Dear Mr. Clingy

WTF?!!!

Dear Mr. Clingy,






I really think you're a great guy. The way you constantly demand my attention, they way you always need to know my whereabouts, the frequent reminders of "what you're looking for in a girl" and how I magically fit the bill, it's all very endearing. Unfortunately, I can't see you anymore. I decided... I just really need to do some soul searching. It's really me, not you.




I will however miss all the late night "r u awake?" and "Where r u?" texts, the times you compared me to your ex and the way you would coordinate our time on the phone around my busy schedule. Those things were all so helpful, I am a busy girl after all. 


Oh and how can I forget all the times you planned to take me out without consulting me first? You really had me guessing who runs my life. 


Well, take care. 


I hope you find that push-button girl you're looking for.


With Love,
Amelie

Wearing this Corset Takes Balls

The last time I saw a corset this bad-ass was at an S&M show somewhere in Hollywood. The man wearing the corset was about 6 foot 2, pale, overweight and wearing a shiny tutu with 6 inch heels and PVC chaps.

I finally found a corset that out-corseted the S&M dude.

Sweet lil' Carrie's corset piercing.

If you look closely enough, sweet lil Carrie's corset is comprised of: multiple back piercings, white ribbon and a touch of fresh blood.

Sweet lil Carrie, a tattoo apprentice, has bigger balls than any overweight man I have seen in a faux leather corset. 

To Carries big balls and gorgeous back, I *bow* and say, "my balls just shrank a centimeter or two."

In awe,

Raquel  

How Jesus Saved Me

Jesus! Christ! Thank god!

It was just one of those day. My GPS screwed me. I forgot to charge my blackberry. I left my wallet at the office.

I'm lost somewhere in the fucking desert. And I am running out of gas.

I am rolling through hills on narrow streets that I do not recognize in neutral. Praying. YES! Praying. That I don't run out of gas.

Ok. I wasn't praying. I was screaming FUCK THIS SHIT! at the top of my lungs. And crying. My new mascara all over my face.

Wondering: "How long till someone finds me? "I wonder if it gets cold out here. Shit, I don't even have a sweatshirt to sleep in if I get stuck out here until tomorrow."

And, then, like the apocalypse (is that the correct biblical reference?) a gas station appeared.

I pull in.

Jesus pulls in next to me in his white, beat up Camry.

I am safe at the gas station. THANK YOU LORD!!!!

OH shit! I forgot my wallet.

I scoop up $1.25 in change.

Jesus in the white beat-up Camry sees my mascara streaked face and puffy eyes.

Jesus says "What's up?".  I start babbling only like a woman in utter distress can: "blah. no gas. blah. lost. blah. freaking out. blah." I can't even understand myself.

Jesus says "Don't worry! I got you."

He puts 10 bucks of gas in my car. Jesus.  My lord and savior.

I finally compose myself. Say thank you. Shake his blistered carpenter's hand....because he was a carpenter.

Jesus was on his way home to shave his beard (yes, people, he had a fucking BEARD!!!!!) because it was his birthday (Note: this was 2 weeks ago, NOT Christmas) AND he was on his way to Vegas.

Jesus. I hope you had a badass birthday. Jesus, Thanks For Saving My Ass.

Dear Jesus-Remember, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas!

Love,

Raquel

PS-I hope you believe in karma Jesus. I got your back next time you or anyone else needs gas.

3 to 4 minutes

The average song length in the U.S. is somewhere between 3 and 4 minutes long, depending on which Google result you click on. That's not very long. Especially when you consider that the musicians that make the 4 minutes of entertainment get paid millions of dollars for it. 4 minutes of entertainment, millions of dollars.

So answer me this. WHY THE FUCK CAN'T THEY DO A LITTLE FACT CHECKING?

This drives me nuts. Maybe I'm a giant nerd. Maybe it doesn't really matter, but for millions of dollars I would be willing to do a little Googling. 5 minutes worth of research may be a minute longer than the song, but still. It isn't difficult people. Fraking 9 year olds can check facts better than you.

So, to clear it up:

In 1962, there were NO pistols that shot 9 rounds of .44 caliber bullets. Didn't exist. So no, you didn't pull out that shiny .44 and put 9 of your bullets in his chest. You may have put 5 or 6, but not 9.

(Despite the unlimited ammo in movies, still holds 6)

Dragonflies don't fly particularly high and they do not cross the sea. I don't care if your weed soaked brain thinks this is "cool imagery". It's not. It's stupid and you need to be castrated with a rusty spoon. (Although, I like rusty spoons.....never mind, like 2 of you out there will get that reference).

(Okay, maybe this one could cross the sea)

The Pope did not own 51% of G.M. stock. Like ever. I know you were a Beatle, so you can afford to pay someone to find this out for you.

(AAAHHHH EVIL SANTA)

Billy the Kid was not hung. He was shot by Pat Garrett. Everyone knows that. And if you share the same first name as him, you might take an interest. Just saying.

(Even these guys know that)

Dr. Martin Luther King was NOT shot in the early morning. It was in the late afternoon/early evening (around 6pm). But I don't expect Bono to have more than 2 brain-cells to rub together anyway, so I should let this one go. At least he wrote a song about someone NOT himself. Fucking douchebag.

(This is the douchebag, not MLK)

I would expect a former school teacher to know that apples grow on trees. NOT on vines.

(See. Tree.)

It kills me to say it, but there is no trains near Folsom Prison. You visited there. You should know this. But I still love this song.

(You are going to be waiting a long time)



This is to say nothing of the stupid crap that makes it into songs that isn't technically inaccurate, just stupid and pointless.

Exhibit A: Who is this girl, and why do I want to punch her in the face?


Oh, and to all the songwriters out there. NOBODY GIVES A SHIT ABOUT YOUR POLITICAL VIEWS. Shut the fuck up about it and sing and dance. That's what we pay you for. Dance monkey dance. Sing monkey sing. STOP with all the political crap. You are not intelligent enough to know that those sunglasses make you look retarded, so I don't need to hear what you think about the president.

Since when is being a douchebag cool?!

Seriously. You know what I'm talking about.

The "kids" aka 19 through twenty-whatvers that hang out at the coffee shop or bookstore with the obviously dirty, ripped skinny jeans, a beanie covering their stringy hair with a braid in it and wannabe Ray Ban sunglasses over their sunken in bloodshot eyes staring into their laptops, talking exclusively about tattoos, so-called indie films and their time at Coachella (which btw was FIVE MONTHS AGO!)....

I've ran into my share, befriended my share, and even fallen for my share. Yeah, I fell for the whole "look at me I'm a new age hippy" deal, thinking I found someone cool with a unique view on life that was fun to date. But it always somehow ends a little like this:



WTF?! Not that any of these flings lasted more than two weeks, but still. I have an idea for all you douchebags. How about you grow up, move out of your parents house, go to school and/ or start working?! And no, your going-nowhere band that plays occasional gigs at the local bar does NOT count as a job!

And it's not just in LA. Hell, it's not even just in the States. It's a worldwide epidemic. Browsing through Facebook one day I came across a link to this video that made me feel not so alone in my efforts of de- douchebaggery but since it's from across the pond, they used the word "Dickhead" in place of "Douchebag"... you know, like how they say "fag" instead of "cigarette"? Enjoy.

Amelie
(PS ignore the part about being a blogger, because we all know that's actually cool)

Fucking Pink Shirt Guy

It was Sunday Night. Labor Day weekend in the San Diego Gaslamp district. I reluctantly went to a bar with my brother, his girlfriend and her brother (who will now simply be referred to as 'my friend' for simplicity sake). We walked past hordes of shirtless meatheads in line for another bar that all could be on www.hotchickswithdouchebags.com. I wanted to bash everyone of them in the face with a frozen duck while setting fire to their roid-shrunken genitalia via flamethrower.

Despite my deep seeded hatred for the common modern day D-Bag, I blame said phenomena on the incredibly attractive girls that reward such behavior with attention, caressing of such supple skin that Wild Bill would not need to rub lotion on, and actual naked time. I still find it hard to believe that such guys are capable of paying enough attention to a hot naked girl that he is able to take her to a happy place previously reserved for those nights that she locks herself in her wine soaked bathtub alone watching, "a river runs through it" with power tools that make Bob Villa jealous.

So, once we past the hordes of D-Bags, we enter a piano, not currently populated with meatheads and morons. We get in for free because of my friend. So far we are doing well.

I feel I should now interject that my friend is a professional bartender and has a certain advantage at picking up girls in bars. I, on the other hand, seem incapable of getting a date with any girls that are not in need of serious psychological evaluation. Knowing my limitations, I still have difficulty getting dinner dates out of a prison for the mentally insane. Apparently most girls would rather eat prison food than talk to me, and the few that are charitable enough to let me see them naked have serious daddy issues and are a very very small portion of the population. So competitively speaking, I didn't plan to be able to meet any girls with him as competition.....but an awesome wingman he did make.......if it weren't for the FUCKING PINK SHIRT GUY.

So, back to the story.

We are in the piano bar. It's crowded. At capacity. People are singing along, and my friend gets us a few "discounted drinks" because he knows a few people here. I don't drink, but you have to be at least holding a water or people give you strange looks. Kurt Russell explains it well in Deathproof. It seems like a fun place, but I have a long drive that night and I wasn't even planning on going out.

But then it happened.

My friend, within 5 minutes of being there, starts talking to this girl. She is kind of a chubby Kirsten Dunst girl, but all smiles and miles of cleavage and already a little drunk. So he is going for it. And she is all over him. Her friend, the thin, tall brunette, that is REALLY drunk, now needs someone else to pay attention to. Not wanting to appear too eager, I don't talk to her much. She talks to my brothers GF. She talks to her friend. She talks, a little, to me. She is drunk, but coherent enough to complete a sentence and know what is going on. Not coherent enough to dance well, but drunk enough to want to. With me. Even though nobody else is dancing.

I find out they are on vacation from New York. (Good sign)

I find out her friend wants her to hook up with me. (Great sign)

I find her touching my arm and holding herself up on me. (Really great sign)

I find that she doesn't pull away when I touch her. (Also, really great sign)

Somehow, this seems to be going well. Her friend makes it a point to stop making out with my friend ever so briefly to tell me that I'm doing well and I need to keep doing what I am. She says "My friend really needs this"

I felt like a person that has never been able to boil water looking at a home-made pastry rising perfectly in my oven.

And then it all collapsed.

Because of you, Pink Shirt Guy.

You bought her a drink. She took it and walked away. You bought her another and she took it and tried to walk away. You followed her everywhere. It was like watching a cat chase a little ball. Everywhere she went, you were soon behind. She went to the restroom. You ran up to her when she came out. You tried to stand between her and everyone she went to talk to. You stalked her around that bar.

Of course my solution was simple. He wont stalk you if you are making out with me, but cute tall brunette was not ready for that. Maybe another 30 minutes of dancing and laughing and singing and I could have been there. Oh I was so close. If not for you. Pink Shirt Guy.

She finally just wanted to leave to get away from you and your douchie pink shirt. My drunk brother kept yelling "He's wearing a pink shirt", and I knew. I knew it was done. My chances were gone. She was no longer laughing and dancing and having a wonderful night that could only be made better by hooking up with a Cali boy in her hotel room. No, now she just needs to get away from you, Pink Shirt Guy.

I walked her back to her hotel on my way to my car. The whole time knowing I would not be invited up. Because of you, Pink Shirt Guy. How I hate you.

So here is my Ode to Pink Shirt Guy.

Oh your mighty douche-ness. How you love yourself. You may call it salmon, but to all the real men in the room, it's pink. You scared her off, you scarred her for life. She will never love California as much as she could have, because of you. Pink Shirt Guy. I wanted to break your kneecaps with a ball-peen hammer. Wanted throw you into a tank with Horace the ass raping eight-dicked walrus. I wanted to see the inside of sweet thin brunettes hotel room while you cuddled with your bros in your dads garage. But you ruined it. You never had a chance, and you just ruined mine. So this one's for you. Pink Shirt Guy.

Please die in a heap of your own vomit covered douche-baggery. Please run into me in on top of a hill in the desert. Please throw the first punch. I promise, it will be your last. Your kneecaps were within kicking distances 5 times. I counted. Thin dancing brunette deserved a good night and I would have given it to her. I deserved for this to work once in my life, and she was willing to help me with that. And then came you. Pink Shirt Guy. Fucking Pink Shirt Guy. You will forever be hated and never considered a winner. Maybe if you only upped your GTL you would have seen that nobody likes you and the sweet young girl on vacation was better off without your advances. Go back to watching The Situation and masturbating to pictures of yourself in a bra and panties.

BILL

So I'm new here. My friend Raquel asked me to utter my nonsense on this blog for all of the masses to enjoy. She has heard me rant, she has heard me rave, she has herd me spew random anger and descriptive hatred about the world, in very specific terms. So here I am.


Disclaimer: Random movie/TV/Song/Literary references will be common.

Three things I don't want to be

  

#1. PERKY

Joan. I love you. And your big beautiful breasts. Perkiness personified.

You, random customer service person, calling me at 7 am, I HATE you! 


Your perkiness would only be allowed if you had breasts like Joan's. 


And only if you talked to me at a humane hour and didn't try to sell me something. Or tell me to give you my credit card information. 

Note to the world: Only boobs are allowed to be that perky!

# 2. OVERLY BENDY

Yes, you, old yogi who dropped acid and put flowers in your hair in the Haight. You. Mr. Overly Bendy Pretzel Person.


Your skin is no longer supple. You did too much acid. And you got pockmarks from not washing your face.

Your uber-thin, overly tan, creepy, skinny body, although it can Triangle pose better than I ever will, makes you look like a freakish Gumby.

 Buy yourself some self respecting "Active Senior" clothing and stop talking about "back in the day".

Put some clothes on that shit!

#3. BIKER TWEAKER DUDE

Yeah you. Your skin is leathery and you are missing teeth.

Maybe you rode across the continent enough to father 8,000 grandchildren. And you lost that tooth in a bar fight in San Antone. 

Or you are actually only 35 and you tweaked so hard you look like an old biker dude. Either way, you are disgusting.

I will never be like you,

Raquel

TOM

My hot-ass friend Raquel invited me to blog. WTF is bloggin? IDK. N e wayz. She sayz that I can share my thoughts and observations.

Dude. If you only knew what I was thinking about right now. This hot ass chick I met the other night. I got super waisted but I got herdigits.

I have a hangover from hell. Going to the gym.

Lates!

-TOM

A Letter to YOU

Dear you,

I dedicate this blog to all the things I never dared say aloud. To the thoughts in my head that have plagued me. For days. For years. For seconds.

-To the the waitress who stole my $100 bill and I politely asked for it back: I wish I had pulled your beating heart out of your chest, while I pick-pocketed my OWN $100 bucks.

-To the stranger on the subway who, oh, so long ago, took advantage of the "bump" on the track to push his sweaty body up against mine: I wish I had pierced your feet with my stilettos, than turned around with a sweet smile and said "Excuse Me, did I step on you?".

-To the relatives who made me feel like a five year old: I can talk to you like an adult, because, well, I am an adult, even if YOU don't act like one.

-To the bartender who made me that horrid cosmo: Hey, your martini making abilities are already questionable...aka, the question: Which martini is your specialty? I did not challenge your manhood. A simple answer such as "I recommend the Stella Artois" would suffice. Instead, you served me the stickiest, most disgusting, cloudiest, wanna-be Cosmo on this side of the hemisphere. To you: less-than-adequate-chain-restaurant-barkeep, I wish I had returned the aforementioned cosmo, told your manager to demote you and written a a complaint letter to corporate. Only after calling your girlfriend and wishing her "good luck".

With this blog, I take back all those time I "wished" I had said or done something.  I will observe the mores and rules that "polite society" tell us we must follow and comment about them.

Sometimes I will be right, most times I will be left. Left behind. Stomping my foot in frustration. Or laughing at someone's incompetence. Or holding my head in my hands, wondering why I didn't stay quiet. Just that once.

No longer will I will 'wish' I said, or did something about it. From now on, I will use my slinky-like stealth to quickly disarm each and everyone of you.

It's ON.

Like DONKEY KONG!!!!

Fuck you,

Raquel