Ell Oh Well

LOL- Lets talk about this. Certainly I’m not the only one here who believes that this is the most overused, most misused, most heinous abbreviation between here and Uranus.

The overuse of the LOL has become an epidemic. It’s like people’s fingertips are stuck on repeat, after every absurd sentence they type or text they have to follow up with an LOL as if it were a period. The only people that LOL as much as you claim to, are Tickle Me Elmo and a live studio audience. It’s unnatural and you’re crying wolf, you Ding Dong! If it’s all LOL’s with you, how’s someone going to know when you really think something’s funny. C’mon man, break the mold, say “Ha Ha!” or “That’s funny.” The fact that there’s more than 3 letters in there might make you stop and think if it’s really that funny, if it even deserves a reactive response. 

More than the overuse of the LOL, it’s the misuse that gets me. Perhaps the most perturbing part is that I know that you are not fucking LOLing. Nope, you are not laughing out loud all by your lonesome. Don’t try to play me for a fool, fool! I know that you are not sitting in your cubicle, or standing in line at Arby’s or doing your court-ordered community service laughing out loud. There’s just no fucking way! You are a LIAR! I don’t like liars.

Then there are three types of LOLers that really ruffle my feathers. The people that say LOL after something they wrote that they think is funny. Well pat yourself on the back why don’t ya, you big egotistical bastard! Don’t you know you’re not supposed to laugh at your own jokes, it totally takes the funny out, dummy! LOL becomes particularly ridiculous verbiage if you are of the male gender. For you, a simple “Ha” will suffice. What’s masculine about “I’m walking into the gym LOL. Arms and back today LOL. Call ya later babe LOL.” Ummm… NOTHING! Nothing bro, there’s absolutely NOTHING manly or masculine about LOL. Now I picture you in the locker room all giggly giggling with a bunch of naked men. Just don’t.  Lastly there's these people, "LOLOLOLOLOLOLOL."  Oh... my... GAWD, control your frantic fingers you fucking spaz!  You are seriously freaking me out, it's like digital tourettes and it has to stop.  Thank you.

OMG, you ask? Oh, OMG away! OMG to your little hearts content. Just keep your LOL’s away from me!


Seeeeeee???  Ludicrous.
*note: my apologies for any offended LOLers, tough love.

Being A Chick Is Cool

I love being a girl, I really do. Over the years I’ve discovered an abundance of incredible perks to being a chick. Don’t fret, this is not about to be several feministic paragraphs that make you want to barf all over your new shoes. I just like my chromosomes for some magnificently petty reasons and I would like to share a couple, no big.
I’d have to say one of the biggest perks about being a broad is the opportunity to carry a purse, by far one of the greatest things that a girl can have. I’m almost positive the purse was invented by a really hungry gal because I’m certain the purse’s original function was to serve as a convenient hiding place for snacks. The size of my purse is directly related to how hungry I am. A purse is also a powerful weapon. I’ve been in a few impervious street fights in my day where I have had to punish some pretty hard core ninjas and my bag was the sole reason for my victories. The purse also serves as a magical “in case of emergency” goody bag. I have things in my purse that could turn me into MacGyver in two shakes of a little lamb’s tail. You just never know when a monocle, a Thigh Master, Mexican Jumping Beans and a stick of dynamite are gonna come in handy.
Another stupendous thing about being a lady is the option to change your entire fucking identity with make up. I could literally go into the witness protection program in an hour without changing anything but my name and my eyeshadow, literally. And when a dude gets a zit, his only option is to commit himself to solitary confinement and splatter Noxema all over his face; when I get a blemish, that is a confidentiality agreement between me and my concealer that has never been breached. See? Fucking rocks being a chick!
Know what else is great about having a hoo ha?  It means I have options. I can choose to be the 5’ 2” short stack that I am (and I like it down here,) or be anywhere between 1 to 6 inches higher up. You catch a bro with options like that you better hope you’re at Barnum and Baily’s.
Really, the only thing I think dudes have that are cooler then girls are those short cut underwear, ya know the one’s with a slide to the side that allows for quicker urination. Not that I would choose to wear underwear like that if they made them for females, but just knowing I have the option would be nice.

Deep thoughts today. lylys

Neighborly Advice

I'm sitting on my deck in the heart of suburbia on a warm Saturday, coffee in hand, book in my lap, taking in some morning sun. My elusive neighbor, whom I've never seen before, finally makes her debut with her maaah-jorly annoying bush whacker, or weed cutter, or noise maker… whatever, I'm not a fucking gardner. Fine, Mystery Neighbor, trim your bushes if you must. But that's not all she's doing. She's screaming at her lackluster, annoying voiced children. I'm no mother and I'm sure I lack any profound motherly advice yet I know this for sure. If you're going to furrow your brow under that stupid visor you're wearing and yell at your kids, take it inside, lady! I say this on behalf of the entire neighborhood and probably your husband, you already look crazy enough in that ridiculous hat, waving around that power tool! Now you're screaming at your kids? You look like a suburban version of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre and if you haven't noticed your little monsters don't take you seriously at all. Who would, with those ill-fitting pleated shorts and that RIDICULOS pink visor you probably got from your sorority in '92. I'm sure I'd be pissed off too if that ugly visor had my temples in a vice grip and my husband was making me do yard work but that's when you take your cue and dust of your margarita machine, grab your headphones and lock yourself in the bathroom like any respectable mother would do. Get a grip desperate housewife, that or a new wardrobe and some Xanax. And judging by your outfit, maybe when your husband asked you to trim the bushes, he wasn't talking about the ones in front of your house. Just some neighborly advice, that's all.

Are You Ticklish?

I hope so because I think I’d like to tickle your ears with a little noise this morning. An eclectic mix tape, this one, each track has been chosen carefully and each one equal to (if not better than) breakfast in bed, specifically pancakes. Goochie goochie goo…
Are You Ticklish? by littlelindsb
Click to Download This Mix Tape

Shit Happens

If you've ever asked yourself why I cuss like a fuckin’ sailor, today is your lucky day! I have always had a dirty mouth of sorts due in part to HBO. We had it ever since it was available on Time Warner which was when I was at the highly impressionable, ripe old age of 8. I used to put my karaoke machine up in my open bedroom window, duck down and yell cuss words that I had learned into the microphone. They would echo throughout our conservative neighborhood and no one knew where the booming blasphemy was coming from, it was fucking awesome! But my "trash mouth," as my mom calls it, started well before HBO had flourished.
I was not brought up by four older brothers, nope not me, but Katy my best friend since Kindergarten Round Up was. Not that she was "brought up" by them, they were not a pack of wolves. But she was the youngest of five and the first four were dudes. Anyhoo, I think that's where I was first exposed to the vocabulary I have grown accustom to and quite found of. I find that my foul langauge pretty much work it's way into any sentence except, "And that's why I'd be the best candidate for this position" and "Forgive me Father for I have sinned" (I'm not Catholic so I have never said that anyway.)
I specifically recall an early happenstance in which I learned the power and freedom of my untapped arsenal of curse words. Let me take you back to the first grade... where I was robbed of my innocence (displayed above.) It was Field Day, that in and of itself is reason enough for any level-headed 6 year old to awake and scream "Shit yeah" before they leggo their Eggo, but it wasn't until after I had tightened the drawstring on my Umbros and tucked in my adult medium, Mini Mouse t-shirt that I pulled out the big guns that day.
My best friend Katy and I had been chosen to hold the big giant double doors in the first grade pod so the other kids could shuffle their little Reebok Pumps on through with ease. Why I felt it was better to hold the door for people rather than have it held for me is absolutely astonishing to me now, but I wasn’t the only one that vied for this righteous door-holding position at that point in life. Katy and I proudly sauntered out the classroom door and through the coat wracks to take our powerful positions, each of us propping our tiny bodies against the honorable, heavy wooden doors. We waited, and waited and there was no pitter patter of annoying first grader feet in the distance. We waited for like 10 minutes which is an hour in kid time. I deemed it necessary to take this time to have a very serious discussion with my best friend. I asked Katy if she ever cusses when she’s by herself to which she answered “yes” with a guilt stricken look on her little freckled face.
“Do you ever use the S-H word? That’s my favorite,” I whispered.
"You mean shit?” she whispered back.
“Shit.” I reply as my vocals come up to a three-inch voice, verifying the meaning of ‘S-H’ with a nod.
Katy looks both ways down the long hallway for oncoming midget traffic “Shit,” she says matching my decibels.
“Shit,” I reply, hoisting my Umbros. “Shit,” the volume of my voice getting progressively louder, in cahoots with my confidence.
“Shit,” Katy competes, throwing her hands over her pie hole in an effort to control her loud, contagious laughter. Katy was a competitor and I knew this, and I knew what I was up against since she had the four older brothers and was two-and-a-half months my senior.
At this point my laughter was out of control yet I manage to get another lob over the net, “SHIT!” I belt out down the long, empty hallway with impressive acoustics, the echo driving me into a frenzy. “Oh shit!” I said, it was evident I was no longer playing the game. “Oh shit, Katy! I just peed a little.”
“Me too!” Katy managed to get out between bouts of laughter “Shit, me too!”
Game over. Slowly we walk away from our posts towards the nurses office, our Umbros dampened, confidence a blazin’, large doors slowly and theatrically closing behind us. Laughing all the way to the nurses office, I turn to Katy just before we enter, shrug my shoulders and say, “At least we didn’t fuckin' shit ourselves.”