Love is in the air and it smells of bronzer and dill pickles...

It has been a while since I've given a love confession that was sure to confuse the masses. In fact, the last time I confessed a love that was as strong and strange as the love that I'm about to confess today, I believe it was about this man. The man who screeched love out of his giant Xenu blowhole and stomped his petite size 5s on Oprah's couch with abandon. (I wish I could say I tried to look for the post link I'm referring to but I can't, because I didn't because I'm too lazy. Buy my book instead, it's in there.)



And yes, before you ask, I would still hit that small, sweaty sack of crazy if given the chance. My glow in the dark strap-on is shined and lubed, ready for such an event. You can never be too prepared as TOM IS MAGIC and will show up under your bed at a moment's notice, demanding your servitude and serve him you shall! (Dressed up like David Beckham and singing sweet songs by Will Smith in his delicate ears. I hope you're taking notes).

What could possibly match the love badge I hold for Tom?

A delicate petunia that goes by the name of Snooki.


Who knew that a petite, pickle sucking orange ball of dough would sweep me off my feet? At first glance, she seems to exude orange grease out her pores and looks as if she may have a strange yeasty smell to her. Quite frankly, at first glance, Snooki was quite unappetizing. But as the show went on, wisdom began to spew forth from her mouth like a popped champagne and it wasn't long before I realized that Snooks was a messiah .....in drag.


Snooki not only addressed the problem of divorce but she also solved it by uttering one simple sentence...

"Old people, they lose their sex life and that's not a fun time... that's why people always get divorced."

She reminded us that in order for humankind to live in harmony, we must shed our false pretenses, communicate clearly and say exactly what you mean!

"Stop caring and fuck me!"

Her pure and complete honesty is so bright, that us mere mortals have to stand back and squint at its beauty.


"My vagina's out."


"Honestly, like who hides in a bush? Only me. I will pee in a bush, I will poop in a bush, I will hide in a bush. I do fucked up shit, I don't even know what's wrong with me."



"Every time I get really excited, like if we go to a club, I have to poop my pants. If we go to a party, I have to poop my pants, if I go on a date, like this, with a hot guy, I have to poop my pants."


"A crow comes and it starts quacking at us ... or not quacking, what does a crow do?"

But the Messiah is not perfect, there are some cracks in what is an otherwise beautiful bronze vase and yes, at times, her despair does indeed leak out of those cracks.


"I hate the ocean, it's all whale sperm. Everybody Google it, because that's why the water is salty, from the fuckin' whale sperm."



"I feel like a pilgrim from the fucking '20s washing this shit in the sink."

Despite those cracks, I think it's clear to see why I have fallen in love (or in desperate worship) with the Snooks. She is knowledge, honesty, grace, and elegance wrapped in sausage casing. A warm soup of sympathy with a sprinkle of class, served in a urinal. I dare you not to bow in humility to our new messiah when she pours her love to you every Thursday (Jersday!) like a giant can of Prego.

"I remember I masturbated all day once and the next day I couldn't even move."

Yes. I am in love Snooki. A fellow pint sized oompa loompa who happens to be the most inspirational thing to mankind since Spam.

And yes, like Snooki, that last sentence barely made any sense.

Xenu's Burning My Meatloaf and Other Delightful Nuggets...

Despite my love for sweets, (see love letter to Funfetti cake mix post below!) I'm pretty proud of myself for not being 300 plus pounds which I could easily gain if left alone at a 7-11 overnight. Do I want to stick my head under the blueberry slurpie nozzle, turn that lever and shotgun that sucker like a kegger? Yes. Yes I do. With every fiber of my being; however, I refrain because I care about my health! (actually I just haven't had the opportunity because the damn cashier is always eyeballing me when I start to circle the machine.)


At this point, do you think Jon Gosselin sweats dirty vag water? I know we throw the word 'douche' around in jest but I think that the universe has agreed with the masses for once and is turning him into an actual douche. If he starts growing a plastic spout of his ass, we'll know my theory is true.


I got so busy the other day that I actually told my poo to stop bothering me and come back again later when I'm not so busy. Like it was a Mormon knocking on the door or something. Well, no that's a lie, I would never tell a Mormon to come back later.


Last night I woke up around 2:45 a.m. and thought I smelled meat. I know - don't walk away yet, it gets better. I'm sitting there trying to determine what the smell was. It wasn't overpowering, it was just a hint of a smell. So every possible reasonable explanation goes through my head in about five seconds, 'did viking hubby just cut a fart with some extra stank on it? (no, because the smell didn't make my face want to eat itself which is usually my reaction when hubby lets one go). Is the dog breathing on me? (no). Did we leave a frying pan on the stove and maybe it's turned on slightly? (hmm, possibly.) So the next logical thing is to go check it right?

Well this is where you and I are differ. My brain made a U-turn out of logic town and heads to Tom Cruise's Xenu House of Crazyville because then I start thinking, well - what if this is some kind of ploy (by ALIENS. I know....SIGH...) to get me out of bed (double sigh) so they can electroshock me and put heated pokers up my bum? Fun for Tom Cruise sure, but for me, not so much. I swear, this TOTALLY made sense to me at 2:45 a.m. In my head, I was certain that in the alien handbook on how to attract and abduct humans, cooking meatloaf on low heat topped the list. It was nothing by the way, I ran to the kitchen, didn't see anything and ran back to bed. Because you know,...aliens can't possibly catch me when I'm onto their sneaky cooking schemes and scurrying quickly.

And yet, after all that, I still can't wait to watch THIS MOVIE.


I twitted the other day that I think I am allergic to PTA moms and actually I felt kind of bad about that because I'm sure most of the moms in the PTA are lovely people. So let me be more specific. The things about the PTA that causes my eye to twitch uncontrollably and make me wish for tourettes syndrome are...

* those in the PTA that emphasize and drag their vowels ...'oh that's greaaaaat.' 'Oh that's absolutely daaaarling.' 'Hey yooouuuuuu, how have you beeeeen? Oh wondeeeerful!"

* those in the PTA who can't differentiate whether they're talking to adults or children, so they just talk to everyone in the same, condescending baby talk. And usually, it's the same people who drag their vowels. They're a hoot to have a forced conversation with.

* those in the PTA that treat the planning of a bake sale fundraiser with the same seriousness as feeding starving children in Africa. You're selling homemade cupcakes girlfriend, not rebuilding a village in Darfur. Take it down a notch.

* those in the PTA that give me the side eye because I can't volunteer for 50 events in one week. I have a thing called WORK and Facebook to do when the munchkin's in school. Piss off.

* and finally those in the PTA that can't handle a tasteful dick joke once in a while. (when its just the adults around of course) God forbid I interrupt your fascinating monologue on how much better your child is than some other mom's kid, THEN when said mom comes around you smile in their face and tell them that they're just daaaarling.

Sorry, I got kind of ugly there didn't I? My apologies. My panties get into quite a bunch when I'm denied my sub-par dick jokes.

I'd Totally Strap It On For Tommy.

To My Darling Jean “Papaw” Claude,

Uh oh! Looks like someone had one too many Werther’s Originals! Lay off the Ensure papaw because you’re killing me with sexiness! Is anything hotter than an old grandpa laying out his shriveled third thumb and coin purses on the balcony? (the answer to that is NOTHING…as if you didn’t already know!) And then, just to add some more rowr to our tiger, you throw a high kick up in the air to show us you’re a flexible bottom your salt and pepper pubes! I can’t stand it! I’m surprised Tom Cruise didn’t climb that balcony and bite your hot geriatric ass. Although, I’m betting Tommy’s going to be paying a visit to that balcony later to smell the manly musk of Ben Gay (because you know that kick put his ass on the couch for a month), pomade and Metamucil sweat you rubbed all over it.

shoving your junk between wrought iron railings is a mating call for Thumbelina Tommy dontcha know???


All I know is I’m relieved that the old hip remained intact after your impressive display of desperation manliness. Ignore Tom, you should come over to my house sometime Jean; I’ll make you a hot bowl of Quaker’s oatmeal with a tall glass of prune juice and make sure your pacemaker is working just right.

I’m a romantic, what can I say?

With Love,

Yo Momma


To My Darling Katie,

My God, you look wonderful! And I don’t mean that in a “you look great for a 40 year old – oh wait, you’re only 27” sort of way. I mean you look great for someone who’s had a lobotomy and is currently being held hostage. (That Tom Cruise sure is a charmer). And look at you! You’re getting so good at looking down so that the real Mrs. Cruise can be the one that’s statuesque and gorgeous. They have wonderful trainers at Xenu Camp don’t they? You’re very generous. No really you are. I know he wouldn’t have married you unless you were willing to “strap it to tap it”(because vaginas. ew.) and share your heels with him. For all your hard work stroking the Scientology’s messiah (albeit while dressed like a young boy – I mean, that’s why you’re rocking the bowl haircut right? For realism?), he’s allowing you to be on Broadway! Congratulations! I guess by “allow” that means he’s found a mind control device that he can do remotely from his spaceship. (thank you T-Mobile!) So convenient and more independence for both of you!
You’re off to Broadway and he’s off to a bath house with no interruptions!
Win Win situation if you ask me.

And I have to apologize for insinuating that your wife is wearing heels to appear taller than you. Upon closer investigation, I just realized that Tommy is LEVITATING over you. All hail the power of Xenu. He is mighty indeed.

beeebooop. blurg,
Yo Momma

To My Darling Dustin Hoffman,

I don’t blame you brotha.
I. Don’t. Blame. You.

Did you touch them? They have healing powers you know.

Is it feeding time yet?

With Love,

Angie’s Bitch.


Okay, sorry, that last one was crass. I know you visit my blog purely for its wholesome good fun and that was uncalled for.
I’m sorry, really I am. But……Are her twins going to be well fed or WHAT?

Heavens.

But you know who I love more than Angelina? Crazy Tom Cruise. wait, let me rephrase..BATSHIT crazy Tom Cruise. I wish he would stop acting normal to get good press and just shoot fire out of his ass already. Seriously, if he turns into this:


I won't be able to control myself. Unfortunately, it looks like that's what Katie's hoping to morph into.

Have a great memorial day weekend everybody!!!

FLF: Teabags And Coin Purses..in other words: BALLS

Dear Tom,
Do you enjoy breaking my heart? What does Katie have that I can’t buy at the local sex shop? (Vibrating Massager with 6 speeds? Check! Sparkly KY Jelly, Lavender scented? Check! Xenu mask? Check!). Isn’t it enough that I carried your child???!!! Ooops..! I know that’s supposed to be a secret but come on Tom, everyone knows that baby is half Asian. Let’s just own up to mine and Xenu’s creation shall we? ( I know you tried, but yeah, vaginas sure are icky if you’re not used to them. Its okay Tom, I forgive you.)
I just want you to know that I will never forget all the good times I had with you at the Our Lady Tom’s School For Future Wives. I couldn’t concentrate during our ballet class because your tiny ass looks so sexy in a tutu doing a Fouetté en tournant. I don’t know what happened Tom. I totally excelled in your “Pretend Tom is Taller Than You, Crouching Tiger, Hidden Gay” class and yet, somehow, you picked HER over ME. WHY?? I’m not over it and I never will be.
Like I told you before..”blurg bip bip boop deee bebop glib bitch.”

And I mean that from the very bottom of my heart.

It’s so obvious that Katie is not holding up well to the Scientology brainwashing cleansing and she totally forgot what she learned in our crouching class because you look like a 10 year old boy standing next to his babysitter in this picture. It’s time to hand her her pink slip Tom and let me hit it from behind handle the job.

And FYI, had I been your date to that event, I would have let YOU wear the heels and that kimono dress you love so much. Is she that giving? I think not.

Love and Xenu kisses,
Me.


Dear Fergie,

I’m not exactly sure what’s going on here but I do know this, those bitches from Bananarama are pissed you stole their lipstick, so watch your back He-man.
Honestly though, you amaze me Fergie. Between orgami-ing your coin purse to look like a vajayjay and giving yourself a golden shower during concerts, where do you find the time to go and trade your lips in for a baboon’s ass?
Or maybe you’re celebrating Easter early and gave a marshmallow peep a BJ? Well …in case you didn't notice..... you got some ..uh..leftover peep juice on your lips there.
Whatever the case may be, I just wanted to say you’re a multitasking Queen! And by Queen, I mean the “fabulous” type of queen. Priscilla Queen of The Desert type of Queen. Showtunes singing, body shavin’ type of Queen. Put the lotion in the bucket type of...oh you get the picture!

Oh and you’ll have to excuse me for asking this question, but I have not been able to keep track of what minority group you’re suppose to belong to this week. Are we representin’ Puerto Rico this week?
Yo soy Boricua?

Yeah. Makes sense. I like Rosie Perez too.

Love, Me.


Dear Sly,

Man, I have money, not much, but I have some. Do you need any? Because seriously, another Rambo we DO NOT need. I let you have Rocky but I don’t think I ever approved you to do another Rambo. So what could possibly be the plot for this one? Did you lose your walker to a bunch of thieving baby boomers and now you’re on a mission to get it back, but hot damn! How are you going to get those young scallywags when you shit yourself every five minutes?? Oh the problems of an aging action hero. AHA! Depends of course! So there you are, in the thick of the Bingo room, a man on a mission, smelling of piss, poop and REVENGE!!! (insert suspense music here). But no worries, you’ve got your can of Ensure and once you find those criminals, all you have to do is suffocate them with your essence of Ben Gay and Old Spice. And if they still don’t give in, you just show them your needle pocked ass, your liver spotted limp noodle (that's been inoperable for 30 years) and shriveled up teabags. Let them choke on your musty old man smell. (which smells a lot like carrot juice and mothballs..in case you didn't know) They won’t have a chance!!!!

Wow.
I kind of want to see it now.

This letter and the movie Rambo 5(000) is brought to you by Geritol.

Love, Me.


No seriously, I will be the idiot that goes out and sees it because I love Stallone in whatever texture he comes in. (hard as a rock in the 80's and 90's, and now ...lumpy and mealy.) Still love it though. But what do you expect from a woman who has New Kids On The Block's Greatest Hits on her cd rotation?
Not much I'm sure.

HAVE A GREAT WEEKEND EVERYBODY!!!!!

Tranny Letter Fridays, with Special Guest: Bit Bit The Chihuahua.

Dear Serena,

Whatever “supplements” you’re injecting into your tranny ass, taking is making you look a lot like Patrick Ewing. Patrick Ewing is disturbing enough to look at as it is and I really don’t need to see him squeezed into a tight dress with a pair of man-cleave peeking out to say hello. And while I do appreciate that you shaved your chest hair and mustache (kind of), you should have headed further north to your eyebrows that appear to know no bounds. Much like that sad ass weave that you got from the Kentucky Derby collection, your eyebrows are scaring the shit out of me. Did you draw those in with a Sharpie? Did Oprah wipe her ass on your face and leave skid marks? (Gayle’s gonna be pissed.) Are you and Peter Gallagher having an eyebrow growing contest? I’m so confused.
Anyways, the point I’m really trying to make is that ‘roiding up is nothing but bad news Serena. You’re going to end up having a manlier chin than Rumor Willis, your balls will shrink and you won’t be able to get it up anymore.
Don’t say I didn't warn you.

Love, Me.

P.S. don’t beat me up.


Dear David,

Why can’t other celebrities follow your lead and be a happy addict??? Truly you are a man who enjoys his Jack and Coke..(not the fizzfizz kind, but the sniffsniff kind). I don’t know what kind of statement you’re making by dressing up like Betty White on her way to a PTA Christmas party, what I do know is that Tom Cruise has gotten wind of your new look and knows that this is a cry for gay sex help. He’s beaming himself over to your house to recruit you for Scientology. Don’t worry. Tom told me that the recruitment process is really simple and only requires you to sign some paperwork, answer a few questions, receive an anal probe topped off with a Xenu teabag massage and a happy ending, to rid you of any evil alien entities that live within you. He’ll probably have to do it a couple times…those evil alien entities are stubborn bastards. But seriously, it’s no big deal.

Love, Me.


(And now a letter from OUR mailbag……)

Dear Elaine,

This letter is a desperate plea for your help.
I’m really scared. I’m lost. I’m confused.

Some bald girl wearing a bad, two dollar wig from Ebay is holding me hostage.
I know you understand the urgency of my situation just by the simple fact that I’m contacting YOU for help. After all, it is well known that your people find my relatives delicious. But at this point I don’t care! Come rescue me please! Call Peta, call Chuck Norris, shit, call Paris Hilton! Lord knows what type of disease infested crabs might crawl on me just by sitting on that skank’s lap, but if that’s the sacrifice I have to make to be rescued from the evil clutches of Mrs. Jean Luke Picard, then so be it! Why must I endure the torture of being sandwiched between a bag of pork rinds and a cigarette? One time, she mistook me for a can of Red Bull and drank straight out of my ass. Crazy bitch didn’t even notice she was tossing my salad. (she wasn’t even good at it…and my ass smelled like onions for days on end.)

Help.

Love,
Bit Bit, The Chihuahua


I’m either running out of shit to say or these celebrities are boring the hell out of me. Yes, Brit shaved her head and went wacko, but it’s a sad kind of wacko, not the fun Tom Cruise, jump on the couch, pretend I like girls, spit on Brooke Shields wacko. He’s the master of cuckoo. No one compares. Where are you my Tom??



I miss you.

Have a great weekend everybody!!!!