Do I get an A for just showing up?


So I know it’s been a long time since we posted anything. I’d like to say life got in the way, but really, I’ve just been lazy as shit…One thing that has happened however, is I (PM1), got a new job. This was a big step for me, actually going for a job interview and leaving my old job after 15+ years, but that’s not what this post is all about. No this post is about the funny/WTF things I have encountered through my new job.

Namely…the students.

Fuck me, these guys are simultaneously the bane of my life and the single most funniest part of my day. And I’m talking grown up, university level students here too, so you know, theoretically they should have some clue about life, right? Wrong… For one thing, these guys think it’s totally ok to rock up to a 2 hour lab and inform me that they need to leave after 30 mins because they have to work that night. Um, come again? You want to leave a lab at 2.30pm because you have to work that night? Where the fuck are you working? Somewhere that involves a passport and international travel? And just for the record kid, I actually work Monday through Friday, all day…novel I know, but also the real world…get used to it.

Then there’s the kid who shows up for a 3 hour lab, does a bit of work and then after an hour a half, informs me that he’s leaving because, and I quote, “he’s gotta work tonight, so he thought he might just take it easy today.” Um, WTF? You’ve spent a solid 1.5 hours here buddy and you want to leave now so you can “take it easy”. You know there are actually more things for you to do in this lab and by leaving early, you’re not only putting yourself behind, it means you’ll have less time to correct your future fuck-ups. Not to mention that the work you should be staying to do isn’t exactly taxing. But no, the kid just informs me he really thinks he should take it easy before leaving and, I’m guessing, spending the rest of the day at the pub.

But karma can be a real bitch and when this kid rocked up the following week for his lab…not only was he indeed behind, he then proceeded to waste nearly 2 hours trying to pH a buffer he should have made last week, with the cap still on the pH meter. After I informed him that he had just spent the last 2 hours checking the pH of the inside of the pH meter, he just looked at me and said “I should’ve stayed last week, shouldn’t I?”

Yes, you fucking should have, buddy. Yes you fucking should have 🙂


Why is someone’s mom here?


Last weekend with Hubs B, Guy BFF and Guy BFF’s wife who I will call Roomie, I headed to a the Rusted Root, Gin Blossoms and Blues Traveler concert. While in theory this sounded fab, because it would allow all of us to go back to those wonderful years we spent living together during college. Where we partook in legal and illegal activities, had no responsibilities and pretty much thought anything was funny. Like my post about old movies I loved as kid, this didn’t exactly pan out this way.

First off, this concert was in the middle of fucking nowhere. Punching it into the GPS, she was like, “Bitch, you best be turning around because I don’t even know where the fuck we are.” During this aimless drive with the GPS screen showing fuck all, my brother sends me a text that goes something like this.

Bro: You at the Blues Traveler concert?

Me: Yeah. Why?

Bro: I’ve been to that venue. Camped there. Are you camping?

If my brother could have seen my face, it would have said it all. Still driving into a cornfield filled oblivion, this now gives me a slight indication as to what I’m in for.

Me: I don’t camp.

The convo ends there. I don’t camp. I won’t even stay at a hotel with the doors on the outside. (FYI…it’s called a motel.) There is not a chance in fucking hell I’m sleeping anywhere but in a bed at a four star or up hotel. So panic starts to set in and I turn to Hubs B and ask him if he knows anything about the venue. And in classic Hubs B form says he doesn’t have any idea, but he’s certain it’s in the middle of nowhere. Thanks, Hubs B.

As soon as we hit the town where the Children of the Corn was filmed I begin sneezing and not just ordinary sneezing, it was the kind where you sneeze so fucking much that no one bothers to say God Bless You after the six hundredth fucking time. Bring on the booze because it’s going to be my only salvation.

We finally find the venue, if you can call it that. Basically it’s a plowed down cornfield with a stage in the center and small children flagging you down to park your car for $5. Safe and thrifty…

So Rusted Root takes the stage and things are going well. Drink in hand, people watching and listening to music. But it all falls apart when the sun goes down and the lights go out. Two drinks in and I have to use the bathroom.

Porta Potty hell

There are like thirty and while it is still daylight, it’s all good, but the sun goes down and pissing is nearly impossible because it is so fucking dark you can’t see your hand in front of your face. This is also when the hitters and joints come out, and while I’m not against this shit, it was pretty fucking excessive. The contact high was ridiculous. Please stop smoking weed in the fucking porta potty and making it your personal bong! I actually need to take a piss.

At this point, I’ve stopped drinking because there is no possible way you can see to get back to where you are sitting. I don’t want to get lost on my trek to take a piss. Poor Guy BFF was lost for at least twenty minutes and had to be escorted back to our seats by the kid behind us who smoked more weed than I’ve ever seen someone smoke. (Shocker because Hubs B could put anyone to shame back in the day.)

It’s around this time that my allergies are now full-blown and out of control. I’m a fucking city girl, my body can’t handle this much nature! I’m certain I look like Sloth from Goonies and I feel like hell.

So the Gin Blossoms take the stage…

Oh. My. Fucking. God. There’s a reason their career ended circa 1998. They fucking sucked so hard it wasn’t even funny. It’s was two hours of my life I will never get back and because the music was so retched, I spent the time focusing on the moths swarming the stage lights. Masses of them and big ass mother fuckers, like the size of small birds. I hate moths. Disgusting, wayward, unpredictable fuckers. Life sucking, creepy, weird-eyed shitheads. So gross.

After the millionth sneeze and nearly wetting my pants, I decided to bail. I was over this pretending to be young again shit. I’m fucking old. Give me a smokeless bar, a party at BFF’s house, a restaurant with good food and a even better alcohol and I’m in. Or even better, the drink machine and Guy BFF and Roomie and a drunken game of 90’s Trivial Pursuit.

I’m too old for drum solos that last twenty fucking minutes, bad nineties music and too much weed. Glad I spent four years enjoying when I could appreciate at it, because now it kinda sucks.


OMFG!!! It’s the premier of SOA!!!


Last week was the super fucking sized premier of Sons of Anarchy, a personal favorite of ours, so we couldn’t be more grateful that it’s back and we have something new to obsess over. Here are our thoughts…of course they’re going to be a rambling nonsense of sorts.

PM2: Thank fuck Kurt Sutter decided to open with Juice’s naked ass because I’m not entirely sure I loved this episode. Jax…such a naughty, naughty boy, yet I watch religiously. (And hate him and love him and hate him and hate him and love him. Fuck me.) Right now I’m kinda pissed off, but don’t get me wrong, I’d never bail on this show. Your thoughts PM1?

PM1: Well, although I hated Jax for most of last season, I did love him again in that finale when he finally realized what a fuckhead he’d been. So, I actually liked him in this episode because he’s being all introspective and revengeful and he looked hot as fucking fuck when he got that revenge too. My hate is reserved squarely for that c**t he calls mom…fuck me, never have I hated a TV character as much as I hate her. I mean the bullshit she spins to justifies her actions, the delusion she has and the fact that she CONSTANTLY has to stick her fucking nose into everyone’s business…fuck me.

Random side note: how porky is Marilyn Manson looking these days?

PM2: Oh the finale last season almost killed me. Poor Jax. How could your heart not break for him as he cradled his poor dead wife in his arms? Devastating. And worse, the fact that it came at the hands of evil lying whore of a mother. While I’m totes in agreement that Jax looked panty fucking dropping hot in that revenge scene. (OMFG…that close up of his low slung jeans and boxers…that fucking stomach. Fuck me.) I’m fucking flat out disturbed by Gemma’s lying ass. She’ll throw anyone under the bus to save herself. Asking that poor guy if he had a family. You’re still an evil disgusting c**tish bitch. Tara had a family and you killed her!!!

But yeah…side note addition: Lmao. That’s the first thing I noticed. He’s looking a bit on the chunky side. And when I say a bit I mean, he’s totes a tubs now.

PM1: Yep, she’ll do anything alright. The only thing I’m hoping is that Wendy has learned from her past fuck-ups and will this time sell Gemma out to Jax, instead of waiting for Gemma to sell her out. I mean she is harboring Gemma’s secret in her house…somehow though, I think Wendy has other plans. Either way, the whole thing is one shit-fight mess that I hope Jax survives. And Chibs, and Tig and Bobby and Happy, because honestly, they are the only ones I care about now…at least they’re loyal. And WTF Nero, going back to your crazy-arse lying bitch girlfriend…when you know she killed her first husband and had a hand in killing her second husband…are you fucking batshit crazy?

Side note again: what the fuck happened to his eyebrows too?

PM2: Oh, poor Wendy. I’m just hoping that she isn’t as stupid as she’s been in the past. At this point she’s Jax and those babies only saving grace. OMFG…don’t talk about Jax dying. “I hope Jax survives.” Shut your fucking mouth!! I almost cried just then. But, yeah, so all I can hope for is that Jax figures it all out and gets revenge for his dad and his wife and honestly at the rate Gemma’s going, Nero is going to be added to that list too.

Side note…again: Um…your thought process is far too similar to mine. I looked at Hubs B and asked the same fucking question. If he’s trying to accentuate his forehead, kudos to him, it worked and he looks extra fucking weird now without eyebrows.

PM1: Ok, what the fuck PM2… “she’s Jax and those babies only saving grace”…?? No fucking way. I don’t want Wendy raising those kids and I totes think she’s full of shit when she says “I only want to help”. No bitch, you only want your kid back and back in Jax’s pants…not gonna happen. I pretty much think everyone’s gonna die actually…except maybe Unser, because apparently terminal stage 4 cancer means you never actually die.

Side note continued: really fucking weird…can’t wait to see what Courtney Love looks like when she shows up.

PM2: Listen up, Negative Nelly! While I think Wendy sucks, I’m hoping she’s changed her ways and somehow is the voice of reason through all of this. Someone has to be; the rest of the group is a fucking shit show. And in Wendy’s defense, who wouldn’t wanna get in Jax’s pants??? And the way this show has gone from the beginning, you’re totes right about everyone getting fucking killed. I guess we’ll just have to wait and see how it all plays out. I’m sure this won’t be our last post.

Side note part thirty-five: Courtney Love will definitely be interesting. I’m kinda intrigued by a grimy Lea Michele. Wonder if she’s gonna find herself on her back in Jax’s bed???

Later, PM1…this fucker has gotten long! Here’s to Tuesday and another ridiculous post about fictional characters. 🙂

You talkin’ dirty to me?


So a friend of mine recently introduced me to Audible, the Amazon associated “talking book” App. Given that I (a) love to read and (b) spend an insane amount of time in the car driving to and from work, most of which is spent plotting the murders of my fellow motorists, she (and I), figured it would be a better, more productive use of my time.

She was right 🙂

It’s definitely a great distraction listening to a talking book, although I have to say, listening to it is an art form. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve zoned out, only to discovered 3 or more chapters have passed me by and I have no fucking clue as to what’s happened.

Side note: when Hubs A and I were driving across country once, his brother, who I shall refer to as Bro-in-Law, suggested we take the 12 disc talking book of 2001: A Space Odessy…Yes I shit you not, this was a 12 disc monstrosity that I have no desire to revisit again…ever. The fucking movie was bad enough, the talking book…Fuck me, forget water boarding, this is what should be used as a torture device. Naturally, while it was playing I fell asleep multiple times during this boring as fuck riveting book. Don’t worry, I wasn’t driving at the time, so we weren’t in any danger. However, because of the type of book it was, I could pretty much wake up at any point in the storyline, and sweet fuck all would have happened. And yes, I am being serious. I mean it took virtually an entire CD to describe that big black monolith (oh look, I took 3 words to describe it), that the apes stare at…fuck me.

Anyway, I digress.

Where was I? Oh yes, zoning out. So while that has happened with me in the past, it doesn’t tend to happen now, and I’ll give you one reason why…Sex.

Yep, you heard it, sex. This talking book I’m listening to, although dubbed as a crime/thriller, has sex…and plenty of it. And there is something strangely funny about listening to sex while it’s being read out loud to you. And before you start picturing all sorts of dirty scenarios, it’s not straight up porn you filthy perv. There’s no actual moaning or sound effects, but what there is, is thrusting and wetness and climaxing and…oh god, I can barely type this without laughing…seed exploding! Yeah, you heard me… Seed. Exploding. And let me tell you, it’s weird as fuck, sitting in a car, surrounded by your fellow morning commuters, barely awake as you mainline coffee and try not to kill anyone, while at the same time, listening to two fictional characters get off.

What a fucking wake-up call!

And yeah, it makes me laugh…out loud! It also makes me look around. You know, just to check my volume really isn’t that loud that everyone else can hear it too! I just hope to fuck I don’t crash the car or get pulled over, because I’m not quite sure how I’ll explain exploding seed to the cop that’s first on scene.


Happy birthday…from my tattoo guy?

The first person to wish me a happy birthday this year was my tattoo guy. Usually it’s the guy I have our car insurance through or one of the many places I online shop, but this year the winner is Steven. Interesting…I either get far too many tattoos or I haven’t gotten enough and he’s trying to earn back my business. The fact that I have a tattoo guy probably speaks volumes about me, but whatever. I like him and wouldn’t consider going anywhere else.

But to digress a bit, here’s a quick story about BFF since we share Steven as our tattoo guy.

When we were teenagers, long before the fabulous Steven came into our lives, BFF got a tattoo on her lower back, not a tramp stamp, it’s off to the side and far more classy. She swears it was the worst fucking pain of her life and still insists the tat guy made her drop trou right in the front of the shop. So basically it ruined her and she swore up and down she’d never get another. She was like, “Sweet fucking Jesus it was like childbirth. Never again.”

But she’s pretty fickle and a bandwagon jumper, so when I got another one, she decided she’d give it another try. Especially since I told her Steven is fucking awesome. Going with her for moral support, she opted for a tiny tattoo on her foot. Turns out it’s not so bad. She survives and the tat is adorable. Yay for BFF, but not really.

A few days later is the 4th of July and she goes on a boozy bender where she wears no shoes, pokes at the tat with dirty fingers and hits up a few too many bathrooms.

Cue the next day while lying on my couch:

BFF: Do you think it’s infected?

It’s swollen and cratered and puss is forming. It’s as red as an Irishman with a sunburn. It’s totes infected. I feared they may have to take her leg.

Me: Um, yeah.

BFF: Ask Hubs B what to do, he’s in the science field.

Hubs B: *While watching TV* I’m not a doctor.

Me: I have some antibiotics in the cabinet from when I had a UTI. Take one.

BFF: Ok.

Over the course of three days I was texted updated pictures where I teased her without regard for the fact that she may lose her foot, about it being gangrenous and smelling like almonds. Eventually she had to see a legit doctor and not a fake one who has a degree in biology and was drinking a beer while watching TV, because it got mega out of hand. It healed and it didn’t stop her from getting two more after that.

So a shout out to Steven for that happy birthday and for reminding me I’m old, and also for making BFF and I want to get another tat. Mission accomplished, Steven. Well played. Here’s to gangrenous tattoos and my 29th birthday!


Work…you make me wanna drink


I’m back at work and it’s only been three days and I wanna have a really stiff drink or ten and sleep like a fucking baby. (And possibly wake up already retired.) My job always eases us back in or at least that’s the way they look at it. A nice welcome back breakfast of runny eggs, frisbee style pancakes, some mystery meat covered in a red sauce and soggy bacon, and oh yeah, what I thought would be the only edible item, fruit. (You know how I feel about fruit, but in this case I was glad to see it.) Except for the fact that it was pretty shit-tacular. Watermelon with seeds, sour as fuck grapes and mushy strawberries with the green tops still attached. (What the fucking fuck? Unless they’re dipped in chocolate that shit needs to be removed. These were not dipped in chocolate.) Needless to say I ate hardly anything. And I ended up drinking out of Work BFF’s glass because mine had some white chunky thing floating in it. (Let the illness passing begin!)

We then proceed to sit through a boring series of meeting and more meetings and once again meetings, where my boss lays down the law and has that come to jesus talk with the peeps she knows are gonna be fuck-ups. It’s by no means exhausting, but it is boring as fuck.

But the ease in ends two days later and I’m hit with that what the fuck am I doing feeling and sometimes I wanna ugly cry in the bathroom and reconsider my career choice. Anyone else have a job where their office is filled with 58 rolls of paper towels, 87 boxes of Kleenex, 58 tubs of antibacterial wipes, 87 gallon ziplock bags and their even more interesting counter part, 87 quart sized? The list is pretty much endless along with ever finding my desk again. But my personal favorite are the 1,870 UNSHARPENED pencils! Motherfucker…have  you ever tried to sharpen that many pencils??? And don’t even get me started on pencil sharpeners!

Dear Amazon,

Don’t call it industrial if it can’t make it more than two months before it needs to be replaced. Yep, I sharpen a lot of fucking pencils. A LOT!!! And when your sharpener craps out and only sharpens half a pencil, I’m tempted to stab myself in the eye with it just get out of ever having to sharpen pencils again.



But in the end, none of this a has anything to do with my job. No where in my job description does it say, collector of mass quantities of cleaning supplies, and writing utensils, sharpener of astronomical amounts of #2 pencils with a half-assed sharpener, owner of a million fucking glue sticks, (like enough to glue a fucking elephant to the ceiling) and controller of shear fucking chaos. Yet somehow this is where I find myself and after a drink and a good long soak in the bathtub, I’ll do it all over again tomorrow…because I secretly love it. (Not all this shit, but my actual job.)

Not like it’s a mystery, but take a guess what I do for a living??? 😉


I may have watched a million times…


I’ve been meaning to post this for a while but it keeps gets pushed aside for more pressing issues like food. Shame on me because Ben Affleck should never be pushed aside for anything or anyone, even food.

So a few weeks ago was San Diego Comic-Con and the trailer for Batman vs. Superman: Dawn of Justice was revealed. And because I’m a total stalker, I obsessively YouTubed the trailer and watched it a million times before it was taken down. Boo…

But back to my post, now while I have nothing to share with all you lovelies other than my insane recount, you’ll just have to trust me on its awesomeness.

I legit gasped, maybe even screamed and flapped my hands in front of my face when BA appeared dressed as the caped crusader.

Let me set the scene: Dark, ominous fog and then a brooding Batman appears dressed in his hot as fuck latex Batsuit, which IMO is way better than the previous ones. He looks fucking huge and muscled and well, so fucking hot, like I wanna lick him hot. OMFG…. I need a cold shower. But yeah, where was I? The trailer… so it’s pouring down rain, yeah now he’s really fucking hot and wet and oh shit fuck… I really need a cold shower. Batman reaches for a lever and the Batsignal lights up the sky and who is hovering in the sky basked in the light of the Batsignal???!!! Superman!!!! Mega hot, Henry Motherfucking Cavill! Sweet baby Jesus save me! I’m never gonna make it through this movie. Thank fuck I have BFF to support me and wail, gasp and cry at the screen right along with me. And PM1 won’t fail me either. And back to the trailer again. So Superman’s heat vision joined with the light from the Batsignal makes the sky looking fucking awesome and then they cut back to Batman. Stop my damn heart, his eyes are glowing this cold steel blue and then it ends with that killer logo. You know the one… if not, check out the post PM1 and I did when I panicked about BA as Batman.

Overall, it was amazing, and everything I’m reading is telling me that there is a possibility they’re going a different route with this one. Making Batman older, and there have been some stills from the set with BA rocking some gray hair, so we’ll have to see how that plays out. I’m all for BA and his gray hair, makes him hotter in that distinguished way. (Who am I kidding? He’s hot no matter what.)

All I know is, next year, look out because I’m heading to Comic-Con. Let the stalking in person begin.


Food Love + Boycott = You don’t stand a fucking chance


We have this little sandwich place near our house that we order from once a week, well, if I’m being honest, it’s probably more, but whatever. The sandwiches are good, but they have oatmeal chocolate chip cookies that are fucking unbelievable.

A few weeks ago I ordered dinner using their online ordering system and then left to run some errands before going to pick up the order. I arrived at the store five minutes earlier than my pick up time. No big deal, right? Well, clearly it was a huge fucking deal because a girl with a permanent bitchface greeted (I’m lying here, she basically said fuck off using her face) me at the pick-up counter.

After looking at her watch twice, she then said, “You’re early. Why are you early?” Are you fucking kidding me? You don’t know who you’re fucking with here, Bitchface. My response, “Do you need me to go sit in my car for five minutes and then come back in?”

Of course at the point she says nothing. Just orders some poor teenage kid to get my order ready. After ten minutes, which was now past my pick up time, my order is ready. But not really. They don’t have the fucking oatmeal cookies I ordered. I let it go, despite my obsessive love of cookies. I wasn’t interested in battling with Bitchface anymore.

Flash to a week later. Online order placed, cookies added and once again, I go to pick up my order and Bitchface is there. “We don’t have your cookie,” Bitchface announces as soon as I reach the register. What the fucking fuck!!??? I just look at her as the same teenage boy from before gets my order ready and asks where my cookies are. Bitchface turns around, glares at him and tells him they don’t have any, which prompts him to say, “Well, I put them right here when I was getting the order ready.” Again are you fucking kidding me?? Bitchface sold my fucking cookies before I could there!! The kid hands me my order and apologizes to me, all the while my eyes are staring right at Bitchface.

Glutton for punishment, a week later, I place the same order and head in there to pick it up. NO FUCKING COOKIES AGAIN!!! This time I’m fuming and Bitchface headed for the hills as soon as she saw me come through the door. I’m now dealing with the manager who must be married to Bitchface because he’s just as pleasant…a total fuckwit dickhead. Dickhead tells me he doesn’t have my cookies and my response was, “For the last three Fridays, I’ve ordered dinner from here and for the last three Fridays you haven’t had the cookies I ordered.” (Now, I may have ordered the last three Fridays in a row, but generally I legit order once a week. I’m certain I’m their best customer.)

Dickhead: You should’ve ordered earlier in the day, like at noon. We had them then.

Me: *Laughing* I wasn’t hungry at noon.

Dickhead: The food is on a first come, first serve basis.

Me: *Laughing even louder now* That’s some good business practices you have while running a restaurant. I’d love to see what happened if you ran out of bread since you serve sandwiches.

Dickhead: *Handing me my order minus the cookies* Can I get you anything else?

Me: Just the cookies.

Dickhead: We don’t have them.

Me: Since obviously you sell a lot of them, wouldn’t it be smart to make more, especially seeing as I placed my order an hour ago. That would give you plenty of time to make more.

Dickhead: It’s first come, first serve.

Me: I’m contacting your corporate office.

At this point Dickhead says nothing and Bitchface has now emerged from her hiding in the backroom. I give her a good long stink eye before adding, “By the way, your corporate office is the city I live in so you can guarantee I’m gonna be up their ass.”

I was fuming by the time I got home and Hubs B was just as pissed off about the missing cookies. Between my love of food and Hubs B’s boycotting skills, they’ve lost our business. And I’m certain they spit in my food as soon as my name comes up on their order sheet.

Standby because I sent a scathing email to their corporate office, in which I included a screen shot of a Google map of all the sandwich shops within walking distance of their store. I’m looking forward to their response.


Naked and Afraid… Oh, hell no


Sunday was the premier of the most recent season of Naked and Afraid, so what better way to spend a Sunday evening than marathoning the previous season with Hubs B and BFF.

For those of you that have never seen the show, let me break it down for you. Basically it’s where these two fuckwits, I mean survivalists are dropped into jungles and shit and are forced to survive…naked with a partner they’ve never met. They get to bring one survival, like knife or a fire starter, something to help them out and they have to last 21 days. They also give each contestant (I call them this, although there is no prize at the end. Just the gratification of completing this journey…fucking lame.) a PSR rating. A Primitive Survival Rating, which is how likely they are to complete the challenge based on their survivalist experiences. It’s a scale from 0-10 and most of the men are rated somewhere in the 7.5-8.5 area and the women somewhere between 6-7.5. (sexist…) It’s a complete shit show, yet totally addictive.

So, we settle in to watch the premier after watching three consecutive episodes. It wasn’t so much that the episodes were hilarious, it was more about the conversations we had while watching.

I find the people who go on the show fascinating because I have no desire to ever do anything outside, besides sit on the beach. I’m afraid of the dark, I fucking hate bugs, especially moths, I have an aversion to things that are wet, so that rules out anything that deals with rain, I LOVE food and not grubs and weird ass shit caught in a jungle setting (one woman ate the brain from a rotten bird head she found on the beach and then was shocked when she got the shits), I won’t go camping, I despise sleeping on anything but a bed, I don’t like hiking or anything that requires me to climb, seeing as I’m afraid of heights and (I say “and” like the list ends here. Trust me it could go on for days) I’m always cold. So to say the people on this show are out of my realm of reality, is a fucking understatement.

As soon as the episode started BFF, Hubs B and I created our own rating system. FBR and DBR…Fucking Bitch Rating and Douche Bag Rating since the people in the premier were just awful. The female contestant complained non-stop. Um, you fucking chose to go on this fucking show, so stop your bitching. And the male contestant was a smarmy asshole, who found himself far too attractive, like he was a catch or something. At one point claiming to his partner after she was complaining about his douchebagness, “Girls would kill to be trapped with me for 21 days.” Really? Only if they like douche bags with beer guts and receding hairlines.

When the episode started I asked Hubs B what he thought his PSR be. Now I think of Hubs B as pretty badass and resourceful, but his response was, “Um…probably a 3.” Looks like I wouldn’t want to be paired up with him. So then BFF asks me, how likely I would be to survive on the show.

Hilarity ensure from Hubs B and then he says, “I give the two of you together 21 minutes,” which prompts BFF to ask if she could bring pizza as her survival item. I then, interject that we could totes survive longer than 21 minutes, which again has Hubs B laughing hysterically.

Hubs B: You won’t even stay in a hotel that has the doors on the outside.

Me: Um, that’s not a hotel, that’s a fucking motel.

Hubs B: Ok, so please fucking tell me, what type of doomsday scenario would warrant you staying in a motel with with the doors on the outside?

BFF: So if it was either sleep in my car or stay at motel with the doors on the outside, I’d choose the motel.

Me: *Long pause* Um…I don’t know. I really don’t like motels at all. Only hotels.

Hubs B: I’m amending my original estimate. 21 seconds…max.

BFF: I don’t like to hunt for food.

Me: Me either. I don’t even know where pizza lives.

BFF: I love food.

Me: Me too.

BFF: I’d go on the show just to lose 30 pounds.

Me: Great diet.

Hubs B: *Shaking his head* You two are fucking hopeless.

In the end, we established that the people who go on the show are fucking nuts, Hubs B isn’t nearly as badass as I thought and BFF and I would likely survive a few second, unless there was pizza involved. Not too bad.


House Hunters… you’re assholes


After watching an episode of House Hunters last night with Hubs B, I came to the conclusion that I really don’t like people. While this is something Hubs B has known about himself for a while, I had just discovered it about myself…well, probably not, but I think I finally admitted it. (Once I asked Hubs B how long he could survive on a deserted island and his response was, “Forever. I hate people.”)

So this young, bougie couple had a budget of basically two nickels rubbed together and list of must-haves that was two miles long.

This is where I blame HGTV. Somewhere along the lines peeps with a minuscule budget believe they are owed a fabulous home with all the upgrades. HGTV has led everyone to believe that your home sucks ass if it doesn’t have some kind of natural stone counter tops, walk in closets, a master bathroom, stainless steel appliances, wood floors and an island kitchen.

Now all of these are lovely additions to a home, yes, but when you have a budget for shag carpet and Formica counters, don’t be let down.

As the episode progressed, the couples became disenchanted with their home choices, whining, “It doesn’t have a master bath or a walk in closet.” Um, listen up you fucktards, first off, the house was built in 1953, second, it’s 1200 square feet and lastly, your budget allows you jack shit.

On the second house, which in my opinion was perfectly acceptable as a starter house, the complaint was, “No island kitchen, no master bath, no walk in closet or stainless steel appliances.” Holy fucking shit! Same argument as before and who the fuck shops for a house wearing five-inch heels and the makeup of a stage performer?? The high maintenance chick and her douche boyfriend, who btw, is a personal trainer. (And can we talk about that another time and how much he thinks he’s amazing?)

By the third house, I had written these asshats off and figured they’d never find the house of their dreams. (And yeah, I know this show is fake, so obviously they do find a house because it’s picked prior to even filming.) I couldn’t stand them and I truly hoped they would live with their parents forever. Stop being so fucking demanding!

In the end, they found their “perfect” home minus all the wonderful upgrades that were so important. Enjoy that wood paneling and linoleum flooring!

Just a note to keep in mind, you assholes…work hard, and when you’re not twenty-three, you’ll actually be entitled to all that high-end shit HGTV has made you believe you desperately need. And, should I ever meet you on the street, look out, because I kinda wanna punch you.