Say Something Funny...B*tch

I don’t have a column today.  I was gonna come up with something, and almost-excitedly, because after a 4-month-long smoking hiatus, Mama’s back—bet you couldn’t tell, huh?  It’s like in the movie Spanglish when Tea Leoni tells Cloris Leachman she’s a drunk and Cloris Leachman says she hasn’t had a drink in, like, 3 months, but nobody bothered to notice.  Anyway, I was looking forward to waking up today and start writing again as a stoner, but that dream died at 7:45 this morning.  And I’m up at 745 in the a.m. because no matter what substance I abuse the night before, I wake up early now, which wouldn’t be so bad if I could simply move to the couch and sit idle for the day, whatever, but I can’t because once I’m up, I’m awake. No transition time.  I hate it.  Hate it.  Mama likes to sleep.  I love to sleep more than I love to do most anything else.  But I don’t anymore.  And so I was up this morning, ready to greet April 20^th with the reverence I thought it deserved when shit got real.  My out-the-kitchen-window neighbor saw me standing at my stove, boiling water for my bougie French press and she screams desperately:  KATE! WHAT DO I DO?!

Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you have got to be kidding me. Not only am I no longer in a perfect state of sleep, I have to immediately jump into, based on her delivery, what I can only imagine is humanitarian task where my three-sizes-too-small heart will be tried and tested to see if it can handle whatever level of empathy is required at this inopportune moment.  Keeping in mind I’m 24-hours out of a rather unpleasant surgery, heavily medicated, and whatever help I can offer will be tepid at best, and it involves a woman I’ve just told—three short weeks ago—that she needed to stop dropping by my house unannounced to talk to me about how much she hates our building owner, Vicky, because it gives me anxiety knowing she watches me come home, and then comes right over.  I wrote all this in a note and put it in her mailbox.  Haven’t heard from her since, until right now.  Kimmie calls her Martina.  She has Nordically blonde hair, and one time I saw her walking to the tennis court in a half-shirt and her tennis skirt (she’s 50), and she’s always screaming in this shrill German-ish language from her stoop all day, like, shrieking ‘TAH-KOHH…TAH-KOHH’. Ugh, anyway, that brings me to Taco. Her cat.

Taco was just hit by a car out front.  I live on a small, peaceful, residential street that always has parking, and it sits right next door to Beverly Hills High, which, during morning arrival and afternoon departure times, has the highest concentration of aggressively entitled parents, and resulting teenagers, in all of world.  Their driving practices are not only obnoxious, they’re downright dangerous.  One of these gems in a black SUV hit Taco.  Martina was crying and screaming to me through my window, one floor up, as I stood at my stove, with the gas on, boiling water, wearing no bra, see through tank-top, red-and-white striped boxer briefs, and, gracias a Dios, great hair.  Her clogs are clomping all up and down her stairs as she hysterically asks me who to call and what to do.  I am now involved.  I told her I’d meet her outside and she clomps down in her clogs and races to meet me.  I make my way to the street where I see the crowd.  Her teenage daughter is inconsolable on the curb, a few neighborhood ladies have taken charge to slow and caution traffic, Martina is running out behind me, and Taco is in the street with his bloody head, bulging eye, short breath and pretty-much-dead half-meow topped only by Martina now scraping him off the street and into her arms.  Oh.  My.  God.  You serious right now?  No, I am serious, are YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?!  WTF?!  It’s 7:45 in the morning, on a Friday—Friday, 4-fucking-20 and I’m peacefully and blissfully at home with prescribed pain killers, a quarter of weed and the next week off and this is how it’s going to start?!  I don’t know what to do!  It’s not my usual lack of empathy, it’s an absolute panicked fact:  I have no idea what to do!  Like, here’s the thing, Taco looked rough.  I mean it, this was like some shit on TV.  He wasn’t gonna make it; there are 5 people already on the scene so my input isn’t necessary, but I did come out at her behest, so I had to do something, you know?  So, I went inside and got a Restoration Hardware bath sheet (it’s, literally, the only towel that would have done anything, and ugh, I felt like I had to sacrifice that, ugh, okay, whatever) because while there were a lot of yentas all up in the mix, none of them could do anything but act concerned.  So I got the towel, and went out back and got her cat carrier, because someone had already pulled up a car to race Martina and Taco off to the Animal ER—I should mention at this point that this isn’t even the are-you-fucking-kidding-me?! part of the story—and they hopped in the car and raced away and it was all over as quickly as it’d started and the crowd had dispersed.  Except that there was still fucking blood and brains all over the street and blood all over our front stoop—I am not kidding about this shit—so I went inside and got a pitcher of water and washed the blood off the steps and off the street and then, when I got back into my kitchen, to attempt coffee and the entire start of my day again, I saw out my window that her front door was open because it all happened so fast that she just left without worrying about anything else.  So, I went downstairs, and around to the back, and up her up her stairs and pulled her front door closed.  But she’s super freaky about security and how she thinks someone is always trying to break into her house (I’m serious), so—still standing outside—I just reached around to make sure the door knob wasn’t locked or anything because she definitely wasn’t thinking to get her keys, and I saw a gun on the entry table with the clip full of bullets lying next to it.  I SAW A GUN ON THE ENTRY TABLE WITH THE FULLY LOADED CLIP LYING NEXT TO IT.  It is now 7:55 a.m.   

So, I start my 4/20 smoking a bowl out of necessity, not luxury and after I reboiled the water and finally made my coffee, I didn’t have enough creamer to make it that perfect delicious, which is so annoying, so the only thing I knew how to do to shake this off (and I learned this from my mother, if you can believe it) is clean, so I’m cleaning. Cushions-off-the-couch, attachments-out for the Dyson. I need to burn off some steam—on account I just saw a cat die and a gun at the ready.  Shit.  I’m having an impromptu Chipotle dinner tonight because where else would one finish this kind of day?  I’m going to try the off-menu ‘quesa-rrito’ which is when you ask the Burrito Artist to make you a quesadilla and then they open it up after the melt and turn it into a burrito. You fucking heard me.  Sorry about not having a real column next week, provided there are no other ridiculously horrific distractions that come up along the way.  Happy Friday.  You may be at work right now while I’m stoned in my living room, but at least you didn’t see a dead-ish cat.  Get after it, and know I love you regardless of the decisions you make; that’s not true, my love is conditional, but consequences are not, they’re inevitable, as such, it behooves you to make good choices.

Hey all- 

So last week I needed to push my agenda and bleeding-heart liberalism on you all, and for that I apologize.  This week has been weird already, but I thought I’d make it even weirder. 

Why? Because I watched Martha Marcy May Marlene.  And now I KNOW ALL ABOUT CULTS. 

Cults are scary, people.  And this movie- an expose on how a cult has critically affected the life and mental health of a beautiful young girl- is an expose into cultitude.  Oh man, AND I’m totally sorry I got into it with the Hayden Law! Turns out, it was not overturned, which is a great thing! I hope some of you readers had a hand in that and called those reps and felt fucking superior to everyone around you.

BUT ANYWAY cults- see, the movie is really into showing how that guy from Big Love (TYPECASTING, anyone? What’s his name, oh yeah I have the internet: his name is John Hawkes) likes to kind of woo the not-twin Olsen into doing all sorts of crazy-ass shit, like stealing and having group sex.  But- she’s like, extremely beautiful, so it’s kind of hard to believe that scene where she pisses her pants and hides her sundress between the boxspring and the mattress of her sister’s lake house. Man- do you think after this movie the Olsen Twins had some weird intervention with Elizabeth, like, just to be like, hey, slow down you fucking ROOKIE? Talk to us when you’ve made New York Minute 2? Maybe.  It’s hard to say. 

BUT STILL- the movie loves to showcase Elizabeth Olsen’s 23 year old rack.  And I’m not gay, but I guess I’m cool with that. Speaking of not gay, I just threw my back out while having sex,  which makes me feel strange, like I’m getting old.  But the worst parts are the texts from friends who are all sensitive to my shit, and send me text like, “are you okay?” and all that. Yeah, I’m okay. I ran a marathon like 2 years ago.  I’ll be fine.  Get a life, right?  And Elizabeth Olsen gets a life, kind of, when she runs away to her sister and her sister’s hot British Husband’s lake house,  which is completely furnished by someone who loves to shop at World Market.  World Market, right? Does anybody buy anything there but sometimes snacks and beers of the world? Also, what’s the deal with WORLD MUSIC? Like, everything is fucking world music, if you really fucking think about it.  And, I do. 

BUT ANYWAY, so I’m driving and thinking about the one and only good thing I got at world market- it was a fucking breakfast hutch pillow for my GRANDMOTHER and how World Music isn’t a genre for anyone but my GRANDMOTHER and then I heard three fucking rad songs, all in a row.  Heart’s “Barracuda,” Pink Floyd’s “Comfortably Numb” off The Wall Album and Nirvana’s cover of “The Man Who Sold the World.” Fucking amazing, right? Just like The shorts of Jan Svankmeyer, but not like my Volkswagen Beetle’s dashboard, which is unusually large. 

Anyhow, cults are for crazy people. 

You’re Welcome,

Rebecca

I know Rebecca Leib is our resident Haiku master, however I’ve had a shitty week and thought I’d try some art as therapy, booze no longer working.

Haikus to an LA Landlord:

My landlord be whack

If I get murdered, twas him

I totes promise you

***

The heater is broke

No, I don’t want your long johns

You give me the creeps

***

Look out the window

It is that guy, the Landlord

Just skulkin’ around

***

Sometimes trees just grow

It’s not my fault that they’re big

Blame sun not sprinklers

***

Finally…

Here’s a recipe

It is scrambled like you are

Pun is intended

Perfectly Scrambled Eggs

(Something else we brought back from France. The scrambled eggs there are more labor intensive but worth it. Constant stirring over very low heat makes little curds and an almost custard -like texture. Divine. By the way, that poetry DID make me feel better.)

Serves 1

2 large eggs brought to room temperature (this is very important!)

1 tablespoon of butter

Salt and pepper to taste

A pinch of paprika

Crack room temperature eggs in a mixing bowl and stir to just combine, not aerate. Add salt and pepper. It is best to cook just two eggs at a time but you can do more if you’d like.

Meanwhile melt one tablespoon of butter in a skillet over the lowest heat setting possible. Once butter is melted, add eggs, If the eggs start to cook on contact the skillet is too hot! We are talking very low heat here.

Start stirring the eggs in a circular motion with a rubber spatula. Never stop stirring, this is what creates the lovely curd texture. Keep stirring until eggs thicken and start to change color, about 3-4 minutes.

Once eggs are almost done, but still slightly runny, remove from heat and serve. Eggs will continue to cook.

Sprinkle with a pinch of paprika.

I’ve been thinking a lot about cults this week, so I was all fucking queued up to write up some shit about cults n’ cult life.  But that’s going to have to wait, folks, because there’s some important shit we have to take care of, like, now. 

As you know, I hate most people.  BUT I LOVE ANIMALS- especially animals in the great state of California! 

Let me explain:

There’s something called “The Hayden Law,” (established in 1998) and it’s in danger of being repealed.  This law requires California shelters to hold animals a MINIMUM of 4-6 days before being eligible for Euthanasia,  requires shelter animals to be treated humanely, and that shelters be open during required hours so that the animals have maximum visibility (this law demands shelters be opened on weekend afternoons, for example). 

If the law is repealed, California shelters would not be regulated and would have only 72 hours before they could Euthanize an animal.  Which isn’t THE BIGGEST DEAL IN THE WORLD, IN THE GRAND SCHEME OF THINGS. Right? There’s a lot of money going into these shelters and the reality is,  animals have to be put down, right?  RIGHT. 

BUT:

What this law DOES is discourage people setting up shady nonprofits designed as rescue facilities, and hold pounds and shelters up to a high level of practice.  It also gives lost pets a slightly longer chance of reconnecting their owners, rather getting lost in the dangerous shuffle of shelter pets. And the health thing. And the medical attention thing. And the visibility thing. 

If you don’t believe me, read the full bill.  Here’s a link to the legislation itself: http://www.leginfo.ca.gov/pub/97-98/bill/sen/sb_1751-1800/sb_1785_bill_19980923_chaptered.html

The Hayden repeal will be up for a second vote by the Senate Budget Sub-Committee, this Wednesday, April 11, 2012! That’s TOMORROW! 

So fucking show your support for the bill! There are three steps to take: 

1. Sign this petition: http://www.seniorpooch.com/2012/01/prevent-repeal-of-critical-provisions.html

2.  Call some fucking senators.  It takes five minutes, so don’t be an asshole:  

• Senator Joe Simitian, Chair of Sub-Committee: (916) 651-4011.
• Senator Jean Fuller, committee member: (916) 651-4018.
• Senator Alan Lowenthal, committee member: (916) 651-4027
  

Say that you’re calling in regards to the Hayden Law being repealed, and that you are opposed to it.  They’ll ask for your name and city (which you will give them, or not. I don’t care) and then they forward the information.  Simple! 

3.  Feel good about yourself. If you complete these first two steps, I COMMAND YOU To have a glass of expensive Merlot from your great Aunt’s winery, and gloat in front of your friends because you are a good person and they, most likely, are not. 

You’re Welcome,

Rebecca

I knew what I was gonna talk to you about the other day, and then, on the Today Show, I saw this whole thing about the British blogger lady who is lamenting her rough life on account of her good looks, and I couldn’t not address it.  I just couldn’t let this one go without having a chat with y’all bitches about what this kind of Lady means to our collective reputation. 

One super easy and relevant topic comes to mind:  Granting women access to The Master’s Golf Club.  I didn’t realize that Ladys weren’t allowed there—or that it was an issue—until I was watching the Nightly News with Brian Williams this past week (I learned a lot from various NBC news programs over the past few days).  And, I’ve gotta be straight with you, I’m not bothered by it in the least.  There are other clubs; Ladys, we can go there.  Leave the Mans to their green jackets.  I’m sure there is another war on sexism that can be waged somewhere else; this needn’t occupy our time.  More to the point, Ladys have a bad rep.  We just do.  We do it to ourselves, though, and when your rep precedes you, people don’t generally want you around.  I can understand the Mans at Augusta National not wanting us all up in their joint.  I don’t want most of y’all up in my joint.  And now, Miss All That And a Bag of Chips in the UK has solidified our place in this category.  I’m not so sure about you, but I don’t wanna be anywhere near being a woman after reading her drivel.  Which brings me to her drivel (do yourself a favor:  http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-2124246/Samantha-Brick-downsides-looking-pretty-Why-women-hate-beautiful.html ).  I have an overall problem with Ladys who think they’re hot shit.  Mainly because the ones who do, aren’t.  Ever.  Or even remotely so.  I have to admit something to you…humbly:  I’m not dumb or blind, therefore, I know I’m not a complete troll.  Before yesterday, I’d’ve never verbalized it or written an article about it or brought it up outside the confines of my subconscious, but based on empirical data and tremendously good genes, I think I can say that I’ve come out on top—and don’t worry, I can also very openly say I went through high school, college and most of my 20s as empirically unattractive.  I can claim both points honestly and objectively.  That said, the Mans don’t ask me out or buy me drinks or compliment anything aside from my car or make an effort to recognize me in any way whatsoever.  Ever.  Ev. Er.  I repeat:  The Mans all but don’t know I exist, and if they do, they certainly don’t tell me about it.  I wouldn’t say that if it weren’t true because it’s not a particularly flattering or boastful thing to say.  Rather, it’s kinda embarrassing, but it’s the truth.  And I think maybe there’s a slight touch of resentment I have towards ugly bitches because I wonder how the fuck they get guys, but then I remember some fun facts you learn when you have brothers:  Men are indiscriminant.  Further, guys are more likely to roll up to a lady who is far less than all-that because it’s an easier target.  And if The Hunger Games taught us anything, it’s that being an easy target doesn’t usually play in your favor at the end of the day—and you should always want the odds to be in your favor.  If you have ever ever ever ever ever ever ever verbalized any place other than your head how attractive you feel yourself to be, or how jealous other women should be/would be/already are of you, then you are—assuredly—not as attractive as you think.  Pretty women don’t speak of their pretty.  Just like people with real money don’t speak of their wealth.  As it happens, the woman who wrote the article isn’t as remarkably attractive as she thinks.  I can’t imagine anyone would ever turn around to look twice, quite frankly, which is why she wrote the article on herself, and someone else didn’t write about her.  We ain’t jealous, honey, we’re just confused as to how no one ain’t never slapped you silly yet.  There is no moral to this story.  Either you agree or you don’t, so I’ve either made my point, or I haven’t.      

And another thing—and the original topic for this week’s column before The Most Beautiful Woman in the World reared her ugly head:  Dating.  Since I know we’ve talked about this before, I won’t spend too much time here.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again and again and again, dating is moot.  I went on one a few weeks ago.  A set up.  But I was set up by the most legit friend ever in the universe, so it passed through so many filters of knowledge that it was sure to be a sure thing.  Except that it wasn’t the least bit a sure thing.  In fact, it was an immediately unsure thing.  Immediately.  Not a bad thing, by any means, but  nothing that would ever become something.  The date never needed to happen because the chemistry was never there.  Like any date ever; you can tell right away, making the date itself an exercise in spending unnecessary money.  Wanna know what we all do daily?  Date.  Sometimes, I’ll date fifteen times a day…the guy in line behind me at the market, the barista, the guy here for a 2-o’clock interview, the guy dropping off sunglasses his buddy left at his house.  And sometimes, I wish for the 12-second conversation to turn into a lifetime of happiness—shit, especially when that one guy stops for s date.  But 99.9% of the time, I want the 12-seconds to be over so the date can be over.  You know how when you go out to dinner, your waiter is either dope or an asshole, and you don’t need him or her to get to the specials before you’ve decided how you feel, and you spend the whole dinner either praying said waiter hasn’t spit in your food, or excited to tip generously or leave your number…?  Dating is exactly the same.  Chemistry is chemistry, whether it’s platonic or romantic, short-lived or long-term, and it’s there right away, or it isn’t.  Dating just isn’t my jam; I don’t like it.  I’m not, like, upset about it, though.  It’s a choice.  It’s like dancing.  I don’t dance.  Not my thing.  But I’m not miserable.  I’m at the table having a drink and watching the purses.  I’m fine, really.  I dunno how many Mans you’ve met in your day, but I think we can all agree that when a dude wants something, he goes for it.  Balls to the wall, all in, no fucking around.  He’ll make damn sure and take what he wants.  The Ladys are by  no means an exception.  If a guy wants you, he’ll come get you.  I promise.  I have a hard and fast rule that I will not make the first move.  That shit is the Mans’ job, and it sets a bad precedent when the Lady does it.  I also don’t think I’m destined to die alone.  All these things combined makes for a logical argument and I prefer to defer to logic every time, because, for most of you, emotion gets in the way of realizing you’re actually happy much of the time.  You heard me.  I’m very patient, in no hurry and very sure that my time will come.  In the meantime, I’m kickin’ it and so thankful I have this time, because when that one guy—the right guy—finally decides to ask me the fuck out, it’ll be forever, and forever is a long-ass time to not be alone doing whatever I do whenever I want to do it like I do how I do.

Okay, enough.  All this talk about how Mama hates being lumped together with undesirable women and dating undesirable men has me excited to go on a Lady Date tonight with one’a my girls.  A vodka-artichoke-filet night  Shit just got real.  To say I’m excited is an understatement.  So, Imma go.  Think about what I said.  Ladys, get over yourselves, and Men, assert yourselves; we’re waiting, and not as awful as some make us look.  Whatever you choose to do, choose wisely, and know there’ll be a result, good or bad, and you’ll need to deal with it, now or later.  Speaking of later, I’ll see you brats in a couple of weeks.    

When I was in elementary school I started to get teased a lot because I had hairy arms. Still do. The kids called me gorilla arms. So my mom took pity on me and secretly started to Nair my arms to get rid of the hair. So they were SILKY smooth like a lady’s leg! Which at the time, I thought was this amazing act of compassion. But in hindsight, probably wasn’t the best way to deal with the situation – you know, cause I was seven and because Nair is POISON!

Like I dont know if you’ve ever used the stuff before but it fucking burns; it hurts! Also it makes your hair shrivel up like some sort of nightmarish melted plastic spaghetti. It’s horrifying.

Also… a completely hairless arm? Far creepier than a hairy one - just in general - It looks off.

So my dad finds out, I don’t remember how – probably caught his reflection in my gleaming hairless body - and he gets into a fight with my Mom about it. I remember hearing the whole thing from the next room. He was like, “You can’t just Nair her arms cause kids are teasing her; it sends the wrong message. She needs to accept herself for who she is.”

Which is true!

And then he goes… “What are we gonna do when kids start teasing her about her gigantic lips?”

So I shaved my arms until I was in high school. Which, if you’ve ever thought about doing, don’t. It’s a horrible idea. Let’s just put it this way… explaining forearm stubble - actually a lot more embarrassing than the original problem. F -Y- I. I mean, either way you’re wearing long sleeves.

Shaved Fennel Salad with Orange and Toasted Pistachio

Serves 4

Adapted from http://www.chow.com/recipes/11565-shaved-fennel-and-pistachio-salad

2 medium bulbs of fennel, sliced very thin, fennel fronds set aside

1/2 cup toasted and salted pistachios

2 tablespoons good olive oil

1 tablespoons fresh squeezed lemon

1/2 teaspoon finely grated lemon zest

1/2 teaspoon finely grated orange rind

3/4 cup orange sections (about two large oranges)

Coarse salt and pepper to taste

Combine and toss all the above ingredients in a large bowl until fennel is coated. Season with coarse salt and ground black pepper. Lightly sprinkle with fennel fronds for garnish. Serve immediately or refrigerate for up to 1 day.

You know, sometimes, eloquence escapes me.  Completely.  Sometimes, I just want to rant and/or rave and not have to worry about a thesis statement, a segue or a conclusion paragraph.  It’s possible this is one of those times, for, this past week, I was chatting with one of my girls and as she walks away, she turns and comes back and goes:  “We’re so angry.”  She was right.  There wasn’t a single word we exchanged that was positive or a part of a solution or a sentiment of kindness.  We spent a solid 10 minutes supportively venting to one another over the course of two topics that had enraged us with mutual exclusivity.  When that sort of thing happens, I try to turn it into a column, as y’all are ALWAYS the source of my material.  So, A.) Thanks for being so fucked up and confused all of the time; your input and participation is not lost on me; but B.) I don’t feel like rearranging my thoughts to sound pretty or kind or flowy.  We know one another pretty well, but one thing you may or may not know is that I can be a salty brat sometimes, and y’all, this is one of this times.  

1.)  Do not argue or pick a fight with me (or anyone else).  Ever.  It’s just the dumbest.  My dad has always said that the best position you can be in is one of being underestimated.  I eat it up with a spoon.  Validation is so much sweeter when you let people assume you’re incapable, wrong or weak, and then effortlessly, you shock and awe with behavior that undoes the established perception of you.  That’s why arguing is stupid.  We’ve talked about the power of admitting you’re wrong.  So, if I’m wrong, I’ll say it and stop the discussion before it starts—and if you prove me wrong, I’ll agree with you; I ain’t got no ego, y’all, and I mean it.  And if I’m right, I’ll be right, I don’t need to talk you into it.  You’ll either agree, or be proven wrong, and your realizing you’re wrong is so much more fun for me.  What’s not fun is when the issue is pushed and a battle is waged and I’m asked to fight or argue against my will. I will shut that shit down so fast it’ll make your head spin.  It’s like when you smell fart and you feel the need to bring it up and make it known that it wasn’t you; the person who did it knows s/he did it, and you know you didn’t.  It doesn’t need to be a talking point.  If you have an interest or habit in arguing, fine; more power to you. But do it with someone else, do NOT pick a fight with me.  I ain’t got time in my day or space in my brain for that bullshit.  And, as a follow up to the fact that I will downright concede an argument just to end it, I don’t care to allow it to linger or take control by not being able to move past it.  People disagree, people have moments of tension.  It’s all completely meaningless and superficial (hence the reason it’s so ridiculous) and it doesn’t affect anything having to do with my feeling about the arguer or the fighter.  We’re adults, we should be mature by now, let’s learn to grow up and move on.  Enough with the passive aggression; I’ll not humor that shit, either. 

2.)  Eating habits.  I have talked before about how bitches be weird about they food, and how you just gotta let that go.   I don’t keep food in my house.  MacGuyver couldn’t come up with something to eat at Bungalow Ruppe.  If I wanna eat, I’ll go buy it.  When you have to travel to eat—or meet a delivery minimum—you’re less likely to do it mindlessly.  If I have leftovers after a dinner party, I send them home with guests, or I throw them away.  I don’t snack, or want access to the ability to do so.  I don’t generally eat breakfast or lunch.  Unless I want a chorizo breakfast burrito four days in a row, then I’ll have one because I can…I’ll work it off, been doin’ it for years.  On most days, however, I exist on coffee, iced tea and vodka until it’s dinner time.  On the weekends, I will play 2 hours of tennis, then run errands all day and not eat a single bite of food until 730 p.m. when I’m showered and settled—and by that time, I’ve usually had a cocktail or two.  During the week, I’ll run my 5 miles after work, and eat for the first time all day when I’m done and home and showered and settled.  It works for me.  Not too long ago, someone cautioned me that sushi has a lot of carbs.  For real?  What about me makes you think I give a shit about eating a carbohydrate?  Leave it alone.  I eat a tostada salad at a Mexican restaurant because it’s an easier-to-eat burrito, not because I think it’s a salad.  I eat rare beef constantly because that’s what I crave and I don’t give a flying fuck if it’ll kill me early (though it won’t).  I haven’t had so much as a cold since 2005, I haven’t had a zit since I was 15, I have freakishly low blood pressure and I don’t wear sunscreen because Vitamin D is what keeps us all alive.  I don’t need you to critique what I’m eating, how I’m eating, when I’m eating or whether I’m eating too much or not enough.  That’s my business, not yours.  You heard me.  Especially since the most vocal of kids today are into this new thing called the Coachella Diet.  Really?  A diet to go to a music festival in the middle of the desert with 300,000 of your closest friends?  Seriously?  It’s not Spring Break ‘96 in Panama City, it’s a concert.  I can’t even deal.  You’re a vegetarian on Monday, and indulging in chicken by Friday.  You go to spin classes for a month, and then the dream quickly dies because class is “sooooooo earrrrrrrlyyyyy.”  I promise not to call you a fool to your face about your always-changing dietary lifestyles, if you promise to never attempt to advise me on what I do or don’t eat.  Knock it off. 

Oooooh, speaking of knocking it off, I’m gonna do just that—knock a few back.  Well, not right away, in a few hours.  Kimmie and I have a date and then I have a weekend of tennis, the mothafuckin’ Hunger Games movie and brunch with a few bitches from the good ole days.  It’s a banner weekend, for sure.  I’m sorry I had to be a little angry today.  It’s never my intention to be put-offy, but sometimes y’all put me off in a big way, and my good attitude only stretches so far before it straight up snaps in half.  I don’t’ love you any less than I did before, though, so don’t take it personally.  Unless, you’re gonna, then there is nothing I can do about that.  I’ll catch up with y’all in couple of weeks. Do me a favor and light the place ablaze, will ya, so I’ve got something more interesting to talk about come then, eh?  I’ll make the good decisions, you go do what you do and we’ll meet right back here in a bit.

Hey faithful readers-

In a scurve and dervish of weed-induced proportions, last night I accidentally ate a whole tub of my children’s bear-shaped muti-vitamin chewables.  Which means two things:

1. I’m feeling really fucking GREAT.

AND

2. The tub of vitamins cost me about 15 dollars, which means that at 250 vitabears per tub,  each little chewy mammal cost me about six cents per piece.  That’s a pretty expensive snack, and- after I sobered up- a responsibility that I did not take lightly. 

Which made me think. 

As I took another bong rip, I started thinking about all the things that I spend money on, and decided to talk to my financial advisor (Nubbins) about my expenditures.

Here is a list of what I spend money on, in order of how much I spend, per month:

Rent

Drugs

Alcohol

7/11 Coffee

Health Insurance

Groceries

Library overdue fees

Plan B

Paper (8.5 x 11)

RITE AID makeup

Paper (8.5 x 14)

Fancy perfumes

It’s a real wake-up call, folks. I mean,  Lottery tickets and kitty litter don’t even MAKE THE LIST. I guess I have a lot of thinking to do, and a lot of payote to do it with. 

Oh yeah, while I’m thinking, here’s a list of songs about having sex in dance clubs:

Love In this Club/Usher, Featuring Young Jeezy

Get Low/Lil Jon

On the Floor/Jennifer Lopez, Featuring Pit Bull

Sex Beat/Gun Club

In Da Club/50 Cent

You Can Do It/Ice Cube

I Like That/Luciana

Don’t Play With Me (Run Girl)/Dave Banner

Sex Boy/ Germs

My Neck, My Back (Lick it)/KHIA

Laffy Taffy (Explicit)/D4L

You’re welcome,

Rebecca

(to get the playlist on Spotify, go here:  http://open.spotify.com/user/129452982/playlist/6cPxCM7yeS4UUMXh47iFKk)

In the glamorous adventure that is my life, I just got back from Paris. Here is what I learned:

The French eat a lot of butter. A lot.

It is okay to start drinking red wine at breakfast.

My French is worse than I thought.

The French thought I was worse than I thought.

When someone hates you they really do say “Oohlala!”

To be fair, the nasty looks could have been due to the fact that my Fiance and I parked ourselves in front of the Mona Lisa for a good 45 minutes. Doing this.

All in all, it was a wonderful trip and the food was awesome. Although I’m usually full-up on the self-loathing, Paris. But thanks for reminding me I’m terrible.

Parisian Ham and Brie Sandwich (simple, elegant, better than you)

The nicest ham you can find (Really, the jambon in Paris is insane. If you can get your hands on some use that, otherwise sub-in prosciutto.)

One fresh baguette (Super fresh and local is the name of the game here.)

A good triple crème brie

Butter

Fresh basil

Assemble the sandwich then imagine you are strolling down the Champs Elysees, smoking a cigarette and coughing in people’s faces.

P.S. I really did love Paris.

Hey gentle readers,

I just went to Jumbo’s Clown Room for my friends birthday, and broke some shit down for him, which I also plan on doing with y’all. We are talking about finding good strip clubs, and what strip clubs really take to be visitable, let alone pleasurable. 

You see, I’m no mathematician, but I AM a genius.  So, I devised a formula that I promptly and drunkenly wrote down and shared with everyone.  It goes a little something like this:

It’s pretty fucking simple-  B, or average numerical cup size (the 34 of a 34B)  plus the average alphabetical cup size, shown here as L, plus H, which is the average length of hair extensions.  L is shown on this scale, and is added in a graduation of tens based on ascending cup size.  When you get into double DD’s, you don’t multiply, but keep adding. For example, 

A Cup=10, B Cup=20, C Cup=30, D= 40 DDD=120

Of course, you have to use your own discretion when determining averages. 

But I digress. No wait- I don’t.  I’m just explaining. Let me continue…

All of this is multiplied by A, which is the ATM convenience fee, and divided by the average cost of a Coors Lite (CL). Then, add the number of times a Britney Spears song is played (VB), and you’ve got a sum. 

So, let’s say you went to a strip club with girls with an average of 34 B cup, 12 inch hair extensions, a 7 dollar ATM convenience fee and a six buck Coors Lite, and you had to endure three Britney Spears dance routines, your formula would look something like this:

(7(34+20+12)/6)+3=  80

I would not go back to this strip club.

A GOOD strip club will put you anywhere from 20-40, but a shit strip club will be in the 60-80 range. 

So beware, readers, and let’s start using this so none of us will be wasting precious titty time. 

You’re welcome from A PUBLISHED MATHEMATICIAN,

R.

The one and only man on SSFB campus.  You have wrote in, often and vigorously, and Colin Hughes has answered. 

Ladies and B*tches….

QUESTION:

Are guys in comedy more or less f*cked up than guys in other vocations?

ANSWER:

As a comedian I think that this is a misnomer.

I spent nearly 6 years as a sales manager for a small company. There were times when I would wake up at 5am, be out of the house within a half hour and not return home until 7pm. At that point I would jump on my computer, plan the following day, do some paperwork, and eventually go to bed. I would do this 6, sometimes 7 days a week. At one point a coworker and I had each worked 30-some-odd-days in a row without having a day that was less than 10 hours.

We were crazy. At the same time though, Vitamin Water had just sold for billions, BILLIONS!!!! of dollars and if we played our cards right, with the stocks we had vested already, we could stand to make 4-5 million ourselves, if our company had sold for even a fraction of what Coke purchased Vitamin Water for. If we pushed hard enough today, we could retire tomorrow. Or so we thought.

Since then, we’ve both been fired, the company sold and nobody made a fucking penny. Not even the people still with the company.

Did we waste our time? Perhaps. Does this have anything to do with your question? Absolutely. Am I answering my own questions like Donald Rumsfeld? Yes, and I’m sorry. What I’m trying to say is that passion can make people a little crazy. The thing about making millions of dollars with our drink company was so far from the front of our mind when we were at our most insane. All we could think about was being the best sales reps and making the company the best beverage company ever.

Now take that same passion and apply it to a profession that is as naked as anything in the world. There is no marketing team to support you. No CEO to direct you. It’s just you and a microphone and some poop jokes. The “insanity” of stand-ups exist in all fields. All of them. Lawyers are driven to be the best they can, as are doctors, teachers, etc. The difference is that you didn’t grow up knowing stand-ups. If, however, you grew up knowing a sole-proprietor of some small company, think about that person. It’s the business equivalent of a comedian.

If however you were talking about improvisors the question was formatted wrong because improv isn’t a vocation. It’s a vacation in every sense of the word. People are paying to have fun. The only difference is that everyone on the beach is looking at you and waiting for you to say something clever.

To ask YOUR Question to Colin- email saysomethingfunnybtch@gmail.com.  And read more Colin on twitter @colinhughesLA.