I hate you, getting ma’amed. Getting missy’ed by a cop is the absolute worst, btw, because you really can’t tell him what a jackass he is at the time, and do you really think the Rat Squad has time to bust Sipowicz for missying a motorist when New York’s Finest Taxi Service is delivering diamonds? Negatory, my friend.
Ma’am is mom jeans. Ma’am is sidelined. Ma’am is eyes sliding right past you. Ma’am is an empty iced tea glass for 20 minutes. Ma’am is the end of the line. No cougar is a ma’am. Helen Mirren hates ma’am and that’s good enough for me.
A couple three years back, my doctor asked me when I was going to start having babies and I laughed at him. Now he’s sending me for The Titty Test. I did not laugh at him. You there! In the back! Stop that caterwauling! I am not dying. I’m just getting mammed.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
I Love You Always Forever. Near And Far, Closer Together. Everywhere I Will Be With You. Everything I Will Do For You.
I have been castigated a couple times lately for not keeping up with the posting. Sigh. I know. But I don’t feel comfortable at my workstation the way I did when I started this thing. Possibly because being an hourly worker means I don’t get paid if I’m goofing off. I miss my salaried days. You got paid even if you didn’t show up. Sigh.
Anyhow, I walk amongst you, and anon, I will have more tales of life downtown and being hustled by the professionally homeless after math class. Yes, my pets, I am back in school. And please excuse my dear Aunt Sally, but I do not remember much from ninth grade. Except for some reason, I’m compelled to circle my answers on my homework and I didn’t need an explanation of “eoo” in the instructions. I’m glad to know you can still get extra credit by turning in a homework folder. It’s worth 2%.
I’ve been in demand, and I ain’t talking about postings, baby. I’ve been hanging out at my local and chatting men up every weekend. I met Kevins. And I met Ted. (Haaaaaave you met Ted? Blog five!) And Arkansas. And Emory. And Striker (!) and Pam. And Aggie Jackass. And Some Old Guy. And Fat Cunt in England But Fat Cunt With An Accent in America. And Ian Needs A Ride. And last but not least, I met Noel who was an FOTB (Friend of Toaster Boy). Although they don’t currently speak. I can’t give Noel points for anything except either honesty or balls. It’s a toss up. (Ha. Toss.) Anyway, Noel is the first man who’s ever hit on me while admitting he has a girlfriend who he lives with and has no intention of leaving and given me the choice to take on all that crap or walk. I walked. How dare you!
I’m used to being lied to and finding out post-inappropriate behavior that I’m dealing in filth. How refreshing to deal in filth up front.
There are some new rules:
1. No shots.
2. Unless they are purchased by a stranger who would be offended if the shot is not taken.
I have been reminded constantly of The ‘90s lately. Like, I’m 36 next month and I still have to plan around Spring Break. Funny or sad? You be the judge.
Speaking of funny and sad, I just remembered a '90s story that took place in The Butt Hut. When emerging from Tenant A's room for the obligatory Walk of Shame, I encountered another overnight guest who inquired of me, "Did you fuck him?" "Well, we weren't playing Parchesi," said I. And then I went to the kitchen table and took Tenant B's Frosted Flakes while he was sitting there eating them. Then I left. Awesome. I make shame look good.
Anyhow, I walk amongst you, and anon, I will have more tales of life downtown and being hustled by the professionally homeless after math class. Yes, my pets, I am back in school. And please excuse my dear Aunt Sally, but I do not remember much from ninth grade. Except for some reason, I’m compelled to circle my answers on my homework and I didn’t need an explanation of “eoo” in the instructions. I’m glad to know you can still get extra credit by turning in a homework folder. It’s worth 2%.
I’ve been in demand, and I ain’t talking about postings, baby. I’ve been hanging out at my local and chatting men up every weekend. I met Kevins. And I met Ted. (Haaaaaave you met Ted? Blog five!) And Arkansas. And Emory. And Striker (!) and Pam. And Aggie Jackass. And Some Old Guy. And Fat Cunt in England But Fat Cunt With An Accent in America. And Ian Needs A Ride. And last but not least, I met Noel who was an FOTB (Friend of Toaster Boy). Although they don’t currently speak. I can’t give Noel points for anything except either honesty or balls. It’s a toss up. (Ha. Toss.) Anyway, Noel is the first man who’s ever hit on me while admitting he has a girlfriend who he lives with and has no intention of leaving and given me the choice to take on all that crap or walk. I walked. How dare you!
I’m used to being lied to and finding out post-inappropriate behavior that I’m dealing in filth. How refreshing to deal in filth up front.
There are some new rules:
1. No shots.
2. Unless they are purchased by a stranger who would be offended if the shot is not taken.
I have been reminded constantly of The ‘90s lately. Like, I’m 36 next month and I still have to plan around Spring Break. Funny or sad? You be the judge.
Speaking of funny and sad, I just remembered a '90s story that took place in The Butt Hut. When emerging from Tenant A's room for the obligatory Walk of Shame, I encountered another overnight guest who inquired of me, "Did you fuck him?" "Well, we weren't playing Parchesi," said I. And then I went to the kitchen table and took Tenant B's Frosted Flakes while he was sitting there eating them. Then I left. Awesome. I make shame look good.
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