Category Archives: why the terrorists hate us

There are a lot of machine guns on this vacation

Disclaimer: I’m still incredibly sick and feverish with what I can only imagine is Dengue Fever so this post is probably missing entire paragraphs because of it.  Sorry about that.

Last week Victor and I went to Central America for the weekend and if I don’t write it all down now I’m going to forget it all so I’m just pulling directly from my journal.  This is that story:


Landed in the Belize airport.

me:  So where exactly are we?

Victor:  Belize.

me:  I know, but what country are we in?  Mexico?

Victor:  Are you fucking with me?  Belize is the country.

me: No.  I’m pretty sure this is Mexico.

Victor:  And that’s why you never get the blue pie in trivia.


At baggage claim in the Belize airport there is live music and they’re giving away free booze to everyone.  Also, the tourism board is playing Wheel of Fortune and I just won free jelly.  No shit.  I may never leave this airport.


Taking a terrifyingly tiny plane to a village in Southern Belize.  I’m pretty sure this is the plane that Buddy Holly died in.  They ran out of room on the plane so they asked me to sit in the cockpit and told me not to touch anything.  Clearly these people have never met me.


The pilot just made some sort of hand gesture that I’m fairly sure indicates his intent to turn the plane into an explosive fireball.  I caught it all on tape. I’m a bit relieved that I’m in the cockpit though because they didn’t lock my door so if I need to I can just jump out right before we crash.  I’ll miss Victor.

me to the pilot: "Are we *supposed* to be sideways?"


Didn’t crash.  Landed in the jungle and met our guide (Golden) who drove us around a few hours while we waited for our lost luggage.

Golden: Let’s explore the village.  You guys have any questions before we start?

me:  I have a question.  What country are we in right now?

Golden:  Um…seriously?

Victor: Oh my God, please stop talking.

Golden:  We’re in Belize.

me: Did Victor pay you to say that?


Stopped at a fruit stand when Victor told Golden that we’d never seen dragon fruit before.  He bought a few and handed us one but we just kind of looked at it because we didn’t know how to eat it and he said we should just peel it but we didn’t know how to peel it and I realize that sounds completely ridiculous but imagine if you gave someone a banana and told them to peel it and they stuck their fingernail in the middle and started peeling it like an orange.  I bet that shit happens all the time to people who are new to bananas.  So Victor asked Golden to peel one so we could watch him and learn how do it and he did but then he had to pull over to talk to some of his friends and I don’t know what he said but I suspected it was something like “She doesn’t know what country she’s in and he doesn’t understand how fruit works.”

The many complexities of the dragon fruit.


Made Golden stop so I could take a picture of this restaurant:

Nice try, "Red Lobster".

I asked Golden if I should be concerned that so many people are wielding giant machetes and he assured me that the machetes are just there to kill aggressive poisonous snakes.

Oh.  I feel so relieved.


Got to the resort.  It’s beautiful and tiny but I can’t really concentrate on it because there’s an enormous, mostly-dead black scorpion at our door.

Oh, hi.

I asked the bellhop what would happen if we get stung by the scorpion and he said it would “make your tongue heavy”.  I’m pretty sure that’s Belizean for “You’re going to die“.


After dinner a group of musicians came to the beach and serenaded us.  It was awesome but after an hour I needed sleep so we snuck back to our room which didn’t actually help at all and I just laid there yelling “The drums!  My God, the drums!”

It’s like the fucking Tell-Tale Heart in our hotel room.


Our guide (Pedro) took us to see Mayan ruins.  Saw a 14 year old with a machine gun.

He *might* be 15.

Pedro explained that all the machine gun toters were around because we were so close to Guatemala.  I’m not sure what that means but I just nodded.  I miss the old days when everyone just carried machetes.

Then we were (verbally) attacked by howler monkeys and I shit myself with fear.  I don’t know if you’ve ever accidentally come across angry, wild howler monkeys in the middle of the jungle but it sounds exactly like if Predator and the cloverfield monster were raping a bunch of velociraptors.  Then I noticed that a bunch of strangers with machine guns were suddenly standing behind us and I felt a bit safer and that’s when I started to question my own sanity.  Then Pedro told us about how he recently got attacked by a jaguar in the jungle and then I may have cried a little.

The Mayan ruins were deserted but there were a ton of people outside the gate selling stone Mayan Calendars but I didn't buy one because I think it would be depressing to be continually reminded that the world is going to end in 2012.


Pedro climbed a tree and brought us a big melon-like thing and he whacked it open with a knife and told us it was a cacoa plant and that it was used to make something “that Americans can’t live without” and I was a little afraid to try it because I didn’t know how I’d react to eating raw cocaine but I rationalized that it was probably considered health food since it was fresh and organic but then Pedro explained that I was thinking about the coca plant and that this was the plant that they use to make m&m’s.  Disappointing.

This was the smallest knife I saw all weekend.


Sitting on a hammock on the beach.

The beach is beautiful except that you can't close your eyes because then jaguars will eat your face. I don't know that for certain but it seems reasonable.

Victor:  What you thinking right now?

me:  I’m thinking that if I ever made a movie I’d call it “Four Four’s” so that when people bought tickets for their families they’d be all “Four for Four Fours”.  That would be awesome.”

Victor:  Stop talking.


Victor, an Amish lady and a midget all walk into a bar in Belize.  That’s not a joke.  That just happened.


Hanging out at the airport bar in Belize.  The owner (Jet) is a 70 year old little person who got me drunk on homemade rum punch and then invited me behind the bar to help serve drinks.  Then he said we needed to take a picture together and so he pushed me up against the wall and layed his head on my boobs.

This is what it looks like when you get molested by a midget.

And yes, I know that “midget” is not the perferred nomenclature but “I just got molested by a little person” sounds like a child grabbed my boob.  Then Daryl Hannah walked in.  This is the point when I suspected that I was suffering from sort sort of fever-induced hallucination but no.  For real, y’all.  A midget molested me while Daryl Hannah and an Amish couple watched and my husband took pictures.  Then I was all “Yo.  That’s Daryl Hannah” and Victor made me stop drinking rum punch but I was sure it was her so I kept trying to take pictures of her surrepticiously but none of them turned out because Jet kept popping into the frame and screwing up the focus and the Amish lady kept glaring at me because I guess cameras are from the devil and Victor kept telling me to just sit down and so finally I did but I wasn’t happy.

Then we walked onto the plane and Daryl Hannah was in the seat in front of us and she couldn’t lift her bag so Victor helped her and then when he was done he was all “DUDE.  THAT WAS DARYL HANNAH” and I was like “No. Shit.”

OMG Daryl Hannah.

And then we went home.  The end.

PS. At the hotel gift shop I asked if they had any stuffed animals that I could bring home for Hailey as a souvenier.  They did.

I don't even have a caption for this.

Random Ramblings of an Insomniac: Boobquakes, dangerous squirrels, things we already knew about men

I have insomnia so I’m getting a head-start on National #Boobquake Day; a day when women are encouraged to wear their most immodest outfit to see if immodest women do, in fact, cause earthquakes as reported by Iranian media.  Apparently this is a real concern.  So I put on my most low-cut corset and used my computer camera to take some pictures but my cat kept getting in the way and I was all “WHY MUST YOU BE IN EVERY PICTURE?” and then Victor woke up and wanted to know why I was screaming and taking half-naked pictures of myself and I was all “Uh…it’s an experiment to see if my boobs can create earthquakes?” and Victor just stared at me and shook his head in confusion and shuffled back to bed and I’m all “I’M DOING THIS FOR SCIENCE, ASSHOLE“.

It was weird though because I always heard that it was girls who didn’t understand science.

The boobs are real. The hair? Not so much.

Also, I just realized that my cat has a ton of nipples that are never covered so I guess technically she should actually be part of this experiment too.  Touché, cat.

You can't really see any of our nipples but I assure you, they're all totally there.

PS. If this does, in fact, cause some sort of horrible earthquake then I blame the cat who has like 4 times as many nipples as me.  Honestly, it’s like she wants to cause an earthquake.  That cat’s kind of a dick.


A few weeks ago I linked to a post on Alone with Cats and the chick that writes it sent me a very sweet, unexpected thank you card filled with cursing, threats of violence and tips on befriending wealthy, dying relatives and there was a tiny package under the card and inside the package was was the single greatest, random, bizarre gift that I’ve ever received:

Introducing: Grover Cleveland.

Yes, people. It’s a dead, stuffed gambling squirrel holding a tiny pistol and when I pulled it out Victor said “Oh, what the fuck now?” and I was all “This, Victor, is what happens when you make a difference in people’s lives” and then he made me put it out in the garage with James Garfield because apparently our real estate agent thinks having hilariously awesome taxidermied animals in your house scares off prospective buyers.  I prefer to think that we’re hiding them so that buyers won’t assume that they come with the house because really? They totally tie the fucking room together.


Google suggestions once again makes me weep for humanity while inadvertently nailing the difference between the sexes:

These questions might be related. Just a thought.


Feels like there should be a fourth random thing here.  Something about badgers or pandas, maybe.  Or badgers mixed with pandas.  I think my sleeping pills are kicking in.  Ooh, leprechauns…

Comment of the day: When my dad died, we had him cremated at Cress Funeral Home, aka “The Taxidermy Museum”.  I think you would appreciate its charm although I’m undecided if mourning enhances or detracts from the experience of seeing dead squirrels ride bicycles and perform topless dances. We may need to perform an experiment to determine the effects of grief on taxidermy appreciation. Fortunately, I’m a chick, so I totally get science. ~ Sarah P.

Dear Google: Stop trying to help. You’re making it worse.

This morning someone asked me why there are 12 days of Christmas.  And honestly, I have no fucking idea.  So I decided to google it and then I stabbed myself in the head.  Why? Because I don’t want to live in a world where so many people are asking Google ridiculous questions that Google is all “Oh, stop right there.  I already know exactly what you’re going to ask”.  And you know what, Google?  You obviously don’t know what I’m going to ask if you’re jumping to these conclusions:


And yes, Google, I realize that this is less of a judgement that you’re making about me and more of a result of the hordes of dumb people using you but maybe you could wait until I finish the question before you jump to some horrific conclusion about what I’m asking.  Or not.

Not. Helpful.

Honestly, at this point I was a little offended.  But I kept going, thinking that this would eventually have to stop.

Are you fucking kidding me?

And now I’m just baffled.  Where on earth are there so many ostriches that we need to google it? I honestly don’t know.  But what I do know is that after reading that all I can think of is that it would suck to live there and I couldn’t concentrate because I couldn’t stop wondering why this was even a suggested question and so then I had to google “why are there so many ostriches” just to see what would happen.  And then *BAM* I just became part of the problem. WTF, me? And you know what I learned?  Nothing.  It took me to this web page about ostriches where I learned that ostriches have been clocked going really fast.  Direct quote:

“It had probably just huffed a cheetah kitten (sends you through a psychedelic wonderland at like a kajillion mph and ur not even halfway there. Despite this ability to run like the wind, the ostrich cannot lay claim to performing what any fast running bird-like creature ought to be able to do – take-off.  They have fat asses and abnormally small brains but they are kinda smart. This inability to pass from the running stage to the take-off mode is considered to be a design fault that may lead to the eventual extinction of this oversized dodo. They are kinda smart, but DO NOT, DO NOT, let an ostrich kick you, it will completely FUCK YOU UP.   IT WILL SHATTER ALL THE BONES IN YOUR BODY AND MAKE YOU BE PITYED BY MR. T, THUS INCREASING THE INJURY. DO NOT GET KICKED BY AN OSTRICH. I AM TELLING YOU, IT WILL FUCK YOU UP.”

So yeah.  There’s that.

PS.  I still don’t know why there are 12 days of Christmas.  I don’t even care any more.  I’m going to lie down and cry now.  Someone fix Google.

Comment of the day: I started to Google ‘I like’ and the following came up:  “I like to think of Jesus as a mischievous badger”.  Preaching to the choir, my friend. Preaching to the choir. ~ moooooog35

UPDATED X 5: Why voter-driven awards are fundamentally flawed.

I just got a bunch of emails from people telling me I was on the front page of the Shorty Awards, which I’d never even heard of but apparently it’s some sort of People’s Choice contest for Twitter so I clicked the link to check it out and found out that I’m currently in 5th place…


…in the category of “Government”, for fuck’s sake.

For real, y’all.  Me, Nasa, the mayor of Newark, the usual.  Basically my face is a giant “fuck-you” pointing out how flawed voter-driven contests are.  Which is actually kind of awesome. And also I think it might be a sign that I need to run for Congress or Parliament.  Except that I just misspelled “Parliament”.  But that’s not really my fault because why is there an “i” in it? This is the first thing I’m going to change when I’m in office.  That, and also everyone has to stop saying “fustrated” or they get stabbed in the knee.  That’s pretty much my entire platform.

I’m going to be the best Parlamentess ever.


UPDATED (day 2):  Holy crap, you guys.

I'm not even going to mention how fucked up the whole "David Archuleta lock-out" is. Except for right here. When I say it's kinda fucked up.

So…yeah.  I just passed up NASA.  Also, I just realized that Obama isn’t even on here. I’m a little bit embarrassed for America right now.  This shit will not stand when I’m ruling Parlament (still purposely misspelled).  Also Victor just mentioned that America doesn’t actually have a Parlament which works out perfectly because that means it’s totally open for me to build however I want.  Like, I could claim myself Queen of Parlament and knight everyone and barbeque something rare in the lobby of the White House.  Like a polar bear stuffed with an eagle.  But not a cute Polar Bear because I don’t want PETA throwing blood on me.  Something they won’t mind.  Like an old Polar Bear.  That had face-leprosy.  And an eagle that pushed a baby off a cliff.  Or something.  These are details that Parlament will have to work out.  Also, the first year of Parlamentary focus will be exclusively on defense plans for the coming zombie apocalypse, and on debating whether zombies are crazy-fast and super-human, or slow and lumbering.  I’m going with “slow and lumbering”.  Everyone’s going to be issued wooden bats.  Except old people.  They probably aren’t going to make it.  So, yeah. This is your future, America.


UPDATED (day 3): Okay, I felt a little bad about taking over the Government with no real warning so I decided it would be more fair to change my twitter avatar in the interest of transparency…

…but then when I went to the Shorty Website my avatar had changed to just a big question mark:

It's nice though that I'm not the only one who's confused for once.

I can only assume that’s because the Shorty Award people are all “What the fuck? So she’s not in the Government?  SHENANIGANS!”  Also, I just noticed that I’m in 4th place in Customer Service which is weird because who am I servicing? Victor just said “Well, certainly no one in this house”.  Victor gets to get his own damn blog and shut up.

UPDATED AGAIN (because none of this is really worth a whole new post):  My avatar is still a question mark this morning so instead I decided to just fill out my bio on the Shorty Award page as an alternate disclaimer:

Also, I thought maybe the Shorty people just didn’t like my avatar because it’s too wordy so I just changed it again:

UPDATED (for probably the last time, I swear):  I have just slipped out of first place in Government which is actually totally  fine because I think I’ve updated this post way too much and honestly, by day three everyone starts to get really annoyed about their twitter stream getting filled with ironically subversive votes so I’m just going to concede the Government award now and I fully throw my support behind Neil Gaiman in the Customer Service category because last month he agreed to give the eulogy at my funeral (true story).  And anyway, it’ll be much more entertaining to take over the Government later when they aren’t expecting it.  Like maybe when they’re distracted by the zombie apocolypse.  Or maybe we do some sort of flash mob or something.  We can work out the details later.  Buy a bat.*

*For protection in the zombie apocolypse.  Not to take over the Government.  We don’t bat people, y’all. Even if they’re politicians.  Unless they’re zombie politicians.  Then you can totally go to town on them.  I know I will.  With my samurai sword.  Which I already own. I’m going to be the most bad-ass politician ever.

Comment of the day: At least you took some initiative.  I’m still wondering why David Archuleta hasn’t let them know that HE ISN’T FOOD. Unless he IS food. OMG, maybe we’re just mispronouncing his name and it’s really David MUFFALETTA.  Once you’re in office, you should hire an agency to get to the bottom of this. ~ moooooog35

Canadian money is pretty much useless

Yesterday someone mailed me cash for a James Garfield ChrisKwanzaaKahRfield card but instead of real money they sent me a Canadian $10 bill.  Which is kind of fucked up because 1) I wasn’t aware that Canada had different money than normal people and 2) I don’t even know what Canadian money is supposed to look like so for all I know someone made this on their printer and is just fucking with me.  It looked suspect:

His popped collar says "I'm a bad-ass" but his face says" I never got a puppy".

Side 1: His popped collar says "I'm a fuckin' bad-ass" but his face says"I never got a puppy".

When the doves cry.

Man at the gate: "No, you *can't* come into Canada. This is *our* socialized medicine. Not yours. Nice catch, Canadian ghost Mountie. Not sure why you felt you needed binoculars though. Honestly, they're like three feet in front of you."

I asked Victor what I should do with it and he said he’d take care of it which means “You’ll never see that $10 again” so no thank you, Victor.  Instead I went to the grocery store and decided to use it there.  I figured that I couldn’t buy American stuff with it so instead I picked up $10 worth of Canadian bacon but when I got to the checkout the cashier just looked at me suspiciously like I was some kinda counterfeiter and she told me I had to use real money.  Then I was all “This is real money.  I’m pretty sure it’s a Canadian ten dollar bill” and she was like “You can’t use Canadian money here” and I’m all “But I’m buying Canadian bacon.  So the Canadian parts cancel each other out”.  Then she’s all “This is ham” and I’m like “Yeah, Canadian bacon is ham.”  Then she looked confused and I’m all “I know, right?  It’s like Canada is trying to make things difficult”   Then she called her manager over and she also said she was very sorry but that I’d have to have the Canadian money exchanged.  And I’m all “That’s what I’m trying to do. I’m trying to exchange this money for bacon”.  Then she stared at me and looked at the money again like there was an answer written there and I’m all “Yes, I realize it’s Canadian money but this is Canadian bacon so if you cancel out the common denominators this makes sense.”  She still didn’t get it so I drew her a picture of how it works:

I'm not good at math but even I understood this one.

I'm not good at math but even I understood this one.

But the manager just looked at me and said again that they don’t take Canadian money because they hate Canadians and don’t understand how algebra works.  Except she didn’t say that last part, but it was implied.  Then they told me that I had to pay with real money or they wouldn’t let me have the bacon and so I just left.  I don’t even like Canadian bacon, y’all.  Instead I just gave the cash to the Salvation Army guy on the way out.  Then he was all “Oh.  Bless you.” and I’m like “Dude.  Don’t bless me.  You can’t even buy bacon with that.”

Thanks a lot, Canada.  Your money is useless here.

Comment of the day: The depressed guy looks like Bill Maher. I’d be depressed if I was Bill Maher too. ~ mommica

Japan, part 2 (ish): Tommy Lee Jones needs to mind his own business

OMG, you guys.  I actually published a “part 2” to a post that I labeled “Part 1”.  I think that’s the first time that’s ever happened.  Is there a medal for this, or some sort of ribbon?  If so, please mail one to me.  Unless it’s that bullshit white participant ribbon.  No one wants that ribbon.  Unless you buy it yourself and wear it ironically.  Then it’s kind of awesome.  Or desperate.  One of those.

So where was I?  We’d just landed in Japan and luckily I was still using my journal at the time because I’ve already drank most of these conversations away.  Victor says I just made them up but I didn’t because I even wrote “THIS IS ALL TRUE” with giant arrows in my journal because I knew he’d try that later.  Plus? I have pictures.  Victor is unsupportive and not to be trusted.  Almost all of this is straight from my journal:


We just checked into our hotel in Tokyo.  It smells like fish in our room but there are no fish here.  Also, the toilet is frightening me.  There are 6 buttons on the toilet and two handles.  Victor told me I could figure it out and he’s all swaggery because he’s been to Japan before and knows how to work the toilet.  It’s not really something to be proud of, Victor. It’s not like you can put it on your resume.  Whatever. I’ll just hold it.


Victor seems to think I’m not going to be able to not use the bathroom all week.  He’s probably right.  I’ll just pee in the shower.


Victor says I’m not allowed to pee in the shower so he’s not going to let me go to sleep until I “figure out the toilet”.  Great.  Now I have test-taking anxiety.  And now he’s yelling at me and pounding on the  bathroom door.  I explained that I was busy writing all this down and taking pictures of the toilet.  He just made this exasperated huff like he can’t even believe I brought my camera in the bathroom to take pictures of the toilet.  It’s like he’s never even met me.


This is where I had originally written a whole toilet saga but it’s too damn big so instead I’m going to cut it and later make a whole separate entry entitled “And then the toilet tried to destroy my spirit”.  It’s kind of a how-to.  But just the opposite.  Then I conquered the toilet and went to sleep.  It took about 3 hours, which I assume is some sort of a record.  Victor says he assumes so too.


Day two: This morning Victor’s going to a sword show and I’m meeting a free tour guide, Chicako, who may or may not be part of the Yakuza.  Victor says she’s not but he’s going to take a picture of us together though just in case I end up ransomed.  Except he took the picture with the camera I took with me for the day.  Awesome.  I’m probably going to die violently.


Took the Tokyo subway to a studio where several people dressed me as a Japanese courtesan.

me geisha

It’s exactly what it sounds like.  (This link leads you to the whole sordid story, which is both embarrassing and only vaguely safe for work.)


Chicako took me to an important Castle or a Shrine or something.  I’m not sure.  I just kind of nodded a lot.  It was super pretty though.  Except I don’t think we ever actually got to the castle.  We just walked on a gravel road in the woods.  Which was very cool but also sounds like the beginning of a chainsaw maniac movie but there were a lot of other people around so I hardly even thought about chainsaw maniacs.  Maybe twice the whole time.

Probably none of those people are chainsaw murderers.  Less than half at least.

Probably none of those people are chainsaw murderers. Less than half at least.

Then we got lost.  In the woods.  In Japan.  With an interpreter who was awesome and sweet but didn’t really speak that much English.  Not that I’m judging her because the only phrase I could remember how to say in Japanese was “I tried to fart but poop came out” and when I tried that one she just looked at me strangely.  Probably because I pronounced it wrong. Japanese is hard, y’all.  So then we were in the woods at this fork in the road and it goes off in 4 directions and there are like 175 acres of woods around us and that’s when I’m all “Well, we’re fucked.  We’re going to have to eat each other” except I didn’t want to doubt Chicako’s navigational skills because I was afraid she’d panic so instead I just supportively said “Well, all roads lead to Rome, right?” and she was all “I do not understand” and I’m like “All roads lead to Rome?  It’s just something we say in America.  All roads lead to Rome.  Except that this is Japan so maybe that’s not so applicable because isn’t Japan an island?” and just kind of looked at me and said “What road do you take in America that leads to Rome?” and I’m all “It’s kind of rude to answer a question with another question” but I didn’t say that out loud because technically she’s totally right.  Touché, Chicako.  Why the hell do we say that? So then I’m all “I don’t actually know why we say that at all.  It’s really only applicable if you’re in Europe at the time.  And on a road.”  Then she nodded and walked about 10 steps down one road and we could see the city again.  It was like she was testing me.  I totally passed.


Chicako took me to a soba noodle restaurant in Harajuku station.  I walked in and saw a row of empty shoes so I quickly flipped mine off because everyone is barefoot in Japan all the time for some reason.  I didn’t really research that tradition but I totally like it.  Being barefoot is awesome.  Except that there are all these complicated rules about it…like you have to take your shoes off when you walk into someone’s house because it’s a sign of respect, but if you’re mostly naked at the mall because you can’t find a fitting room they ask you to leave.  It’s like Japan was trying to get me arrested.  And then it turns out that the part of the noodle house Chicako took me to sit in is the one part where you’re not supposed to take your shoes off.  And I’m barefoot and we’re sitting with strangers.  Also, the people in the raised, no-shoe area next to us are totally laughing at me.

Chicako said those people were just very cheerful.  I think that's code for "Your ignorance amuses us."

Chicako said those people were just very cheerful. I think that's code for "Your ignorance amuses us."



Tommy Lee Jones is fucking everywhere over here.  He’s on practically every vending machine and billboard hawking drinks but instead of saying “This is Tommy Lee Jones” it just says “Boss”.


Me: So you guys really like Tommy Lee Jones over here, huh?

Chicako:  Who?

Me:  That guy on that billboard.  Tommy Lee Jones.

Chicako: O-oh.  You mean “the Boss”.

Me:  I guess so.  His real name is Tommy Lee Jones.  He’s kind of an asshole.

Chicako:  No.  That is the boss.

Me:  No, really, that guy’s a famous American actor.  He lived in my husband’s hometown.  Victor said one time he spit on a guy.

Chicako:  ?

Me:  Or maybe he kicked someone?  I wasn’t really paying attention.  He told me the story like 15 years ago.

Chicako:  He is the Boss.

Me:  No, seriously, he’s kind of an asshole.  Don’t get near him if you ever see him because he’ll probably spit on you.  That guy’s like a llama.


Chicako and I are waiting on the street toward a market and she tells me we can’t cross right now because there’s a parade going by.

Me:  Huh.  Are those children tied up like prisoners?

Japanese Parade.  Possibly.

Japanese Parade. Possibly.

Chicako:  Yes. It’s a parade.

Me:  Yeah.  Of course it is.


Then I took Chicako out for thank-you-cheesecake and we said goodbye and she didn’t seem like she wanted to keep in touch.  Probably because I made her help me buy boobie pudding.  Then I went back to the hotel and told Victor all about my day and he was all “WTF IS WRONG WITH YOU? These people are all about decorum and respect.  You probably terrified that poor girl” and I was all, “No way. I am full of decorum” and he’s all “I think maybe you don’t know what ‘decorum’ means”  and I’m all “Whatever, dude. You know when I can’t sleep and I go in the living room to watch TV but when I turn on the light the cat squints and mew because the light’s too bright?  I always say ‘Sorry’.  Even though the cat probably doesn’t know what I’m saying and may never say anything back to me.  That’s just the kind of person I am.”  Then Victor was all “What? The cat is never going to talk back to you.” and I’m like “I know. He’s kind of an asshole.  BUT I STILL TRY.  And that’s what decorum is all about.”  Then Victor is all  “That’s what insanity is all about.  Apologizing to cats and expecting them to answer you.” and I’m all “I wouldn’t say I’m ‘expecting’ it.  I’m just saying it would be a pleasant surprise.”  Then Victor sighed all disgustedly and started to walk out except there’s no place to walk to except out in the hall where there’s a vending machine of beer (thank you, Japan) plastered with pictures of Tommy Lee Jones and I’m all “Hey, WTF is up with Tommy Lee Jones everywhere?” and Victor’s like “Yeah, it was like that last year too.  He’s ‘The Boss’ apparently.  He’s kind of an asshole.”

Me:  I KNOW!  That’s what I told Chicako.

Victor:  They should have a showdown between Bruce Springsteen and Tommy Lee Jones.  Like some kinda “Boss” cage match.

Me:  And Tony Danza’d show up right when Bruce and Tommy Lee were both exhausted and barely standing from punching each other and Tony’d be all “Who’s the Boss?  Me, motherfuckers. I’m the boss“.  Plus, he’d win because Mona’s in his corner and she fights dirty.

Victor:  And that’s why I love you.*

*He didn’t actually say that last part out loud but I could totally see it in his eyes when he walked away and locked himself in the bathroom.

Coming up soon…Day 3:  Where the fuck are we?

WTF, Japan.

PS.  On a totally unrelated note, I’m going to be at my first ever book signing in Houston tomorrow (Tuesday the 17th) and you should come.  Also, fair warning, I only contributed like four pages to the Kirtsy book.  That probably works in the book’s favor though.  Also, I’m not getting paid for any of this book stuff so none of this counts as shilling.  So stop stop smirking at me, Tommy Lee Jones. I’m nothing like you.

Comment of the day: I nearly burnt my bum on a heated toilet seat in japan. Ok, it wasn’t that it was hot, but the fact that it was actually warm was a horrific shock to my cheeks, so I nearly fell off it. Who on earth wants to heat the loo seat to the perfect temperature for bacteria to grow on? That’s just asking for trouble. ~ pixielation

Sue me. I’m awesome.

japan ef 2

So this weekend I leave for Japan.  “Why?” you ask?  Because it’s there. And also because I got drunk one night and Victor asked me if I’d go to Japan with him and apparently I said yes.  This is what happens when you get drunk around Victor.  You wake up in the morning and need a passport.  Whenever I mention it to people they’re all “JAPAN!  THAT’S AWESOME!” but to be honest I’m a terrible traveler and Japan scares the shit out of me and all I really know about Japan is that Godzilla was born there.  Also, I may be mixing Japan up with China.  Which I think makes me racist.  Or just bad at geography.  Possibly both.

Victor’s been to Japan before because he buys and sells samurai swords (I assure you, I am not shitting you) and he knows enough Japanese to get by but I am totally fucked.  When I was in college I easily blew through all my classes except French, which ruined my GPA because I suck at languages.  And I studied my ass off every spare minute for years just to get screamed at in French by a disappointed German teacher because it was kind of a shitty college and they couldn’t afford a real French teacher.  So now I speak bad French with a German accent.   It’s like Tex-Mex.  But instead it’s Gerench.  Or Frerman.  The point here  is that I can’t really do any language other than English and even then I kind of suck at it.  Plus, Victor’s been drilling me in Japanese for over a month and the only thing I can remember is that “juice” is “jewwwwwzuh”.  Also, I’m allergic to juice so it’s doubly pointless.  And at least one day I’m totally on my own in Japan because Victor’s off doing sword stuff so I can only assume that will be the day I get lost and no one will ever see me again.

Victor:  I cannot believe you still don’t know any Japanese.

me:  I know “Domo Arigato, Mr. Roboto”.

Victor: *glare*

me:  I know how to say “I tried to fart but poop came out“.

Victor:  Say it.

me:  Okay, I don’t *actually* know how to say it.  But I totally wrote it down in case I needed it.

Victor:  Why would you need that?

me:  I DON’T KNOW.  This is exactly why I’m so panicked.  Teach me how to say “I’m a dumb American.  I throw myself on your mercy.  Help, please.”

Victor:  Just stick with “Sumimasen”.

Me: Huh?

Victor:  Sumimasen.  It means “I’m sorry”.  Sue – me – mah – sen

me:  Huh.  How do you say, “I’m sorry I burnt down your temple?”

Victor:  Why would you need to say that?

Me:  I like to be prepared.

Victor:  Just say “Sumimasen”.  It works for everything.  It’s like saying “Excuse me”.

me:  “Excuse me” doesn’t seem dynamic enough for what I need.  How do you say “I’m so sorry I let all of your tigers out, Japan?”

Victor:  Out of where?

me:  Out of…Japan?

Victor: What the fuck is wrong with you?

me:  I DON’T KNOW.  I’M TOO FREAKED OUT TO THINK RATIONALLY.  If I write down a bunch of scenarios will you translate them for me on paper and I can just hand them out?  Like “I don’t want to buy your monkey” and put a picture of a monkey on it so I know that’s what it says.

Victor:  ?

Me:  Because it would suck if I meant to hand someone the “Am I supposed to eat this?” card but instead handed them the “I don’t want to buy your monkey” card.  Mass confusion.

Victor:  Just…just stick with “sumimasen”.

me:  Soo-mee-aw-sem?

Victor:  No.  Sueme masen.

me:  Sue me I’m awesome.

Victor:  No.  Not even close

me:  Really?  Because it sounds exactly the same to me.  Plus, it works in English too.  Like if I fuck up I’ll be all “So sue me.  I’m awesome.”  It sounds like something a total bad-ass would say.

Then Victor stopped talking to me and hired a free Japanese tour guide for me to chaperon me for that day.  Except she’s free so I don’t know that “hired” is the right word.  “Enlisted?”  Fuck. I CAN’T EVEN SPEAK ENGLISH RIGHT, Y’ALL.  Anyway, some chick is supposed to take me around Japan for free and when I asked why she’d do that Victor said that the Japanese people have “a strong sense of civic duty” but it still doesn’t make sense because what is she getting out of it?  Victor says she doesn’t get anything out of it except “a sense of pride in helping others” but I can’t really understand that so I’m just going to pretend she’s doing community service for drunk driving because then at least I can relate to her.  Also it’s possible that she’s really part of the Yakuza Japanese Mafia and is going to kidnap me.  Victor thinks I’m joking about that but I’m about about 20% sure that could happen.  Also, Victor said he’d download a bunch of Japanese phrases to my iphone so I can just press a button and it’ll talk for me which sounded awesome at first because then I can hold my phone up to my throat like I can speak Japanese but I lost my voice-box to throat cancer, but then how am I supposed to understand what the Japanese people say back to me?  Basically the only thing useful I can say with my fake voice-box is “I’m also deaf too.  Sorry.  Sue me, I’m awesome.”  Victor says I’m not understanding the point but I think he just wants me to get lost and never come home again.  Except it’s not going to work because when we get to our hotel I’m going to have them write their address on my arm with a sharpie so I can just show the taxi driver and pretend I’m too drunk to talk.  So yeah.  I do have a plan.

So then I started looking online at all the cool shit you can do in Japan but then I realized that I don’t actually have any money to do any of that stuff so I approached a few companies and asked them if they wanted to sponsor me and they all said no in a very sweet way and I won’t name names because I’m not that kind of person but I will say that #nikonhatesthebloggess.  (They don’t really hate me though. That’s a joke.  They just hate Japan, I guess.)  But then I was all “Hang on, don’t I write for a really successful magazine/toy shop that totally gave me inflatable sheep and edible nipple pasties to give out to soldiers when I visited the Navy?”  And turns out, yeah, I totally do.  And so I sent an email to Eden Fantasys telling them that they spelled their name wrong and they were all “Yeah, you keep telling us that” and I told them that if they sponsored me in Japan I’d write funny stories for them about how to be a Japanese prostitute and they were all “Done“.  Which is why it’s awesome to work for a company that sells flogging toys for a living.  They are pretty much unshockable.  Unlike Nikon.  Who didn’t even want to hear about Japanese prostitutes.

So that’s why this weekend I’m leaving for Japan.  Basically I’m like Christopher Columbus and Eden Fantasys is like the King and Queen of Spain backing my expedition.  Except that if I remember correctly, Christopher Columbus got lost and thought he was in India the whole time he was in America.  So basically if I just manage to land on the right Continent I’m better than Christopher Columbus.

This is a really long post, right?  But I’m not sure how much I’ll be able to post over here while I’m in Japan so this is kind of making up for next week.  You can even break this out into little pieces if you want to save it for later but I’m about to get naked.  Stop now.

You didn’t stop did you?  I wouldn’t either.

So since I’m writing for SexIs as an official “International Correspondent” I’m trying to find some bizarrely strange things to do in Japan that would fit in a satirical sex column and I’m all “I know!  I’ll do that thing where you get naked on a table and people eat sushi off you”.  Except every place I emailed in Japan refused to respond to me and I can only assume it’s because those Japanese girls are tiny so you don’t have to put a bunch of sushi on them to make it look like you’re getting a full meal but I’m an American so I’m like 3 times bigger than those tiny Asian girls so probably the sushi managers think it’d be a bad idea because it would look like the customers were getting tiny portions when they saw their sushi on me.  Like when Weight-Watchers tells you to eat everything off a tiny plate because it fools your brain into thinking you’re eating more.  So basically, I’m not economical to use as a plate because I’m too fat.  Thanks Japan.  Now I have a complex.  But then I thought maybe I could convince them to change their minds by showing them how awesome I am at balancing food on me so I bought a bunch of burgers and artfully placed them on myself so I could send the sushi-restaurant-owners photos of me in action and I yelled at Victor to come help me and Victor was all “Why the hell are you naked and covered in cheeseburgers?” and I’m all “It’s for work, asshole” and he was all “I’m not getting involved in this” and I’m all “Yes you are!  Come take my picture!” and he did, but he did it grudgingly and totally from the wrong angle and I’m all “No. Stand on the back of the couch so you get a good shot” and he’s all “Why are you making my life this way?!” and I’m all “What?! I’m just asking you to take a damn picture, not kill the President!”  He’s very unsupportive.

Then he took the pictures and it was awesome so I sent several to the sushi restaurant owners and guess what?  No response.  Assholes.

I'm concentrating on sucking in.

FYI: These burgers are super tiny so they're making me look even fatter than I really am. Ordering off the dollar menu was a *huge* mistake.

Also, their models don’t usually eat at the time but I was hungry and multi-tasking because I didn’t have time to eat lunch.  But I wouldn’t be doing that at the sushi restaurant, *obviously*.  I understand good manners, Japan.

Mmm...french fries.

There's a salad on my belly button and I'm balancing a burger on top of it because I'm *talented*.

So if you want to keep up with me while I’m in Japan, you can check out my satirical sex column which (as always) is relatively safe for work if your boss isn’t a tremendous douche.  If he is you should probably wait until you get home.  Also, my parents are going to be house-sitting and watching Hailey for us while we’re in Japan and I just want to remind you that my father is a giant, Bohemian hunter who carries his own crossbow with him and mounts bears for a living.  And when I say he “mounts bears” I mean he’s a taxidermist.  Not…that other thing.  But either way? Burglars beware.

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Comment of the day: It might suck even more if you handed them “Am I supposed to eat this?” instead of “I don’t want to buy your monkey.” ~ Kelley

Yesterday would have been more exciting if I got paid according to traffic.


    This week on my sex column (which is satirical and relatively safe for work if your boss isn’t an asshole):

    This week on the internets:

    • The Bloggess Army opened up.  I don’t run it, or write it, or even have access to it.  It was created by the self-named Bloggess Army who made it their mission in life to violently force William Shatner to unblock me on twitter and then after he did they wandered around aimlessly, bumping into walls and not showering.  Then they decided since no one else was blocking me at the time they’d focus their army on promoting worthy, non-ridiculous causes instead and even started a website.  Then they’re all “That’s okay, right?” and I’m like “NO. You are supposed to be getting Amy Sedaris to be my best friend, you assholes” and they’re all “But…childhood cancer awareness?  Maybe that’s important too?” and I’m like “IS IT AS IMPORTANT AS ME BEING ABLE TO BRAID AMY SEDARIS’ HAIR WHENEVER I WANT TO?” and they’re all “Uh.  Probably?”   This is exactly why most people don’t even bother to have minions.  Also, I didn’t like their banner so I had to make one for them.  It’s like I’m working for them.  Plus, I’m pretty sure childhood cancer still exists even though the website’s been up for fucking days now.  So, yeah, we all lose.
    • Yesterday put me on their front page and called me “amusing”, which was very flattering.  Then I got flooded with comments like this: “You’re so fucking pathetically retarded that it’s cringe-worthy. Your husband’s a strong man dealing with a women [sic] who’s [sic] intelligence rivals a brain-damaged squirrels [sic].”  Honestly, it’s like he was trying to cheer me up.

    This week on my mommy blog on the Houston Chronicle:

    This week on shit-I-didn’t-write-but-wish-I-did-because-it’s-kind-of-awesome:

    How to not get fired for social networking.

    So according to Mashable, “45% of Employers Now Screen Social Media Profiles” and people are totally freaking out about it.  Easy solution: Make up a profile for your boss on Facebook. And make him a furry.  And update his status with stuff like “You know who I don’t trust?  The Koreans”, and “I often dream of blowing up my office building” and “I just had sex with my desk.  *UNCOMFORTABLE*.” and then show him his Facebook page and say “Sir, is this you?!” and when he denies it say “Oh.  Well, I didn’t think so but I had to check.  There’s someone on Facebook and twitter who pretends to be me too but it’s not me either so I totally know what you’re going through”.  Bingo. Now you can write anything you want on Facebook and plead total innocence because it’s “not you”. Then go back to your office and update your facebook status with “I think my boss wants to blow up the building” and he’ll be all “I never said that!” and you can be all “Dude. What are you talking about? Oh.  That’s just that fake-me replying to that fake-you.  It’s probably the same person messing with both of us.”  Then blame it on that girl down the hall you never liked.  This is win-win, y’all.

    PS. You can use this site to make incriminating photos of him for his facebook albums.  Or you could obsessively insert your face into all the pictures to make a story about what would happen if you were the President and then get fired for playing on the internet too much.  That could happen too. These are the risks you take with social media.

    PPS.  Someone needs to stop me.

    If I were president I'd totally have parades like this. And also everyone gets free healthcare. And a pony. The pony is just to rub in Canada's face. Don't tell Canada.

    If I were President I'd have parades like this every day. And also everyone gets free health-care. And a pony. The pony is just to rub in Canada's face. Don't tell Canada that though.

    Also, all hot guys would tattoo my face on their chests.  And put my picture on their cell phones.  And wear them around their necks?  Honestly, I don't really understand what's happening in this picture either.

    And then all hot guys would tattoo my face on their chests because I'm *that* good of a President. And they'd put my picture on their cell phones. And wear them around their necks, I guess? Honestly, I don't really understand what's happening in this picture either.

    Then I change "Congress" into "Parliament" because it sounds funkier.  And I change the American flag to a picture of a hobo riding his free pony.  Because even hobos deserve ponies in this country.  Parliament loves it.  You can totally tell.

    Then I change "Congress" into "Parliament" because it sounds funkier. And I change the American flag to a picture of a hobo riding his free pony. Because even hobos get ponies in America. Parliament loves it. You can totally tell.

    He's more into than I am.

    Also, when I'm President, Dane Cook will become obsessed with me and I'll have to get a restraining order because I'm already married, dude. Then he'll kidnap me and America will think it was Russia and then Parliament will attack and then Russia strikes back and then it's nuclear war for all of us. Nice work, Dane Cook.

    The elderly have never liked me.

    The elderly will blame me for the ensuing war against machine and man but luckily most of them are too old to survive the nuclear apocalypse so it's not that big of a loss in constituency for President-the-Bloggess. The elderly have *never* liked me.

    This is me after the apocalypse.  And a breast reduction.  Apparently

    And this is me after the apocalypse. And a breast reduction,apparently. I'm still tough as nails though and I eat rats for breakfast. We all do. That's what the future is like. Get ready.

    History will remember me fondly.

    History will remember me fondly.

    Comment of the day: When you are president I am totally going to tattoo your face on my stomach and I am going to tattoo it on my free pony too. And then I am going to take my free pony and run over Dane Cook. Because Dane Cook has to learn to respect the president. ~ Lance Bass Ruined My Life

    25 things about twitter that are pissing me off

    People who are making me mad:

    1.  People who have their twitter account marked private because they don’t want people to read it.   YOU ARE ON THE INTERNET.  Also, what you’re drinking at Starbucks is not national security.  It makes me want to create a page for my cat and make it private because it’s that stupid.  Also there are probably a lot of private account people yelling really good reasons why they are private but I can’t hear them so they don’t exist.

    2.  People who have their twitter account marked private because they don’t want people to read it.  I know I just said that but it’s still pissing me off.  Mostly because whenever I see a blocked person I assume they are talking bad about me.  Screw you, assholes.

    3.  People who I’m really good friends with on twitter but they never post anything to let me know if they are a girl or a boy and their picture is of a dolphin or a rainbow and I want to talk about them to my husband and I’m all “Oh, one of my best friends on twitter is hilarious and you would love him or her” and then Victor’s all “You don’t know the sex of one of your best friends?” and I’m all ” Well…their picture is a dolphin” and he just shakes his head.

    4.  People who aren’t on twitter and think they’re better than me, because I was you a year ago and guess what?  I had a lot more spare time then.  But now I have 11,000 friends.  And only half of them are robots.  The other half are dolphins.

    5.  People who spell my name wrong on twitter.   I get how you could accidentally spell it “theblogess” or even “thebloggress” but last week someone was all “You know I love?  @MCHammer”.  You could not have spelled my name worse if you tried.

    6.  Celebrities.  Just shut up.

    7.  People who ask questions that no one cares the answer to.  Like, bad question:  “Hey everybody!  What’s your favorite color?”  Good question: “How many lemurs could you fight off if the lemurs were really mad and you were wearing a suit made out of meat?”

    8.  People who answer that question “I ❤ lemurs!!!  They R QT’s!!!”  Just stop it.  You don’t get to use twitter anymore.

    9.  People who answer that question “Well, lemurs don’t eat meat so maybe think before you post stupid questions, dumbass” because I was actually referring to a suit made of lemur meat. Made from the lemur’s mothers.  So yeah, they’d be pretty pissed, asshole.

    9.  That girl who writes vague insults about someone who follows her and we all know who she’s talking about and we want to tell her to stop but we feel sorry for her because she must have a really low self-esteem to passive-aggressively fuck with people like that but then we feel like we should stop her from bullying but really why is it my job to regulate twitter and AAAAAH I’m having an existential morality crisis on twitter and this is your fault, bitch, so just quit it.

    10.  People who create twitter accounts to hate on obnoxious people and then become exactly like the obnoxious people they hated.

    11.  That one girl.  You know exactly who I’m talking about.

    12.  The people who ask you to retweet a coupon for 10 cents off some shitty cereal and if you do it they promise to send you a coupon for 50 cents off some shitty cereal.

    14.  The two hundred people who sent me tweets about a coupon for 10 cents off shitty cereal just so they could get a coupon for 50 cents off shitty cereal.

    15.  Robots.

    16.  People who ask me to follow them over and over except I’m already following them but I can’t DM them that because they aren’t following me.

    17.  People whose avatars unintentionally look like genitals and every time they respond to me I’m all “Is that a vagina?” and no, it’s two penguins kissing.

    18.  People who get mad about twitter.

    19.  Yes, I see the irony.

    20.  People on twitter who are actually cats.  Or cats on twitter who are actually people.  Either way I feel betrayed.

    21.  People who get mad at me when I ask how they’re doing and they’re all “Didn’t you read my twitter?” and I’m all “I follow like 5,000 people, dude.  It’s anarchy in there.  I can’t be expected to keep up with each trivial piece of minutia of your life” and later then I look at their twitter stream and turns out their wife died last month.  Fucking DM me when that shit happens, dude.

    22.  People who ask famous people questions and expect to get answers.  “Hey, @Oprah, do you like cheesecake?” SHE’S NOT GOING TO ANSWER YOU.  Also, I preemptively blocked Oprah the day she joined.  That’s what I think of Oprah.

    23.  Practically everyone who has an auto-response set up to welcome followers.  I don’t need you to tell me I’m following you.  I just followed you.  Also, you only have 16 followers.  Just how busy are you?  The only exception to this is if you give me a reason to read your auto-response.  Like “Thanks for following!  Did you know sugar gliders have forked penises?”  Because no, actually, I didn’t.  Thank you.

    24.  People under age 16 on twitter.  No. Just look what you did to Myspace.

    25.  I don’t really have a 25 but it seemed like a better number to end on and I was trying to think of another type of person I hate on twitter but then I was all “Okay, actually having to wrack your brain to think of people you hate seems really unhealthy” so I’m going to go take some xanax now because I think maybe I’m the one with the problem.  But seriously, everyone listed in #1-24 please change entirely before I get back online or I will send you a pipe bomb will stab you in your nose will grind my teeth at you probably won’t notice at all.

    Comment of the day: Actually koalas have forked penises too, the term used is bifurcated tips. And the female koala has two lateral vaginas. No I’m not making this up, it’s one of the many reasons koalas are my favorite animal. That and that they are super vicious when disturbed from sleep and I had a friend in high school from Sydney and he used to tell me koalas would attack his cat so whenever he saw them he tried to hit them with his truck. ~ Michael Tischer