Alpha-Bitch

I have decided that I am the Alpha-Bitch.

Alpha-Bitch

It's not my fault.

I JUST AM.

What proof do I have?

Well, it is simple:

I regulate my bitches cycle

(For you uneducated men out there: Women have a thing called a menstrual cycle. It's basically what gets you guys laid. Our hormones tell us to DO IT before our cycle, aka, your stank ass wearing AXE or whatever you slap on your man parts after you shower or your so-called 'swagger' is not what gets you laid. Mother freaking EARTH is the one that tells US to get freaky with YOU. With YOU. Yeah. YOU  Thanks to Mother Earth, you d-bags get L A I D! And women's cycles get in synch when they spend time together.)

For example:

#1. My bitch Sleepy-we used to be roommates in the 'pound'. She is 7 days ahead of me.

#2. My bitch Gorgeous-who dates my old bitch Mono, she is 3 days ahead of me.

#3. My bitch T-dawg, is about one day behind me.

#4. My old bitch Mono, is a few days behind me, and one week behind Gorgeous.

Now, there is no common link between any of these bitches, except for me, I regulate their cycles.

Which means two things:

ONE: I am the Alpha-Bitch

TWO: I can't talk to 100% of my bitches 50% of the time cuz they too bitchy with PMS and shit to talk to anyways.

Take that!

Bitches!

-Raquel

Shameless Plug and My Love for a Good Shoe

Thanks to my friend Marta from www.projectpeeve.com , I can openly complain. (Wait! Wasn't that the point of my blog????)


I honestly can't stand to see a perfectly good shoe wasted on a pair of decent gams by a lady who can't walk in them. 

Who loves you? Momma loves you! Yes I do!

I spotted an offender while I was driving down Santa Monica Boulevard. She was cute, was wearing a teensy skirt on and sporting a spanking tattoo on her ankle, while walking in some gorgeous zapatos. But damn, gurrrrl! Did you learn how to walk yesterday?????? 


Her inability to walk in heels sparked great anger and hostility in me. I honestly wanted to run her over while yelling at the top of my lungs: LEARN HOW TO WALK IN HEELS!!!!!


But since running people over with a moving vehicle is not legal, I turned my outrage into 'constructive criticism' on www.projectpeeve.com (Yes, shameless plug for Project Peeve!)


Here is my rant:


Ladies: RULE NUMBER ONE: IF you wear heels, you better know how to walk in them! I am tired of seeing women in hot, hot heels walking like a camel in the desert. It's a waste of a perfectly good shoe. If you need a little guidance, watch RuPaul's Drag Race for tips on how to walk in heels. Those bitches TURN IT OUT! Obviously, you can't! Either learn how to walk in heels or don't wear them! 

-Raquel

My Personal Kill-Bill Death List 5

Inspired by Beatrix's Death-List from Kill Bill, I have compiled my personal 'Death List 5'.

Staying true to the movie, I have limited my choices to 5. Note: This was difficult.


#1. EVIL Parking Attendant behind 'The Whiskey A Go-Go'
Once upon a time, a long, long time ago, I mouthed off to the parking lot attendant behind the historic Whiskey a Go-Go. I was regretfully rude, and for that, I apologized. But somehow, every time I went to a show at The Whiskey the same parking attendant was on-duty.

And after the unfortunate 'incident' the parking attendant always recognized me and I, him. And every single time, The Whiskey's Evil Parking Attendant gave me the WORST possible parking spot as his ongoing plot to punish me forever.


I get it, evil parking attendant, I was horrid to you. 


Karma's a bitch. But a some point even karma gets even. 


Rather than eventually forgetting me, you continuously tortured me by always giving me the tiniest, most impossible parking spot at the end of the lot. at the top of the hill. One time, I even begged you to help me pull out. You simply shook your head and said "No help. Liability". 


I was left sweating in the car waiting 'till 2:30 a.m for the parking lot to empty in order to pull out my '89 Hyundai Excel with a faulty stick-shift without crashing into the car behind me. 


So to you, Evil Parking Lot Attendant behind The Whiskey, I hope you die a horrible death in my hands. I hope that your hell be comprised of impossible to pull into parking spots and for you to continuously be stiffed of parking fees. 


#2. Bathroom Hoarder Bitch

The scene: an after-hours club in Hollywood. Me? Suddenly sick to my stomach. You know that terrible queasy feeling that sneaks up on you at the most inconvenient of times? That voice that says: "You are going to puke in 10, 9, 8, 7...." Yeah--THAT voice. I heard you loooouuuuud and clear!


I recognized the command of the horrid voice and darted towards the restroom, only to find an infinite line of women in various stages of club appropriate attire waiting patiently outside an impossibly tiny, single-stall bathroom. I signaled each girl in line with a mixture of gagging motions and a hand-chop signifying the urgent request "I am going to PUKE. I NEED to cut in line!" 


Each clubbing beauty recognized the greenish tinge on my face under the dark club lights and politely moved out of the way.


Except for the Bathroom Hoarder Bitch.  The voice in my head continued the puke-countdown,  "...3, 2, 1..." I jumped up and down, begged! I even managed to gurgle: "Gonna puke!!!". Bathroom Hoarder Bitch said: "No cutting" with a huge smile, and kicked up her heels while swinging her perfect brown straight hair, as she cunningly smiled over her shoulder and pushed herself into the single-stall bathroom. Leaving ME locked out.

Hot Chick at the Club COCK-BLOCKED me harder than a Stop Sign in Chinese wearing FANTASTIC designer shoes, uber-tight jeans and glorious hair.

The voice in my head, finished counting: "ZERO". And there I was. 


Locked outside of the single stall bathroom, holding my heaving body against the door of the locked bathroom. Holding back the tears of shame.


To you, the cunt who didn't let me use the bathroom in my most urgent time of need: I hope your late-night partying habits got the best of you! I hope you developed a ridiculous addiction to methamphetamine that impaired your sanity. Rather than an immediate death by my hands, I desire upon you, a slow and prolonged death at your own hands. By now, you would no longer have the ability to pay for designer shoes, because every penny you make you smoke in your little crack pipe. Your looks are gone and you have contemplated prostitution as a means to an end.


You deserve a long and slow death for all the bitchiness you spewed.


#3. Immigration Officials


You serve and protect a countries borders ensuring that the tourists do not pass enter your borders without paying tariffs for that brand new MacBook Pro that is actually a gift for grandma. Your job is serious. Your uniform, intimating.  Yet you take advantage of women who travel alone. Somehow you manage to single out the women traveling solo and request to inspect every bit and piece of their person, document and baggage.


I have been pushed to the side. To the "special lane" with see-through acrylic panes that are about 3 inches thick, with sticky floor pads. I have been interrogated in Spanish and French by Officials that obviously spoke English as a first language. You Immigration Officials have searched my every bit of clothing, as if that thong I have might be smuggling an illegal immigrant ,or as if my stiletto heel actually contains a kilo of heroin.

Why yes Officer, there IS a kilo of Heroin in my buttcrack!

And my make up. You have even threatened to empty out my perfume bottles and my moisturizer. You have asked me every question possible. I get it. I am 5 foot 2 and a 125 pounds, and very, very, very threatening in my 3 inch stilettos. But, please, why must you search me with that funky beeping wand that never stops beeping? Why, oh, my, must you search my bra, the inseam of my jeans and the pockets in my pants. You even lifted my sweater and went to town on my bra, with my body in it.


To you, Immigration Official who is honestly trying to cop a feel....ok, you got me. Now, I can't wait to judo-chop your neck, stab your eyeball socket with my stilettos, and slap your body into a bloody pulp with my machete slowly as I proceed to give you a Colombian Neck-Tie. Die a sorry death for grabbing girls goodies under the guise of protecting the borders.



#4. Iggy Pop


Iggy. You are a legend. You also promised to die on stage. You have been performing since BEFORE 1970. What are you, Keith Richards? Why, oh, why aren't dead? I don't hate you. I actually kinda like you. I have made many an effort to see your performances, you skinny freak. Well, I don't remember your music...I was just waiting for the freak show that somehow guaranteed your death. WHY? OH, WHY?  aren't you dead yet?????

Are you a cockroach? Why aren't you dead yet?

Since you can't seem to die on stage, let me do you a favor: Let me do it for you. Pick your preferred method of death. Drugs won't kill you. Glass can't kill you. Bad performances don't phase you. Kryptonite? Tell me, I will put you out of your performance misery. Please? And we can put you on a stage. And I can be there. 


And I can finally say: I SAW IGGY DIE ON STAGE!!!!


#5. Maria Elena


I hate you. I went to school with you before age 12. You ruined me for life. Every time I see a Latin Lindsey Lohan (pre-cokewhore days) look-a-like in a prep school uniform, I cringe. Even now, as I type your name, my skin crawls. 

Actually, now that I think about it, I am going to move you up to to the top of my list. In fact, I will delete all other 4 just to kill you five times.

Lindsey in the Parent Trap...I would rather hang out with you than Maria Elena!

It wasn't your picture perfect hair or impeccably pressed school uniform that did me in, it was your perfect evocation of 'Mean Girls'. Snide. Rude. Bitchy. Always flaunting your money, your 'good family', your trips to Europe and A grades. What really irked me was not how mean you were to me, it was how down right demeaning you were to everyone that wasn't part of your clique.  


You made fun of fat kids. Nerdy kids. Poor kids. Rich kids. Girls with boobs. Boys with acne. But that's normal for a stuck-up bitch. What really bothered me was how you while you put others down, they agreed with you! This of course, made me stomp my feet in frustration, holding back tears at my ripe-old age of 12 saying: "That's not fair!"


To you, Maria Elena, I know you married into the 'right' family. Good for you. You got your wish. But I hope you are so unhappy that your narrow-minded ways that your self-doubt keeps you awake at night. That your husband's infidelity plagues you daily. That fear of loss of the family fortune keeps you from playing with life and experiencing happiness. Actually, you are probably so miserable and you don't even know that you channel your insecurities through your children.


You know what? I don't want you to die. I hope that you live long unsatisfied life. And that the stick that you have carried up inside your ass since you were 11 years old causes you the worst case of hemorrhoids in the Americas. And in 40 years, when I read your obituary, I will laugh, LAUGH, at your sad, piddly existence. 


Alas, my Death List Five is done!!!!


I beckon each of you to gather your personal Death List. It is true a zen experience. Not only must you make the essential choices of WHO to add to the list, but HOW you get to kill each and every one of them.


Dear Quentin: Thank you for inspiring me with the gorgeous Beatrix' Death List. If only could look oh, so cool, in a sleek, yellow cat suit! 

Go Beatrix!!!

Love, 


Raquel

DEAR JOHN and the 25/75 Movie Formula

No, I am not writing a letter to my boy-friend who likes to stick his dick into anything that moves. Nor is it that super cheesy 80's show that I somewhat remember from my childhood.


It is a movie called Dear John.

Dear John Movie Formula:


75%          2 weeks of falling in love
25 %         7 years of everything else


EQUALS


100% PIECE OF SHIT


I chose to watch Dear John after an emotional week (yes, we at Slinky-like have feelings other then a huge disdain for assholes we meet on a daily basis).





Dear John was originally written by mega-huge author Nicholas Sparks. Who is Nicholas Sparks??? Ever heard of a little movie called The Notebook? Nicholas Sparks writes love stories from the male point of view. 


Every girl wants a Nicholas Sparks man:, hot, complex, with some sort of sad, depressing or poor background and always falls in love with the girl he randomly meets on a fucking beach.


Hollywood, thinking it will have another mega-hit like The Notebook, decided to make Dear John, starring Amanda Seyfreid and Channing Tatum.


Lets start with Amanda Seyfreid: She is as cute as a button!!! We love her as the little blond twit who can predict the weather with her tits in Mean Girls (The only Lindsey Lohan movie that anyone will ever admit to seeing). We felt sorry for her when she was dancing and singing in the movie Mamma Mia. Well, we should feel sorry for all the actors dancing and singing in the movie Mamma Mia, that movie destroyed Abba for me (Damn Hollywood!!!). As far as her becoming a serious actor, makes it hard. She still looks like she is 15 yrs old. Makes it difficult to see her in a serious role, especially when the role spans over 7 years.

Like OMG I am like 15!!! Why am I covering my tits? It's cold outside!

Now Channing Tatum: where did this hot boy come from?? I have no idea. He plays a very good brooding man-boy.

One Man Boy Please with a side of Man Boy

The story goes like this: Channing Tatum is home on leave from the Army Special Forces and Amanda Seyfreid is a beautiful college student at home for Spring Break. He rescues her purse from the ocean when it falls off a pier.


And thanks to Nicholas Sparks, they meet and fall in love in TWO weeks. 


Movie Formula:


75%          2 weeks of falling in love
25 %         7 years of everything else


EQUALS


100% PIECE OF SHIT


Here is a brief on the 75% of the film:

• 9/11
• Channing Tatums' re-enlistment into the Army after 9/11
• A myriad of letters back and forth
• Amanda dumps his hot-ass while he's in Iraq
• She marries her neighbor with an Autistic kid
• Channing Tatum comes home on leave to say bye to his dying father
• He finds out Amanda's husband is dying of cancer (SCORE!)
• They eat one more meal together 
• They move one with their lives.
• One steamy love scene in a half-way finished house
• Oh and don't forget, years later, after her husband dies and he retires from the military, they happen to run into each other outside a cafe.

Is all this in order? Nope, but I guess the reason that this is not in order because NO ONE REALLY GIVES A SHIT about this movie. 


In fact, I don't even know why I am writing about it to begin with, other then I have some huge fucking beef with crappy love stories. I suppose it would hit some really touching points if the movie was actually worth watching.


But its not.


Dear Nicholas Sparks:
Go suck it and write about something else.
Asshole.


Dear Hollywood:
Your 25/75 Movie Formula SUCKS.
It's been done 85 times before and only worked 1% of the time.


How's this for a new formula:


1% bullshit
99% waste of my time


Margot

MAKING OUT WITH SPIKE

Some would be intrigued. Some would be repulsed.

But let me tell you, after making out with Spike, I feel like it's one thing on my bucket list to cross of I didn't even know was there.

"Who is Spike?" you may ask. "Is that his real name?"

Mohawklicious!

Well, I'm going to be honest with you my Stealthy followers. I don't know. But hey, it was just a drunken make out, and boy it was fun!

-Spiky hair? That's a given and to specify, a mohawk (NOT a fauxhawk)

-Handsome? In a punk rock/ beer pong way :)

-Great kisser? One of the best.

All and all, one of the best last minute decisions I ever contemplated for 3 seconds. It's only a shame that not even a few minutes later I found out Spike had a girlfriend. He looked a little sad when I had to ignore him (I'm just not that kinda lady!).

Til next time Spike... You know, when you're not in a relationship ;)

XoXo,

Amelie

In Honor of Monday and Micromanagers

I hope that when you get home today, all satisfied that you micro-managed the hell out of your employees, that you run into your mother. And your mother tells you she is a big fan of Twilight but she's all "Team Jacob" and you are clearly "Team Edward".

My mommy hates me cuz I love Edward

Then, during the ensuing argument, she tells you that you are dead to her and she kicks you out of her basement and you end up wandering the streets looking for a place to sleep. You finally find a dry spot of curb out in front of a dark S&M club that seems to be closing for regular activities and opening for the 'after hours' crowd. They let you stay there awhile and as you finally start to doze off you are awakened by three large men grabbing you and forcing you inside. It isn't long before you realize that YOU are to be tonight's entertainment and whatever that is will not be something you are going to enjoy.

Motel 6...any S&M club is better than this!

Your clothes are ripped off and a bucket of dirt, manure and tiny plant pieces is thrown at you. You don't realize it but the mixture also contains a very strong ape pheromone and within seconds a pack of angry, horny silver-backs are charging you. Before you can scream out for help you are getting violently ravaged by 3 gorillas and gently caressed by a fourth. You soon figure out that the 3 will eventually stop but the one will never let you go.

I caress micro-managers.

The crowd starts pelting you with silver nickles and frozen gummy bears and in all of this you see nearby the sight of your grandmother giving Ron Jeremy a very enthusiastic blowjob. Through your tears and sobbing moans, you see a small television playing the evening news where you learn that your childhood hero is being arrested for buying 12-year old Malaysian girls as slaves and forcing them to perform bizarre sex acts on him that they can't seem to explain but involve a used left turn signal from a 1983 Plymouth Caravelle and a box of antacids.

These gummy bears KNOW what you did last summer

When the gorillas are finally done and the gummy bears run out, everyone just uneventfully leaves and you are left there all alone in a pile of blood, gorilla semen and a half eaten blue gummy bear. Your father comes in, casually walks up to you and reminds you that tomorrow you have to take out the trash, then just walks away. Unable to stand, you lie there meekly thinking "at least I have a dry place to sleep for the night" as a storm begins to rage outside. Then the roof starts to leak and the drops falling just near your face splash on you. As you fall unconscious, you remember that you forgot to send in your rebate form on the new computer you bought and today was the last day you qualify, and you can't get that new song by Justin Beiber out of your head.

BEIBER FEVER!!!!

I hope tomorrow isn't much better.