You are not interesting or funny. A week old carcass scooped off the road with a snow shovel, sprinkled with organic garnish and served in a trailer is not a meal. It’s a misdemeanor. I am not opposed to eating meat, either. I will consume just about anything that has the misfortune of being below me on the food chain. I am just opposed to eating something whose time of death exceeds its time of refrigeration. And please stop calling yourself an artist. You are not. You are the annoying, alternative, Wiccan priestess, solstice-worshipping, patchouli-stink girl I sat next to in college who claimed to be an art major because you shit out 13 variations of the same Grateful Dead dancing bears painting in one semester. Real artists label themselves “artists”. Insecure girls who work full-time at Kenny Shoes and volunteer once a month at the community center teaching children art classes call themselves “Nomadic Shamanic Artists”.
You like to ride your bike. I do too. It is a refreshing work out as the warm wind blows on your face while you work up a sweat as your legs pump like engine pistons. I notice you have a Starbucks there. In your hand. As you ride your bike. Sipping on a be-whipped Frappuccino while you ride leads me to believe you are not serious about exercise. I could have never know that from looking at you, however. You know why? You are wearing a triple-XL spandex racing suit like you are training for the fucking Tour de France. Seriously? That is what you decided to wear while riding your bike today? To Starbucks? Squeezed into spandex like some generic-wrapped sausage at the grocery store? Where does one even find a triple-XL spandex racing suit? Is there a Bicycle Village Big and Tall somewhere around here? At least pretend you are serious about losing weight by draining that Caramel Light (I will swear on my infant son it had to be a Caramel Light) before you get back on your bike. Thanks for the fat guy pressed ham shot post-Chipotle, too. Helps with digestion. And by “helps” I mean comes back up in chunks with stomach acid in my mouth. Dick.
I could not help but overhear your whining to the manager on duty regarding the broken cart-pushing machine while I was waiting in the checkout line with my steaks and diapers. I wish I could say I felt sympathy for you, kid, but you are nothing more than a spoiled bitch. Back when you were still playing with your own crap and watching Sesame Street, I was pushing carts for Uncle Sam Walton without the aid of mechanized transport. The Slushy Gutter Crew toiled and labored in that godforsaken parking lot, but we all took pride in pushing cart trains into the warehouse with our youthful exuberance and brawn. We also took pride in pushing those same carts into the lake behind the warehouse, playing Nerf football games when the manager’s backs were turned, daring each other to climb into the hydraulic bailing machine and turn it on, loading eight flatbeds full of merchandise into a motorcycle gang‘s refrigerated truck and kicking boxes across the asphalt. In short, suck it up and push the carts in yourself, princess.
Two years ago today you foolishly took my hand in marriage. During that time, I have been unemployed twice (1, 2), made the neighbors suspect I was beating you when yelling “You dirty bitch!” at the computer while designing a website, bulged a disc, come home late countless nights from post-hockey drinking benders, continued my subscription to numerous smut magazines, remained dutifully absent from all Monday night plans during the fall/winter to drink with my Fantasy Football buddies, run down a couch on the highway and have never let you hold the television remote in my presence. In short, you are still the amazing, accepting and funny person that I fell in love with. I appreciate you more with each passing day and I love you like Extreme; More Than Words. Happy second anniversary, honey. It is the cotton anniversary so let us pick up some righteous sheets that make it feel as if we were sleeping atop a marshmallow cloud. Or we can save our money and just get a giant box of maxi pads. Those commercials make them look like giant stingrays swimming. Just saying.
What is it about you that simultaneously makes me tingle in the crotch and causes me to question the very nature of human sexuality? You are but a cartoon yet I find myself longing to objectify you. In the midst of my drunken haze yesterday at the Colorado Rockies game, you teased me on the Jumbo Tron with your winning smile, your pink tresses flipping out from under your ball cap and your vibrant green eyes confidentially stating, “I am cute, I love Colorado Rockies baseball and I fight big insurance by defeating its evil representatives in assorted sporting activities.” Was it not you who went screaming down a mountain on a snowboard chased by mindless goons on snowmobiles just to save me 18 cents a month on my automotive policy? Was it not you who took to the ice in a desperate hockey match against villainous robots bent on lavish insurance premiums only to defeat them by playing goalie, offense and defense and eventually scoring the game-winning goal with a wicked slap shot? You little pink-haired minx. You have stolen my heart and more importantly, you have made me believe that I do not have to spend a bundle on auto insurance.
First and foremost; it’s called lotion. Look into getting yourself some. The skin on your legs looks like the leather on a catchers mitt that hasn’t been oiled in twenty years. Your knees are more dry and calloused than a constructions worker’s hands. Aren’t all women supposed to be moisturizing themselves with fervor? My wife has at least twenty five tubes of lotion spread around in strategic locations. There must be five alone in her purse. After you are done stuffing your cake chute with that sandwich, walk down to the Walgreens and pick up some Jergens. Preferably with Aloe. That leads me into my next issue; your mouth. Are you hearing the shit that is coming out of it? Seriously. You live in Wash Park. I get it. The entire lunch crowd on 16th Street gets it. You loudly proclaimed it three times in casual conversation to your coworker as if it was a badge of honor. Congratulations. You live in an awesome neighborhood in a house that is one hundred years old, has shitty square footage, no garage, rusty plumbing and bad wiring that you cannot afford to update because you spend all your income on a ridiculous mortgage. I am really proud of you. What’s that you say? You need to get out and run around the park to lose some weight so you look good in a bikini this summer? You have child bearing hips and a sperm bag, honey. Even with a stringent exercise routine and a crash diet that does not allow you to eat your coworker’s leftover Reuben, nothing short of cutting your head off and putting it atop Jessica Alba’s body would make you look good in a bikini. Even then. Your mouth would still be attached to the head. I suppose we could sew your mouth shut. That would definitely make you more attractive. Still, it is your head. Your thoughts, opinions and twisted views on reality are still in there. That settles it, then. Even with your head atop Jessica Alba’s body, you still would not look good in a bikini. Finally, I direct this parting shot to the clueless gentleman sitting across from you. Please do not encourage her anymore. Your leading questions and weak compliments are only exacerbating the situation. Do you need a slump buster this bad? Just pay for sex with a transvestite hooker and get it over with. Nobody will fault you, man. Especially a guy just trying to read the paper and enjoy his Italian sub.
If you want Whitney, you can have her. Seriously. Is that all it will take for you to call off the jihad and let us run that oil pipeline through Central Asia? We will whack up the petroleum profits with you and allow you free reign to run smack through our inner cities. Compared to meth, we do not mind the heroin so much. We would rather have our kids chasing the dragon in a tenement somewhere and performing oral sex on a balding, middle-aged accountant in an Arby’s bathroom for their next fix as opposed to setting up a combustible meth lab in a middle American neighborhood where they could blow up an innocent, blue collar family scraping by on a meager salary provided by the local concrete factory. We could lure Whitney onto a plane filled with cocaine and economically deprived children. Can we send you Bobby Brown, too? He has not given us anything since Don’t Be Cruel and his musical future does not look too bright with his constant illegal proclivities and all. We will not even care if you cut his head on Al Jazera as a warning to other Western infidels that you are not be fucked with. Consider it. An offer this good only comes along once in a lifetime.
I apologize for my neglect of the MB lately as work has kept me busier than your mom after inhaling Poppers at an anal sex convention. I have been catching up after three weeks of ruining my life and the subsequent celebration of ruining my life in a third world country. On with today’s link goodness:
Do not taunt the ice cream man. He has to deal with snotty, whining, fat little bastards like you all day long and is liable to have a short fuse. More than likely he will be a foreigner from a country where it is socially acceptable to punch a chubby kid in the face. When you are in line getting your bomb pop, just smile, pay the man his money, thank him for his convenient delicious cold treats and walk away.
Being a C-List celebrity is a daunting task. I know you have been typecast as Donna Martin and work has been lean since 90210 went off the air. It has to be annoying when every jerk on the street asks you how Dave Silver’s music career is coming along or if Dylan is finally off the sauce. It is understandable how, after years of being rejected by Hollywood, a girl in your position could have developed a low self-image that leads to an eating disorder and a plastic surgeon sewing horrible breast implants into your chest cavity. Life is tough, kid; but for the love of the baby Jesus, eat a goddamn sandwich.