The Joyce Dewitt Phase

As most of you know, I'm growing my faux hawk out because I'm over my "straight but looks lesbian" hair fad. My hair has now officially reached "Joyce Dewitt" phase. I don't really mind really since I think Joyce Dewitt was the best "Three's Company" roommate ever. I think I might even don some super short blue shorts and a terry cloth top with no bra. (right) Damn I love Three's Company. (R.I.P.: Don Knotts. I'll miss you Mr. Furley.) I feel somewhat old knowing that TWO castmates from my all time favorite t.v. show are dead. What's up with that? Jack Tripper and Mr. Furley are suppose to be immortal. If Joyce Dewitt kicks to bucket, I'm going to need therapy.

* So the Oscars came and went. (yay Reese and damn you George Clooney for being so orgasmically charming..). I seriously need to stop watching the Oscars every year because that "L.A. Actress" part in me that I bludgeoned to death with my reality stick rises from the dead. I get this silly idea to just "give it one more shot." Forgetting the fact that every time someone says, "thespian" I have the urge to say, "Oh no, I'm straight...." AND that I'd rather stab myself in the eye with a needle dipped in tabasco sauce than go to another audition. (Cast of characters from my last audition:
-90 pound girl cheerfully regaling me with stories about her rapant bulimia,
-wierd yoga guy twisting himself into a pretzel in the corner of the room going "ommmmm",
-40 year old man asking if his "hair plugs" are noticable. I didn't have the heart to tell him his head looked like a corn field.
- metrosexual male spouting out his "impressive' resume to anyone that would listen.)
No thanks. But what about that Dolly Parton huh? How bout' them hooters?! Sure she may be sixty but the hugeness of her boobies never gets old.

* My Slim Fast Testimony:
Dear Slim Fast, Last week, I had reached a plateau in my weight loss and the needle on the scale was being a stubborn bitch, refusing to move for weeks! I regretfully lost my temper and yelled at Billy Blanks to take his double punch combo and his lazy eye and shove it up his sweaty Tae Bo arse. Just when I was about to reach for that bag of pork rinds smothered in gravy, you came to the rescue. Sure you taste like sugared potting soil and whoo nilly! You sure do give me the "fast poopies" but darn it if you didn't get that scale moving in the right direction again. Thanks to you, I'm sharting my way to a better body! THANK YOU Slim Fast!"

I'm usually very nice to folks who come to my door pitching "their religion." I don't necessarily agree with the "door to door" faith salesmen but whatever floats your boat, I'm sure it helps out a lot of people... blah blah blah. Sometimes I even take the pamphlet and have a look-see (although they never answer that age old question of, "what exactly DID Jehovah Witness and why is he the only one privy to the information???"). Today was a different story. First a side note (or warning): NOTHING gets the steam rising from every crevice of my body than somebody interrupting Maddy's nap. Not only because her nap equals a much needed down time for me but put no nap and being TWO YEARS old into the equation and you get a TOTAL MELTDOWN, from her AND me. Messing with my girl's schedule is like messing wit my emotions!
Anyways, today I hear the door bell ring TWICE in the middle of putting my girl down for a nap. I ignored it. The doorbell rang again and the dog started barking. Thankfully, Maddy had already fallen asleep, but I was pissed nonetheless. I mean, if no one answers the door after two rings, GO. AWAY. I answer the door and there THEY ARE with their pamphlets. I didn't even let them get a word in edgewise before my head spun 360 degrees. I spewed bile on their shoe, turned green, breathed a cloud of smoke in their faces and growled,
"I'm BUDDHIST!!! ARGHTHREHGTHEL BPOGPO LDOLCUNGGFRRRRBLE!!!!"
Then I started speaking in tongues and they ran away.
Hmph. Some Buddhist. Go meditate bitch.

* Have I ever expressed my EXTREME hatred for "METROSEXUALS" yet? Yes? Well here's some more. If I see another metro with the studded belt, the brand name jeans, half tucked in shirt, plucked eyebrows and shiny hair that required a straightener to get it "just right," I'm going to reach in and revoke his fuckin penis and balls with one good yank. You're a pussy. So you don't get to have a penis. They're two seconds away from bending over anyways, so you gimme those nuts sissy man. God forbid all the real men get weeded out and the pussification of America goes into full swing by the time my daughter is of dating age. I'm going to have to tell her stuff like,
"You know, back in the day, men didn't share his jeans or hair products with you.."
DIE ALL YOU RYAN SEACRESTS OF THE WORLD. Take that lovely Dolce and Gabbana belt you're wearing, fashion a noose and kill yourself before you get a chance to BREED. OR rip out your own nuts and save me the trouble.


This has been a public service announcement.