You're So 2000 and LAME

It smells like 1995 in here; therefore, this blog has MOVED to the year 2012 - come join me why dontcha?

http://sanityinterrupted.com/

Judging Books By Their Covers Part Two

Today kidlets, we look at the meticulously groomed, glossy, double dimpled cover of Mario Lopez. You probably know by now that if we actually saw a Mario Lopez book cover manifest, it would of course have a picture of himself on it. What you wouldn't know is that the picture would be on the inside cover and the first page would be a mirror, so the picture of himself could look ......at himself.

His cover also reads...

I don't mind being called a douche because douches go into vaginas, indiscriminately. What do you think I do in between double dimpling the public and flashing my pecs?

Instead of ladies screaming my name during an orgasm, I scream my name FOR them - because that's what a gentleman does.

Taking off my shirt is the ONLY foreplay I do. You're welcome ladies.

When I have sex, I put my face about two inches away from her and smile like this:

So she won't forget how lucky she is to be underneath such a magnificent Latino stallion.

I don't know Spanish.

When I want immerse myself completely into my culture, I go to Taco Bell and order a Gordita. I make sure I roll my r's and shorten my a's when I order because that's what Latin people sound like.

I only read books with pictures in it. Of me.

My turn-ons are girls who wear glasses because when the light hits their glasses just right, I can see my reflection.

I would totally have sex with guys. Not because I'm gay, but I believe in equal rights. It would be completely unfair if only women can get to experience me.

I shower in slow motion.

Hand mirror = my kind of porn.

My penis is named "Dios Mio Es Tan Pequeno.' A girl screamed that out once when she saw it. I don't know what it means as I've been too busy exfoliating myself to look it up in my Spanish to English dictionary but it sounds like it refers to God so that's gotta be good right?

As the years go by, I get better and better looking. But somewhere there's a picture of AC Slater with a gray, overgrown mullet that's getting fatter and fatter.

My balls are tan.

My soul is made of 10 percent hair gel, 90 percent narcissism.

Just kidding, I have no soul.

Judging Books By Their Covers: Part One

Since I have absolutely no time to write. I'm introducing a new blog quickie called Judging Books By Their Covers. Today's subject is Kris Humphries, whose cover says....

I'm an open mouth breather

I consider 'passing gas' and 'dutch oven-ing' people as one of my hobbies.

I say 'supposebly'

I think it's perfectly fine to turn your underwear inside out and wear it again

I scratch my nuts then smell my fingers, then I make other people smell them.

I think it's perfectly fine to scratch my back with a dinner fork

I own all the Jackass movies and think they are cinematic feats of awesomeness

Driving with my seat all the way down with one hand on the steering wheel makes me gangsta.

I still giggle when people say my last name (you said 'Hump!' hahahaha!)

If you're really my friend, you've been teabagged by me at least once.

Showering in Drakkar Noir is the same as actually showering.

I don't know how to spell Kardas ...Kardasch....Kardashyn...whatever, she has my last name now anyways.

I believe that burping is an opportunity to share your meal with others.

Eating whatever's under my fingernails is a form of recycling.

There's no fun in blowing my nose if it can't be in the form of a snot rocket.

I like big butts and I cannot lie....

Spiritually, I believe in the word of Beavis and Butthead

Dear Budget K.D. Lang, I miss you.

When I was 29, my daughter was almost 2 and I was finally losing the poundage I had gained AFTER the pregnancy due to the lack of sleep and abundance of corn dogs that somehow always ended up in my mouth. I had a conversation with myself (AKA: a normal day) about what my reward would be to me now that I had lost X amount of pounds

Food was obviously out of the question, because once I break in to a bag of Munchos, you best believe I'd dive head first into that bitch and in 10 minutes be licking its insidey parts like a gentle lover. Clothes - meh, no fun. (Yes. I am that one rare straightish butch who doesn't like to shop.) or..ooh! A HAIRCUT! Yes! Mama gonna get her hair did!

A haircut it was! My hair hadn't seen a pair of scissors since I opened my pair of scissors and unveiled the baby from the lady curtains. (oh the visuals I give you people! You're welcome).

My hair was all the way down to my waist. I looked like a midget who makes her living as a Crystal Gale impersonator at the local bingo hall. But I didn't want to get just ANY haircut. I wanted something drastic. I wanted something that wasn't in the way, short, fun but - oh Dear Sweet Baby Jesus, don't let it turn into some hideous animal like what's on top of that chick's head from Jon and Kate Plus 8. I felt like any 'hip' style that a stylist gave me (A STYLIST!? look at me talking like I'm JLow (HA!) When I say stylist just assume I mean Supercuts) would immediately take a hard south towards mommy hair hell once my travel sized blow dryer and two-in-one pack of hairbrushes got a hold of it.

So I avoided a mommy hair cut the only way a creative albeit lazy person knew how:

I got a faux hawk.

For almost two years, I was walking around looking like I had gotten into a fight with a weed whacker that ended in a tie. My faux hawk was a dream, easy to manage, easy to style and out of the way. Plus, I figured it was something I couldn't pull off once I had hit my 30s. When I did hit 30, I let it grow back out and now it's just a distant and sweet memory. It was done. We had good times but after 30, I had filed that experience under "Budget K.D. Lang Years" and never looked back.

Or so I thought.

In the past year, I've been revisiting that file, looking at my soft focus memories of my lovely faux hawk and reminiscing on the wonderful way the breeze kissed my neck every time I walked outside or how delightfully fuzzy 80 percent of my head was. I was LONGING (GB:2 subject. cough cough) for that feeling of hair freedom again. But then I also remembered my husband hating it and at certain angles, if the light was just right, I looked like my brother. And really, my cheekbones weren't high enough for that cut and I'm not nearly gay enough to pull that look off ever again.

I'm 35 now, I want to get a new hairstyle but the old 'mommy haircut' fear remains. I want a haircut that has a lot of the faux hawk's features as far as how convenient it was, but I want to keep my hair somewhat long so my husband doesn't feel like he married a Craigslist twink on female hormones.

It's like finding a boyfriend who has as big of a skin snake as your ex-boyfriend did without any of his clingy tendencies or crunchy socks under the bed.

And then last night, as I was watching Project Runway and marveling at their magic (because seriously a man's three piece suit completed in one day while here I am using Style Snaps to hem all of my normal people sized pants?? MAGIC!) I received a visual gift from God in the form of this chick's hair.

The boyfriend with a big skin snake, who respects my space and comes in his hand instead of a sock had responded to my ad! As in, THIS was the long style I was looking for with all the convenience of faux hawk hair!

Shaved sides. So simple and yet so cool. I can rock a long version faux hawk but I can also leave it down and have flowing lady locks that my husband and my non-existent cheekbones love so much.

Please note that this haircut is happening soon, but not right away as I'm working on the X amount of poundage that came back with a vengeance with baby number two. Vengeance, as in 'Is that a hippo vagina or is that actually my ass in the mirror?!?'

I'm slowly but surely winning the battle. See you soon faux hawk 3.0!

Chock Full of Shit.

The blackheads have taken over my nose.... again.

Before I get into the ugly details, let me tell you about this oily war zone I have on my face that used to be my nose. I have a typical Filipino nose. A nose that no troll could live under because I have no bridge. (That last sentence made a lot more sense in my head I swear.) Then if you go just past the no bridge, you'll get to the bulk of my nose, which sits on my face like a half-eaten mushroom.

On top of this deformed mushroom is where the blackheads have multiplied like horny rabbits. It has always been a volatile area since the pores on top of my nose are so large you can park your Ford Fiesta in there. But lately, it has gotten a lot worse - maybe its the humidity here in the Midwest or maybe my parents were right, I am full of shit and I'm finally overflowing.

click on the picture to see the gory details....

Regardless, the blackheads on my nose have been GROWING WILD (<-- hi GB2 subject of the week!) on my nose as of late. Thankfully, due to my short stature, a normal sized person would have to take a plank position to even see the top of my nose. It hasn't offended anyone but me. The problem is mine and mine alone. So I armed myself with a Biore strip. A Biore strip is not only entertaining in that it's the only time you can paper mache your nose with no apologies, but it also sucks the blackhead out harder than Pamela Anderson can suck a hot dog through a straw. (Again that was way more hilarious in my head than on paper. Stick it out folks, its gonna be a short post I promise.)

So there I was, feeling victory being had on top of my paper mache'-ed nose while I caught up on Jersey Shore episodes. (Yes I watch it. And yes I hate myself for loving it).

Super Strength Biore

15 minutes later, while putting the fist pumping on pause, I peeled the strip off nice and slow, pulling out the enemy - expecting to see a handful of them only it was more than a handful. It looked like a grassy meadow - except the grass was made with oil, dirt and stank that had been squatting on my nose pores.

It was satisfying, like every Biore war I have on my nose. A satisfying feeling seeing those tiny slivers of muck standing out in the open, exposed for the disgusting things that they are and disposed in my bathroom trash can.

So satisfying in fact that I wrote a whole post about it. I'm enjoying it right now because I know my vacant nose pores is a temporary thing. Slowly but surely - the squatters will come back and I'll have to break out the big Biore guns. Good thing there's six in the box.

For now, let's have a moment of silence to listen to the wind whistle inside my empty spacious pores. Thank you for sharing my victory. And feel free to enjoy looking at my squeaky clean mushroom nose. Try not to fuck up your back while you're admiring it.

Irreconcilable Differences - The Celebrity Marriage Epidemic

GBE 2 challenge this week is a picture prompt.

So of course, today class, let's all sit down and talk about marriage. To be specific, Hollywood marriages. Because who cares about us peasants and our sorry little two-cent unions when there are demigods and demigoddesses doing weddings bigger and better than our bag lunch bargain huntin' couponin asses can ever dream about! When it comes to weddings - celebrities are WINNING! - said like a tweaked out Charlie Sheen - (redundant?) Some celebrities even have weddings that take days in remote locations where they play dress-up Aladdin style with their poor, unwilling guests before they FINALLY put everyone out of their misery and say I do. (I'm looking at you Katy Perry....)

But when it comes to marriages...(you know the thing that happens AFTER the big party is over with and the fireworks display has blew it's last smiley face explosion?? - which by the way, never fails to make me one of those annoying people that go, 'woowww' during a fireworks show.) Celebrities are doing this not so well and it seems that the culprit is always irreconcilable differences.

Here's just a few recent celebrity break ups that were taken down by this mysterious celebrity divorce epidemic called 'irreconcilable differences.' Maybe, if we look for clues in each situation, we can figure out what this is and how to stop it.

* Marc Anthony/JLo - allegedly that little Skeletor was sticking his lil chicken bone boner into other girls and showing JLo that he had the power of Grayskull by telling her and her ass to stop being fabulous. You can't stop the power of her ass Skeletor. It is much greater than you...(seriously, JLo's ass has got what? 10 pounds on Marc Anthony...at least?)

* Arnold Schwarzenegger, Maria Shriver - allegedly he was sticking his twig (but no berries because you know... steroids eat balls.) into the fanny of thine nanny! For shame Conan!

* Christina Aguilera and that unfortunate looking, but I'm sure he's really nice guy with a big wang, dude she was married to (too lazy to look up his name) - allegedly Christina was the one that ended the relationship because she found someone with a better face. Just kidding. I don't really know the real reason but I can't imagine why that reason wouldn't be close to the top of her list.

* Eva Longoria and Tony Parker - allegedly Tony Parker was parking his lil' Tony into other people's parking spaces. Hello Eva, he's in the NBA! The complete opposite of marriage material. I believe NBA really stands for N.ever say no to B.oobs and A.ss. ( Boo. Hiss. Yeah that was me reaching for the joke, just kick me down a chuckle for my hard work all right?).

* Sandra Bullock and the white trash Nazi devil - allegedly the devil wanted to make his dick even hotter by sticking it into Myspace whores selling, cheap tattoos, good times and gonorrhea. His mission was accomplished, but not after the angel that is Sandra Bullock found out and bid the devil goodbye.

* Leanne Rimes divorced her gay husband to be with Eddie Cibrian. Maybe because she got tired of always being 'the top' in the relationship?

* Eddie Cibrian divorced his wife to be with Leanne Rimes. Maybe because Leanne offered something his wife didn't; protruding shoulder blade handle bars to hang on to when they're having sex.

So judging from those situations, I can only conclude that irreconcilable differences means famous people are total sluts. I think the only way we can avoid another celebrity divorce is to institute the Clooney/Brangelina Act whereas for every celebrity that feels the need to marry each other must inform the proper authorities immediately and a committed gay couple will step into their place and take the nuptials instead. Therefore avoiding disaster prone celebrity couples from getting married and allowing a legitimate loving couple to marry the PERSON they love.

(don't ask me about celebrity gay couples.. we'll have to write an addendum for them later...)

Pee On The Bed or Brave The Scary Bathroom? My Midnight Dilemma

My first post for GB:2 Blog On. This week's subject: MIDNIGHT.

(yes, I've signed up for another weekly blog subject thingy, I'm doing two now. shut up.)

When the midnight hour comes around and I find myself still awake I have a slight panic attack.

The first thought is ...shit, I have to go to bed, the little one is going to get up early and I'm going to be a zombie the whole day! Must. Go. To. Bed!

Then the second thought is....crap, I'm not sleepy. And double crap, now I'm too busy thinking about trying to sleep and getting myself all worked up to even THINK about being sleepy.

Third thought is...hmm, maybe I'll go into the living room and watch Ice Loves Coco, because Coco's enormous, out of this world ass makes me think of overstuffed pillows and overstuffed pillows make me sleepy. Yeah, that's a good idea. Let's do that!

Then as I get up out of bed I think........wow. ...um ...it's kind of quiet. Hmm, it's kind of dark too, especially in the hallway. Remember that one part in the movie where something walked across the hallway....

And then in an instant, I'm wide awake scanning for shadows in the hallway.

Midnight and my imagination is not a good combination (oooh I'm a poet and I don't know..ok ..ok...I'll stop.).

I think I might have somehow overloaded my brain with creepy content back in the day. For as long as I can remember, I've always loved scary books, movies, I loved Twilight Zone, M. Night Shamabanana's movies (well the first three...) I remember I couldn't WAIT to watch the Blair Witch Project when it first came out (you can imagine how pissed I was when the scariest thing in the movie is the giant snot lined nostril that fills the screen for a couple minutes), I read every Stephen King and Clive Barker book I could get my hands on. Paranormal subjects were right up my alley too. I have been interested in U.F.O.s for as long as I can remember and I'm a sucker for ghost stories. In short, I just loved the thrill of scaring my own pants right off.

Now that I'm older, I'm pretty sure I've had my fill because if I catch myself awake at midnight, it is almost guaranteed that my thoughts will pull up some scary thing I had seen or read from my overflowing scary shit file and bombard my brain with it. This isn't particularly fun if at that same time that I'm scaring the bejeesus out of myself, I also have to go to the bathroom.

If this happens my fourth thought is...I wonder if I can hold this until 5:00 a.m.?

And now I'm wide awake, full of terror and urine at midnight. Not fun.

Usually I just put my big girl panties on (IE: turn on every light as I run from the bedroom to the bathroom.) and do the deed as fast as humanly possible all the while thinking of rainbows, puppies and Joyce Dewitt (because who doesn't smile when they think of kooky Janet Wood?) to keep from convincing myself that the girl from The Ring is in my bathtub waiting to jump out at me.

[Pssst....here's why I have turned into the biggest giant pile of chicken shit....Exhibit A: I was going to put a picture of that girl RIGHT. HERE. but when I googled the image...it was way to0 creepy to save on my computer. So I said screw it, you know what that girl looks like right? She's kind of damp? Long stringy hair? In serious need of a shower and some moisturizer? Always in a bad mood? Let's just post one of Joyce Dewitt instead!]

Damn. I think this is even scarier....

So yeah, midnight. If you don't find me asleep, you'll find me wide awake on the toilet clutching the toilet brush like it was Thor's hammer, ready to swing it maniacally at the laundry basket for looking at me funny.

And yet for some reason I still really really want to see Paranormal Activity. I'm pretty sure after seeing that movie, investing in a bedpan probably wouldn't be a bad idea.