Archives for April 2014

(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?

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#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. 🙂



I’m not mad at you; you’re just a shitty friend



PM2: We all have them…shitty friends. The older I get, the more I realize it’s hard to find good friends. We all have friends that come and go and that’s okay. They are there to serve a purpose. See, PM1 and I met through a mutual friend, who incidentally is no longer friends with either of us, but she’s the reason we met, so in the end it’s fine that our mutual friendship disbanded. The purpose was served. But these are not the people we’re talking about. We’re talking about those fuckwits that make you wonder why the fuck you tolerate them and all their bullshit.

PM1: Yep these are the peeps who firmly believe that friendship is a one-way street, pointing only in their direction. They’re happy to be there for you when you can offer them something, but would never think to just be friends with you because of you. And worst of all, they are the friends who are happy to fuck you over, often at a moments notice.

So why do we have these friends? Well that’s a good fucking question and I think ultimately it comes down to one very important point.

We like to believe that people just wouldn’t treat us this way. That being grown ass women/men (but let’s get real, it’s usually women), we’d actually act our fucking age for a change and not like we’re back in high school, only with a heavy dose of crack thrown in for extra fucking-you-over-ness.

PM2: Now PM1 might sound a bit bitter, but one thing I’ve learned about her in our lengthy friendship, is that she hates to be fucked over and she doesn’t forgive easily. She’s a one shot deal. I’m the forgiver. She’s the fuck you. (I’m kinda scared of her. She’s a hardcore bitch. I might have had too much to drink tonight. Excuse me if this is gibberish.)

But in the end, she’s right. Why do friends suck so bad? Honestly, why do girl friends suck the worst of all? It is like high school. And when you finally grow up and move beyond that, you still find friends who perpetually live in that world. Like the “shit-talker”.

You know the shit-talker… This is the friend that talks behind everyone’s back and when she leaves, you wonder what the fuck she’s said about you. Even when you call her out on her bullshit, she’s the one who somehow turns the whole situation around on you. Why are we friends with these people again? Remind me, PM1 why we put up with this shit?

PM1: Who the fuck knows PM2, who the fuck knows. All I do know is the shit-talker is right up there with the fucker-overer…the friend who thinks nothing of promising you something and then proceeds to go back on their word and do sweet fuck all. Worse still, said “friend” then goes on to act as though nothing has happened, expecting you to sweep it all under the carpet and forget about it.

Fuck that.

I left high school many, many years ago. I hated it when I was there, a perpetual Mean Girls-Goundhog Day mash up, and I have no desire to go back to it either. Yet somehow now, in my thirties, I find myself right back in it, frequently, and I have to ask myself, WTF?

Are we really that insecure or childish that we just can’t be genuine with each other? True friends, who are worth their weight in gold, just don’t treat you like that. True friendship is a two-way street and you know what, true friendship should not be hard work.

PM2: I hear you, PM1. The fucker overer friend is far worse than the shit talker because I don’t think they even realize they suck. Their way of dealing with their friendship shittery is to just ignore it. My favorite is when they call or text acting like they didn’t just screw your ass to the wall. How do you respond to that? Who the fuck knows…

But I also hear you on the true friendship thing. Real friends are few and far between and even when you think you’ve found them, bam… they find a way to fuck you. Makes you wonder why you even bother.

Okay…this has taken a turn down Bitch Street. (Seriously PM1 and I are not super bitches…okay maybe PM1 is a bitch, but not a super bitch.) We all have these friends and yep, they suck hard, but we also need to give a quick shout out to the good ones. PM1 is one of my besties. I adore her. PM1 is my friend when I’m a hot ass mess, when I want to complain and when I need someone to laugh with. She’s genuine and even though we do behave like we’re in high school, it’s the good kind of high school. The one where you get drunk and eat mass quantities of Twizzlers and laugh till you cry.

So cheers to good friends and here’s to drinking because of the shitty ones!

Remember that movie you loved as a kid?


Last night, after having ANOTHER conversation about Ben Affleck as Batman, Hubs B and I got to discussing movies we loved as kids. The topic came to this after Hubs B tried to defend his love of Michael Keaton as Batman. (Ironically, Batman Begins, The Dark Knight and The Dark Knight Rises were all on TV. Prompting Hubs B to admit that Christian Bale is pretty fucking amazing.) But that isn’t what this about because I could go on and on about Christian Bale and his holy-hell-someone-save-me-hot-ass body (and his voice and his face and his ass and…OMFG), but I’ll save that for another day. So back to Michael Keaton as Batman. If you remember, Hubs B claimed Michael Keaton as his number one Batman (if not, read about it here), which made PM1 add him to her face punch list. His claim was that he remembered seeing the movie as a kid and being mesmerized by it.

This is where he begins to defend his reasoning with something that happened several months ago.

Remember those movies you loved as a kid? You could watch them a million times, knew every word, loved every character? We all have them and they hold a special place in our hearts. Now trust me when I say, let them live forever in your heart or you will regret it. Don’t ever go back and watch them later. They will be ruined…

So here’s how the story goes. After reading Rob Lowe’s biography (Yep, I read it, go ahead, judge me.) It reminded me how much I loved the book and the movie, The Outsiders. (Dreamy Ponyboy and that orange peroxide hair) I shared this thought with Hubs B who also had fond childhood memories of the movie. (Not so much about Ponyboy, though) So, we decided to watch the movie. Now, this is where it gets ugly.

It wasn’t that it was a horrible movie or anything. It just didn’t live up to the memory. Both of us sat there with our what-the-fuck faces, staring at the TV when the movie ended. It was almost like someone just ruined our childhood by telling us that our dog died and had not actually been taken to a “farm” as our parents originally told (lied to) us. It was quite depressing… watching The Outsiders in our thirties.

This brings me to Hubs B’s love of Michael Keaton as Batman. He wants that Batman to live in his childhood memory as the best and I’m going to let him have it. Considering how The Outsiders went down (I still <3 you, Ponyboy), I’m not going to ruin another movie for him, so back off, PM1!


Shiny, flashing road rage


So today was my first day back at work after a ten day break. And as expected, it got off to a spectacularly shit start when I got stuck in the worse than usual gridlock traffic on the freeway. On a good day, and by good day, I mean the middle of the fucking night when everyone else is already home and in bed, my journey from home to work would take between 20-30 minutes. This is largely dependent on how much I’m willing to risk a speeding ticket to save those extra 10 minutes (frequently for the record). On a bad day, say like every fucking day I commute, this can take anywhere from 45-60 minutes.

Except for today. Because today, it took a grand total of 90 fucking minutes for me to get from home to work.

Now I know that like me, there was a heap of other people all returning to work today, which only added to the shitastic traffic. However, in a deliberate move on my part, I decided to start my commute in a little later than normal. Smart move right? Avoid the first day back traffic and therefore severely reduce the chances of unleashing my homicidal rage on either my fellow commuters or my colleagues at work. Well in theory yes, but really, it was my first day back at work, of course I wasn’t getting up at the ass crack of dawn, to rush in to a job that regularly sends me to the liquor store on the way home. I wasn’t about to shock myself into a heart attack, although in hindsight, that would have been a great excuse to stay home.

Instead, my alarm went off a good hour after it normally would on a work day and after a luxurious breakfast in bed, I took a shower, straightened my hair and made a coffee for the commute (thank fuck). And as I reversed my car out of the garage, I congratulated myself on a well thought out plan. After all, going back to work after a ten-day break, hell, after the fucking weekend, is never easy, but at least my drive in today wouldn’t suck too much. Oh fuck me, was I wrong about that.

Because, as I finally reached the freeway entrance, which essentially forms the bulk of my commute into the city, I pretty much ground to a halt. Not only was the traffic fucked, it was beyond fucked. I mean, worse than a normal commute day in, fucked. I’m pretty sure all the cars were stationary and the entire three-lane freeway resembled the parking lot at my local Target. Fuck me, this was not going to be good.

But what choice did I have? Short of saying fuck it and executing an Austin Powers style 20-point turn and driving the wrong way back up the freeway ramp to go home, I had no choice but to continue. And continue I did…for a solid 45 minutes, essentially driving what probably equates to two miles in that time.

Now I know there are often reasons for slow/grid-lock/completely fucked traffic, and as I would soon, or rather, an hour later, discover, today was no exception. And you can imagine my delight when I came upon said reason, only to discover it was an “incident response” van, pulled over on the side of the road with some pretty flashing lights on its roof.

Yep, that’s fucking it. No accident, no alien invasion, nothing.

And look, in some ways I can understand. Pretty shiny things distract me too. But let’s get real, these are normally expensive, come in tiny little boxes and hang from my ears, wrists or neck. They aren’t the type that weigh a ton and sit on the side of the road doing sweet fuck all. Seriously people, you’re fucking slowing down for that??

Naturally a few F bombs fell from my mouth as I finally drove past these pointless flashing lights and all the fuckwits watching it, and actually managed to get my car out of first gear. This maneuverer also allowed me to finally overtake the fuckwit in front of me who’d felt the need to let every fucking car that wanted change lanes in in front of her. A good 90 minutes after leaving home, coffee long gone, I walked back into work only to discover that yes, it takes approximately 30 seconds to feel as though you never left it in the first place.

Fuck me.


Mulder and Scully don’t work here, you morons…


I’m not super keen on writing about my job, because I tend to keep it separate from my personal life. But, something happened at work yesterday that just needs to be written about. Actually several ridiculously idiotic things happened and to just let them fester in my memory would be a disservice to the world.

I arrive at work early; because well, I don’t like to deal with people in the morning, and arriving before everyone else lets me enjoy the silence of my office. To my surprise the tech guy is already there and he is invading my quiet time. He’s ranting about the fucking wireless connectivity. Do I care? Not really, but he then decides the issue lies with the microwaves people have in their offices. Really? My 600-watt microwave is fucking up the wireless Internet? Sure. He then goes on a rampage to remove all microwaves in order to rectify the situation. At this point, I scrambled to hide said microwave that I use daily. All the while, I’m thinking, “Hey dick, do your job and actually figure out what’s wrong instead of coming up with some bullshit far-fetched story so you can go back to sitting on your ass.” I stash my microwave, but decide if he’s right in his outlandish theory, I could conceivably take down the entire wireless network of a large corporation by just microwaving my Lean Cuisine Swedish meatballs. (Insert evil laugh) I work with morons.

Later on during the same day, when my tolerance for stupidity is pretty much gone, my boss calls a meeting. Now you see, like most workplaces, there has been some unrest among my co-workers. People complaining about changes, workload, favoritism, basically just a bunch of whiners looking for someone to coddle them and tell them they are loved. I couldn’t give a shit, but clearly my boss does. Prior to calling the meeting, in all her infinite boss-like wisdom (I’m beginning to wonder if she’s insane), she places a comment box in our lounge. Accompanying this box is an email that asks us to voice our opinions on our job. (Now I know she’s insane.) I instantly grab a lime green piece of paper and write, “fuck off” on it and drop it in the box. My work here is done.

But to add insult to injury, she brings the box to the meeting and begins reading these “bitch box” comments out loud and addressing each one of them. Now some were legitimately valid, but some just drove home the point that I work with morons. Of course my lime green comment is the first pulled and it instantly brings a smile to my boss’ face. My work here is done… again. (I’m on that favorites list, so suck it co-workers.)

While I’m only semi-paying attention, because I’m inhaling a bag of jellybeans out of boredom, I notice my boss pull a rather odd looking paper from the box. It’s folded haphazardly and written sloppily in all caps in blue marker. (We are highly educated individuals, with work issued laptops and an expense account for office supplies, including actual ink pens.) She pauses, and then reads, “The surveys aren’t anonymous. Trust no one.” It takes everything in me to stifle the laugh that instantly forms. Not only do I work with morons, I work with paranoid morons. This isn’t the fucking X-Files. No one is watching you. Well, maybe they are now. Nice going!

My only concern is that I hope I have a front seat when Trust No One and Microwave Guy hook up; the conspiracy theories are going to run wild and it’s going to be fabulously stupid.


A quarter mile at a time…

rs_560x415-131130193834-1024.Paul-Walker-FastandFurious4-jmd-113013_copyOk, I need to have a rant about car salesmen/women. And look, apologies to anyone who reads this and does this for a living. I know I’m stereotyping here, but my recent experience with one has failed to suggest otherwise.

So Hubs A recently convinced me to purchase a new car. I say convinced when what I really mean is he went on about it for so long (years), that agreeing was basically the easiest way to get him to shut up. The man’s a gadget/upgrade kinda guy. Normally I’m ok with this, I like having the latest i-whatever and a kick ass home theater set up. But cars piss me off. They are such a waste of money and I find it hard to justify buying another, newer model when the car I currently drive is still fully functional.

But most of all, I just hate the whole buying a car experience.

But, like with most things, he wore me down. Throwing out words like black leather interior, black paint, GT sports version, and turbo, got my inner Fast & Furious revving (RIP Paul Walker, you are still missed). In the end, I pretty much couldn’t refuse. The man knows I have a weakness for cool looking cars, even if they are as over the top as half the car scenes in the Fast & Furious movies (I never cared Paul, you still looked cool). So off we went, me bracing myself for the fact that my annoyance meter was about to reach I-want-to-punch-you-in-the-face level, Hubs A trying to reassure me that he’d handle the dreaded Car Sales Person.

Because I don’t want anything to do with them. This is partly because I don’t care for their bullshit and also because I don’t understand half the shit they’re talking about. Sure I’ve watched, and re-watched (a million times) all the Fast & Furious movies, (they’ll never be the same without you, Paul), but my understanding of sequential gear boxes and continuous variable transmission and all the other fancy shit they go on about, is basically non-existent. It’s not that I can’t understand it, I simply chose not to. I just don’t care about that shit. What matters to me is the car looks awesome, it’s safe, it’s at the right price and I manage to walk out of the whole experience without punching the Car Sales Person in the face.

So when said Car Sales Person starts going on about the car I’m currently picturing myself racing Paul Walker in (beautiful man, I’d probably let you win), being “priced to clear” or “the cheapest price you’ll ever pay for this model” or “won’t last past this week” or “loaded full of extras”, my annoyance level starts to creep up. Because you know what Car Sales Person, I might not give a shit about this stuff, but Hubs A does. Do you honestly think we’d walk in here, ready to drop several thousand dollars on this without having done our homework? Um no, no fucking way actually. And FYI, when you try to reel us in even more by throwing out an, “Oh and I should mention, I have another buyer ready to pay this price, right now,” I’m very close to reaching punch-you-in-the-face levels.

Oh so you’ve got another buyer who’s ready to go do you? Really, where are they? And why don’t you have a sold sticker on that window? And why have you just spent the last 20 minutes trying to convince me to buy the car for the exact same fucking price?

I know you’re fucking with me Car Sales Person…I’m not an idiot. But I tell you what, how does an, “Ok, that’s fine, we’ve seen a cheaper version of this car up the road anyway,” sound? Oh what’s that I hear you say? “What can I do to stop you walking up the road?” or “How can I get you to buy this car right now?” Ohhhh, where’s your other buyer now huh? That’s right, they don’t fucking exist.

And now, neither do I. I live my life a quarter mile at a time Car Sales Person, I don’t need you riding it. I might just go home and watch the original Fast & Furious (arguably the best, love you Paul). At least the car bullshit in that is entertaining.



Ben Affleck…Please Don’t Disappoint Me



Last night after watching The Amazing Spiderman, which, in my opinion, wasn’t so amazing. It sucked in comparison to the Toby Maguire version. Sam Raimi’s faithfulness to the comic book in the 2002 version was spot-on and Maguire’s portrayal of Spiderman in all his nerdiness was perfection. Although, Andrew Garfield is quite adorable, I couldn’t get past the fact that Maguire originally reprised the role and I loved it. (Okay…I realize The Amazing Spiderman came out in 2012 and I’m like a day late and a dollar short, but it was on HBO and it was Easter Sunday. Don’t expect too much from me.)

But none of this has to do with Andrew Garfield (adorbs) or Toby Maguire (best Spiderman. Ever.) or the fucking ramblings of my opinion on the Spiderman movies. Well, it sorta does. It’s what made me obsess for a full hour last night while trying to fall asleep.

While lying in bed with Hubs B, here’s the convo I had with him:

Me: I’m having anxiety about Ben Affleck playing Batman.

Hubs B: (Had it not been dark, I’m sure I would have seen him roll his eyes) You should. He’s gonna suck. Here’s the order of greatness, it’s like Michael Keaton, Val Kilmer, Adam West, Christian Bale, George Clooney, the forty-seven creepy fucking Batmans in Times Square, then Ben Affleck.

Me: You’re horrible.

So, since I couldn’t engage Hubs B in a stimulating debate, I knew who would understand my fears. My girl PM1. J So I messaged her in the middle of the night with this:

What are your thoughts on Ben Affleck playing Batman? I loved, fucking loved Christian Bale as Batman and I’m super worried my boy Ben Affleck is going to bomb. Hubs B thinks I’m a moron… HELP!


Ok first off, Hubs B has just made my next Face Punch List, for daring to suggest Ben Affleck is so far down the Batman greatness list. He’s also made the Face Punch list the week after that for saying that Val Kilmer is a better Batman than Christian Bale. You got that Hubs B, stand by for some face-punching. And if you carry on with this shit, you will become a permanent fixture on my Face Punch List.

Secondly, we need to discuss your love of Toby Maguire and the Spiderman movies, PM2. I’m going to assume that you and Hubs B were possibly high on Easter egg chocolate, which is the real reason that (a) Hubs B dared to make the two aforementioned suggestions and (b) you somehow thought the Spiderman movies were good.

Now, I’m not anti-super heroes. In my opinion, the latest round of Marvel ones are the best there are, and that’s got nothing to do with Thor’s ripped abs, Loki’s cheeky naughtiness, Captain America’s smile, Iron Man’s playfulness…oh who the fuck am I kidding, of course it does. The individual movies are one thing, but together in one Avenger movie? Well, what can I say, except having that many hot men in skin tight suits having a pissing contest together is pretty much a walking orgasm…wait hang on, that’s not what we were talking about is it?

Right, Ben Affleck as Batman. I personally think he’s going to knock it out of the park. Yes, we all know he fucked up Daredevil, but let’s be real, that script sucked from the get-go, there was only so much Ben could do with it anyway. But this is one of those cases where people are getting their panties in a wad because he’s not their number one pick, forgetting that the guy is actually incredibly hot, fit and talented (do we need to bring up that shirtless scene in The Town again). This whole debate takes me back to the shit fight that erupted over Daniel Craig playing James Bond, and I think we can all admit how fucking perfect that turned out. Right?

So relax PM2, Ben has got this. He’ll wear that black latex suit like he owns it and then, hopefully he’ll rip it right off that chiseled body of his and we’ll all get some shirtless action again.


Thank you, lovely PM1 for calming my fears and always having my back when it comes to Ben Affleck. As for everything else…I see a long-running debate in the future, you cheeky bitch.

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.


The Passive Aggressive Mortgage Whore


A few weeks ago, this chick from our mortgage company began calling both Hubs B and me and leaving a ridiculous amount of vague-ass messages for us. Me, being the bitch that I am, chose to just ignore her. But, Hubs B, the forever optimist… not really… came home and said, “Hey, Sucks with Money, why’s the mortgage company calling us?” He then proceeded to call her back, while I had flashbacks to the hell that was closing on our current mortgage. It was a fucking nightmare.

Hubs B and I are two people, with advanced degrees, well-paying jobs and a fifteen year streak of paying our mortgage on time, so you’d think obtaining a mortgage wouldn’t have been such a fucking chore. But it was. It was so bad that I literally had screaming matches with our mortgage broker. Every time I sent them something, I would receive an email, a phone call, a voicemail and a text message asking for more. The list was endless and our mortgage broker eventually stopped speaking to me and would only deal with Hubs B. Basically, they suck.

So, just thinking about dealing with them again, was something I never wanted to recreate. But, Mortgage Whore said the one thing that Hubs B loves. “Do you want to save some money?” He covered the phone with his hand and began to fill me in on what she needed from us. And what do you fucking know; it’s the same fucking list that we sent them when we bought our house…six fucking months ago!!!

Me: NO!!

Hubs B: Why not?

Me: Um…remember dealing with them when we bought this house?

Hubs B: *Light bulb goes off above his head* Oh, yeah. That was fucking brutal, but it’ll save us $150 a month.

Me: NO!!!

Hubs B: (Speaking to Mortgage Whore) My wife said no because dealing with you guys is a nightmare.

Hubs B hangs up and I breathe a sigh of relief. But like an STD, this chick keeps coming back. A few more phone calls, too many emails and multiple voicemails that nearly prompted me to hunt her down and light a bag of dog shit on fire on her porch. Forget the Face Punch list, she’s on my Death Plane.

A week goes by and I hear nothing. Thank fuck. But… One day, I came home from work and found a FedEx package addressed to me…only me. Hubs B is conveniently left off, hence why I’ve dubbed her Mortgage Whore. I opened it and found this:photo 5.36.40 PM

Yeah, passive aggressiveness at its best, which only makes me hate her more. I hope you enjoy that flight on my death plane, Mortgage Whore. Your technique sucks and so does your interpersonal customer relations. FYI…if you find a flaming bag on your porch, my advice…stomp the shit out of it in your most expensive boots. How’s that for passive aggressive?


Gone Girl – if it means I get Ben Affleck instead, then hell yes!

PM1: Right, The official Gone Girl trailer has been released…and can I just say, Ben Affleck as Nick… Best. Casting. Ever.

PM2: Well fuck me if Ben Affleck isn’t crazy hot as Nick Dunne. I’m obsessed with the trailer. I legit watched it four times. I can’t wait for this movie! So, there has been some speculation that the movie will deviate from the original plot of the book. I’m not entirely sure how I feel about this, although the ending of the book did leave me with that hangover feeling. But in turn, I do love a good surprise. What are your thoughts PM1?

PM1: I’m sorry, did you say something? Oh right, yes, let me just drag my eyes away from Ben’s gorgeous face, body, ass, and discuss this epically awesome story and its controversial ending. I gotta say, I actually liked the book’s ending. I laughed out loud at how sick and twisted it was and that the author had the balls to pull it off. At the same time, I’m totally ok with them changing the ending for the movie, because it’s the author who’s doing it. Yep, Gillian Flynn’s sick and twisted mind is writing the screenplay, so as far as I’m concerned, she can do whatever the hell she wants with the ending…as long as it doesn’t end up as some bullshit, sappy HEA. You got that, Gillian? Now, let’s get back to discussing Ben…are we going to get some shirtless action in this movie?

PM2: Don’t get me wrong, I thought the ending was genius, but it left me with a million questions. I would love to share my thoughts, but that would make me one of those people who blow endings for the world by posting spoilers. Can you say Face Punch list??? There is no one else I would want to take part in the writing of this screenplay. Gillian Flynn is obviously a gifted and insanely creative woman, who will do anything but give this movie ending a HEA. My bigger concern than any changes to plot is…are we going to get to see Ben naked in that disturbing shower scene??? At this moment a shirtless Ben from The Town comes to mind. Water running down his well-developed chest to his flat, muscular stomach as hands grope his body. Is it warm in here or is it just me? I have to lie down. OMFG…


PM1: Um yeah, you’re obviously talking about this ^^ scene from The Town. Fuck. Me. That man is gorgeous and is born to do shirtless chin-ups. In fact, he should do a movie of nothing but shirtless scenes. And then he should get an Oscar for Best Performance by a Shirtless Actor. And then he should come over to my house and do shirtless things all day…and night. Shit, I’m sorry, I digress. What were we talking about? Oh yeah, the ending. Right, I’m with you PM2, I also don’t want to comment on the book ending and how I think it might be changed in the movie, because like you, I find people who blow endings or plot twists, to be major fucking assholes. You do deserve to be on our Face Punch list. Needless to say, the ending of the book rocked and I’m sure the ending of the movie will too. You’re right, Gillian Flynn would never give us a neat little HEA because that’s not how her beautifully sick and twisted mind works…I’ll bet it works in ways to give us plenty of shirtless Ben though

PM2: There needs to be a GIF of the chin-ups scene, so I can watch it over and over and over and over…Hubs B where are you???!!! Sorry…lost in thought. But back to Ben shirtless. He’d totes take home the Oscar for Best Performance by a Shirtless Actor and then while giving his speech (where he thanks PM1 and me for all our support), he removes his shirt, exposing the physique of a Greek god and vows to never cover his gorgeous body again. HUBS B????!!! …Okay, okay, cold shower and I’m back now. We were talking about what again? Oh yeah, Gone Girl. All I know is that this movie is going to kick some serious ass, regardless of the ending. A talent like Gillian Flynn’s will never disappoint, because only a woman with a mind as twisted as hers could create such a flawless story. I know where PM1 and I will be on October 3rd…the boozy theater with our BF Ben. Cheers!