Hodge-Podge Reality Doo-Wop Compilation Blog Remix: Volume 3.0

Welp, Jamie Lee Curtis and our friends at Activia have done it again! Staying true to their “didn't really think that one through” theme, Activia brings you Activia Dessert. The probiotic marketing team chose “a wonderful ending to your dinner” as the new yogurt’s slogan. While we all have our different variation on “wonderful endings” I’m sure most of us can agree that shitting your pants at the dinner table isn’t one of them. A+ you fucking idiots, keep’em coming.

Only YOU can help prevent Bieber Fever

-Know what I can’t wait for?  Justin Bieber’s biopic movie!  I have never been more excited about spending $12 in my life.  I have big plans for opening day involving a Scream mask, a megaphone, red spray paint, stink bombs, Nair, toilet paper, eggs, Super Soakers, an alibi and a good lawyer.   
-Tabloids: who are these jokers? Did you know some wise guy made up that my Snookie kicked the bucket a couple weeks ago? MADE IT UP! What are they trying to do, kill me!?! The Snook is not dead, I follow her on Twitter, homegirl’s alive and kickin’. But this little scare just reminded me how grateful I am for Snookers and just how much I love that little meatball. Sometimes you need to think people are dead to realize how much you appreciate them, ya know?
-Hey Taco Bell, 35% real meat?  Really guys?  Good luck to you and your future endeavors.  Better start thinking back inside the bun, people.
-And hey Jared from Subway, do you even have a real job anymore? 
-Playboy makes perfume now. Why the fuck would anyone wanna smell like a Playboy? Vom.

-In the last 2 days I have had troubles opening a pickle jar, opening a bottle of nail polish, removing snow from my car and spooning myself. It may be time for a monkey... or a boyfriend.

-Whatever happened to Blossom? She must be rolling over in her grave because hats are so IN right now. She’s dead right? Or just her career?

-I am this close to boycotting bagels and donuts altogether. Who’s the funny guy who decided it would be a good idea to punch a hole in my food and where the fuck does it go, huh? Are they just throwing the middle away? I know a lot of people who would love to eat the middle and I’m one of them. Dickheads.

-Jessica Cutler – The Washingtonienne

Perhaps I am the last to learn of this 6 year old sex scandal, I’m not big on sluts or politics so I’m not surprised I was in the dark. However, a girlfriend of mine turned me on to this little drama on the Hill recently and I’m so intrigued. This Jessica Cutler girl is a fucking nightmare! A hot mess, a walking shit show with serious daddy issues. I fucking love her! This broad worked in the Senate office, carried on multiple kinky-weird relationships within the office and blogged in detail about her sexcapades in an X-rated blog. She kept complete anonymity for like 15 days then someone found her out, blew her cover and the ho got canned in a hot minute. I mean, the stuff she writes… you cannot make this shit up. It’s un-fucking-real. Bitch has a book out now, I’m buying it ASAP… in paperback and on tape. Below is the link to her daily postings, you should definitely familiarize yourself if you haven’t already.

The Lost Washingtonienne

-To the weirdos with foot fetishes... I'm on to you.  Did you know that I can find out where my traffic comes from on my blog via search words?  Did you know that I have caught you looking at my feetsies from your mom's basement?  Did you know that's fucking sick?  This is Live From the 4th Floor, not Live From the Foot Whore.  This is a satirical blog about, well... pleople like you!  Get off my walkers and get a job ya creep! 

(note: the search word)

lylys

Public Service Announcement: Pajama Jeans

Oh jeeezus, where do I begin? If you own a pair of Pajama Jeans, or have so much as thought about owning a pair, consider this an electronic thump to your forehead. These things are the modern day version of tapered drawstring sweat pants. Sure, they might be comfortable to sleep in, and sure people sport these in public but does that mean you should? The answer, my friends, is FUCK NO. Let’s put it this way, if it can be bought on television, it should not be worn... ever. No, not even in the privacy of your own home, you’re just setting yourself up to look stupid, fat and lazy.

Pajama Jeans suggests that it’s “a struggle to fit into ordinary jeans, they’re uncomfortable and leave marks on your skin.” Folks, if you feel this way about your jeans this means one thing and one thing only… you need to go up a size, Tubby! Pajama Jeans also suggests that they fit every figure like a sexy second skin. Trust me, not every figure needs a "second skin."  "Second skins" are not always sexy… shit the sound of "second skin" sounds like a term you would hear in a burn unit.  In general we should all try to divert from "second skins" of any kind, capeesh?

If you’ve already purchased your Pajama Jeans, there’s good news for you. You have 60 days to figure out you look fucking stupid and you can still get your $39.95 back. Shit, I’d pay $39.95 to have HazMat clear that hazardous material out of my house. Hazardous to what you ask? Oh I don’t know, your reputation, your dignity, your family name… the list goes on and on.

Now I know what you’re thinking, “but it comes with a free gray crewneck T-shirt, Lindsey.” Stop it! If you must don a cheap, ugly, gray crewneck suitable for an 8 year old you can pick one up at Old Navy for about 69 cents. I know that seems like a fortune but the best things in life are not always free. I also understand that you wouldn't want to be caught dead at Old Navy but that’s the price you must pay for ugly clothing. Sorry.

Basically the only good reason to purchase a pair of Pajama Jeans is if you want to give a pair to your girlfriend so that she breaks up with you… if that’s the case, go for it! I’d actually pay $39.95 to watch that mini soap opera play out as well.

Do I need to delve further into this? Do we need to revisit the Snuggie fiasco of 2009? I didn’t think so.

Just say no to Pajama Jeans.
lylys

Free Shit Is The Shit!

I’m well aware I’ve been off the map as far as music goes lately. One of my favorite parts about doing Live From the 4th Floor is showering you with gifts (i.e. free music, my wits, charm, undeniable wisdom and my love... awww.) However, I’ve been getting in some trouble with my “file cloud” (ahem… I won’t name names.) Fucking music police have been raining on my parade, flooding my inbox with emails slapping my little copyright infringing wrists and “opening cases” on me. So I’m going rogue!

Today I’m going to spoil the shit out of you with one big, fat, diversified, clandestine mix tape. There’s a little for your Yin and a little for your Yang. In other words, a little for your Party and a little for your Peace. Just think of it as me, crawling inside your head having a dirty makeout sesh with your ear drums and spooning you afterwards. I’m so nice it makes me sick!
*The songs on the PodSnack below… that’s just a taste test. Look in Door Number 2 you will find a surprise. Get it while it’s hot (and free) suckas!  And don't say I never did anything for you.

DOOR NUMBER 2
(CLICK)

lylys

In Yo Facebook

It seems as though some of our Facebook friends have a bit of a skewed take on the Facebook world.  I have taken the time to compile a small list of Do's and Don'ts to help out you and your fellow Facebookers.  Now I know this might be a little harsh, perhaps a bit hard to grasp at first but trust, if you just follow a few of these simple guidelines you're sure to be less of an electronic mornon.  You'll thank me later.

THE DO's

DO: post interesting video and links to keep others entertained at work. Side note: DON’T post any more video of that freaky kid who lip-synchs. That midget Milli Vanilli gives me nightmares.
DO: check the upload date on your content. If you’re posting shit from last year, you’re 2000 and late, dude. We’ve all seen ‘David Goes to the Fucking Dentist’! A thousand times. It’s old beans.
DO: try to get a little more creative with your album names, people. If you have an album named “Party in the USA” or “Debauchery” , then you’re one of about 50,000 people with the same name and about as neato as a lemon-flavored Lifesaver (translation= not neato at all.)
DO: Patronize places because you truly want to, not because you’re going to earn some fake Boy Scout badge or become the mayor of Long John fucking Silver on Four Square. 
DO: Mobile Upload, I like it.
DO: poke me if you’re Helen Keller and that’s your only means of communication. Otherwise, just disable the feature completely.
DO: take into consideration what a poke truly is. Nothing good comes in the form of a poke (i.e. “I just poked myself in the eye,” “This stupid tag keeps poking me,” “Hold still you’re just going to feel a little poke,” “Do the hokey pokey,” “We were just slow dancing and it poked me.”) See?

THE DON'Ts

DON'T: put a thumbs up on your own fucking status. Pretty sure if you didn’t like what you said, you wouldn’t have said it in the first place. It's redundant.
DON'T: commentate your whole life on your status. I do not give one, two or three shits what you’re doing all day. I do not need a fucking play by play from your “Good Morning, Starbucks!” to your “Good Night Moon,” I have never and will never wonder what you’re doing when I wake up, or before I go to sleep unless you’re Snookie. I always wanna know what that little monster is up to.
DON’T: air your dirty laundry on your status. If your boyfriend broke up with you and left you with nothing but your Keds and the microwave, it might be because all 932 of your Facebook friends know every intimate detail of your relationship and maybe a little bit because you have Keds too.
DON’T: “check in” places! Primarily because (again) I don’t care where you are, and if I do I’ll just ask you. But also, national crime rates have gone up because robbers know when you aren’t home now, Knuckleheads!
DON’T: be Facebook friends with robbers. Generally speaking, it’s just best to not be friends with robbers anyhow.
DON'T: Play that RID-iculous farm game or mafia game or bejazzled game or any game where you answer questions about me. I do not care how many stacks of hay you have or that you have just knocked off some cyber hooker and became the Don of retarded fake games. Capeesh? And stop answering weird questions about me, it’s creepy.
DON'T: Send me fake cocktails. It really pisses me off for what I think are pretty obvious reasons (obvious reasons being, YOU CAN'T DRINK THEM!) If you can’t understand this, then kindly remove yourself from my friends list.
DON'T: invite me to your wedding, your baby shower, your birthday party, or your BBQ on Facebook. I won’t read it. I won’t take it seriously. I won’t show up. And you won’t get a present.
DON'T: Take pictures of yourself with your shirt off in your bathroom mirror and use it as your Facebook face. If you desperately feel the need to be a giant fucking douche bag, clean your bathroom counter first you filthy bastard.

 Please Facebook responsibly.
lylys

Holiday Gift Guide

While I was on my way to New York last week I decided I would like to get my Christmas shopping done.  But being the sweetheart that I am I’ve taken the liberty of doing YOUR Christmas shopping for YOU… in Sky Mall.

First up is the Wish Wrap.  For a measly $38.99, you too can write stupid shit on a piece of paper and stick it in your “Wish Pocket.”   The Wish Wrap “features a pocket that lets you carry around your fondest wishes wherever you go.”  SkyMall states that you can wear your Wish Wrap at home OR on the town… so if your wish is to look like an asshole then this is the gift for you!  Wish wraps: The Snuggie’s redheaded stepchild. 

Do you have that special man in your life that forgets to take care of himself in the shower and is too lazy to reach under his towel?  Don’t we all?!  Fear not, I’ve got the perfect gift for you, the Men’s Genuine Turkish Wrap.  This is the gift that keeps on giving!  And for only $34.99, you can’t beat that.



Here we have the Ear Spy for $99.99.  Disguised as an innocuous pen holder, the special jackass in your life can now spy on his co-workers from the comfort of his cubicle.  This fine piece of equipment has a 1 year replacement fee of $9.99 or a 2 year of $14.99 just in case it takes you longer than 2 years to figure out that you just dropped a Benjamin on a fucking DIXIECUP pen holder. 

Cherish Lifelike Baby Doll

This year a Cabbage Patch Kid just isn’t gonna cut it so I’ve upped the ante for you.  For a whopping $99.99, exclusively from The Ashton-Drake Galleries (they’re so legit) you can have a real fake baby.  And this fake baby is a collectable.  Do you know what that means?  That means one day you can have a whole collection of fake babies!!!  Weeeeeeeeeeee! 

Just take a look at this gorgeous, pink, mouth watering, finger-licking-good, hunk of… oh wait, that’s a ham?  Oh, right, right.  Spiral City Sliced Ham. $34.00.  Sky Mall.  Ham.  Yeah.



Wine Glass Holder Necklace Thingy - $24.99

When you’ve got one hand in your Wish Pocket and the other in your Turkish pocket, how are you gonna hold your booze? Boy do I have the solution for you!  This fancy schmancey wine holder necklace thingy is perfect for those who just need a drink hanging around their neck.

Welp, that about wraps up my holiday gift giving guide. You're welcome.

hh

lylys









Hodge-Podge Reality Doo-Wop Compilation Blog Remix: Volume 2.0

-Is it just me or do you drive like a fucking banshee the minute hot French fries enter your car? I refuse to eat a cold fry and I refuse to nuke my delicious, golden friends. So inevitably, it becomes a race against the hot French fry (and I always win.)
-I don’t understand people’s obsession with kitty cats and machine guns. That’s just fucking weird, dude.

-#whatthefuckisahashtag?
-I cannot STAND those idiots who ride their Schwinn’s on the street. There’s a fucking side walk right there, Homie!! And I’ve got hot French fries in my car!
-I’m traveling to NYC this week and I’m excited to get a little action. TSA= Touchin’, Squeezin’, AWwwwESOME! I’m going to hide little love letters in a couple inconspicuous places, that way they don’t feel so cheap about the early onset heavy petting.

“Dear TSA Agent Claudia, I love the way you warm your hands up before having your way with me.  Too bad these little pat downs are so one-sided.”

Or “Dear TSA Agent Rhonda, I love that you have no shame in your game!  Tracing my bra line and telling me to “spread ‘em” …in public …on the first date?  Balls!”

Or maybe, “Dear TSA Agent Louise, Your PDA means the world to me! Let’s hold hands.”

And lastly, “Dear TSA Agent Latex Gloves Guy, if you’re reading this one something has gone terribly wrong and I’d like you to direct all further questions to my attorneys. Rubins Kase Rubins Cambiano and Bryant @ 523-8200."

-What ever happened to Amy Winehouse? Someone should check on her.

-Do you realize that all our lives we grow up with superiors. Starting with Mom and Dad, then kindergarten teachers and hall monitors, principals and vice principals. (For whatever reason, I always viewed the janitors and lunch ladies as equals. What are they gonna do? Nothing, that’s what.) Moving across an array of high school teachers and coaches, police men, college professors and Abercrombie & Fitch managers. Finally, you grow up and get a real job and you have your bosses and managers, and assistant managers, all the while you been paying your cell phone bill; I’m pretty sure Verizon Wireless fucking owns my ass. The question is, when is it going to be my turn?

I guess I could try telling my parents to clean their room and to be home by midnight but they would just think it’s funny and laugh in my cute face. I could try going back to my high school and telling all my old teachers what they used to tell me, "Sit still and to stop talking so fuckin' much," but I can only think of one who would actually do it and that’s just because he’s a hippie and smokes a ton of pot. I wouldn’t dare try to tell a police man what to do again. Last time I did that I was in Mexico, told a Federale to “S my D” and landed myself in a Mexican jail cell for 72 hours. I lost 4 pounds and have been pen pals with my cell mate for going on 8 years now though, so I regret nothing. I would love to call Verizon and say “Can you hear me now? Good, go fuck yourself,” but I won’t, need ‘em too much.
Anyhoo, you get the point. When am I going to be “The Man?” I have got to find a way to boss people around and have them take me seriously. I’m working on it, when I figure it out, I’ll let you know. And hopefully quick, before my desire to be the boss betrays me and lands me back in a 3rd world prison.
-Don’t you have certain words that you think are fun to say? I love onomatopoeias. But more than I love onomatopoeias I love the word ‘onomatopoeia.’ And I just found a way to say it 3 times! Boom! (that’s an onomatopoeia – 4) I also enjoy saying ‘Boise’ and ‘persnickety.’

-I wish I had the authority to ambush makeover people. Go to a Dress Barn in Boise, choose a persnickety lady, throw a pillowcase over her head, toss her in the back of an unmarked car and redirect her to Nordstrom. We’d start with a bra fitting. I’ve had my counsel look into this and apparently this kind of behavior is “frowned upon” even if it is for the greater good of humanity.
-I’ve been thinking of adding a small disclaimer to the blog. This is it, and I’m not apologizing for anything I’ve said, I’m simply coming clean for good JuJu and karmic purposes.

*Disclaimer: Dear current and future employers, boyfriends, husbands, soccer moms and my unborn love children alike, please be advised that this blog is a bunch a bull shit and about 3% of it’s content is actually true. Unless you love it then, 97% of it is true.

Here’s a list of things I’ve already lied about:
I’m not really a Volunteer Fire Fighter: they pay me, but under the table for tax fraud purposes.
I don’t really think Jamie Lee Curtis’ haircut is stupid. In fact, I love it!
I ate a McRib and didn’t document, record OR report on it… in my defense, it was 2am and I was drunk.
I’m not really 5’2”… I’m 5’2 and-a-half and I still like it down here.

lylys

The Rise and Fall of the Ed Hardy Empire

It all started with the ever-popular Ed Hardy rhinestone tucker hat. I will be the first to admit that I purchased one of these ‘gems’ about 5 years ago, right after I tossed my Von Dutch that was rad for about 14 and-a-half minutes. Luckily, that was the extent of my Ed Hardy phase and I think I wore it once to the gym, and by gym I mean the Ab-Roller in my basement. But with the rise of the trucker hat came the uproar of the tattoo T-shirts which snowballed into the gleaming track suits and a fragrance line which pretty much everybody who’s anybody has, right?

Now, any smart person would have sold their stock in Affliction and invested in the monopoly that is Ed Hardy at this point in the game. I, on the other hand, just couldn’t swallow my pride enough to have my name and social security digits tied to the brand. However, these Ed Hardy “products” became a contagious disease; appealing to the masses in New Jersey, and Mexico, then spreading like the Chicken pox across the globe. From Vodka and hookah bongs, to bedding and cars (yes, cars) these mother fuckers will slap a “Love Kills Slowly” sticker on just about anything, overprice the shit out of it and call it a day’s work.

Ed Hardy and Ed Hardy factory inspector numbers1 through 1,000, I beg of you, put down the Bedazzler and close up shop. This is my plea to allow the fine citizens of Mexico, New Jersey, Scottsdale, and beyond to return to their less sparkly apparel. This is me asking you “pretty please,” allow the beautiful women wearing frosted lipstick with dark liner to retire their blinding pink track suits. Come on Ed, I’ll help you come up with an exit strategy. Maybe we can get you in for a job interview with BP. Just put “Overpricing Shit” and “Accidental Catastrophes” under your specialties, you’re a shoe in! But please, stop the madness. It’s become prevalent that your glittery, tattoo-esque accoutrement is making mediocre looking people ugly, it’s bankrupting hard working MMA fighters, and slowly but surely making the whole world compulsively *bling. I have a dream that one day, we will all be free of the Ed Hardy epidemic and we can return to our normal, graphic tee-free, Bedazzless lives.

Fucking Ed Hardy.

A tiny little nod to my dear friend Ali who bravely sold ed hardy at the Scottsdale Fashion Square Mall... we all make mistakes.  I forgive you. 

-xx

lylys

Double Down?

I can think of a lot of things I like 'double.' Double Bubble, Double Whammies, Double Dates, Double Vodka Sodies. I can also think of a lot of things I like ‘down’, Down the Hatch, Down Town, Down Home with the Neeley’s, Downward Facing Dog. However, I cannot come up with any reason I would like a KFC Double Down. Not one instance where I’d like DOUBLE fried chicken breasts strangling DOUBLE bacon, DOUBLE cheese with a mysterious lard-based ‘Colonel Sauce’ squirted all over, DOWN my throat, not a one.

Whoever the genius, Butterball was that gave birth to the idea of this bun-less wonder is acutely sick in the head. What is this, Grease Fusion cuisine? It seems a bit primitive already that we gnaw our meat right off the bone and suck it directly from the wings that were all snuggled together in a bucket of grease. But slapping together two giant slabs of breast  in place of a bun seems far more barbaric and quite frankly, just fuckin’ grody. On a scale from Coronary to Quadruple Bypass, I give this shameless hunk of meat an “I’m Sorry Ma’am, We Did Everything We Could.” Vom!

This is what’s wrong with America today. We like to figure out what will kill us, and then back it off just a smidge. Eating this “sandwich” is like playing with asbestos. Eventually it WILL kill you. If you’re gonna consume a Double Downer ya may as well pick up a six pack of Four Loko, an Eightball of Cocaine and eat your DD in a dark alley in Tijuana while you’re at it… since you’re such a risk taker. That’s all I got. G' day!

lylys

STATUS: Denied

Bilal, its a shame we couldn't make this friendship work because your name is really fun to say.

lylys

Hodge-Podge Reality Doo-Wop Compilation Blog Remix

I haven’t blogged in some time because suddenly my life has gotten crazy busy and by that I mean someone finally let me have a job and I’ve been working instead of waking up, overdosing on coffee with Reg and Kel and blogging. If you’re wondering what I do I’m in the financial industry by day and I moonlight as a volunteer firefighter most nights. Keeps me on my toes. Anyhoo, between managing people’s wealth and being a hero I’ve hardly had the time to squeeze in any writing, plus Christmas is in 46 days so I’ve been working diligently on my wish list. But I’ve had a lot to say so with that, I’ve decided to leave you with the small, profound thoughts that have been rattling around up there the last few weeks.

-First I'd like to have a word with you, Mr. Favre.

The last couple weeks have been the finest display of karma I have ever personally had the opportunity to witness. You’ve been playing like garbage and I am entirely convinced it’s due to your own documentation of yourself WEARING CROCS! Geeezus, get some new shoes, guy! And to make matters worse you rocked socks with the Crocs? Favre, where the fuck was your wife when you were getting dressed? And just when I think it can’t get any worse, I find out that this is your masturbation outfit. Whaaaa?!

Listen, I’m mildly impressed that you have been able to keep your perversion under wraps your entire career and even more impressed that no one has outted you for sporting that ridiculous footwear. However, it takes a special kind of stupid to capture a photograph of yourself committing any one of the three aforementioned offenses let alone all three at the same time. And shit bro, this is the outfit you chose to wear when sending said photograph to a babe?  …Get real old man, no one wants to see your old Crocs OR your old cock… retire already, I’m bored.

-Why is the McRib a limited time only?  How do they run out of fake ribs?  Aren’t those things just mass produced from a little meat cookie cutter anyway?  There’s something strange about a piece of meat that has the illusion of having bones in it but doesn’t actually have bones.  At any rate the McRib marketing ploys and all the hype surrounding this elusive sandwich has got me super intrigued … there’s a possibility I will try one this time around, I mean it is a limited time only and all.  Should this happen, the experience  will be fully documented, recorded and reported on. 

-There are 2 commercials that have been irritating the shit out of me as of late.  First up are the Old Navy commercials which no doubt are notorious for being fuckin’ dumb; but has this two-bit retail conglomerate gotten so cheap and lazy that they don’t even use real humans in their commercials anymore?  Mannequins!? Fuck, that’s annoying.  The second ridiculous commercial is the Disaronno commercial teaching me how to mix a “Drink of the Day” that a fucking monkey could come up with.  “Disaronno and cranberry juice… Ta-da!!!”  Oh how fucking innovative, thanks for nothing. 

-I know that I should probably have some highly controversial, sagacious thoughts on the elections but I don’t. Swing state, swing vote, swing set, stwing cheese… it’s all the same to me. I get my news from the newsfeed on Facebook and I get the weather by sticking my hand out the window so I wouldn’t trust myself to make any kind of an informed commentary. However I do trust myself enough to know when things change… and uh, they haven’t. Just sayin’.

-I'm so excited it's almost glove season!  I love gloves, with fingers, without fingers… gloves are awesome unless they do this… then it's time to get yourself some new gloves.

-Sometimes I forget about some of the shit I write, I have not forgotten how much I can’t stand Jamie Lee Curtis, with her stupid face and her stupid haircut and her fantastical bowels. 

Remembering Bathroom Confessions : CLICK HERE

-And lastly, in my music world I've had The Virgins on repeat.  Have a listen!

The Virgins by littlelinds


love you, love your shoes

The Kitty Cat Conspiracy

Six months ago my cat, Socks, was murdered. One, beautiful, spring morning in April, Socks went out to play. Weeks went by, spring turning into summer, Socks yet to return. I just thought he was having a lot of fun until finally I came face to face with reality, he wasn’t coming back. Socks the Cat had in fact been murdered. Socks was a good cat, loyal and loving, soft and furry just a like a cat should be. Socks survived nineteen years on these tough suburban streets. Dodging cyclists and minivans, surviving rabid neighborhood children attacks and fending off ferocious poodles, this cat was no pussy. And it’s no accident that he never came home on that cool April day, a day that will forever live in infamy.

I’ve filed a police report and they’ve done little to nothing to pursue the investigation of my cat’s untimely death stating that they “have bigger fish to fry.” Fuckin’ slackers. So, I’ve decided it’s time I take this serious matter into my own hands. I have every intention of punishing the crime syndicate responsible for the death of my feline friend and I’m going to personally inflict fiery justice on Socks’ assailants.

I realize I have no real experience in pursuing merciless revenge but I have a plan. I will probably start taking some sort of mixed martial arts classes after work.  I got a coupon in the mail from the Dojo up the street from my house so I'll just go there. I’m going to need lots of protein bars and some new sneakers too. And I’m definitely going to get myself a mentor, someone to teach me discipline. I’m thinking a rather small, elderly gentleman, one who possesses the qualities of a wizard. I wonder if I could find one online, like a mail-order Mr. Miyagi of sorts? I’ll try Craig’s List.

Anyhoo, when I am fully trained, primed and ready, equipped with a black leotard and pepper spray, I will go into the night to avenge the death of Socks the Cat. I will fight evil men until I get to the asshole responsible for ordering the hit on that beloved furr factory. Socks will finally be able to rest in an eternity of peace that he so richly deserves and I will be able to rest easy at last knowing that justice was served and sweet, sweet vengeance was mine.

Tonight, pour one for my homie, Socks the Cat.
lylys

My Totties Are Hotter Than Your Totties

As the autumn leaves begin to turn and fall rapidly approaches, the only thing that gets me more excited than zipping up my new boots up are my piping Hot Totties. I love a Hot Tottie in my hand on a brisk fall day. I love waking up to a nice Hot Tottie on a Saturday’s morn. A Hot Tottie can be enjoyed on a cool day at a football game. Nothing’s more masculine than the testosterone buffet that is football and Hot Totties in your hand. A Hot Tottie partners up nicely with breakfast in bed. A Hot Tottie can be enjoyed snuggled up under a blanket, even with your girlfriend’s parents in the room. Best of all, a Hot Tottie can really put a pep in your step if you’re feeling under the weather. And hey, grab a date! Totties are always best enjoyed in pairs.

If you’d like to try my Hot Totties:

1 half shot Spiced Rum
1 tbsp Honey
1 tbsp Lemon Juice
1 cups Boiling Hot Water
1 Tea Bag

What’s that? My Tottie’s are too hot? Well I’ve never heard that before. Just blow on my Hot Totties, it’ll be fine.

Enjoy my Totties! Cheers!
lylys

The Birthday Experiment

My birthday is next week (September 30th) which is good because it means I haven’t done anything stupid enough to stop the birthdays from happening. It’s also good because I happen to love birthdays, what’s not to love? There are usually pancakes involved, I like that the mail I open that day is probably not going to ask me for money but rather give me a little and birthdays are a sure-fire excuse to get hopped up on champagne on your lunch break and proclaim you’re not going to do anything productive for the rest of the day. I always try to do something a little interesting on my birthday each year. This year I think I’m going to get a few dozen prints made, go to Target and put my picture in all of their picture frames, really shake things up in the 5x7 department. We’ll see…

Every year starting on October 2nd I begin thinking about what I’m going to ask for the following year. I think it’s quite considerate of me to provide my loved ones with a list and I deem it necessary to think outside the box a little so that they don’t have to. I’ve provided for you a glimpse at some of the items from my otherwise extensive list for Birthday 2010… here it is in all its glory.

A Monkey: Your choice, including but not limited to a Chimpanzee, a Finger Monkey, a Spider Monkey, a Sea Monkey… as long as it’s alive. Please refrain from Monkey’s in a Barrel, Monkey Bread, a Monkeys CD, or a stuffed animal Monkey with Velcro hands (I already have 3 of them.)
You Should Probably Click HERE

A Zorb Ball: I’m trying to watch my carbon footprint.  Plus I’m pretty sure you can’t get a DUI in a Zorb; I’m doubtful that Zorbing under the influence is frowned upon especially since whomever invented this gem was clearly under the influence of some pretty heavy shit themselves.  However, my counsel is looking into this.

If You're Unfamiliar With a Zorb Ball Click HERE

A Venus Fly Trap and a Pack of Bubble Yum: you do the math.

Dinner: I would like to be taken to dinner at The French Laundry which means you need to book a flight to Cali as well. I have Southwest Drink Coupons to share plus I’ll throw in my 100 calorie pack, everyone wins.
The French Laundry

Sparklers: I became a statistic this past 4th of July and blew up my thumb with a Sparkler so I never really got to enjoy it. I just want a do-over.

A Live-In Sushi Chef: I'd like to be able to name him whatever I want and he should be taller than me because adults that are any shorter than me freak me out a little and I can’t have that kind of energy around my sushi.
Should Look Something Like This

Crocodile Mile: There’s only one reason you shouldn’t know what this is and that’s if you’re an Eskimo.
You Run, You Slide, Hit the Bump and Take a Dive!

A Cotton Candy Machine:  Cotton candy has been a mystery to me since my Leawood Elementary Carnival days.  I’m sure you could write this gift off as an educational grant and perhaps I could get paid by the government for an independent study as I plan to devote the latter part of my twenties to solving the great mysteries of cotton candy (as well as find a cure to the Hang Over but that’s another story.)
Cotton Candy Machine


Just a glimpse.
lylys

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!

HUH?

Whaaaaa???

Seeeeeee???  Ludicrous.

lylys

*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.