, no one does cockroaches. I don’t have a giant roach farm in my bedroom, where I feed them steroids and then release them downstairs where I can establish my dominance by hunting them for sport while you dickwads observe from a safe distance. I’m absolutely certain no human actually likes cockroaches. And if you do “like” roaches, you probably also like listening to Nickelback and drinking your own urine. So basically either the creature continues to scale the wall unscathed while we all squeal and hop from the tops of furniture, or I chase the sneaky S.O.B. around the house until it’s in a position where my face won’t suffice as a landing pad if my aim is off. And then I ruin a perfectly good shoe with roach guts while the assholes in the living room start heavy breathing like they just completed a marathon.

“Whew. That was stressful. Thank God we killed him.”

No. No, sweet childlike mind, I killed the beast. You sat on your ass while I bravely played Jeff Corwin and made a new enemy that will have likely already spread its seed somewhere in my room. I figure I have some karma coming from the roach gods considering I’m the one with all the ancestral blood on my hands. I’m waiting for the day I unearth a cockroach colony from somewhere in my closet. I will cover the colony with a giant specimen jar and feed my new pets Jillian Michaels protein shakes until they morph into Hulk Hogan’s lesbian sister and then I will kill them, bring them to my taxidermist and place them throughout the bedrooms of my friends who refused to kill them.

Okay, finished with my cockroach rant. Now I have to go to a “learning session” for the bus depot where I will try to teach crackheads about the new system while they scratch and lick their sores and then ask me 97 questions about things I explained five minutes ago. I’m hoping I don’t have to dress up like a teddy bear or pizza delivery man… but with these things I never know. 

Killer Instincts

For the past few days, I’ve been sleeping like a drunken bum at the greyhound station, which is rare for me considering that I usually have the sleeping patterns of a raccoon. But last night I was awakened by the familiar sound of the Garbage Truck Apocalypse. Some expert sanitation engineer decided to put my neighborhood in a trash collecting route that operates in the middle of the night. It is a sound that I can only equate to that of the world ending or a south central shootout. The first time I heard it, I thought it was another shooting at the sketchy green neighborhood in front of us, where someone was once shot and killed in broad daylight… while my roommates and I were outside lounging in the baby pool. The sound starts off faint—like a BB gun—then sounds like a scene from Independence Day minus sweaty Will Smith in the sheer baby tee. Before we knew what it was, my roommate and I contemplated phoning the authorities to tell them that our neighborhood was being invaded by killer robot titans, until we looked out of the window and realized that it was merely the garbage men barreling through the streets at an unsafe velocity during the wee hours of the morning.

Now I’m exhausted at the public transportation fortress and just received an email following up on the super important discussion we had at this morning’s meeting. This big discussion involved implementing a rule that bans riders wearing saggy pants from entering the buses. Yes, apparently, this rule has been implemented in Fort Worth, Texas and Gekko would like to execute this practice in our own bus system. Clearly he does not recognize the disparities between bus riders in Texas and bus riders in Tallahassee. I’m pretty sure they still apply Jim Crow laws to most cities in Texas. If you employ a “no saggy pants” rule on our buses, you pretty much eliminate 98% of the male ridership population, not to mention run the risk of inciting a gang riot.  

In other news, I’m not sure if everyone is privy to this knowledge—as I was not—but apparently the term “mulatto” is no longer the politically correct term for a person with parents of different races. Apparently “mixed” is the term they’ve deemed most appropriate. Personally, I’m going to campaign to bring back mulatto because honestly, who wants to be called “mixed”? That’s like going to the pound and walking through the cages until you get to that one with half its fur missing that’s chewing on its tongue and violently shaking like ass cheeks in a T-Pain music video and the human society ‘employee’ (more like ex-con that runs cock fights in his spare time) tells you that this particular pooch is “mixed breed.” In dog language, mixed breed usually means the dog was mated with a Chihuahua or a stray cat. In human terms, it just means that you got a black dad… which I sometimes tell people that I do.

Mulatto, however, sounds like a delicious part chocolate-part vanilla cookie that comes in a white package from the Pepperidge Farm Fairy and is consumed by trendy Europeans wearing capris. Oh wait, that’s Milano. Okay well, mulatto sounds like a cool dance move involving gyrating motions of the lower half of the body. Think robot mixed with hokey pokey on speed. That’s even cooler than a damn cookie.

I have no actual work to complete today, as we are out of laminating sheets and Goomba down the hall refuses to order me any. So I’m stuck finding other ways to amuse myself. For instance, I’m convinced the petite mute man down the hall with Harley figurines covering his office space is actually a calculating serial killer. He has all of the traits of a serial killer. And not the bullshit Dr. Phil serial killer characteristics. That guy isn’t even a real doctor.

Actually, I just Googled “Traits of a Serial Killer” and Wikipedia gave me a totally reliable/ fact-based list of behaviors. And Tiny Tim doesn’t actually exhibit any of them—that I would know about—clearly he just makes my skin crawl because he is a creepily compact human. I, on the other hand, exhibit more than the comfortable amount of serial killer behaviors. Chronic lying, rebelliousness, daydreaming, phobias, destroying property, fire setting (I limit my pyromania to contained flames), sleep problems, temper tantrums (only in the Target toy aisle), headaches, accident prone (don’t know how that qualifies me to be a serial killer, but it does) and cruelty to children (okay I was literally babysitting Lucifer and he taunted me for 2 hours before I retaliated). So it appears that I’ve lived 22 years oblivious of the fact that I’m actually a serial killer. Maybe I rape, murder, pillage and plunder in my slumber? I did however get to cross off compulsive masturbation, bed wetting, self-mutilation and cruelty to animals, so maybe those are the deciding factors between upstanding citizen and murderous sociopath. Regardless, I think I should start watching less Dateline and more iCarly. I don’t want to accidentally get any ideas.

Gimme da Loot

I actually would feel better about someone taking my lunch if he/she had left a note because I would’ve at least received some sort of amusement despite the fact that now I will be rummaging around my oversized midget-smuggling purse for spare change to purchase a 3 year old Twix bar from the vending machines in the mechanic area, while the man with the braided beard tells me I look “fancy” for the third time this week. Simply because I’m not wearing a jumpsuit covered in grease and bodily fluids, I look like a supermodel to these men. Whenever I’m feeling bad about myself, I’ve found it helps to walk by construction sites or hang out near a local SuperLube. Sometimes I contemplate putting on a ball-gown and stilettos and strutting my stuff through the scaffolding beneath a worksite. I don’t even mind that I’m being completely objectified with barks, whistles and “Hey Baby’s” from men that are 100% picturing me naked.  It actually makes me feel pretty and all you feminists in your Hollister polos can kick rocks because every girl has their confidence booster and mine is simply presenting myself like a rib eye in front of the illiterate toothless blue-collar population of America.

It honestly doesn’t matter if you’re 300 lbs with a lazy eye and a hunchback--throw a spandex mini dress on that FUPA and some chubby chasing Mexican cement worker is bound to obscenely dry hump the air and whistle while you walk past. Trust me; it’s about as full proof a plan as accidentally “misplacing” a child in Disney World. Some parents keep their kids on leashes while others keep them in a stroller when it’s just SO easy to point the way to Mickey Mouse and skip away in the other direction singing that “Free at Last” slave song like Harriet Tubman’s friends in the tunnel (which wasn’t even actually underground… lowering the coolness factor to about a -5) But I’m kidding, I would never actually release my child into the massive crowds of Disney—they have cameras there. Not to mention you can get all kinds of loot for your offspring on the black market these days. Not that I have any experience in that… I’ve just Googled it.

Come to think of it, I’ve Googled “selling plasma for money” and “egg harvesting” today on my boss’s computer. I should probably figure out how to delete history, before she thinks I’m about to sell bodily fluids and/or my seeds for illicit substances. I only need the money to fund my ‘fuck you real world’ year. However, I did read that you can get thousands for selling your eggs. It’s probably bad that I’m so broke I’ve actually considered it.  Really the only thing holding me back is that dreadful knock in four years, when I open the door revealing a woman shouting something about ‘the spawn of Satan’ over her shoulder while she sprints back to her minivan, leaving me with a small blonde demon that proceeds to light my front lawn on fire and toss my dog in the flames while humming the Wiggles theme song.