the Shakedown: slang. "a thorough search of a place or person." (dictionary.com)

Superbowl or take a nap? Hmm, tough choice

Sunday, Feb. 01, 2004 at 9:05 pm

To me, football is about as exciting as watching paint dry. I'm not one of those women who hates football. I'm not the nagging girlfriend rolling my eyes at my boyfriend and his friends having orgasms everytime someone makes a touchdown. And I'm not one of those people who talks about the unnecessary brutality and homosexual undertones of the football phenomenom. But rather, I just could not care less one way or the other if football ceased to exist right this minute.

Football means about as much to me as, say, Pepsi. I don't hate Pepsi, but I don't love it either. I don't seek out Pepsi, but it doesn't bother me when I see other people seeking out Pepsi. And if Pepsi went out of business tomorrow, it would have no impact on me what-so-ever. I guess that's kind of how I feel about football.

So, I suppose this goes without saying, but no, no I did not watch the Superbowl today and if someone quizzed me on what teams were playing, I would flunk with a big fat F.



The night my ass ruined sex

Thursday, Jan. 29, 2004 at 4:24 pm

This is probably going to be one those TMI entries. Don�t say I didn�t warn you.

I have the unfortunate genetic disposition for intestinal gaseousness. Seriously, I know for a fact that it�s genetic because my mom�s ass is constantly exploding. I suppose it�s possible that it�s just a coincidence, but I�m doubtful. My gas goes in spurts though. Somedays I�ll be farting all day long. Other days, my ass doesn�t make a peep. But it never fails, if I�m on a date or worse, about to have sex, well I�m sure you can guess what happens.

The last two times my fuck buddy has been in town, the gas has hit me right before or during the moment of us getting jiggy. I don�t get it! Is it a sign from God that I�m an evil promiscuous sinner and I�m to be punished by uncontrollable flatulence? Well it�s not exactly uncontrollable, but it�s uncomfortable enough that I�ve had to stop before we get to the good stuff.

It wouldn�t be so bad if I could just get up and go take a shit and get it all out of my system. But the fuck buddy and I haven�t exactly reached that point in the relationship yet where we let loose the one cheek sneaks. I just think it would be kind of difficult to maintain a relationship based on sex and sexiness when your ass is erupting. I don�t know. Maybe I just need to find a guy with a fart fetish.



C to the H to the O

Wednesday, Jan. 28, 2004 at 11:48 am

OMG, Margaret Cho has a friggin' blog! What the hell? This has got to be like the 10th best day of my life. I saw this hilarious-times-ten woman do her comedy act last night on showslime or hbho, I don't remember which, for the first time ever. I'm totally kicking my own ass for not paying attention to The Notorious C.H.O. sooner! The important thing is, now that I've found her, I'm not letting go. I'm hooked.

And now, a quote from her side-splitting show: "I thought, "Am I gay? Am I straight? And then I realized. . . "I'm just slutty." So where's my parade? Slut Pride!"

You rock my world, Cho.

Speaking of quotes, I need you guys to please send me some quotes for The Talking Anus Page. I've let this fun site slip to the wayside for way too long now. Please! Help me!! You freaks.

Oh! And will someone please tell me what the hell happened to Don?



Did I mention I hate my job?

Tuesday, Jan. 27, 2004 at 12:20 pm

La la la, I hate my job
La la la, I fucking hate my job
La la la, I fucking hate my cocksucking job
La la la, every day is the same
La la la, every day in this place I call hell is the same
La la la, this piece of shithole job is sucking the fucking life right out of me, one brain cell at a time, and one heartbeat at a time.

Thank you, thank you very much. That was my attempt at some very bad song lyrics describing to the best of my ability the hell that is my job. I just hope it gets across the level of hatred I have for my job.

I didn't always hate my job. I can honestly say there was one point in time where I actually loved it. But as the years have slugged along, I've found myself growing bitter and resentful by the minute towards a job that I have to sit at a computer screen for eight hours a day, five days a week. The actual work that I do is starting to get on my nerves too. It's just so "businessy." It's all about numbers. I'm good with numbers, really good, but I'm just so not passionate about numbers. My heart and soul left this job about two years ago. I'm passionate about music and art and children and laughter. But numbers? Not so much.

I know I can't expect to find some perfect job that I can be passionate about twenty-four seven. I know that it's unrealistic to think I can make a living drawing portaits and taking care of my kid. Society doesn't exactly pay women to be mothers. So, I'm taking my destiny into my own hands and searching out new career opportunities. I decided I'm going to. . . sell real estate. Why not? The hours are flexible and I won't have to sit at fucking computer all day, right? And I get to meet people. Actual live people, rather than some voice on the other end of the phone telling me why they haven't paid their thirty thousand invoice in six months.

I've been thinking long and hard about this for about a month now. I've researched thousands of different career paths and I just keep coming back to real estate. My mind is made up and I can't wait to get the fuck out of the hell that is my job now. So, anyway, wish me luck!

And now. . . I need french fries.



"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world." C.S. Lewis