I’m going to hell…


Yep, there is no possible way this isn’t happening. I’m pretty sure I’m the conductor of the fucking train that takes all us shitheads straight to the flaming gates. All aboard!

Hell…can it really be that bad? Ok, I love the heat, so I’m not dreading this entirely. I imagine hell to be like Disney World in July. A sweltering shit show of sun and heat and humidity coupled with extreme cases of B.O. I kinda love this, minus the B.O. Maybe I do belong in hell? Maybe it’s my mothership? Maybe Satan and I would be BFFs! If that’s the case, I’d totes ask him to do me a solid and give me back the boobs I had when I was nineteen. Eternal damnation and whatever, it’s the least he can fucking do, right?

I derailed… So yeah, I’m legit going to hell. I swear like a fucking sailor, I enjoy a beverage or two fairly often and I tend to say everything I’m thinking and trust me, this is a bad thing. You should see the looks people give me when I question their stupidity out loud. I also laugh at people’s misfortunes. Not even Hubs B is immune to this. Once when we were in NYC he fell off the curb and broke his hand. Instead of rushing to his side, I laughed until I almost pissed myself while some random old lady helped him up. Going. To. Hell.

But today sorta sealed the deal and gave me a permanent place on the throne next to Satan. (I might be excited about being his queen if it means I get some sort of scepter.) While watching a Tosh.0 marathon, I found myself laughing to the point of tears at his racist, sexually demeaning, vulgar and downright inappropriate jokes.

I don’t know what came over me, but I grew a conscience during a disturbing video breakdown of a gigantic woman twerking in a Rubbermaid tub full of water. (FYI…she looked like a hippo having seizure. Guess I’m not feeling too bad because that was probably unnecessary.)

So…I should be a better person. I should be a role model. I should be more respectful. I shouldn’t laugh at this shit and rewind it and watch it over and over again and mock their moronic actions. (Butt water…fuck, these peeps are super WT, yet so entertaining.) Here’s the video just in case you need a visual.

It’s all so wrong, but something tells me I’ll always be naughty and laugh at this shit. In the end, the moral is, the show’s still on. I can’t be the only one, right?

Basically, I’m going to hell. So who’s joining me? (I’m pretty sure PM1 will be my roommate.)


Hubs B: What the f**k are you thinking?



When I met Hubs B I was nineteen and obviously blinded by love, because when he informed me of his favorite movie, I should’ve run for the hills. But I didn’t.

His favorite movie is one of those conversations that reappears on a fairly regular basis. Today was one of those days.

Hubs B’s love of this movie still shocks me because he is far too brilliant to think this movie is anything but shitastic. But he won’t budge on this one. While flipping through the channels, he noticed the movie was on and stopped to watch it. I gave a good hearty eye roll, but it only spawned Hubs B to defend his love of this idiotic movie.

Like PM1, Hubs B likes to list things in number order. Here’s how his lists went down in explanation of why his favorite movie is totally fucking amazing.

Btw…Hubs B’s favorite movie is Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit (Yep, just typing it made me LOL. For fuck’s sake, even the original Sister Act would’ve been more acceptable.)

So here’s what he tells me:

Top three movies of all time:
1. The Godfather
2. Shawshank Redemption
3. Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit

Lauryn Hill’s career maker:
1. Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit
2. The Fugees
3. Her solo career

I can’t even comment on this shit. It’s fucking ridiculous. Even better, Hubs B is currently asleep on the couch, while Sister Act 2: Back in the Habit is playing. Shitballs…this is my life.


My What the F**k Weekend


I spent the weekend in the city…well sorta, which I will elaborate on why I say sorta a little later. I’m calling it the What the Fuck Weekend because that’s exactly what it was. I have never said, thought or mumbled the phrase so many times over the course of two days in my life. And if you follow any of what I’ve posted on here, I use the word fuck a lot.

My first what the fuck moment came as I was taking the train into the city. The train was packed for a Friday at 10am. I assumed I was making a great choice by avoiding the early train that all the commuters take, but I was wrong. What I was greeted with was a large amount of college age students heading into the city for a weekend of drunken debauchery. Now I love drunken debauchery as much as the next person (well, maybe a little more) but not on my quiet, relaxing train ride at ten in the fucking morning! The dude behind me proceeded to have a rather loud and slightly slurred conversation about having drunken butt sex with his girlfriend. I’m certain that not only everyone in my train car, but all the people in the next train car, heard this disturbing account of his Thursday night. Seriously kid, what the fuck? Stop making your mother so proud.

Up next, dog strollers. I swear I saw at least six people pushing their dogs in strollers this weekend. Are dogs really this lazy? I’ll answer that… No. People are really that fucking stupid. What the fuck? Please for the love of everything, allow your dog some fucking dignity and let it walk on a leash. If you feel the need to be all haughty and show the public that your dog is in fact fucking awesome, buy the damn thing a gold leash instead. I’m pretty sure I even heard your dog mumble what the fuck as I watched you force its ass into the stroller.

This next part brings me to the friends post PM1 and I wrote a few days ago. (Here it is, in case you missed it.) I met some “friends” in the city. This is where the sorta comes into play. I sorta spent the weekend in the city, because come Saturday my “friends” decided they wanted to go home. After arriving late on Friday, we all decided to get in around noon; I was the only one who arrived on time, just an FYI. We then spent the entire evening doing fuck all, only to wake up to my “friends” deciding to bail. Using lame excuses as to why they needed to head home. “My hubs is upset I’m gone.” Fuck your hubs. Tell him this isn’t the 1950’s. I paid for a goddamn hotel room for the weekend. Thanks “friends” I appreciate you making me have a what-the-fuck face all weekend.

So that was my What the Fuck Weekend. Something I would rather not relive anytime soon. My last WTF is… Seriously people, enough with the making me say, “What the fuck.” I’m done.


(Kinda) Drunken Antics: part 2

Okay, I wouldn’t have considered myself drunk. I had a few ciders in just under an hour (I’m skinny), but I most definitely was not drunk. Tipsy, yep. Buzzed, totes. Drunk, no.

So, somewhere between my cider consumption and watching Game of Thrones on my DVR, I checked my email. Realizing PM1 and I were working on a blog post where we convo back and forth, I attempted to answer her.

That part went well, in my opinion. But my message back to her letting her know I responded was slightly incoherent.

Take a look…can you say shit show?

#1photo1#2 photo2


#3photo3                             #4 photo4


Okay, now after re-reading these cider-loaded messages, maybe I was tittering more toward the drunken end than the tipsy end. But whatever. We got a good laugh out of it, yo. And PM1, stop giving me shit. You’re just as bad…girl, please. 🙂



Drunken Antics: part 1

I entitle this post part 1 for a very good reason. Well, two reasons actually. First, it’s highly likely that this will not be a one-time deal. In fact I think it’s safe to say that I frequently enjoy a beverage or two and that’s never going to change. And secondly, following consumption of said beverage, or two (or ten), I somehow manage to gain some sort of idiotic drunken wisdom that leads me to do something completely stupid. Like message PM2.

So last night, after what I would probably describe as one drink too many (pretty sure it was a beer, 2 bottles of wine, and a whisky chaser), I decide to read through the many messages PM2 has sent me while I was busy laughing my ass off with Hubs A watching The Wolf of Wall Street.

Side note: You’re probably wondering why I got so drunk, aren’t you? My answer, why the fuck not. It’s the weekend, do I need another excuse? Side note 2: Really fucking funny movie that one…pretty sure I laughed my ass off for 3 hours and gave an uncanny recreation of that cerebral palsy scene when trying to climb into bed last night.

Anyway, where was I…right, post movie, nursing my whisky chaser, and reading through my messages. It’s at this point that I realize, not only was I supposed to do something for the blog, but I also need to respond to PM2 and assure her that I am indeed a highly competent blog partner who gets the job done. Yeah I know, I laughed typing that one too. And let’s be honest, PM2 knows I’m a drunken idiot and I don’t really need to try and convince her otherwise. But you know how it is, that infinite drunk wisdom that comes with drinking a shitload of alcohol? You not only think you’re fucking amazing, you’re pretty sure you need to let the rest of the world know it too. Anyway, I digress, again. What I did do was this; log on, somehow manage to sort the blog issue I was supposed to have sorted four fucking hours ago, congratulated myself on how amazing I am despite intoxication, and then let PM2 know this too.

Apparently messaging PM2 however, was beyond the scope of my brain function, because that went a little something like this:

text 1Now, I think it’s safe to say that there is probably some underlying message in that combination of emoticons, although I have yet to decode it. I will though, I am Yoda after all. Speaking of Yoda and all things Star Wars, let’s talk about this fucker…Mewbacca. Is he not the coolest cat to ever rule the galaxy?

MewbaccaAnyway, I digress. Again.

So, shortly after this highly entertaining correspondence with PM2, I was stumped to discover that the ringer volume icon thing on my phone suddenly wouldn’t disappear from the screen. I don’t even know where the fuck it came from in the first place, but I did know that trying to type with a blood alcohol volume of Fucking-Ridiculous was already making messaging hard, but trying to see around that big grey volume thingo, made it virtually impossible. So figuring Hubs A, on account of his bigger body weight, might be a little less inebriated than me, I threw my phone to him and said, “Help!” Hubs A rolled his eyes and said, “What?” I said, “The fucking volume thing, I can’t make it go away.” Hubs A then took one look at the phone and threw it back to me with, “Your phone cover’s on the wrong way, idiot.”

It was at this point that I decided to admit defeat, send a final message to PM2 where I felt the need to state what was by now, blatantly fucking obvious, and then pass the fuck out.

text 2Yeah, the force is strong with this one.

Anyway, I guess the take home message on the shit show that went down last night is this; in a galaxy far, far away, I drink, I get drunk, I message PM2.