I probably shouldn’t have laughed as hard as I did when I read this story. After all, it’s all about spousal abuse, assault, and just plain dumbass behavior. And yet, I cracked up several times out loud. Picturing it in my head still brings a smile to my face .
It also doesn’t hurt that the story’s writer was clearly humored by the events and it came across in the tone. That last line is pure comic genius.
All of the objectionable words talk reminds me of a story…
On Christmas Eve, we went to my Dad’s. We left from my sister’s house, and my nephews rode with us, because there is nothing on this earth that my youngest nephew, Noah, loves more than getting in our car and finding out what decal or piece of molding he can manage to remove between our place of departure and our destination. It’s one of his many gifts.
So, on the way to my Dad’s, impromptu inspiration resulted in us teaching Noah the phrase “WTF?”. He asked right away if it was a bad word. (Because he knows us.) We convinced him that it wasn’t. The definition we gave him? “What’s this?” or “What’s that about?” Then, we told him, if he opened a gift he didn’t like, he should say “WTF?”.
The first gift he opened was a shirt. He was none too happy about it, but he was too busy crying to remember the phrase, so when the real adults moved out of the vicinity to fill their plates, we reminded him that he had something to say about the shirt. Proudly, he shouted “WTF?!?” at the adult humans.
My sister immediately said “Heeeeeyyyyy. You don’t say that,” in her most motherly warning tone.
So, Noah bursts into these huge tears, points at us, and says “They lied to me!”
I can honestly say, never in my life have I felt so bad and laughed so hard at the same time.
Don’t worry. The only ones who got into trouble were us, and we all made up by the end of the evening.
I admit that, on occasion, I develop a bad case of sailor mouth. Now, it’s not like I go around every day, spewing forth all the naughty words that I have in my arsenal, but I don’t, in any way, attempt to refrain from using colorful wording when I feel that a situation calls for it.
Whenever there is a soapbox anywhere in the vicinity, I have a knack for inventing phrases that would make Jesus blush, put his fingers to his lips, and say “Oh my.”
And while I know there are people who attempt to abstain from cussing, and I applaud those efforts, I honestly don’t see how you verbally punctuate. You see, I can say “I don’t want to go with you,” and it certainly has meaning, but it’s just a statement. If I say “I don’t want to fucking go with you,” now it’s a bold exclamation… and I don’t even have to raise my voice.
Anyway, as often happens, I sidetracked myself, and I am returning to my original point now.
This morning, as I was walking to the car to come to this hell hole, I spontaneously said “WT Fuck.” That’s like WTF with the fuck left in. Then, after a good laugh at myself, I decided that I’m going to start talking that way. I’m going to use the cussing acronyms that have become widely popular, but then throw in a twist at the end by exclaiming the dirty word.
WT Fuck & S.O. Bitch
And then, when people give me the look, I’m going to cackle gleefully, kick them in the shins, and run!
I added some fun videos to my YouTube account. Go here. Watch and enjoy. Comment on my brilliance. Words like ingénue and creative genius really work for me. Feel free to apply them liberally.
Yes, some of them are Women’s Murder Club. I’m obsessed. Get over it! But not all of them are.
These videos are something I do for fun. They are half waste of time and half great editing experience. I should be working on other things. But I still enjoy doing them!
I think this. I really do. What is it about a man with a football in his hands that makes me want to drop my panties so?
Is it the smell of crud-encrusted leather and sweat-stained sport socks? Is it the all-male camaraderie, complete with homoerotic ass smacking? Is it the stunted speech due to too many bashes to a helmet-clad head?
I don’t know, but whatever it is… Pig skin… Man hands… Mmmmmm.
Warning! This game is highly addictive: Dope Wars. If you think drugs will get a hold on you, wait until you try selling them. I was first exposed to this game while working a shitty job back when I thought that $8 an hour was a decent wage. Ah, youth. Anyway, I googled it the other day and, lo and behold, there it was. Dope Wars has changed since back in the day though. It has become more thrilling, more chilling, and considerably more amusing.
Here’s how it works:
You start out with $5000 that you borrowed from the loanshark. You also start out with two bitches. Your bitches serve several functions. They carry drugs, they carry guns, and, most importantly, they act as human shields. These are some dumb bitches! They’ll take a bullet for you. Building up your bitches is like building up an army.
First things first though, you’ve got to pay back the loanshark, and, of course, that loan earns interest fast, so the quicker you get the money back, the better. If you don’t get it back fast enough, you’re gonna get roughed up in a major way by the loanshark’s little baby sharks.
You earn money to pay back the loanshark, buy you some bitches, and acquire lots and lots of wealth by hopping from borough to borough, and all over Manhattan, buying drugs cheap and selling them for profit. Once you become educated in the average price range of the drugs, your money starts piling up in a way that makes you wonder if you should become a dealer for real. Earn enough money and you can start building your bitch army and equipping them with guns of multiple calibers. The bigger your bitch army and the better your guns, the better you’ll do in your face offs with the cops, and occasionally other players.
Dope Wars is completely and utterly tasteless, and a total fuckin’ blast. Don’t be such a prude and try a game, but, be advised, if you run into cheezwhiz in the Bronx, I won’t hesitate to blow your ass away.
When money is tight and you need a naturally fun upper, there is nothing like a little t-ball soccer.
Ingredients: One tennis ball, two people, a linoleum or hardwood floor, and a gaggle of miscellaneous household items to mark goals. Our shitty apartment just happens to have doorways in the kitchen that are directly across from each other, but we still use our miscellaneous household items (a jug of vinegar here, a bottle of oil there) to block off pathways, so we don’t end up with a tennis ball behind the refrigerator or something.
Directions: Like soccer with a team of one. You must try to kick the tennis ball through the opponent’s goal (doorway) while defending your own goal (doorway) at the same time.
Health benefits: For an activity that takes place in an eight by four room, you can work up quite a sweat if you’re enthusiastic.
Possible dangers: If you are too enthusiastic though, you could send the ball anywhere, including the stovetop if you play in the kitchen. I wouldn’t recommend playing while cooking. I’d also advise removing breakables from the immediate area.
Outcome: A general feeling of euphoric giddiness, and a tally mark in either the win or loss column. So far I have been assured both the euphoria and the defeat.
Regulations still being considered: Should there be a handicap? I don’t want to be a sore loser, but is it possible that maybe, just maybe, Shawna’s gargantuan feet are giving her the tiniest bit of an advantage in t-ball soccer? I mean, all she has to do it turn her feet to the sides and her size elevens go practically from door frame to door frame.
There are some things in life that you just can’t live without, even though, logic tells you, you should try. We call these things guilty pleasures, and I have several. Today, I highlight two.
Amazons and Gladiators.
I pick up a lot of movies because they look like potential guilty pleasures. This one definitely fit that bill. Some of the acting isn’t that bad, but the majority of it is so wildly overdramatic, or so oddly spoken, that you can’t suppress the giggles it produces. I laughed out loud more times while watching this movie than with any comedy I have seen, and not once did I think the film’s creators intended for me to laugh when I did. That is the mark of the best kind of guilty pleasure. Even if you find this movie complete tripe, and you should, hang in as long as you can, because the “Who’s this bitch?” line will make you glad you made it through.
Golden Girls reruns.
This show was tres popular once upon a time, so calling it a guilty pleasure may be a bit of a stretch. All I know is that I am not the youngest person I know who will stop on Golden Girls every time they pass it on Lifetime. Generations later, and four old ladies are still sucking ‘em in like Hoovers. I many not feel guilty, but I am certain teenage boys who tune in don’t go around telling their friends about it. (You requested a tribute, Chase. This is it : )
You are currently browsing the archives for the Ultimate Guilty Pleasures category.
