People who will burn in Hell

And Michael Vick is at the top of my fucking list.

But wait, there's more.

It's not enough that this abusive bastard got to do what he did to those poor dogs and live to tell about it, but now, apparently, the NFL is letting him back in.

Spot number two is now occupied.

How the FUCK does that happen, people? How the FUCK does that asshole get to kill, maim, and abuse dozens of dogs - animals who exist only to be loving and devoted COMPANIONS to your sorry fucking ass - and STILL get to make millions upon millions of dollar playing fucking football?

Where's the justice in that? How can you let that happen Mr. NFL? This man, upon whom the world should only look with disdain and disgust, who should be literally spit upon everyday for the rest of his life, who should be torn apart limb from limb by the very animals he so GROSSLY mistreated, is now being allowed a position of possible respect and hero worship? What the FUCK kind of message is that sending to the public, to the twelve year old who will now watch Dogkiller Vick with admiration in his eyes? JoeBlow Fuckup in Florida horribly mutilates seventy or so cats and now he's incarcerated, but I bet if that little asshole could throw a pigskin or hit a fucking baseball we'd all be giving him another chance.

And I don't care if "we're talking about a young man's life here." You fucked up. You should be forced to clean toilets with your fucking tooth brush for the rest of your life, and then forced to repeatedly watch reels of the dogs for which you demonstrated such HEINOUS disregard suffer AT YOUR OWN HANDS.

You do not deserve a second chance.

This is ridiculous, ree-GODDAMN-diculous.

We as a nation already put sporting events and sporting clubs before academics and education (don't get me started), and NOW, NOW, we're putting a man's ability to THROW AND CATCH A FUCKING BALL before the LIVES AND WELL BEING OF DEFENSELESS ANIMALS...

My God people, what's next? Yeah he raped and murdered that hooker, but he throws a mean curve ball. We'll let him back in.

Fuck you Mr. NFL.

Fuck you and fuck the sport you have so immensely disgraced.

The cutest little thing

I don't do this too often, but oh my god, go to this blog and check out Miss Harper.

There are pretty babies, and there are beautiful babies. These babies aren't cute, but they are gorgeous. they are model material. They are babies like Suri Cruise, and the Gerber baby.

Then there are the cute babies, the ones that aren't model-perfect but are just so freaking adorable you can't stand it.

And can I please say that Harper is the absolute pinnacle of adorable? Because holy crap, is she ever.

She's not pretty and she's not beautiful, she's just down right UH-dorable.

Can I please be this lucky one day?

Holy OMGWTFPoptarts!!!!

I luuuuuuuuurv him.

And I luuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrvvvvvvv this.

So want kind of obsession-bordering-on-stalker effing mania is this going to produce?

I just had a little brain orgasm.

I fear I may succumb to Gollumitis shortly.

A Train Wreck, or Something Like It.

Internet rubbernecking.

I'm guilty of it.

You might be too.

Just like real life, driving along the highway, traffic slows to a crawl, and you find yourself decrying those nosy, nosy fuckers 18 cars in front of you who insist on oogling the vehicular carnage as they pass. Then comes your turn to creep by, and instead of maintaining a constant speed out of courtesy for the bazillion drivers behind you, you do it. Right foot shifts from gas to brake-tap, tap, tap- eyes drift to the left (or right), and the rest of your face follows slowly. Before you realize the crime you've committed, you become one of those nosy, nosy fuckers oogling the vehicular carnage.

Same rules apply to the internet, and all this blog lurking of which we are so heinously guilty. Yes, yes you too, because if you're reading this, and haven't made known your presence, than you too my friend, are a lurker.

But I digress.

What started as a simple plea for pray has become this clusterfuck of unadulterated adoration, bordering on celebrity for the internet's favorite Jesus-Loving, organic-eating, sometimes-cloth-diapering mommy blogger. You know who I'm talking about. And I'm guilty of it too, don't get me wrong.

I just wanna know how it happened. I mean, I'm sucked in same as you, and I only have a furbaby. Recipes - meh, good but could be found almost anywhere. Photography lessons - again, easily accessible on the web. Her cute kids with their ridiculous nicknames - okay, I'll give you that. You can ONLY find adorable children with fast food internet names over there.

She's preachy, and commercial. She's still funky, fresh, and lets face it, really fucking cool - most of the time. But her Old testament devotion to her husband, her nauseating use of alliteration, advert-saturated homepage, and utter insistence of use of those Godforsaken nicknames drive me up a wall, as I'm sure it does you.

Yet, I get her blog updates everyday. I read them everyday. I'm addicted, and I can't help myself.

So I ask, what's the appeal? Why do we keep going back for more? What is with this voyeuristic tendency, Blogshpere?

Don't all speak up at once now.

Crazy Angry.

And boyohboyohboyoh, was there a shit-tonne of that stuff flying around here last night.
Some people, gauh!!!
And when you live with them, it only gets worse.
Buuuuuut.... 45 days.
I can do it, I can do it, I can do it.

You know what, fuck face, you fucking deserve to know what people think of you.
So take it. Take it in the ass, where you deserve it.

I hate you. Die in a fire. Die alone - sad, pathetic and alone.

Oh, and we finished alright. On your bed. That you slept in last night. All up in my sex juice.

A brain for my roommate

Or at least a fucking off switch. This guy is an IDIOT. Why does he keep talking?
He's one of the those assholes who can't be wrong, and ALWAYS has an opinion.
He BEGS for argument. I want to stick my foot in his fucking mouth.

Thirty more fucking days of this asshole and his asshole face, with his asshole voice, and asshole opinions. He's going to die alone. He's 24 fucking years old going on 45, and fancies himself this wealthy bachelor type. He's neither. He wastes his money on credit, and often buys $500 worth of Cuban cigars from Switzerland. He's arrogant and self-serving, and if he's not stretching the truth to have a reason to complain, he's outright lying.

But to his friends (read: Not Me.), he's this great, giving philanthropist. He can't buy groceries, take out the trash, do the dishes, or contribute to this household in any meaningful way, and yet he can PAY the PHONE BILL of some stupid fucking slut with whom he works. He's always broke, but always has money. He had these delusions of being some panty-creaming Lethario, yet we - the people who LIVE with him - have never seen proof of this.

I can't wait to not live with him anymore in hopes that our friendship can be salvaged.

Whew... sorry, I needed that.

Thanks.

Food Addiction.

You know you're a food addict when:

The thought of a chocolate cupcake from the break room make you positively salivate.

Or does that just make me a chocoholic?

Better than an alcoholic I suppose.

Uuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhggggggggggggggggggerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr...

Real names, real people, real places.

So, it's hard work keeping up with nicknames. I have a lot of people in my life, and even more about whom I talk.

And this nickname crap is getting old.

So, without further ado...

Names and Faces!

Charlie Browne = David, my fiance'. (I know, I know, how the EFF did THAT happen? I don't really know either.)


Hannigan = My mom. Her name is Susan, but I've called her Hannigan or Moooooommmaaaaaa for years.

Grasshopper = Thomas, my big little brother. He's six feet tall. I've called him Grasshopper since he was in jr. high. Still do.

This is the two of them after Grasshopper graduated.
I'll let you guess who's who


This is Jessica. She's the batshit insane one. I never really have reason to talk about her.



Pooh = Becca, my youngest sister. She's the hot one.
Except right here. Here, she's the hungover, partied-out one.



Bonus = Beau-ness, my baby brother extraordinaire.
He's kind of a nut. He's also eleven...I think.




Last but not least, this is Dad. He's name is Ray. He's technically my stepfather, but he's so good at it, so I claim him as the real thing. The other guy in the picture is Gary, our neighbor, and of course, Becca, working on her tan. She does that at random intervals.




And, that's it for now.

The weekend of Fail.

Well, not my fail, per se, but poor dear David caught it from ALL sides.

the Highlights:

Friday (The day of our arrival): His family puts down their fourteen-year-old dog, Pepper.

Saturday: Well, not much really. Historic Vicksburg, MS. Sweat. Lots and lots of sweat.

Sunday: He mouths off about he grandfather the penny pincher (there's a reason this man is loaded, honey), so his mom, who, poor thing, is absolutely miserable in Mississippi (wouldn't you be?) rips him a new one for being an ungrateful little shit. Later that night, on a deserted country road in Deep South Louisiana, we blow a tire. And it takes forty-five minutes to change it.

Wow. Happy frickin' Fourth of July.

Almost getting caught.

IT was up for 24 hours before he asked about my blog.
Hmmmm, while he says he didn't read it, I think he might have. I don't know if I care or not yet.

If you really wanna read it, because obviously it's not up anymore, just e-mail me.

If, of course, you're not a figment of my imagination.