Lazy People Eating Veggies

www.nataliedee.com
As you all know, I'm lazy as fuck. Really, really, REALLY lazy. Just an absolute lazy sack of shit really. Not that I want to be, but when it comes down to it, being lazy is just super easy and I love shit that's super easy.

My basic "Productive v. Lazy" routine goes as such: I'll look around the apartment, notice that I can no longer see the carpeting under the laundry, and the productive part of my brain goes something like "Hey, there's shit all over the floor. What say we do some laundry, vacuum a little, then grab a protein shake and head to the gym? Gotta stay healthy!"

And then parts of my brain wired to be a lazy sonuvabitch kick in, with something along the lines of "Fuck that shit, that sounds like actual work. I say we jack off to an Erik Rhodes movie for about half an hour, then we watch some Patton Oswalt and eat an entire pint of Ben & Jerry's "Cherry Garcia"."

Guess which one I usually side with?

To be fair, though, I'm not completely lazy, I'm just tired sometimes. Lately, I've been working every single fucking day with little to no days off in between, which has left me with absolutely ZERO energy. On the plus side, I do have, as my Dad once so eloquently put it, "Figgedy-Fat Pockets".

As you can see, we try to keep Dad away from the public as much as humanly possible.

But yeah, fat pockets and a serious lack of energy aside, I ended up making the KFC Double Down last night from scratch during one of my rabid productive spells. All I can say is: I'm going vegetarian.

I know that seems kinda drastic, but think of it this way: When you eat a sandwich made entirely out of meat products, there's really no way to go but down, isn't there? I figured I might as well quit while I'm ahead. Naturally, by swearing off meat products all together. Not to mention the fact that I was overall pretty disgusted with myself as a human being. Jesus wept; It was good and all, but eating the Double Down made me want to self-immolate myself in shame.

Anyway, come next week I'll be swearing off meat forever. Except for fish. Apparently, fish doesn't count as meat or something. I dunno. I'm confused. Point is, so long meat, I'm going vegetarian.

Gleecap: Home

Open on Kurt and Mercedes in Sue's office. Sue has been named Cheerleading Coach of the Past 2000 years. Admittedly, the competition wasn't exactly all that steep, but still, good for her. Mercedes has been ordered to drop 10 pounds, else she be kicked out of the Cheerios.

Back out in the real world, Sue's taken over the auditorium, and so it looks like Will is fucked. Kurt tries desperately and fails to get Finn's attention, while Brittany and Santana share the secret to being skinny with Mercedes. SPOILER ALERT: It doesn't involve eating. Brittany further continues to be the best dumb person on TV ever.
Meanwhile, Finn is upset that his mother is selling her and her old husband's wedding set. We also get a very uncomfortable account of how exactly Finn was conceived: On a pinball table. In all fairness, I was conceived on a Super Nintendo, so I know the feeling. Further fuckery is revealed when Mama Finn reveals that she's dating Papa Kurt. GASP!

Meanwhile, Shue is at a roller skating rink to try and find a place to rehearse (quick aside: really?!) and lo and behold, it's April Rhodes! No relation to Erik. Cue the duet! As it turns out, April couldn't stay on the wagon for all of five minutes, and is currently working at said rink. Will reveals that he's moving out of his place due to the divorce, so April is going to be checking out Will's place.

Back to Sue, so I care again. Becky has dropped two pounds under Sue's guidance, while Mercedes has somehow gained two pounds. I blame the KFC Double Down. Meanwhile, Kurt reveals that he's the one who set up his father and Finn's mom. Kurt has officially gone full Basic Instinct. At least his hair has stopped looking like a freaking Lego Man.

Back at Glee Club, people are freaked out over the fact that they're gonna be forced to sing in a Roller Skating Rink, probably because Roller Skating Rinks are incredibly dorky. Kurt sings a song I don't know the name of, and pretty much serenades Finn. Also, a quick allusion to the fact that Brittany and Santana might be fucking. Yay for lesbos! But anyway, Kurt fucking nails it.

April comes over to scope out Shue's place for an over-nighter, which will in no way end badly. Nope, just throwing on a CD full of overly-romantic music. No way this can end with these two fucking. And yet another song I don't know the name of. I guess after the Madonna episode they needed to balance it out by pulling out a bunch of songs I'm completely oblivious. Not bad though. Despite her valiant efforts, April has yet to be given a hot beef injection, but she'll be damned if she gives up now. And success! Shue and April are now in bed together! Considering that the last girl he shared a bed with was an insane blond emotionally dependent on him, it's clear to see that...Well, he certainly has a type.

Meanwhile, the Hudson/Hummel families have come together for a family dinner at a generic chain restaurant, where Finn and Mr. Huel hit it off pretty damn nicely. Kurt's jealous of the attention, and pretty pissed over the fact that his father doesn't consider him a guy. Maybe it's the fact that he has more paint on his face than a Pollock.

And for those of you wondering, Mercedes ain't doing too hot. Poor girl is pulling a move out of the Looney Toons playbook and is seeing everyone as food now. Not exactly factually accurate of anorexia (take it from one who knows), although as long as she doesn't strap a pair of Acme rockets to her feet, I'll let it slide.

It's starting to get bad now: Mercedes is in the Nurse's office, having fainted in the hall. Quinn, the ex-cheerleader, is here to provide some of her ex-cheerleader wisdom and tell Mercedes to not let Sue make her feel like her body isn't a thing of beauty. I have to say, I like Quinn a lot more now that she's owning her slut and carrying a little crotch fruit inside of her.

Back at the creepy, sad Roller Skating rink, Shue is talking to April about not being a hopeless mess and not fucking married men. Words to live by, Ladies. Words to live by. Kurt realizes that he's screwed up hopelessly on setting his and Finn's parents up, and now he and Finn have to break them up. Finn tries to throw out his Dad's ashes to prove a point, only to be verbally bitch-slapped by his mother for being a prick. Finn's mom talks about spending years of her life holding onto someone who isn't their anymore, and I can't help but want to bitchslap Finn even more than I usually do.

Sue, meanwhile, has gone full-monty on showing off her Cheerios by fumigating the entire school. Nothing says "School Spirit!" like poisoning the building you work in. Mercedes, on the other hand, has different plans, and has decided to go a different route and, in a big ol' "FUCK YOU, HO!" to Sue, has decided to go with Christina Aguilera's "Beautiful", from the album where she turned into a giant prostitute. Weren't those the days? Anyway, big school inspirational moment while Sue looks around as if everyone has started projectile vomiting. Kurt admits that he was wrong for calling her a fatty-fat-fatterson, and everyone still just generally hates Sue. But we love to hate her, don't we?

As it turns out, the guy interviewing her pretty much tells her straight up that he hates her, but Mercedes' number has convinced him that she believes that it's what's inside that counts. Yeah, about that...Not so much. Back at Finn's house, Finn and Kurt's Dad are having a heart-to-heart about him dating Finn's mom. This ends with the two of them watching a game and the sudden realization that they never moved the fucking urn out of the way. They talk about their mutual hatred of Duke; apparently, these guys are Fark posters. Who knew? Kurt stands idly in the background looking mournful.

Not here's April to wrap things up. As it turns out, April talked to the guy she's been fucking, and wouldn't you know it, the old fucker died and she got nearly $3 Million in hush money. Anna Nicole Smith would be rolling over in her grave if her fat ass would allow it. April uses the money to buy the auditorium for Will, and caps things off with yet another esoteric musical number and a pretty dress. The only way this could be gayer is if Matthew Rush rode across the stage on a rainbow unicorn that farts sequins.

Some extra little tidbits:

• Rachel had only one line this entire show; I'm assuming this has something to do with the fact that her mouth was full Jesse St. James' cock. Somehow, her one and only line was still incredibly irritating.
• Kurt spends the entire episode alternating between creepy stalker and forgotten son. To be honest? Not that far off from the truth.
• For once, Mercedes is portrayed as more than just the fat, sassy black girl who belts out one note then fades back into the background. They gave her one hell of a storyline.
• Brittany's dumb quote of the week: "I think my cat is reading my diary." I wish Brittany had a dick so I could suck it.
• One day, children will look back at pinball tables and think, "Someone once ate my Mom's pussy on one of these."
• For the record, Duke DOES suck. As it turns out, Fark was actually right for once. Who knew?

If Infomercials Were Honest

Do you sometimes mix a pair of red socks in with your klan robe in the washing machine by accident?

Are you willing to fuck this cougar on the world's most bass-ackwards elliptical machine?

Will the screaming in your head never stop? ...Oh God, why won't it ever stop?!

Do you take financial advice from a guy who looks like he abducts little kids using an unmarked white van, promises of candy and a chloroform soaked rag?

Are you so fucking stupid that you are completely unaware of how to use a blanket?

Are you so hard-up for some cock that you would allow this Teddy to shove his face in between your tits and motorboat you like a cracked-out Charlie Sheen?

Are you such a filthy whore that you are completely unaware that your tits are hanging out in the entree?

Well then holy shit, what's wrong with you? Seriously, there are creatures at SEA WORLD with a higher brain function than you. And we make them balance their fucking dinner on their nose. Is that what we need to do? Do we need to balance a can of tuna on your nose to make you stop being such a dipshit?

I mean really, Flavour Waves? Snuggies? Do you know that we literally laugh at you when you buy this shit? Yes, we cover the mouthpiece of our phones and laugh at your big dumb face every time you buy something you saw on TV. The guy who just sold you that $40 Perfect Push-Up just used that money to snort rails off a stripper's asshole. Considering that you just paid $40 for a cheap hunk of useless plastic that makes you look like a self-involved douchebag when you could have just done it for free, you totally deserve it. Infomercials: Because no one ever went broke underestimating the potential for sheer human stupidity; Just look at FOX News!

Cannonball Read Entry #22: The Wordy Shipmates - Sarah Vowell

There's kind of a weird feeling that I got reading Sarah Vowell's The Wordy Shipmates; At first, I enjoyed it because it was well-written, the asides and observations were witty an poignant, and she obviously had a passion for the subject material. But after a while, I noticed something: I was actually learning something. That sneaky bitch! She was bettering me as a human being! How DARE she!

Kidding aside, Sarah Vowell is one of those authours that you severely wished taught you High School history, but couldn't because she was busy being totally awesome and recording voice work for The Incredibles. It's this awesomeness that allows her to write a book that is both informative and pretty damn easy on the eyes.

To her credit, Sarah Vowell's version of America's birth is rather free of any political affiliations. She's neither of a stubborn patriot or a tip-toeing political correctionist. While no one may be perfect, everyone plays an integral part of creating a nation that stands for freedom and justice, even when it doesn't exactly appear that way.

One of the biggest problems I have with history is that, for the most part, people tend to gloss over the parts that don't exactly paint the most flattering picture. Whether it's something simple, like Disney and Warner Brothers putting the kibosh on their more racist cartoons, to the extreme side of denial where people look back at Hitler and World War 2 and say that 6 Million Jews were never systematically killed, you just can't pretend that history never happened just because it doesn't paint a flattering picture of you. Sarah Vowell knows this, and furthermore, isn't afraid to draw parallels between the past and present in order to show the importance of learning from history.

Although there are some slight problems when it comes to the layout of the book. Unfortunately, there are no chapters, so all her ideas just run into each other without much time for rest between them. This leads to something I like to call "Impenetrable Walls of Text" syndrome. It's not that it's not interesting (because it really is), but when there's no room for a break, everything begins to feel dropped on you like a brick.

All in all, it's absolutely fantastic. It shows the settlers as fallible and imperfect, but at the same time there's a common humanity and bravery to them, and really, that's all we can ask from them.

(500) Posts of Jeremy

www.nataliedee.com
Yeah, soooooo...holy shit. Somehow I wrote 500 posts on here. Craziness, I know. Which kinda brings up the question: How the hell do you celebrate something like this? I feel like this should be some huge fucking deal, but...I got nothing.

Oh, wait, actually I got out of my lease and come July 31st or whatever it looks like I'll finally, blissfully be moving out of the province. There are parts of Montreal I'll miss, but then there are the parts that I won't miss so much.

I've got a big project in the works right now, and by the looks of it, you can expect to see it soon. Well, soon-ish. Emphasis on the suffix "-ish". Hey, it's totally coming, I'm just not sure, you know, when exactly. But I swear, it's gonna be pretty cool.

Also somewhat newsworthy but probably not really: I've been working my ass off for the past little while to raise some cold hard cash, and by the looks of it, I am currently fucking banking right now. Anyway, by the looks of it, thanks to my careful saving and massive amounts of hours at work, not only do I have a pretty sizable wad of cash, but I'm thinking it's about time I get some more ink. So if you or someone you know has a sweet tattoo design you wouldn't mind sharing with the class, I'm right here.

And finally...As it turns out, immigration is fucking difficult. Who knew? So by the looks of it, I'll be moving to Toronto for a little while, until I can figure out how exactly the hell moves from Canada to the U.S. without breaking any laws. Granted, I'm sure there are plenty of ways to immigrate illegally, but it would be super great if I didn't get arrested or deported. Who the hell knew it would be so goddamn hard to move from one side of the border to another? Fuck man. Anyway, if anyone out there knows anything about immigration law, feel free to contact me.

Sooooooooo yeah. I think that's about it. For now anyway.

I'm Giving Up On Love, 'Cause Love's Given Up On Me

I was the kid who believed in Santa until he was 12, The Tooth Fairy until he was 9, and the Easter Bunny until he was 6. No, really. I'll believe in just about any fictional being if the pay-off is good enough. Hell, you think any kid would believe in a jolly Yuletide burglar if he were doing anything other than leaving presents under the tree? Fuck no.

Which brings me to the next thing I've since stopped believing in: Love. I don't mean love as in "Love thy neighbour" or "Love thine enemy" or shit like that. I mean love where two people say "I do" then wear rings for the rest of their life to symbolize the day they decided to ruin the rest of their lives by making a commitment they can't uphold.

I'm not a pessimist or anything, although I'm not an optimist either, but here's the things: Dating leads to commitment, which leads to expectations, which leads to disappointment, which leads to two good people fucking hating each other's guts. That's all dating is: You take two good people and stick them together until they hate each other to the point that neither of them ever want to see each other again. That's not love, that's a crappy reality TV show they greenlight on FOX.

And what about the people it does work for? Well, here's the thing: Whether it's 40 years down the line or, let's say, about two months after you meet, the hand of fate will eventually come down and bitchslap them six feet under ground for no discernible reason, and there's not a thing you can do about it because God enjoys seeing you suffer. Seriously, just fucking yanked out of existence like that. Believe me, I know.

Hey, I believe in two people living together, getting along, and fucking all they want. But fuck this talk of "Dating" and "Boyfriends". It's not realistic, it fucks everything up, and changing your Facebook relationship status is, for lack of a better word, really goddamn annoying. Fuck love.

Hug + Cuddle = "Huggle"

I have a lot on my mind right now, but instead of going into those, I'm just going to post this video, mostly because it combines my two favourite things in the entire world: Cuddling and Adorable animals. I've never realized this until literally right this second, but my life's ambition is to someday own an elephant seal. Are they unreasonably large, too heavy to house in an apartment and quite possibly dangerous to try and domesticate? Yes. But look at his widdle eyes! And when he bends back he has little chubby ripples! ...Squee...

Little Boxes Made Of Ticky Tacky

So last night I ended up going out to Taboo with Bruce La Bruce, who some of you might know as the director of "Otto, or Up With Dead People" and "L.A. Zombie" (he certainly has a type). It was one of those "I'm in Montreal, you're in Montreal, let's go watch naked guys dance onstage" kinda deals.

For the most part, a lot of it involved staring at said naked guys while poking fun at some of the weirder ones, including one guy who bore a disturbing resemblance to Rachel Maddow. He even had the eyeglasses. I wasn't sure whether he should be giving lap-dances or sitting behind a desk, cracking wise about health care reform and tax breaks. And there was one unfortunate soul who had on stripey socks that made it look like Tim Burton came on his feet.

At one point, one of the dancers there came up to do the scheduled "Hi, how are you, where are you from" spiel that I've given so many times before, and to be honest, found kind of cute. So I decided to cut him a break and take him in the back for a blowjob. I know that sounds kinda slutty, but in all fairness, he was actually really hot, and I'm practically the patron saint of cocksucking. I'm like what would happen if Mother Teresa went around giving people head instead of helping the poor and creating hospices for people with terminal illnesses. Seriously, statues will be erected in my honour.

...HA! Erected.

But in the back of the club, with eight inches of stripper cock pistoning in and out of my mouth like an engine that I realized something: I missed this. I missed working the pole, peeling onstage, taking guys outback and giving them lap dances that would make a rabbi eat pork. I missed stripping. When I was on the pole I was, as Billy Crudup put it in Almost Famous before diving off the roof of a house, a Golden God.

I realized I had been living a wholesome existence so long, I had forgotten how to have fun. I had become a homeboy; hell, I was three cats away from becoming either a crazy cat lady or a grade-a douchebag. Maybe it was the weight of the realization, or maybe it was the fact that I was starting to suffer from oxygen deprivation due to the eight inch cock down my throat, but I was having an epiphany.

Unfortunately, before I could delve further into this, he shot a load down my throat that could have drowned a regular man.

How's that for a religious experience?

An Open Letter To Sarah Palin

www.nataliedee.com
Dear crazy librarian lady who won't shut the fuck up Sarah Palin,

Hiya! You probably don't know who I am, although I can't really blame you since you probably don't have the mental capacity remember your own name without reading it off the palm of your hand. But I digress. My name is Jeremy Feist, and I'm from Canada, or as you probably call it, "America's Hat". Or "Where all my cheap Valium comes from".

Listen, I know at this point you've pretty much lost any and all pretense of being a serious politician, or of being anything at all that requires some level of competence, self-respect or accomplishment, but here's the thing: there's a difference between "making a point" and "Being a spiteful, vindictive jack-off". Guess which category you fall under? Here's a hint: It's the one that makes you look batshit crazy.

I know you were elected into office, which means that by law you're now obligated to be hypocritical to a fault. That being said, to pinpoint houses of your political enemies using sniper targets and using gun terminology when discussing political strategy when you are consciously aware that a small, albeit crazy faction of your supporters might misconstrue that in a violent light? This is one of those things that you should really consider NEVER doing. I'm not sure what's worse: that you hunt wolves from a fucking helicopter or that we nearly elected to the office of the vice-president someone who's main hobby is murdering things.

And about your staunch opposition to universal health care...Yeah, there actually does exist an America with universal health care. And gay marriage. And a pro-choice stance on abortion. It's called Canada. And so far, we have not followed our Hitler-mustachioed Obama overlords into socialist work factories while the Deathpanels killed our grannies. Actually, we're doing pretty good for ourselves. Actually, as of this writing our dollars are pretty much on par. Maybe a tad over, but who's counting?

I guess the thing that really annoys me about you is that, well, you're just a fucking poison. You're poison to the American political debate. Remember back when Lincoln delivered the Gettysburg address? Well, now we've gotten to the point where you get into a feud with fucking "Family Guy". On your Facebook page. I know not every political speech can be a winner right out of the gate, but I think we can all agree that something has gone very wrong when you're telling your followers to pull over anyone with an Obama bumper sticker and ask the owner of the car "How's that whole Hopey-Changey stuff is working for ya?"

To them I say, "Pretty good so far. How's that whole "4 term governorship" working for ya?"

In conclusion: Please never do anything ever again. For the sake of humanity, PLEASE. Don't.

Fuck you whore My Respects,

Jeremy Feist

P.S. Get over it. It's "Family Guy" for Christ's sake. It stopped being funny after the third season.

Shut Your Mouth Before I Rape It

Okay, so no actual real post tonight because Glee was on and I would sooner chew off both my hands then miss Glee (Please don't make me prove this.) But what the fuck ever because I found video evidence of Sue Sylvester (Jane Lynch) covering Madonna's "Vogue", and to be honest, it's more fabulous than a million flaming unicorns running on a rainbow road. Watch it now before Fox inevitably pulls it and sues my ass.

Cannonball Read Entry #21: Naked Pictures Of Famous People - Jon Stewart

Two things you should probably know right out of the gate: For those expecting a literary version of The Daily Show, this isn't it. And for those expecting the eponymous naked pictures of famous people...Well, consider yourself blue-balled.

Whenever anyone attempts to badmouth The Daily Show, they always tend to fallback on the classic excuse of "Jon Stewart has a team of writers! Therefore his show has no merit!" Because Sean Hannity apparently researches and writes his entire show entirely by himself. Dipshit. Well, this book is pretty much a prominent middle-finger anyone who's ever called Stewart's comic abilities into question.

Despite what the title might lead you to think, Naked Pictures is actually a collection of short stories by Stewart. While it doesn't really have any of the political strength of the show that made him famous, it does have to kind of satirical edge, sharp writing and cultural edge to it that makes the show as popular as it is.

If anything, it bears a striking similarity to the interview portion of the show, a feature that I've always found to be a tad underrated. The self-effacing candor, the non-judgmental exchange of ideas, the refusal to take bullshit...Despite being the one part of the show that most people end up Tivo-ing through, it's the moment of the show that cements Stewart's reputation as the last vestige for truly spin-free news.

Admittedly, some stories fall a bit flat. For example, Stewart's fake obtiuary for the Taco Bell Chihuahua would probably be funnier thirteen years ago if it were a bit longer. But honestly, the entire thing is like three pages anyway, and when you consider that the rest of the book is an absolute gold mine of satire, complaining about one teensy little three page story seems a tad petty.

Anyhoodle, if you're looking for something short, snappy, and witty, I'd give it a read.

Cannonball Read Entry #20: Bite Me - Christopher Moore

I'm sure this might come as a surprise, but Christopher Moore is my favourite authour. Seriously. Considering that so far I've pretty much raked all of his books across the coals, this make shit sense, but as we all know, my love is a toxic, deadly thing that brings nothing but pain and woe...Or some shit like that.

The thing is, I could just sit idly by and pretend that his books are completely free of fault and perfect in every way, but that's not how it works. My outlook on books, and my outlook on pretty much anything, is that if you can acknowledge it's faults and still honestly say that you enjoyed it and would read it again, that's the sign of a good book. The worst thing you can do is to pretend that everything is fine when it's not; that leads goddamn nowhere.

Anyway, onto the book: Bite Me is the third installment of Moore's Bloodsucking Fiends trilogy. To catch you up, *SPOILER ALERT* the book takes off after the events of You Suck; Jody and Tommy are trapped together in a bronze statue (don't ask), Elijah, the first vampire, is on a boat with the three vamps he first turned, Abby and Foo are still fucking, and Chet the Huge Shaved Cat is now Chet the Huge Shaved Vampire Cat thanks to Elijah, and he's going around inadvertently creating an army of blood-sucking cats.

So there's that.

Anyway, Abby is now tasked with defending the city against the legion of undead felines along with Foo, Rivera and Cavuto, The Animals and The Emperor of San Francisco. Believe me, this makes far more sense in context. Unfortunately, there's a bit of a hitch in the plan when it's discovered that the human vampire blood in Chet is mutating him into a pseudo-sentient being, the three vamps from the boat decide to kill off the protagonists, and Jody and Tommy are freed from their statue, only to discover that Tommy has gone shithouserat crazy.

Now, the good parts: Moore still has the knack for making the absolutely fantastical seem natural, weaving even the most ridiculous detail into the plot so that nothing ever sticks out as being too weird. And as much as Abby annoyed me in the original, Moore manages to revolve a decent amount of the story around her without it ever being irritating.

The one thing that sort of irked me about the whole thing? Part of me felt that, on it's own, the book was good, but ultimately felt like an unnecessary to the series. Not bad, just unnecessary. I always kinda thought You Suck tied up the loose ends of Bloodsucking Fiends rather nicely, but apparently not. Thankfully, Bite Me leaves nothing unfinished, and I have to commend Moore for leaving us with a bittersweet ending that wraps things up completely.

When it comes down to it, it's still a great book, just like the rest of Moore's bibliography. It might not be perfect, but nothing is, so why get hung up on a few minute details when you can just appreciate something for what it is rather than what you want it to be? And all in all, it's still better than anything Stephanie Meyers can ever come up with.

Tacos V. Sandwiches: The Epic Showdown

In the epic battle of delicious meats, veggies and cheeses layered between carbs, there are two clear-cut stand-outs: The sandwich and the taco. But which is better? Let's find out, with the epic battle of...
TACO VERSUS SANDWICH
Yes, there's a good chance I'm high right now.

Round #1 - Preparation

Sandwich:

Do you have two slices of bread? That's it. Put stuff in between the bread. End of story. You don't need any sort of initial planning. Throw whatever's in arm's length in there and call it a day.

Taco:

Irritatingly long. You have to bake the shells, cook and season the meat, slice the veggies, grate the cheese...And then the fucking shell won't stand up. If you want a Taco, you better have a fuckload of time on your hands.

Winner: Sandwich

Round #2 - Deliciousness

Sandwich:

This one's a toughie. Since a sandwich can be made of just about anything, this can be anywhere between "So awesome my tits exploded" to "Oh Jesus my tongue is a never-ending valley of pain and despair."

Taco:
Since tacos rarely, if ever, change format, they're usually pretty damn tasty, and generally speaking, slightly better on average than a sandwich.

Winner: Taco

Round #3 - Messiness

Sandwich:
Not that bad. Food tends to stay in the little bread envelope, and if need be, you're totally allowed to eat it with a knife and fork.

Taco:

The shell will collapse in on itself, the juice from the meat will mix with the salsa and the sour cream and drip all over the fucking place, chunks of meat will fall onto the plate, and by the time you finally finish, you'll enough edible shrapnel to launch a war.
Winner: Sandwich

Round #4 - Dessert

Sandwich:The Oreo. Good, not great.

Taco:The Choco Taco: Irrefutable proof of a decent and loving God.

Winner: Taco

Round #5 - Likelihood Of Your Ass Exploding

Sandwich:

"What? Oh, no, of course not, I feel fine! Pete, you doing okay?"

Taco:

"OH SWEET BABY JESUS MY ASS IS ON FIRE HOLY MARY PLEASE MAKE IT STOP!!!:"

Winner: Sandwich

Yes, by the sole virtue that a sandwich will not turn your ass into a bleeding, fiery volcano of horror, the sandwich beats the taco for best combination delicious meats, veggies and cheeses layered between carbs. Here's to you, sammich.

My Date With An Angry Lesbian

You know you have a serious addiction when you become friends with the barrista at Starbucks. Or when you start using the word "barrista" in a sentence. My venti addictions aside, Rachel (not her actual name), the Starbucks girl, has become a daily fixture and as such, feels the need to try to set me up on blind dates. Our conversations for the past week have gone something like so:

"Oh my God, you would be perfect for my friend Jaime!" says Rachel.

"No I wouldn't," I say, "No offense, I just don't want to date anyone for, like, ever."

"Oh come on, one little date! If you're both totally wrong for each other, then I will totally let it go."

"Thanks but no thanks."

And then I grab my Mocha Frappuccino, because I love my coffee like I like my men: Tall, dark and sweet enough to induce Type 2 Diabetes. But eventually I caved and decided to go on the blind date with Jaime, who was apparently "Very hot, very funny, and can suck a golf-ball through a Pixie Stick".

For the most part, I really only agreed to go on the date just so that Rachel would stop pestering me every time I decided to go to my green apron-clad dealer for a fix. So far my track record has been less than stellar, and I decided that remaining single was just much easier to handle both mentally and emotionally then to shack myself up with someone I'd end up breaking up with anyway. That being said, it was a blind date, free of any quid pro quos, and I can never say no to dinner. I was given the time and date, and told to look for Jaime, who would be wearing a white shirt, blazer and jeans.

Now, cut to yesterday, when I show up at the restaurant in a nice pair of jeans, leather loafers and an ironed dress shirt. IRONED. Considering that I refuse to be seen wearing anything that doesn't look like it's spent a week balled-up on my living-room floor, this is what Joe Biden would refer to as "A Big Fucking Deal."

And of course, there was Jaime. Jaime was toned, had black hair, a strong jaw and a strong, masculine stance. Jaime was perfect.

Or at least, it would have been if it weren't for the fact that Jaime had twice the number of X chromosomes that I had, or that Jaime's sex organs were on the inside, or that Jaime was a girl.

With a vagina.

"You're Jaime, aren't you?" I asked.

"And you are?" asked Jaime

"Jeremy," I said.

Jaime gave me a look as if I had pulled down my pants and started hanging brain in her water glass. And then she went nucking futs. "MOTHERFUCKER!" she screamed.

Normally, the inevitable blow up occurred a little further along in the date, when both parties were good and drunk. This was the first time it had ever happened before I even managed to sit down. "I'm missing out on something here, aren't I?"

"That fucking bitch set me up again! GODDAMMIT!"

"Yeah, that's pretty much the point of blind dates," I said.

"Would you shut the hell up? You're not even a girl!" she said.

It was at this point that I realized that I was a gay man on a blind date with a lesbian. A very angry lesbian. A very angry lesbian who was far closer to the butter knife than I would have liked. "Okay then," I said, backing up as slowly as I could.

"Know what? No. Fuck this. Goodbye," she said, as the very angry lesbian stormed out of the restaurant. It was at this point that I noticed everyone in the restaurant was looking at me. "I'm gay and my friend who works at Starbucks set me up on a blind date with a lesbian," I said to the waitress closest to me.

"I'm sorry. Can I get you anything?"

Long story short, I got some free breadsticks. Sweet.

Thankfully, Rachel was still working as a froth slave at Starbucks, so I decided to pay her a little visit to clear the air. Obviously, Jaime the Very Angry Lesbian got to her first because the moment I walked in she started laughing at me. "April Fools!" she screamed.

"No, April Fools Day was last week. You're not allowed to prank anyone anymore. That's why it's called April Fools Day. Not April Fools Week."

"Yeah, but I started it on April Fools Day, so it counts."

"No, that's not how it works," I said. "Now can I get a Moka Frappuccino? You kinda owe me for setting me up with an Angry Lesbian. She blew up on me. It's like I told her that they discontinued 'The L-Word' on DVD."

Yeah I had to pay for it. I think I've learned a valuable lesson: Never have friends who will set you up on a date with a raging lesbo, unless she's cool with you punching her in the clam.

Happy Easter, Bitchtits

Here's the thing about my father: I really truly do love him, despite his complete lack of conscience, or his inability to feel shame or embarrassment. The man is essentially Bernie Madoff on a budget. Not to mention he has this thing for referring to himself as "Daddy," which sort of has a weird connotation at this point.

"How's Daddy's boy?" asked my father, standing over a hot stove.

"There are literally millions of things you can call me," I said, dropping my bags off at the front door, "But that is so not one of them."

It's not that my dad is a giant dumbass; Mind you, he pretty much is, but that's only a small part of it. As far as I can tell, the moment a man becomes a father is the moment when the part of the brain responsible capable of rational thought and reason dies out and is replaced with the part of the brain that thinks installing TVs in the bathroom and wearing Ed Hardy shirts that show off your sagging bitchtits is anything but fucking stupid.

"Have you said hi to your Grandma yet? She's in the living room," said Moobs.

"No, and I was kinda hoping I wouldn't have to."

I know that sounds mean, but you should probably know right now that my Grandma is, to put it lightly, completely bananaramabatshitinsane. Not only this, but she has a propensity to eat and drink anything in arm's length. She also happens to look a little bit like a penguin, and if you pour enough red wine into her, she'll even waddle like one.

"GERMY! HOW ARE YOU?!" screeched Grandma in a voice that set off dogs and car alarms in a 5 mile radius. Obviously, someone had beaten me to the rum punch, as Grandma was now waddling like a one-woman performance of March Of The Penguins. I was sorely tempted to stick her in a tuxedo and dub her over with Morgan Freeman's voice.

"I'm fine, Grandma," leaning into her doughy frame for what I'm assuming was supposed to be hug but quickly devolved into her wrapping her body around mine so she wouldn't fall on the floor. For those of you wondering where my alcoholic nature comes from, there's your answer.

"Why don't we go into the backyard and dig up dinosaurs?" she asked. On top of being a first-rate glutton, a raging boozehound and completely bonkers, my Grandma is also under the impression that I'm still five years old and interested in fossils. Although to be fair, considering that my current job also involves giant bones, it probably isn't too far from the truth.

"You know, I think I'm good. Besides, Dad is serving supper, so I think-"

"Supper," said Grandma, with the sort of sociopathic, single-minded focus seen only murderers, rapists and Kruezers. The good news is that dinner is usually pretty uneventful, since everyone has their mouth full, which puts a damper on the whole communication thing. In case you're wondering why I never tried convincing my parents to just make it dinner 24/7...Well, then we'd end up with bitchtits as big as Dad's.

Anyway, long story short: gifts are given to Patrick for his birthday, chocolate is exchanged for Easter, Dr. Drew is brought in for Grandma's alcohol dependence (Just kidding! Dr. Drew is a douche!), and I decide to high-tail it out there so I can remind myself why I love these people.

"Well before you go, you want some pork?" asked Dad. "Daddy likes to take care of his boys."

"I will literally pay you money never to say that again."

"How much?"

Long story short, I drive home with half a hunk of ham wrapped in tinfoil while I keep getting calls from a guy I once made the sex with and with whom I have absolutely no desire to make anymore sex with. Finally, I cave in and text him, "Look, just because Jesus rose today, doesn't mean I have to."

Cannonball Read Entry #19: Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang - Chelsea Handler

For a moment, I was severely tempted to just repost my review of Are You There Vodka? It's Me Chelsea, switch the titles of the books and call it a day. Because essentially, that's what Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang is: It's Vodka part 2. It's not a bad thing; It's just the same thing.

So here's the deal: Chelsea is back again talking about her childhood, her crazy money-grubbing cad of a father, her (now ex-)boyfriend, her dog, her gay friends and car drivers...basically, just imagine everything that you liked and/or disliked about her last book and you essentially have Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang Bang.

To be honest, her writing style this time around is improved compared to her previous work, and the inclusion of the occasional candid photos actually manages to expand on the story rather than take away from it or distract the reader.

That being said, her focus throughout Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang Bang Bang was almost non-existant at times, as she would often pause the main story to delve back into back-stories at the drop of a hat. I probably wouldn't have minded this so much if it weren't for the fact that she does this in almost every story with little to no warning. It's a little disconcerting when you keep being whip-lashed out of the story with a spur of the moment "OH! By the way..." tangent.

All in all, it was still an enjoyable book. It was funny, clever, and Chelsea Handler seems to be improving herself as a writer. Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang may be something of a one-trick pony, but my GOD is it ever a good trick.

The Most Epic Picture You Will See All Day EVER

Okay, so a couple days ago, Figgy released the Sharabbit, a half-shark/half-rabbit hybrid. And it was awesome. But then I asked "Could it be more awesome?" Scientists laughed at the question, saying there was no way it could happen. So I pulled down my pants and cock-slapped the non-believing scientists. So I made the Sharabbit more awesome. How?

I give you: Betty White on a Rob Romoni Unicorn fighting a Sharabbit. EPIC.

SUPER TOTALLY AWESOME DAY ZOMGROFLMAOBBQSAUCELOL

So today i totally went to the gym and had a protein shake lol :) that shit is so nasty lol :) then when i got back i watched twilight and cried for like 2 hours because omg I LOVE EDWARD HE SETS MY VERY SOUL ON FIRE I WANT HIS SPARKLY VAMPIRE COCK INSIDE ME FOREVER AND EVER LOLZ!1!! :P

Then i went to work...lmao! Actual work is for peasants! :D I actually watched new moon and i was like wtf?! what the hell jacob? taylor lautner is so hot in real life, even when he was seventeen and that would have been creepy and illegal lol :)! but omg bella needs to be with edward because edward is so dark and mysterious lol :D

and then after i listened to house and electronica all night and did a whole bunch of coke LOLOLOLOLOLOL :D! wait, isn't house and eletronica just the same type of shitty music only with different names so that submental fratboys will buy it? probably not lol :D anyway super totally awesome day lol! goodnight!

...

Yeah, for those of you who complain that my blog isn't happy enough or that I don't "Smile" enough, believe me when I say, it could be SO much worse. Yipes. If that was hard to read, imagine typing it. I think all that talk of Twilight gave me a brain hemorrhage alone.

Now let's never speak of this again.