Don’t tread on me I.T.

So, my work computer crashed like the dickens. If I want to be honest they said the problem was “@ # 321_ CPU i4 robot DROID Q blah blah.” (That’s Nicole jargon for “I-didn’t- really-listen-to-what-they-said-because-it-was-nonsense-foreign-talk-to-me-and-I-was-thinking-about-cupcakes-instead”) *thought bubble*…mmm delicious cupcakes.

In said computer crash, I lost some information – mainly remote access properties, settings and the sort. Therefore, when I.T. told me to reset my work password, I was forced to ask for help:


(Please note my mastering of even the most primitive of emoticons. I went to college.)

Then, I.T. went all Nick Burns Computer Guy (“MOOOOVE!”) on me and wanted me to go to an internet meeting, so that they could take over my computer. I logged in. They immediately sent me an instant message, and I immediately replied:

I’m not your ho, I.T.! I’m classy ’cause I watch a crapload of VH1.

Eventually, I.T. wore me down and I gave them control of my computer. Probably because they rubbed my back ever so gently and told me I was pretty. In any case, it was magical. In order for I.T. to close out the work ticket, they have to hashtag an action response back to me via my initial email. And so they did, in a manner like they didn’t just get my new computer’s flower in what would be the best computing session of their lives:

You said I was special!

And so I responded:

Never let them see you cry.

Their lack of sensitivity made me feel less guilty about telling everyone they were giving away free Moon Pies when they moved a while back.

IT Request:

“Nicole, please make schematic map showing everyone where IT has moved to in the building.”

My reponse:

It’s schematically correct.

They were hoping for an actual schematic using the building layout, but beggars can’t be choosers and choosers want Moon Pie. Fact. Besides, if one can’t figure out how to get out of the lunchroom at work, and stop, one needs to have their brain evaluated.

“Oh, by the way, YOU’RE WELCOMEEEE!”


Nick Burns

(FYI – they did end up buying a shit-ton of Moon Pies to supply the masses with after having emailed the “map” to 300+ workers.)

THAT’S RIGHT, BOIIIII! Makin’ it rain <Moon Pie> up in this bish!!!! #OprahWinfreyTaughtMeHowToUseTheSecret


Hookers & Hookahs

There is a little cafe, not too far from my work that makes boba tea. Since I love the shiz outta some Honeydew Boba, I go in every couple of weeks for a fix.

Honeydew Boba Tea, my lover&best friend.

It’s an earthy-type place, with hookahs, odd beers, local art for sale, vegan-friendly, cafe seating outside, etc. Whenever I visit, I believe that all of the staff has just finished or are currently taking puffs on the wacky tabaccy. I came to this conclusion from mental note of their Matrix-like slow azz movements / love of eating sandwiches while working. Also upon the fact that they are always out of whatever you want on their menu. That spells “munchies” to me.

“Hey man, you want a tuna sandwich?” “Yeah…” “Well we’re out, man.”

Anyhow, on this particular visit, I noticed there was a giant warning note posted to the door:




I thought: “daaaamn, Gina – someone must have stolen one or something… NOW WHERE’S MY EFFIN’ HONEYDEW?!” Then hearts flew out of my eyes and I floated into the restaurant by a smell stream of honeydew fragrance. When I got inside, I noticed there was a chick cop, in the entire tan-azz cop getup, eating a sandwich in the corner. Cops make me nervous. So it’s like I have a spidey sense when they are located within 10 yards of me and can’t relax about it. I think this fear probably stems from watching too much Cops and being black… on the inside, but I digress.

After she (side note: Do you still call them “she’s” if they’re a bad-azz cop? I think there should be a new word invented so that I don’t picture girl cops slap fighting someone to death or having to throw someone a gun only to have it land 1 foot in front of them and firing off some rounds upon impact.) finished eating. She checked all of her velcroed-on cop uniform things in a macarena like gesture fest and walked up to the counter, where I was seated and Rosebud was making my sweet sweet honeydew boba tea. (MMMmmm I can’t wait to put you inside me boba, Ima marry yeeeewwwww.)

The “sh-op” (she-cop) says: “So I noticed your sign… *points to sign on door* you gotta problem with the hookers, eh?” (You’re reading that right, “hookers.”)

“Huh? Oh yeah, a bad problem. The manager says they can’t be outside anymore.”

“How many would you say you have out there on a given night?”

“Well we have a good 15 left, but he’s been keeping them in the back storage room for now, so no body can see them and be tempted to break in.”

“WHAT? There’s 15 of them here?!”

“Yep we got all different kinds, from all around the world. Problem is, when he lets them go outside someone always runs away with one – then we don’t have any for the paying customers. So if they want anything to do with the hookahs, they have to do it inside now.”

It’s hard out here for a pimp, ’cause all my hookers gettin’ stolen! (Buy this shirt!)

*sh-op puts her hand on hip gun.

“SHOW ME THESE HOOKERS, NOW!” Sh-op’s voice was elevated and I almost pissed myself.

“It’s pronounced hook-ahs, hook-AHS… not hookers.”

“SHOW ME YOUR HOOK-AHRS! Do you know that’s illegal, hookahr trafficking???!!!”

“Hookahs? No they’re not – if you’re not using them for pot.”


*pulls down broken hookah off of cabinet* “These are just tobacco hookahs. Just normal hookahs, you buy a flavor and then put it in and smoke it. It’s just regular tobacco.”

“Oooh… er… good day.” *sh-op abruptly walks out.

When the girl handed me my tea I said: “You know she thought you meant you had 15 dead hookers stacked up back there by the pickles, right?”

“Oh my gosh, I totally thought she was getting way more upset than she should have been. Whoa man, whoa that was a total close one. I’m gonna have to sit down and process this…” *bites a sandwich and stares at hand*

Sleepin’ & Creepin’

If there’s anyone that knows the trials of being with a person who has an overactive imagination, it’s my boyfriend “Smith.” This is a tale of such merriment that is his life experience with me.

I woke abruptly from a sound sleep by the sound our garage door opening. I rubbed my eyes, looked over at the time and tried to focus. It was 4:27 AM, the most eastern standardness of times. My initial reaction was “Sweet Baby Jesus, this is it. We under attack, bastards trying to take a bitch out in her sleep… THROUGH OUR OWN GARAGE! OH THE HUMANITY!!!” *Grabs an available shoe to arm myself. But then, shocker, I didn’t see Smith in the bed! I was like “MUTHAFUGGASAY WHAAAT?!!!!!” I creeped out of the bedroom in the dark shadow of night. I’m not sure why I was creeping, but it felt appropriate at the time. I was in a night shirt that was waaay too short and my ass was hanging out, but I didn’t care. (People will picture someone dressed sexy  here, but I assure you I was not at the time. It was more like “People of Walmart take a nap” type of outfit.) I actually like it being short so I can stay nimble in the night, reacting to ninja attacks at the drop of a hat without the death sentence of sleep pants. I still didn’t know who I would be meeting at the garage so I went to inspect from another angle. “Maybe Smith was just letting a critter out of the garage? Maybe he accidentally hit his door opener?” I needed more information. I crawled, ass-out, to the front of the house. Then, I was shocked at the taillights going down the road. “Son. Of a. Bish.” I knew for sure no one was trying to rape me, and it was Smith who’d used the garage. This was my inner monologue at that point in time:

“WHAT. THE. SHIT?! Oh no he didn’t start creeping out in the middle of the night on my ass! He didn’t even wake me! I’ma call him RIGHT NOW! CREEP THEEZE, BOOOOOiiiii!” (Because my inner monologue is narrated by Flavor Flav.)

I’m Nancy Drewnicorn

I ran inside and got my phone, then ran back outside for no other reason than I was still half asleep. I should mention that I’m normally not an angry person – but this experience turned me all Samuel Jackson in 2 seconds flat. I was walking all wide, using my power walk arms and ready to start poppin’ caps in the air at any moment… if I wasn’t afraid of guns or fire that is.

My pink Dooney and Bourke wristlet says “Bad Mutha Fugga” too!

I blame my anger inflammation on the hour and the moon and el nino ’cause I hear he’s a bastid. Anyhow, Smith FINALLY picks up…

“Uh… *fumbles phone a bit* heh…hello?” Smith said sheepishly.

“Yeah, hi Lionel <Richie>, where are you going at 4am?”

Lionel Smithie

“What? *fumbles phone* Nowhere. Where should I be going?”

“YOU TELL ME. ‘Cause it sure looks like you went somewhere, I’m in the street! I saw you.”

“What? Why are you in the street??????!”

“Yep, the garage woke me up, so where are you going?” (In a “THAT’S RIGHT I’M NANCY DREW, MULLAFUGGA!” sort of voice.)

“NOWHERE. I’M IN THE BED… ya know, asleep. Where are YOU?!”

“Huh? I’m in the street. I saw your car?…”

“No, because I’m looking at you from the hall – right now.”

“What? But I saw you leave…”

“No, you must have been dreaming, the garage hasn’t opened. It was somebody else. Get the hell inside, it’s 4 am!”

“*silence*…okay love yewwwww?”

“Get. Inside.”

When I did do the walk of shame into the house, Smith was standing at the door to our bedroom, clearly a victim of having been woken up at an ungodly hour. He had bed fohawk and twisted boxeritus. He also had a smug look on his face, while he put his hand out for me to grab. He lead me to bed whispered these sweet nothings into my ear:

“When I wake up, I’m going to make fun of you about this. Forever. It is your destiny.”

Luckily the story entertains the shiz outta me, so I don’t mind! 😀

Mud Butt, part 1

This is a story about “Lee,” my best friend Lala’s, ex. Lee was a skater man-boy that worked at the furniture plant. He was never an intellectual type and he laughed and kinda looked like Barney Rubble, but taller and more human. Three times a year Lee’s work would have the cappuccino machines serviced. On the day that they were working on the machines you could have as much cappuccino, coffee and espresso that your body could handle – FOR FREE. This free cappuccino notion appealed to Lee a great deal. He drank and he drank… and he drank his weight in 4 varieties of cappuccino flavors and various coffee indulgences throughout his work shift. After work, Lee picked up my bestie’s brother and headed on over to meet us at our work, Victoria’s Secret, located in the mall. It was April Fool’s Day, so you can bet your ass that we could not believe the following to be a real happening. But it was.

We were working on the demo cart (the little cart of fragrance at the door of Victoria’s Secret shoppes) when we were approached by mall security.

“Miss, do you have a husband named, Lee?” the security guard asked Lala


“Please follow me.”

We had noticed the mall cops putting up the yellow caution tape at the mall exit, just across from the shop for about twenty minutes prior to security visiting us. Lala followed the security down to the exit. Security then said:

“Miss, your husband is in this remote bathroom. He’s had an accident. He’s going to need you to get him some pants and shoes.”

“What?” said Lala. Mostly because she was like if he was in a car accident, how the hell is he in that bathroom… and why are you telling me about it?

“Your husband… forgive my French, he shit himself. He shit himself real good.”

At this news my bff starts howling laughing. But they weren’t kidding. So they asked her to go into the one stall remote bathroom and comfort him. She did, which is when she found out how the whole thing rolled out.

Lee was running late. Lee decided to push through the 30 minute ride to the mall instead of just using the bathroom. Lee got to the mall, pulled into the fire zone left the car idling with Lala’s brother inside. Lee ran into the mall having remembered the remote one stall bathroom was there. He had to fight his skater pants the whole way. The strain was just too much for the oncoming mud butt. As Lee struggled to run through the mall, he began to leak. Then the flood gates opened en route. Lee panicked as he sat inside the stall. His pants and shoes were covered in feces, so he couldn’t leave to tell Lala’s brother what happened. Eventually a small boy wandered into the bathroom and was waiting patiently for the stall. Lee yelled out “Hey little dude, I’m trapped. Can you go to the exit and tell the boy waiting in the car to turn the car off and come here.” Remarkably, the kid did. It was about that time that security noticed this substance all over the floor and began to tape the place off. I mean, it was like a CSI investigation. There was tape all over that bitch with little floor marker cones. They initially assumed it was oil. That assumption makes me LOL to this day because we were in a friggin mall – why would there be oil slicks just randomly appearing out of thin air? Anyhow, Lala bought some clothes for Lee and they went home for the day.

While this story is amazing enough to stand on its own, I feel it’s worth mentioning that Lee shit himself three additional times that year. All on free cappuccino day. He managed to avoid going to a wedding, a Wutang concert and a family reunion all thanks to having shit himself silly. I will be writing about the wedding one next, in Mud Butt, part 2.

Mud Butt, part 2

This story is about the wedding that never was for Lee, the shitter ex. I have a special place in my heart for this story because I was so hands-on involved with it.

(To learn about who Lee is – please be sure to read part1 before continuing)

Lala was asked to be the planner at a friend’s wedding. She told Lee he would have to accompany her to help out. Lee was none pleased, but luckily it was free cappuccino day so he was in a great mood. Lee tried every tactic he could think of to come up with excuses about not attending the wedding. “I’m tired,” “My head hurts,” “I have no dress pants,” “I’m NOT GOING!” etc, etc. Lala quickly handed over the brand new pair of dress pants she had just picked up for him that morning. There was no way around it, Lee was going to this mullafuggin wedding and Lee was PISSED about it. The pair began their 30-minute freeway journey when Lee’s stomach started a rattling. “Oh baby, you’re gonna have to pull over… those cappuccinos… I must be allergic or something… uuuggghhooooo not again!” But Lala thought this was another ploy, so she refused and said she would stop at the gas station when she got to the exit. When they got off the freeway, Lee was squirming and wiggling and running sideways into the gas station that housed a Bojangles. At this point Lala called me to give me the low down, when I heard someone knocking on her window.

A muffled voice yelled: “Is your husband in the bathroom?” *Makes roll down the window motion to Lala as she whispers “oh my gawd, he wants me to roll down the window!” to me. She rolls the window down.

“Yes, my husband is inside.”

“Well he needs you to come in there.” Lala says she’ll call me right back she’s going to see what’s up and expressed her dismay at him possibly just trying to make them late for the wedding. Lala called me back five minutes later hysterical (crying) because she was afraid of being late and ruining the wedding. Lala confirmed the fact that Lee had shit his brand new JCPenny pants unrecognizable.  I was like “well, just leave him there – I’ll get some clothes and go get him so that you’re not late.”

You never know what you might need. Better bring everything.

I had never prepared for a shit pickup so I didn’t know what I should bring. I showed up at the designated Shitter-jangles with these items:

1 black trash bag (the huge ones for yard waste) inside said bag was:

1 pair of my largest flip flops, in baby blue

an old Hard Rock sweatshirt

1 bottle of Shower to Shower powder

1 Alka Seltzer tab

3 wetnaps

1 roll of paper towels

Endless Love VS body spray

1 face cloth

1 bag of cotton balls

1 bottle of water

1 pair of silvery shimmer shorts (the most boy type shorts I owned)

I didn’t take into account how difficult it would be to pull off rolling up in a gas station Bojangles lugging a full yard-sized trash bag and seem nonchalant about it – but I owned that shit. I was on a mission. Oddly, no one inquired what the hell I was doing lugging around a giant ass trash bag, at all. They just watched me walk right through with expressions like “What the heeeeell?”

I arrived at the bathroom door. Now, let me say that when I told Lala to “leave him there.” I assumed she would give him a heads up that I was on my way. She did not. She just left him in the Bojangles bathroom and got the hell outta dodge. When I arrived about 20-30 minutes later, I knocked on the bathroom door.

“Lee?” Lee then mistook my voice to be Lala’s and replied:

“Oh Baby! Thank God you came in here – my ass fell asleep.” I had to hold back the laughter because I didn’t know if he meant his butt went numb from waiting for so long, or if he took a little nap. Either way, that shit was hilarious. I tried to explain what had happened and broke the news that Lala wasn’t there. Lee was happy that she didn’t miss the wedding and gladly received my trash bag of provisions.

He said that he’d been trapped in the stall because of “the over spill.” He also said that a man came in with a small child and heard the following dialogue:

Kid: “Daddy, I gotta poopie!”

Dad: “Okay son, but we have to wait for the stall.”

Lee: “Uh, yeah dude – I ain’t coming out of here any time soon. Sorry man.”

Kid: “Daddy, should I go in the trash can again?”

That’s right “AGAIN.” I only wished I’d arrived earlier to have met the father of the year.

Note: the Marlboro’s pail is filled with crap.

Lee eventually emerged from the bathroom and kept thanking me for helping him out. It was at that point I realized that what I THOUGHT Lee was sized as was about 10 sizes smaller than Lee actually was. He couldn’t get my shorts up over his butt and the sweat shirt missed covering his belly by about two uncomfortable inches. Also he had about four inches of heel over lay with the flip flops. It was a sad sight, but Lee was so grateful to be clean that he hadn’t a care in the world. On the way to the car Lee realized that he’d left his keys in their car, so I had to drop him off at Lala’s aunt’s house for him to wait until Lala was done with the wedding. He expressed how embarassed he was about doing so, because they were all going to make fun of him – forever. Which is when I told him he just has to own that shiz:

“When they come home, and start to talk shit… just sit there in silence, let them go on and on. Eventually, they will come to a plateau in laughter because they will want to get you to talk about it –  when they do, be silent for a moment, look them dead in the face and say:

‘I told you.

I wasn’t going.

To that wedding.’ ”


The Vagina Monologue

It’s Christmas in July, bitches! I was recently reminiscing about a situation that broke out at Christmas, so I wanted to get it on here!

The co-president of the company I work for decided to have our office Christmas party at his home. He also decided to combine the office party with his neighborhood party, with his friends party, with his Pampered Chef frequent buyers party, with his Katherine Zeta Jones’ fan club party… you get the idea. There was a shit-ton of people in this place and catered meatballs as far as the eye could see. It was the first time I had ever been to his home. It was very pretty and he had an oil painting of a monkey dressed as a king and Jordan almonds, so I decided to stick around. I found myself settling in with my office peeps outside near the pool – where oddly, there was a glass coffee table, ya know, outside, next to the pool. That hardly seems dangerous at all. It was REALLY thick glass but was totally see-through, as glass tends to be. Being dark out, the table was a real optical illusion, because it just seemed like there was a short pedestal without five feet of glass surrounding it – sitting between the pool and the chairs. After seeing people walk into it a few times we started betting on who was going to hit their shins on the table as the various drunken party goers walked by.

We were having a grand time, yulkin it up and carrying on laughing at nothing when two random chicks walk up and sit with our group. One looked like Megan Fox, if you squinted a little, and the other like someone named Gita or Yergin or something Swedish.

Gita : “OMG I love your bag” Megan: “OMG I love YOUR bag.”

Anyhoo, these girls were both dressed like they were definitely going out to find some big ol’ wieners after this party. They were also… how shall I say this delicately; a few skittles short of a rainbow. Regardless, we all welcomed them to join in the conversation. We spent the next hour explaining everything we were talking about, three to fifteen times before they would get the joke or understand what we were saying. It got REAL awkward at several points during the conversation, but luckily we were the only ones to notice so they never got uncomfortable. The hoochduo eventually went for a smoke. They stumbled back about twenty minutes later (clearly drunk which made communicating even more interesting) and were trying to re-situate themselves. They kept bumping into the glass coffee table with the back of their calves, but didn’t seem to notice what was happening. It was at this point that my lovah, my friend, Penny and I all made it a point to tell them the glass table was right next to them, and warned them to be careful so they didn’t hurt themselves. Thirty minutes later, the craziest thing to have ever happened to me at a party, happened.

Hoochduo decides they want another cigarette. The Megan Fox one decides to walk through the table. Like, she walked forward and when her shins were stopped by the table, she continued to try and push her leg through. As if her leg was the problem, not the plate glass top. She pushed once, then pushed again, then began to wobble on her stilettos from the resistance. Then the bitch went down like a sack of potatoes but managed to roll around and flail very ungracefully mid-flight. Which made NO effing sense, and even though we were witnessing it everyone was like “OH NO…UH.. okay she just totally spun around for no reason…”

Megan’s Flight pattern, overlay on Coach Hines’ youtube – click to view

Anyways, her tiny ass body twirled onto the table and DEMOLISHED it. Plate glass, mullafugga! DEMOLISHED! I was like is this bitch the female Wolverine or some shit?!

Hai gurl!

Fox laid totally still and we all held our breath because we feared she was dead. After what seemed like forever, she began to yell about her cigarettes and started swearing pretty extensively. We all clammer around to try to get her up off the shattered table without her cutting herself into a million pieces, but the bitch was wiggling like a mullafugga and just pushes her self up, with only the tiniest scratch on her wrist. I think everyone was shell shocked about her not being dead, because it was right about then that I noticed something was amiss about Mrs. Fox. It was her fully exposed vagina. That’s right, total muffin bomb. Like, her spandex tube skirt was so short – that it had totally ridden up and I’ll be darned if the bitch wasn’t wearing a stitch of anything to cover her lady garden. NOTHING. I quickly thought to myself: “Oh those are weird panties… waitaminute… is that… her? Vagina? HOLY SHITTHAT’SHERVAGINA.” My inner monologue continued. I thought, “Man I gotta tell this girl! But I’m too far away to do anything… aaagh, someone help her! ” but what came out of my mouth in this surge of panic was just;

“VAGINA!!!!!!!!!!! VAGINAAAA!!!! WATCH OUT! VAGINAAAAAAA!!!” *Points* *Drops Jaw* *Points*

I yelled it in my most deepest and manliest of voices. In fact, it was so growly that it made me start coughing. I kept pointing while I almost suffocated from the coughing attack. Penny, standing right next to Megan, quickly understood what I was saying. Penny reached over, grabbed Megan’s micro mini and gave it a tug so hard that it looked like she was shaking out a sheet. Megan came collapsing down again from the impact like she was one of those plastic camping cups that folds down into itself. Oh LAWD! It was a sight. The look on Megan’s face was priceless because it was like “GAWD DAMN! I ALMOST KILLED MYSELF AND NOW YOU’RE TRYING TO STEAL MY TUBE TOP?!”

Fox eventually made it to the bathroom for a bandaid and then quickly left the party.

Fun facts: I later learned that the Gita girl was who knew my boss (hence her invitation to the party, not that he was being stingy with the invites or anything) – he had bought a bunch of furniture from the store she works at and she gave him a good deal. Ironically, Gita had sold him the table that was destroyed by Mount Saint Megan. Megan was Gita’s friend. Megan’s vagina looked like a peppered mountain top that hadn’t seen rain in years. Never forget.

Never Forget

Dear Mr. Dick

I think it’s high time that all the Dicks in the world turn over a new leaf. If your name is Dick, please for all that is holy, start going by something else. Seriously. It’s just not healthy for you. No one has/ever will say your name and not associate you with a penis. Worse yet, they’re not even associating you with your own penis. They’re associating you with an imagined penis that wears a top hat, is half slinkied and winks into a monocle. (It may or may not have a British accent depending on your age and hair color.)

Yeah, you were right to picture this

I’m sorry to be the one breaking this news to you Dicks, but I’m just telling you the truth. Your name encourages people to act like they are part of the cast of Entourage. Also, I think the Dicks have confused society with general manners for the last 50+ years.

The History of Dick:

This is my theory of Dick’s history. I suspect that at one point, back in the 50’s, 1 in 5 businessmen must have been named Dick.

Dick was booming. Soon Dick began to get accolades at work:

“Man, Dick sure is smart!”

“If I was like Dick, I’d be living in that mansion by now!”

“Wow, look at Dick do all those deep knee bends!”

Etc. Etc. I think Dick hit a major popularity spike because of the astronaut program.

The only people in this picture NOT named Dick, are wearing glasses.

Space propelled Dickdom into everyday American life. Dick was eating our apple pie! Dick Van Dyke was tripping over couches. Dick Van Patten was tripping on kids. It was a crazy time. Soon people were encouraging each other to “Be more like Dick! He’s funny and is married to Mary Tyler Moore on TV- tell your friends!” If you have ever played the telephone game, you know that once people start communicating a topic, bits and pieces of the information are bound to get lost in translation. It had to be around this height of Dick utopia, that one evil Dick must have been mixed into the fold. (Maybe by the government because of the aliens?) Whatever the reason, it screwed up the namesake for all of the kind Dicks that came before him. Evil Dick must have been a real piece of work too. I’m guessing he looked like a penis, hence the modern association thereof – so he must have been older, bald, and possibly sun burnt.

Dick Voldemort, Degrassi High ’96

Evil Dick quickly became a negative person to compare unjust things to:

“Don’t be a Dick, John. That guy is a butthead!”

“Larry, your boss is a Dick- he’s never laughed once during Tootsie!”

“Don’t you yell at me, who do you think you are, Dick?”

Etc. Etc.

Cut 2, and here we are in present day America – with hardly any Richards and a planet full of Dicks. We are literally populating the earth with Dicks. There has been a strong decrease in Richards since 1996, however the Dicks had a resurge in 2006- which means there are modern-day Dicks by our own modern-day doing!

The proof is in the pudding, Dick.

Naming your baby Dick, is just a dick move. Give the kid some options, dude!

There is too much wrong with this chart to make fun of it.

Dear Dicks,

Having studied these charts and decoded your history, I now understand that you might not know the power of your name. I have outlined the best options for you below. Decide which Dick fits you best.

–> If you are evil, please continue to address yourself as Dick. That way the rest of us can spot you easily. Feel free to have your license plate personalized with your name – it will help to reduce road rage from you you-ing all over our freeway system. Also, please abide by these simple Modern-Day Dick rules:

1. Dicks on the road: Please stop using the merge lane to pass waiting traffic, also stop turning left from the right lane, riding your break, and throwing trash out of your windows – it’s just not safe and someone will eventually beat your ass. Oh yeah, and stop revving your engines to sprint 10 feet. No one thinks your car is cool, because a penis is driving it.

2. Dicks on Facebook: Please use Twitter. It will be easier for us to ignore you there.

3. Dicks at Work: Please stop spending so much time in the bathroom, we’re all assuming you’re masturbating in there. If you’re a Dick boss – please stop being yourself. Happy workers make you look good and that makes you money. Unhappy workers urinate in your coffee and poop in the elevator. Nobody wins then.

–> If you are good, please go by Richard, Rich or your middle name – so long as it isn’t Gaylord. Gaylord will just make things worse, even if you own a chain of southern hotels.

–> If you don’t know which Dick you are; evil Dicks have a sinister laugh and beady eyes.

Dick Joker

My brain does not read things correctly

I have noticed that my over-active imagination will make anything into something amusing for me, all on its own accord. I know this because I am my brain’s slave and also because I often find myself doing odd things like re-reading lines of text or titles because I think:

“Whaaa? *giggles* Now, that just can’t be right…” *Re-reads.

It’s partly my fault because TV informercials have convinced me that I am a speed reader, and I often skim-read titles or the sort, resulting in A LOT of misinterpreted information. I’d say I have a strong 27% accuracy at speed reading. (BUT IT’S TOTALLY SELF TAUGHT! :cO ) Though, I can’t stop now because I am always entertained by the misinformation. I enjoy that fact that my brain has a good sense of humor, and spends it’s defragmenting time to make me read non-existent things, just to amuse me. Way to go, brain! *UP TOP!*

Things I have misread recently:

From The Daily Norm blog:

Vitamin D and Plenty

Simultaneous thought upon interpreting Latin to be “Plenty of Vitamin D” :  “Aw man! I love that Vitamin D song! *Sings in head* ‘As we goo on, we remember… we will all be, friends foreeeverrr…’ wait, why does this guy love Vitamin D so much?”

–> *scrolls back up to top of page.*

Also, my brain told me the logo on that blogs site consisted of two ghost ovaries. I’m fairly certain it does not.

From a trip to the gas station:

Budweiser Family Beers

I saw a sign hanging at a gas station near Disney World that read “BUDWEISER FAMILY BEER 2/$5″ similar to the one above. My thoughts were: ” A family beer? How big is that effin thing?! How do they know their kids are old enough to drink?! Is this a Disney thing? Who wants to slurp on multiple persons’ farty beer can?!” In that exact order. Upon glancing around the mini-mart and not finding any gigantic beers, I went back to read the sign again. Please note, this all happened in my brain much quicker than it did to write it out for you to read. Like, about 2 seconds of thought and result:

Oh, Biker… I’m an idiot.

Like, my brain PUNK’D the shit outta me. Oh brain, you are a cheeky monkey.

Socially Awkward Penguin

Gotta go. Brain wants rice crispy treat now. 😀

Voicemail: Steak and Eggs and Reba Part 2

As many of my friends (or my station wagon full of blog followers – up top! *high fives*) know, earlier this week I posted an actual voicemail left on my work’s answering machine. I will cherish it all of the days of my life. Leaving it as just audio on YouTube didn’t seem to do it justice, even though it still makes me laugh 3 days later. SO, my Lovah (his brains are way huge) has helped me to make it Sundance-worthy! I have reenacted it at the link above using Reba, Live! and Reba, Country Superstar-featured in a Forever Lazy.

Enjoy and go balls out sharing it with whomever you please!

Peace, Love & Reba