For whatever reason, I decided it was a good idea to buy fishnet stockings.
No clue why, I don't even wear skirts or dresses or shorts or anything that shows my legs for that matter...so the decision to make that purchase is beyond me.
I blame the hangover.
Fast forward to Courtney realizing it was a dumb idea.
And so was the dress that was purchased with them.
Again...blame the hangover.
The decision is made to return said items.
I have my receipt, I'm within the 30 day return period.
Easy as cake, easy as pie.
Until the salesbitch makes a funny face and slaps a 4 roll of condoms on the counter.
"Are these yours?" she snarks.
Yeah.
They're mine.
Don't ask what possessed me to stick them in a pair of fishnets in the first place...
Thank God for Veronica.
"What? At least she's safe. Don't be embarrassed, Courtney. Fuck that shit!"
Too bad her friend defensiveness couldn't mask my bright red cheeks.
Lesson learned : check for prophylactics before returning merchandise...
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Saturday, September 22, 2007
Taken Out of Context...??
I love when I meet cute guys.
I love when the cute guys I meet love meeting me, too.
But I especially love it when they ask for my number.
And I give them wrong one.
And assume a random text the next day is them.
Texting sweet shit back and forth with someone you dig is fun.
Until you find out it's not who you thought it was.
It's the nasty old pervert guy from the bar you gave you tried to give a fake number to.
But he called you out.
Ya got caught.
And you felt guilty, so you begrudgingly obliged him with your real number.
It's true.
You only see what you want to see.
Just be sure the next time you get a text from a number you don't know, don't assume it's someone you want it to be.
Clarify identity in the beginning.
It prevents you from saying things like, "Get to me now. I need to see you."
No one ever needs a vacation in Creepsville...
I love when the cute guys I meet love meeting me, too.
But I especially love it when they ask for my number.
And I give them wrong one.
And assume a random text the next day is them.
Texting sweet shit back and forth with someone you dig is fun.
Until you find out it's not who you thought it was.
It's the nasty old pervert guy from the bar you gave you tried to give a fake number to.
But he called you out.
Ya got caught.
And you felt guilty, so you begrudgingly obliged him with your real number.
It's true.
You only see what you want to see.
Just be sure the next time you get a text from a number you don't know, don't assume it's someone you want it to be.
Clarify identity in the beginning.
It prevents you from saying things like, "Get to me now. I need to see you."
No one ever needs a vacation in Creepsville...
Friday, September 21, 2007
I'll Drink To That...Or Not...
If bad luck was a marketable skill, I'd be Tony fuckin' Robbins.
Speaking, preaching, inspiring, gloating, and otherwise spouting off with a case of verbal diarrhea on how skilled, talented, and credible I was on the topic.
Most people list tons and tons and tonsssssss of credentials.
I get it.
The more the better.
But this...this case...only needs one example to illustrate my long time affair with shitty luck:
Welcome to the first night of court mandated DUI classes for driving under the influence.
(Yes, I got busted with a .15 behind the wheel...but not the point of the story...)
No car.
No license.
No insurance.
No business being on the road, behind the wheel, or alone driving a Chevy Suburban.
Basically, a ticking time bomb.
Menace to society.
Trouble on wheels.
My father was too lazy to drive me.
My grandparents can drive in the dark.
And everyone else is otherwise occupied.
But I NEED to attend that class.
So Pops tosses me the keys to his #1 love in life...no, not his wife you sick bastards...his truck.
I gladly accept.
Driving Dad's sweet SUV, blasting my music, and tasting the freedom which has been no more than a lingering memory to me is far too good to pass up!
Get to school alive.
Check.
No accidents.
Check.
No police incidents.
Check.
Go to class.
Check.
Sit through the horrendously boring 3 hour REQUIRED program.
Check.
Pacify the court.
Check.
Handle your "adult" responsibilities.
Check. Check. Check.
9:45 quickly rolls around and I can't get out of that class long enough.
I'm not a drunk.
I'm just a moronic driver who likes 3 shots of vodka before she turns over an automobile engine.
These people are nuts.
Crazy, in fact.
And of course I'm better than all of them.
Beeline to the parking lot.
Hop in the car.
Check all mirrors.
Clear.
Reverse.
BOOM!
See magical Honda suddenly appear behind the rear bumper.
Curse self every so vehemently before taking a deep breath and exiting the car.
No visible damage.
Chick driving Houdini's magically appearing Honda freaks.
"Oh my gosh! This is my parents car!"
I recognize said whiny bitch from my class.
"Double DUI offender, 18 month sentence to these classes, and my parents always cover for me."
Great.
I rammed the Marcia Brady of DUI school with my Dad's stupid "I need a trailer hitch because I'm a man, not because I have anything to tow" rear 6 added inches.
Me: Let's just call the cops and get a police report.
Me thinking: YOU DUMB BITCH! YOU'RE DRIVING ILLEGALLY!!!!
Marcia Brady: No, that's cool. Let's just exchange numbers just in case.
Me: Okay. Let's exchange license numbers, too.
Me thinking: YOU FUCKTARD! YOU DON"T HAVE A LICENSE!!!!
Marcia Brady: No, that's not necessary. It doesn't look like there's damage, but we should handle it off the record, just in case.
Me thinking: This bitch doesn't have a license, either.
Me: Good call!
Information is exchanged.
The crowd that has gathered, no doubt thinking, "thank GOD that wasn't my stupid ass" has cleared, and I climb my heavily beating hearted chest back into the truck.
Drive home is intense.
Telling Pops is hard.
He laughs.
No damage to his truck.
I call my Mom.
She laughs.
"Only you..." she mutters somewhere in the conversation.
Moral of the story:
If you're going to hit someone while you don't have a license, make sure they don't have one either.
And don't drive to DUI classes if you're not driving legally.
The End.
Speaking, preaching, inspiring, gloating, and otherwise spouting off with a case of verbal diarrhea on how skilled, talented, and credible I was on the topic.
Most people list tons and tons and tonsssssss of credentials.
I get it.
The more the better.
But this...this case...only needs one example to illustrate my long time affair with shitty luck:
Welcome to the first night of court mandated DUI classes for driving under the influence.
(Yes, I got busted with a .15 behind the wheel...but not the point of the story...)
No car.
No license.
No insurance.
No business being on the road, behind the wheel, or alone driving a Chevy Suburban.
Basically, a ticking time bomb.
Menace to society.
Trouble on wheels.
My father was too lazy to drive me.
My grandparents can drive in the dark.
And everyone else is otherwise occupied.
But I NEED to attend that class.
So Pops tosses me the keys to his #1 love in life...no, not his wife you sick bastards...his truck.
I gladly accept.
Driving Dad's sweet SUV, blasting my music, and tasting the freedom which has been no more than a lingering memory to me is far too good to pass up!
Get to school alive.
Check.
No accidents.
Check.
No police incidents.
Check.
Go to class.
Check.
Sit through the horrendously boring 3 hour REQUIRED program.
Check.
Pacify the court.
Check.
Handle your "adult" responsibilities.
Check. Check. Check.
9:45 quickly rolls around and I can't get out of that class long enough.
I'm not a drunk.
I'm just a moronic driver who likes 3 shots of vodka before she turns over an automobile engine.
These people are nuts.
Crazy, in fact.
And of course I'm better than all of them.
Beeline to the parking lot.
Hop in the car.
Check all mirrors.
Clear.
Reverse.
BOOM!
See magical Honda suddenly appear behind the rear bumper.
Curse self every so vehemently before taking a deep breath and exiting the car.
No visible damage.
Chick driving Houdini's magically appearing Honda freaks.
"Oh my gosh! This is my parents car!"
I recognize said whiny bitch from my class.
"Double DUI offender, 18 month sentence to these classes, and my parents always cover for me."
Great.
I rammed the Marcia Brady of DUI school with my Dad's stupid "I need a trailer hitch because I'm a man, not because I have anything to tow" rear 6 added inches.
Me: Let's just call the cops and get a police report.
Me thinking: YOU DUMB BITCH! YOU'RE DRIVING ILLEGALLY!!!!
Marcia Brady: No, that's cool. Let's just exchange numbers just in case.
Me: Okay. Let's exchange license numbers, too.
Me thinking: YOU FUCKTARD! YOU DON"T HAVE A LICENSE!!!!
Marcia Brady: No, that's not necessary. It doesn't look like there's damage, but we should handle it off the record, just in case.
Me thinking: This bitch doesn't have a license, either.
Me: Good call!
Information is exchanged.
The crowd that has gathered, no doubt thinking, "thank GOD that wasn't my stupid ass" has cleared, and I climb my heavily beating hearted chest back into the truck.
Drive home is intense.
Telling Pops is hard.
He laughs.
No damage to his truck.
I call my Mom.
She laughs.
"Only you..." she mutters somewhere in the conversation.
Moral of the story:
If you're going to hit someone while you don't have a license, make sure they don't have one either.
And don't drive to DUI classes if you're not driving legally.
The End.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
You Know You're Badass When...
...this legendary rock n' roll party superstar watches over your drunkass and gives your best friend advice on how to take care of you. Lemmy from Motorhead.
If you need a brief history:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemmy
"If the world faces nuclear disaster, the only surivors will be cockroaches and Lemmy."
If you need a brief history:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lemmy
"If the world faces nuclear disaster, the only surivors will be cockroaches and Lemmy."
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Gamekilling 101.
In case there are morons out there, I offer a bit of advice:
If you're trying to hook up with one dude, don't show up with your best friend, who also happens to be a dude, and be wearing a fake engagement "safety" ring.
It kind of sends off the wrong impression.
Honestly.
Not that I know from experience or anything...I've just heard stories.
If you're trying to hook up with one dude, don't show up with your best friend, who also happens to be a dude, and be wearing a fake engagement "safety" ring.
It kind of sends off the wrong impression.
Honestly.
Not that I know from experience or anything...I've just heard stories.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
A Weekend Lament.
Dear Diary,
Tomorrow is Friday and I'm very excited about it. That means no stinky mean people at work for the next TWO whole days! I'm so ecstatic. I love my weekends. It's when I load on gobs of makeup in a feable attempt to appeal to some stupid guy who'll probably be nothing more than a lapse in judgement in the long run and attempt to kill my liver with whatever free drinks the ugly guys at the bar will buy me. Perhaps I'll get slipped a roofie and get some action. And since I won't remember it, I won't have to deal with the emotional ramifications of remembering it and/or the societal obligated guilt that we're supposed to associate with one night stands! Oh well. Here's to a happy Friday. Cheers. Lord knows it's 5 o'clock somewhere...
Sincerely,
Dez Perate
Tomorrow is Friday and I'm very excited about it. That means no stinky mean people at work for the next TWO whole days! I'm so ecstatic. I love my weekends. It's when I load on gobs of makeup in a feable attempt to appeal to some stupid guy who'll probably be nothing more than a lapse in judgement in the long run and attempt to kill my liver with whatever free drinks the ugly guys at the bar will buy me. Perhaps I'll get slipped a roofie and get some action. And since I won't remember it, I won't have to deal with the emotional ramifications of remembering it and/or the societal obligated guilt that we're supposed to associate with one night stands! Oh well. Here's to a happy Friday. Cheers. Lord knows it's 5 o'clock somewhere...
Sincerely,
Dez Perate
Wednesday, September 12, 2007
An Open Letter To My OB/GYN:
To whom it may concern:
"Relax" is not a word I would associate with non-voluntary vaginal prodding. It is uncomfortable and a wee bit painful. I'm so ecstatic you lubed up the 6 inches of plastic before you rammed them up my babymaker...but let's be honest, it's not what one would consider to be an enjoyable experience.
Hurry it up! My God. Despite my best attempts to coax my vaginal muscles into some sort of submission during their yearly bout with medical torture isn't enough, it's cold...and I usually require some sort of meal or alcholic beverage before I let someone get up close an personal with my hoohaw. Next time, at least buy me a drink.
Don't talk to me about my job, friends, school, life, or pop culture. There isn't a damn thing you could say to me to make me forget about the Eiffel Tower being lodged in between my legs. And thank you, but I'd rather not spend the rest of my day associating my pap smear with how cute Brad and Angelina's baby is or what field I'd like to major in. As blase as the topics may be to you, I wouldn't like to flip through an "US Weekly" magazine and see the cute little face of baby Shiloh and be reminded of your uninvited foray into my body.
Be gentle, be fast, and be quiet.
That is all I ask.
Now...all that being said, I would like to thank you for one thing:
Being the most action I've got since February.
"Relax" is not a word I would associate with non-voluntary vaginal prodding. It is uncomfortable and a wee bit painful. I'm so ecstatic you lubed up the 6 inches of plastic before you rammed them up my babymaker...but let's be honest, it's not what one would consider to be an enjoyable experience.
Hurry it up! My God. Despite my best attempts to coax my vaginal muscles into some sort of submission during their yearly bout with medical torture isn't enough, it's cold...and I usually require some sort of meal or alcholic beverage before I let someone get up close an personal with my hoohaw. Next time, at least buy me a drink.
Don't talk to me about my job, friends, school, life, or pop culture. There isn't a damn thing you could say to me to make me forget about the Eiffel Tower being lodged in between my legs. And thank you, but I'd rather not spend the rest of my day associating my pap smear with how cute Brad and Angelina's baby is or what field I'd like to major in. As blase as the topics may be to you, I wouldn't like to flip through an "US Weekly" magazine and see the cute little face of baby Shiloh and be reminded of your uninvited foray into my body.
Be gentle, be fast, and be quiet.
That is all I ask.
Now...all that being said, I would like to thank you for one thing:
Being the most action I've got since February.
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