Internet Dating: Foreigner Edition

I wanna know what love is…I want you to show me…!

Sorry. Got carried away there. So, we all know that the internet is for everyone and we are all looking for love. I also know that most programs now a days, even text on phones, have spell check for those who are not too good in that department. Soooooo, where’s the “that doesn’t make any sense!” for the foreigner emails?!…

Here are the emails. Nothing is changed or fixed. I couldn’t fix these even if I tried! There aren’t much, but I had to share these!


HI I REED UR PROFILE AND U ARE A VERY NICE GIRL AND I WAS WODER DO U DATE HISPANICS.



I don’t discriminate! I’m just sick of playing editor with my red pen. Thanks for reeding!

Just now want to say HI ,Realy you are soooooooooo pretty .not execting to revieve from you !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Cheers

Uhhhh…What???

frankly i can saw you are smiling wonderful. i miss to see like this smile

::nervous smile:: th-thanks. I think.

Boner is Missing!!

Have you heard the news? It’s a potential tragedy: grown up child actor, Andrew Koenig, is missing. Don’t recognize his name? That’s OK, neither did I. This poor bastard is also known as Boner, from Growing Pains. Oh yeah, now you know exactly who I’m talking about.





No wonder he’s missing. Can you imagine being known your whole adult life as a euphemism for an erection? I can imagine all the trouble he must have gone through. Wedding vows, “Do you, Boner, take this woman…”

If only he had left an autobiography. Perhaps something with a clever name like:

•I, Boner
•Boner Stories
•Boner: My Story of Perseverance

WAIT! Maybe his relatives will write his biography. It can be called, “My Boner.”

YEAH

Faux Boyfriend of the Week

None of the guys that I’ve dated have ever known their way around the kitchen, or should I say they haven’t stuck around long enough to show me their culinary skills. Sure, some of them had some mad skills in the bedroom, but when it came to cooking, it was a sad, sad display.

I enjoy cooking, and I’m pretty good at it. It would be nice, however, to find a dude that could cook something other than a hot pocket.

Enter my Faux Boyfriend of the Week:



Yes, I know that he’s gotten a little doughy lately, but guess what? I don’t care. I love it. I’ve never been one to discriminate when it comes to weight, although some guys have discriminated me on my weight. To them I say FUCK YOU!

I used to tune into Food 911 years ago. It was always hilarious to see all those women doll themselves up. They all had the same dream that I did: that Tyler Florence would cook them a meal and then molest them over the dining room table. Ahh, dare to dream.

A Lunch Time Disaster

I was such a good little recessionista this morning. I made a sandwich and fixed a Tupperware full of cottage cheese that I have been eating for six days straight and which I now hate with the burning passion I usually reserve for Rush Limbaugh, but there are starving children pretty much everywhere and also who knew that cottage cheese would start to taste like tainted milk after a few days in the fridge?), grabbed a container of pineapple (I am like the poster child for good nutrition, obviously) and treated myself to two pieces of Dove dark chocolate, which I tossed into a paper shopping bag with the rest of my lunch.

I got to work, put my food in the fridge, tossed the paper shopping bag in the kitchen garbage can, and went about my day. I had the cottage cheese for breakfast. It was kind of gross but I just kept thinking “Osteoporosis!” Which, in restrospect, might have made it taste worse—there’s nothing like visualizing bone density while gumming wet, tasteless curds.

The only better diet trick is looking at this while trying to eat. It works for sex, too.

I had a ton to do, so time flew by and suddenly it was time for lunch. I ate my sandwich while reading online gossip and followed it with the pineapple. I was saving the dove chocolates for that dreaded 3 pm blood sugar drop, which generally makes me reach for the only food substance I have at my desk: a pack of Orbit melon mint gum. I know that sounds disgusting, and it is; I got a free pack of every single flavor last year and melon mint is the last man standing. I have a daily Jedi mind fight with myself over whether to succumb and chew on a tiny stick that tastes like cantalope spiked with Ajax or surrender to lethargy.

Anyway, the point is: As Robert Burns wrote, the best laid chocolates of mice and men oft go awry. When I went to get my chocolates I realized that they were not in the fridge. Then I realized that I had no memory of actually putting them in the fridge. Slowly, it dawned on me that they were still in the paper shopping bag, which was now at the bottom of a company-wide trash can. [Picture me screaming this next part in warped slow-motion] Nooooooooooooooooooooooo!

I ran into the kitchen and was about to leap into the trash can like I was Cary Elwes from The Princess Bride and the garbage was the fire swamp and the chocolates were Buttercup, but then I noticed my boss sitting at the table nearby reading a book. He looked up and smiled. If it had been anyone else I might have just gone for it, but this is a person whose specific job it is to fire employees who might have a mental illnesses that would interfere with their work, the first signs of which could include digging through a communal trash can for food. I got a glass of water while stealing longing glimpses at the garbage.

Later on, after the boss left, I went back into the kitchen for another try. But as soon as I lifted off the top of the trash can, I knew I had lost my battle already (again, I used the term “battle,” much like “fight,” loosely). I tossed my bag in at 10:00am; people’s half-eaten lunches were now standing between me and my chocolates. If I were to scavenge for them now, it would certainly be a wet and unpleasant journey through a murky sediment of salad greens, pizza grease, and coffee grounds.

So the bad news is, I lost my chocolates today.

On the other hand, the good news is that at least I know I have limits*

*If the kitchen door had a lock, however, I wouldn’t even be writing this right now. I would be enjoying the rich chocolatey goodness, while trying to ignore the stench of salad dressing emanating from my suspiciously stained clothes.

Tipping is a City in China

Two questions about tipping*:

When did all donut shops and places with a counter start putting out tip jars? I guess it was within the last five years. Not saying that I wouldn't put one out if I worked at a counter but that's not the point.

If someone is simply handing me a donut and a coffee, why the hell should they be tipped? I refuse to do it. Do you guys do it? If so, is it out of guilt?

The lady at Top Pot actually holds the change OVER the tip jar so you have to reach to get your change instead of her reaching to give it to you. I guess she's thinking that it might slip and fall into the tip jar then you'll be too embarrassed to reach in and get it out. Klassy. Real Klassy. Then she gives me the evil eye when I don't tip.

Suck it lady! And when I have a coupon for a free donut and don't want a coffee?...Don't ask me if I'm SURE I don't want a coffee. If you didn't want people coming in for a free donut then you shouldn't have printed the coupon. You ole' bag!

The other tipping question I have is for bartenders. What are the degrees of tips you would give for the following (cheap ass, regular tip and great tip):

Scenario 1: Four $3 Happy Hour priced beers that usually are $4. (Total cost $12)

Scenario 2: Three premium pints at $4.50 each. (Total cost $13.50)

Thanks.

*Did you know that in Italy the cab drivers don't expect tips? And in Peru a customary tip is kicking the dude in the nuts? Not really but the Italy one is true.

Finally!!!

I'm not exactly BFF with God. I mean, I'm not a Satanist or anything but I was raised celebrating Easter mostly for the Cadbury mini-eggs (I also once made a blasphemous Jesus dessert out of Sara Lee pound cake). I take His name in vain all the time, and I usually give him the middle name "Fucking." Signs generally point to me not being God's favorite.

But if He made these, then I know He loves me.





My only issue is that their judgy slogan suggests it's not normal that I already live in my pajamas and sleep in my jeans. I'd love to be able to sleep in my jeans without waking to find that they'd loosened to M.C. Hammer proportions, making me instantly appear 15 lbs heavier.

Anyway, here’s my master plan: You guys all click on this link as many times as you can, and the Pajama Jeans web dudes (who I think look like Bill S. Preston and Ted Theodore Logan) check their referrals and are like, “Whoa! Look at all the traffic we’re getting from this site. We are... Wyld Stallyns!!!” And then after they jam for awhile they come here and see this post and are like, “We need to send this girl some pajama jeans, pronto!”

And if they don’t immediately think that, then maybe they will after they read this list of other sure-fire moneymakers I just came up with:

Sweatpants evening gown (“Sweatpants you drink champagne in, a black tie gown you watch Hoarders in.”)

Cheez-It belt (“Cheez-Its you wear, a belt you can eat!”)

Spanx boots, aka “Spankles” (“Spanx for your cankles, boots that you can't get off no matter how hard you try!”)

Goose down flak jacket (“Armor you can cuddle, shrapnel you can feel.”)

Seriously, though I NEED PAJAMA JEANS. And I am trademarking "Spankles" right after I post this, because that is a gold mine right there.

An Open Letter To Jake Pavelka, aka The Bachelor

Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!
Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaake!

(Imagine that as a muffled scream the way Anthony Michael Hall screams for Michael Schoeffling when he's trapped under the coffee table in Sixteen Candles.)

Listen, Jake. You are totally cute. You remind me of my c. 1983 Sun Gold Malibu Ken, only your haircut looks less like Velma's from Scooby-Doo and it's not painted onto your head.


You are way cuter than that tubby Jheri curled Bob or geriatric bass fisherman Byron or your immediate predecessor Jason Mesnick, who looked like Enrique Iglesias' love child with Bruce Jenner. Not only are you cute, but you seem like a genuinely nice guy, albeit one who has suspiciously failed at finding love despite being an anatomically perfect Texan pilot (do you have uncontrollable sleep diarrhea or something?) and a person who would willingly go on a show like The Bachelor to find a wife.

But Jake, can I be real with your for a minute? Like really real?

Your taste sucks, dude.

I've watched all episodes now and among the 3 girls you have left only one of them is even remotely OK. You kicked a bunch of decent girls to the curb on the first night and kept around:

1. A woman who in every single scene has Prince's Purple Rain hair!
2. Pre-plastic surgery Jessica Simpson!
3. A girl who suffers from the worst case of Stankface in recorded history!
4. And a "25 year-old" who looks suspiciously like she is two centuries older than that and ready to star in the Lifetime biopic of Judith Light, tentatively titled "I'm the Boss."
5. A stroke victim who talks out the side of her mouth a la Drew Berrymore.
6. VIENNA!!?? Really? Check her out sometime that bitch is cross-eyed.

And the rest are all giant bitches, with the exception of that Southern redhead with the 7 year-old kid you have to pretend not to be totally freaked out by and the one named "Tenley," which is in and of itself a drawback (although in future seasons I think the producers should just dispense with names and call the women Onely, Twoley, Threeley, Fourley, etc.).

Anyway, my point is: You are up the river without a paddle, my friend. Those roses won't help you. Get some Depends and a Japanese anime body pillow and call it a day.

Kisses,
Me

Girl Scouts: Little Drug Dealers

This seems really inappropriate to do on the blog, but I’m desperate, guys. I need a fix. The good stuff. You know what I’m talking about. I feel like I haven’t had any in forever.

The thing is I don’t know anyone who’s selling. I will buy in bulk, I swear, I just need a hook-up. I’ll put it in my freezer so it’ll keep. I’ll let you have some. Just give me a number, for the love of Christ. I won’t say it was you who sent me.

Do I have to spell it out for you? I NEED SOME FUCKING TAGALONGS, okay?. Thin Mints, Samoas, Do-Si-Dos, whatever you’ve got, man. I’ll even take Trefoils, the schwag of the Girl Scout Cookie catalog. I’m like Cookie Monster on the Master Cleanse right now; it’s not pretty.

Seriously, though, why are Girl Scout cookies harder to procure than illegal drugs? There is something wrong with that lesson. If I sent you on a scavenger hunt right now with a list that included a quart of unpasteurized raw milk, an ounce of marijuana, an eight-ball of cocaine, a whole roasted goat, and a box of Thin Mints, guess which item would be the biggest bitch to find? That is not right, y’all.

The main reason for this, of course, is that Girl Scouts are forbidden from selling cookies online. I’m not really sure why this is—I can only guess it's to even the playing field, in case some girls don’t have reliable access to the Internet—but it seems pretty archaic. Explain to me how forcing pre-teens in short pleated skirts to walk the streets soliciting strangers is character-building? If you go to the Girl Scouts of America website, they explain that "Girl Scouts of the USA does not currently allow online sales, but its cookie site can help you locate girls selling in your community." Yes, that's right. ANYONE can log onto this site to FIND YOUNG GIRLS. Seriously, does this not seem wrong to anyone else?

The whole experience of trolling for cookies makes me feel like a pedophile. I find myself breathlessly Tweeting sentences that are probably on government Megan's Law watch lists: “Anyone know any Girl Scouts? I NEED one. Anywhere in the country. I’ll pay anything!!!!” I stare a little too long at kids on the street, searching their outfits for tell-tale flashes of green.

There is nothing not illegal that's harder to get than a box of Girl Scout cookies when you are a childless person. In fact, I could probably buy a baby on the black market faster than I could get my hot little hands on a box of Girl Scout goodness.

Stay tuned for updates; if I get the baby first, I'm naming it Samoa.

Superbowl Questions...I need your answers!

"Where is Kim Kardashian?" (I need at least one quasi-celebrity in the stands to serve as my pop culture North Star; otherwise I'm lost.)

"If Peyton Manning is from New Orleans, shouldn't he be rooting for the Saints?" (Also, what is up with that weird Oreo ad with him and Eli licking cream filling in front of Donald Trump and Darrel Hammond?)

(Inspired by the Colts' logo) "Why do horses wear shoes?"


"Why does Monster.com use fiddling beavers in its ad? Is that sexist?" (Mine doesn't even play the kazoo. It must be slow.)

(Upon seeing Dan Marino) "Is that the guy from Ace Ventura: Pet Detective?"

Are you a douche-bag

A recent study* conducted by a world renowned researcher has shown that people who back up into parking spaces are actually douche bags. Many individuals who do this believe that they are saving themselves time back backing into the space. This is not, in fact, correct.

Take, as an example, one person who had to keep backing up, pulling forward, then backing up, then pulling forward, then backing up again. While that person was fooling around with their spot, the very fancy researcher had pulled into her spot and was already walking into the building. In fact, I believe that said researcher was enjoying her first cup of coffee and checking important the morning news** while that d bag was still trying to back into the god damned parking space.

Another finding suggests that those who pull into spots will actually laugh at those that back into spots at grocery stores. Apparently, watching those people who backed into their spot realize that they can’t get to the trunk of the car to load the groceries provides a sense of joy to those that pull into spots.

*This scientific study was conducted by me this morning in the parking garage.
**News as featured on DListed.

Straight up, wait up, hold up, Mr. Lovah...

Oh no! I shouldn't have hesitated! These are sold out!