Is there a God? Why is it that when you slice a seashell in half, you find math inside? Why can't I start working at noon as I am not a farmer? Does a man really want a woman with a sense of humor, or does he just want a woman who laughs at his jokes? Who is the sadist that keeps on airing those ASPCA commercials?
When did irony stop functioning as a rhetorical device and become a cultural slogan for sloppy contrast? Who steals my pens when I'm not at my desk? Are dragons real? Chickens and eggs, which came first? Who is the most important musical figure since the inception of Rock and Roll: Elvis, Les Paul, or the Beatles as a cheeky whole? Why does everyone buy Puffs and still call it Kleenex?
Who coined the phrase "throw you under the bus"? Where do they live? Is it near a bus stop? Why do people repeat that phrase when it makes no sense and sounds fucking idiotic? Why are potato stems useless? How many apple seeds can you eat before you feel the effects of the cyanide? How is it statistically possible that I am undefeated in air hockey (Holla)?
Does anyone ever enjoy a Hollywood reboot? When did rope become irrelevant? How did Mrs. Grass chicken noodle soup become a proven placebo cure-all for everything bad ever ever? How did I get so close to one set of grandparents and retain such antipathy for the other? Fucking magnets, how do they work? Which is better: quality or nostalgia; sub-question: So which is the best Weezer album?
My grandpa died last night. This one. I am sad. My grandmother, from the other side of the family, passed away about a month and a half ago. I was not nearly as sad. Oh, I really want to get drunk.
...
Showing posts with label mrs. grass. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mrs. grass. Show all posts
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
DB the Squeakwel
So I'm looking through my old blog drafts, right, like the ones I did not post, and I noticed one from the night before New Years Eve. The night that MoLinder spontaneously flew back to Chicago, and Sean was in town from Alaska and we got 2drnk2fxnlolz? Yes. That night. And I woke up in media res, balancing my laptop on my knees in what is now known as The Battle of Le H'ang'ouvres, which is the kind of hangover you get after drinking too much wine, yes? Oui.
Anyway, I don't know if you remember way back when, but MoLinder and I used to sit around and get wasted and yell at each other, and that was basically our very favorite thing to do ever. For her entire visit we talked about doing another drunk live blog, but we never got any further than this, which I'm posting more for MoLinder than anyone else and found just fifteen minutes ago:
So MoLinder is in town right now. And although I don't necessarily feel like moLinder is ar requirement to have good drunken coinversation, let's fucking face it; molinder is a requi9rement to have goot drunken converation.
It begins elsewhere.
Me: I am going to drunk and I am going to navigate this. I am going to Tim Gunn it.
MoL: You are going to make it work. Why did you get more soup than me?
Me: Because I wanted it more.
MoL: You know what I will take your Mrs. Grass, but only under duress. Do you hear me? DURESS.
Me: Fuckin I hope you get herpes.
Post date and time:
12/31/2010 6:42 AM
...
Anyway, I don't know if you remember way back when, but MoLinder and I used to sit around and get wasted and yell at each other, and that was basically our very favorite thing to do ever. For her entire visit we talked about doing another drunk live blog, but we never got any further than this, which I'm posting more for MoLinder than anyone else and found just fifteen minutes ago:
So MoLinder is in town right now. And although I don't necessarily feel like moLinder is ar requirement to have good drunken coinversation, let's fucking face it; molinder is a requi9rement to have goot drunken converation.
It begins elsewhere.
Me: I am going to drunk and I am going to navigate this. I am going to Tim Gunn it.
MoL: You are going to make it work. Why did you get more soup than me?
Me: Because I wanted it more.
MoL: You know what I will take your Mrs. Grass, but only under duress. Do you hear me? DURESS.
Me: Fuckin I hope you get herpes.
Post date and time:
12/31/2010 6:42 AM
...
Friday, February 26, 2010
We Should Feed Canada Some Mrs. Grass Soup, But Only Until They Feel Better About SUCKING SO HARD AT HOCKEY
Scene: Seven friends are seated at the bar at Neighbors (you wish you were there) watching the US/Canada Olympic hockey game. Two are Canadian, the other five are USAmerican, and all of them are awesome. Except for the Canadians (BITCH WHAT I SAID IT, EH?)
(Sidenote: if you are not one of the seven people that was there, you will probably find this post tedious. Deal with it. Have some soup.)
...
"Whatever, look at those helmets! Who fucking designed those, Ed Hardy?" Smith Sister Sav giggles and sips her bloody mary.
"Seriously?" I snap and point at the TV above the bar. "Those masks are awesome. Look at it - that's Uncle Sam beating your Canadian ass with a hockey stick that's on fire. And on the other side? That's an eagle with like, fucking adamantium claws or talons or whatever."
"Do the chickens have large talons?" Schmee mumbles.
"HA! Do the chickens have large talons?"
Smith Sister WJ is whiny. "But our helmets are all classy, with our maple leaves, and they're all shiny and pretty."
"They would be better if they were blue."
"Red, white and blue."
"Or just blue like Sav's lame-ass blue Canadia tattoo." Slinger laughs at himself and drinks his Budweiser like a fucking champ. Like an American champ.
"You know what?" Smith Sister Sav declares, snapping with more hostility than she originally intended. "Why don't you show them your fucking blue sun tattoo?"
Slinger ignores her.
"I fucking hate that thing," Schmee shakes her head, eyes glued on the TV.
I raise my eyebrows at Slinger. "You got a tattoo of a blue sun? I don't wanna sit next to you no more."
"Sometimes people have oddly blue tattoos. What?"
"And sometimes TEAM USA SCHOOLS YOUR ASS AT HOCKEY." High-five.
"What was the rationale behind your blue tattoos, anyway?" I ask.
Smith Sister Sav goes back to her bloody mary, avoiding my eyes. "I don't wanna talk about it. Can we please talk about something else?"
"Sure, let's talk about your back-ass boondock country."
"Which is fake," Schmee chimes.
"Totally fake."
"You know what? Okay, fine, let's hear this. How are we from a fake country?"
"Seriously, I fucking love those helmets!"
Slinger laughs. "Do you guys even have a navy?"
"Of course they do, they're called mounties." Everyone looks at me. "Horses can swim."
"Haven't you seen Wild Hearts Can't Broken?"
"Was that in Canada?" Anway asks.
"No, swimming horses."
"I never liked that movie."
"You're lame."
"You're Canadian."
"Bitch, you know you're jealous."
"I wish I had a queen to cry to."
"Hey," Slinger stretches back, "if we give you Wisconsin, can we have your curling team?"
"They have cheese there, eh?"
The bartender comes over to drop of Smith Sister Sav's burger and fat plate of potato skins for Scott, her armcandy, who never speaks or drinks but he digs into his food with zeal. I look at the pile of dirty napkins and onion ring baskets and empty bottles in front of me and try to drag the bartender's attention with my eyes but it totally doesn't work.
"Please take these empties," I mutter, to no one in general, and slide my bottle onto the rail behind the bar. The bartender ignores me.
"She's never gonna clean it up," Slinger says quietly, annoyed. "It's been sitting there forever."
"I know, I don't want to look at it," I agree. I scowl at an empty bowl of chili.
"She's probably from Canada."
"Most definitely." Even onion rings get rejected. It looks sticky. I should order a water, it's really snowing outside. Bitch. Oh! Patty melts are seven bucks.
I snatch a fry from Smith Sister Sav and smile brilliantly. "See this?" I shove it into my mouth. "Round here in the U.S. of A. we call that manifest destiny."
Sav squints and snarls, "You know who invented those fries, right?"
"Frogs."
After a few moments of intense silence, where I'm sure everyone was just trying to sit there and think of proper banter, Anway speaks up. "You know, every Olympics I always want your people to wear Canadian tuxedos, and it never fucking happens," he muses.
"Agreed, that's horseshit."
"Oh, but it could happen, now they have those pajamas that look like jeans."
"Like the snowboarding team."
"Like the snowboarding team." Echoes all around. "Exactly."
"You guys are a bunch of fucking Denim Dans," I yell, and slump back into my beer. Chair. Beer.
The bartender comes over and clears all the nastiness away and I ask for a water.
"Nothing is more bad ass than that helmet, I swear to fucking god."
"What's the Canadian tuxedo?" both Smith Sisters ask, glancing down at their own red-and-white-maple-leafed-Canadiawear which isn't nearly as cool as our Americanwear.
"Are you fucking serious? You don't know your own home jersey?"
"All demin, head-to-toe," me and Anway explain. Perfect unison.
I swivel toward him. "Fucking jinx, bitch."
"The Canadian Tuxedo."
"How is that the Canadian Tuxedo?"
"I don't know. Because all Canadians live in Trailer Parks and weave their own Levi's."
"Have they discovered fire in Canada?"
Schmee's on it like Team USA on ice. "No, we brought it to them with the Olympic torch."
"Speaking of which," Smith Sister WJ adds, "I think Uncle Sam is holding the torch on the goalie mask."
"I like a flaming hockey stick better," I snap, "Because the Canadians are all 'fire bad!' and they totally run away."
"Okay, Ross, that was a bad one."
"Sor." I feel shamed. "Whatever, that doesn't change the fact that you're gonna get housed."
"You know what? I don't have to listen to this," Smith Sister Sav says. "This game doesn't even count anyway." She pops her maple-leaf jacket collar in frustration and furiously hides behind a copy of Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul.
Seriously. That happened. She pulled it out of her purse.
And then we all laughed like we were in a movie or something.
...
(Sidenote: if you are not one of the seven people that was there, you will probably find this post tedious. Deal with it. Have some soup.)
...
"Whatever, look at those helmets! Who fucking designed those, Ed Hardy?" Smith Sister Sav giggles and sips her bloody mary.
"Seriously?" I snap and point at the TV above the bar. "Those masks are awesome. Look at it - that's Uncle Sam beating your Canadian ass with a hockey stick that's on fire. And on the other side? That's an eagle with like, fucking adamantium claws or talons or whatever."
"Do the chickens have large talons?" Schmee mumbles.
"HA! Do the chickens have large talons?"
Smith Sister WJ is whiny. "But our helmets are all classy, with our maple leaves, and they're all shiny and pretty."
"They would be better if they were blue."
"Red, white and blue."
"Or just blue like Sav's lame-ass blue Canadia tattoo." Slinger laughs at himself and drinks his Budweiser like a fucking champ. Like an American champ.
"You know what?" Smith Sister Sav declares, snapping with more hostility than she originally intended. "Why don't you show them your fucking blue sun tattoo?"
Slinger ignores her.
"I fucking hate that thing," Schmee shakes her head, eyes glued on the TV.
I raise my eyebrows at Slinger. "You got a tattoo of a blue sun? I don't wanna sit next to you no more."
"Sometimes people have oddly blue tattoos. What?"
"And sometimes TEAM USA SCHOOLS YOUR ASS AT HOCKEY." High-five.
"What was the rationale behind your blue tattoos, anyway?" I ask.
Smith Sister Sav goes back to her bloody mary, avoiding my eyes. "I don't wanna talk about it. Can we please talk about something else?"
"Sure, let's talk about your back-ass boondock country."
"Which is fake," Schmee chimes.
"Totally fake."
"You know what? Okay, fine, let's hear this. How are we from a fake country?"
"Seriously, I fucking love those helmets!"
Slinger laughs. "Do you guys even have a navy?"
"Of course they do, they're called mounties." Everyone looks at me. "Horses can swim."
"Haven't you seen Wild Hearts Can't Broken?"
"Was that in Canada?" Anway asks.
"No, swimming horses."
"I never liked that movie."
"You're lame."
"You're Canadian."
"Bitch, you know you're jealous."
"I wish I had a queen to cry to."
"Hey," Slinger stretches back, "if we give you Wisconsin, can we have your curling team?"
"They have cheese there, eh?"
The bartender comes over to drop of Smith Sister Sav's burger and fat plate of potato skins for Scott, her armcandy, who never speaks or drinks but he digs into his food with zeal. I look at the pile of dirty napkins and onion ring baskets and empty bottles in front of me and try to drag the bartender's attention with my eyes but it totally doesn't work.
"Please take these empties," I mutter, to no one in general, and slide my bottle onto the rail behind the bar. The bartender ignores me.
"She's never gonna clean it up," Slinger says quietly, annoyed. "It's been sitting there forever."
"I know, I don't want to look at it," I agree. I scowl at an empty bowl of chili.
"She's probably from Canada."
"Most definitely." Even onion rings get rejected. It looks sticky. I should order a water, it's really snowing outside. Bitch. Oh! Patty melts are seven bucks.
I snatch a fry from Smith Sister Sav and smile brilliantly. "See this?" I shove it into my mouth. "Round here in the U.S. of A. we call that manifest destiny."
Sav squints and snarls, "You know who invented those fries, right?"
"Frogs."
After a few moments of intense silence, where I'm sure everyone was just trying to sit there and think of proper banter, Anway speaks up. "You know, every Olympics I always want your people to wear Canadian tuxedos, and it never fucking happens," he muses.
"Agreed, that's horseshit."
"Oh, but it could happen, now they have those pajamas that look like jeans."
"Like the snowboarding team."
"Like the snowboarding team." Echoes all around. "Exactly."
"You guys are a bunch of fucking Denim Dans," I yell, and slump back into my beer. Chair. Beer.
The bartender comes over and clears all the nastiness away and I ask for a water.
"Nothing is more bad ass than that helmet, I swear to fucking god."
"What's the Canadian tuxedo?" both Smith Sisters ask, glancing down at their own red-and-white-maple-leafed-Canadiawear which isn't nearly as cool as our Americanwear.
"Are you fucking serious? You don't know your own home jersey?"
"All demin, head-to-toe," me and Anway explain. Perfect unison.
I swivel toward him. "Fucking jinx, bitch."
"The Canadian Tuxedo."
"How is that the Canadian Tuxedo?"
"I don't know. Because all Canadians live in Trailer Parks and weave their own Levi's."
"Have they discovered fire in Canada?"
Schmee's on it like Team USA on ice. "No, we brought it to them with the Olympic torch."
"Speaking of which," Smith Sister WJ adds, "I think Uncle Sam is holding the torch on the goalie mask."
"I like a flaming hockey stick better," I snap, "Because the Canadians are all 'fire bad!' and they totally run away."
"Okay, Ross, that was a bad one."
"Sor." I feel shamed. "Whatever, that doesn't change the fact that you're gonna get housed."
"You know what? I don't have to listen to this," Smith Sister Sav says. "This game doesn't even count anyway." She pops her maple-leaf jacket collar in frustration and furiously hides behind a copy of Chicken Soup for the Canadian Soul.
Seriously. That happened. She pulled it out of her purse.
And then we all laughed like we were in a movie or something.
...
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
MoLinder
First order of business: It is my birthday.
Second order of business: Work is lame.
Third: Today, the Whore to grace your screen and write about me is MoLinder, the roommate. She was never given a "name" in the quotation mark sense, because she's just always going to be MoLinder, and nothing can change that.
She fucking loves it.
And now, without further ado...her words about me:
Ross would like me to write something about her as a birthday gift. I'm delighted to oblige as I am riding the broke train (choo-fucking-choo) and can't get her anything tangible anyway.
It's taken me a few days to think about what to write. As I was explaining to Gyna, most of my stories of Ross take place while I've been hammered (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave) and any memories I may have span the spectrum between slightly fuzzy to non-existent (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave). It's been hard trying to come up with something awesome so I've decided to write about all the things I've learned from Ross:
The Watchmen is fantastic as is the Fables series
So is the translation she has of "The Three Musketeers"-it is that fucking good!
PBR is a decent beer when you can't afford Stella Artois (she's my woman) – for realsies
Even after explaining in great detail how I don't want to get involved in another TV series after the 24 debacle (long story), she still got me hooked on Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, Firefly, Trailer Park Boys etc. Although I would like to interject that I have made her addicted to the douchebags that dominate any sort of paranormal activity on TV. Woo Zach!
She's the only other girl I know that loves the Die Hard movies as much as me. When she called to ask me if I wanted to go see "Live Free or Die Hard" I replied, "Yipee-Kai-Yay-Motherfucker". Oh yeah, dude, fuck Bonnie Bedelia. I hate that whore. I would like to add that this is where we morphed from friendly acquaintances to friends. cuz who else love John Mclane as much us?
Mrs. Grass is the best thing ever. as is the 7up she brought home for me after a rough night/morning with M.E.
She's totally changed my impression of people who belonged in sororities in college in that they aren't all suckers who pay for their friends. (probably because I'm friends with most of her "sisters")
my myspace quote for quite some time said the following: "goddamnit ross, it is 6 in the morning. you have ruined my life" I would like to point out that this quote was on a monday/tuesday or some sort of workday. all I know is that I called in sick to work. but she is the eternal worker bee and faced her cubicle drone lifestyle.
she is usually someone that is one the same page as me, movie wise, until she inflicted "Teen Wolf 2" on me. not as good as the original. and faux Stiles sucks big fat donkey balls. so fucking lame. she almost loses her cool points with me but I love "Tremors" so who am I to talk? (fuck yeah Kevin Bacon! and gun toting Reba McIntyre dominates) I have insisted that we are watching "the usual suspects" after this crap ass movie viewing to instill good taste on her. she is giving me the retard face. I don't know if Kaiser Soze can help her.
oh yeah. so I have been watching the history channel and the seven deadly sins have been showcased all week. ross and I have been dueling to who breaks the most (me, you asshole) but I would like to point out that she dominates in the sin of Pride, hence this goddamn blog. you are a dirty whore.
I think I might win this one.
Happy Birthday!
...
Second order of business: Work is lame.
Third: Today, the Whore to grace your screen and write about me is MoLinder, the roommate. She was never given a "name" in the quotation mark sense, because she's just always going to be MoLinder, and nothing can change that.
She fucking loves it.
And now, without further ado...her words about me:
Ross would like me to write something about her as a birthday gift. I'm delighted to oblige as I am riding the broke train (choo-fucking-choo) and can't get her anything tangible anyway.
It's taken me a few days to think about what to write. As I was explaining to Gyna, most of my stories of Ross take place while I've been hammered (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave) and any memories I may have span the spectrum between slightly fuzzy to non-existent (see: drunk blog, war of war blog and pretty much any comment I leave). It's been hard trying to come up with something awesome so I've decided to write about all the things I've learned from Ross:
The Watchmen is fantastic as is the Fables series
So is the translation she has of "The Three Musketeers"-it is that fucking good!
PBR is a decent beer when you can't afford Stella Artois (she's my woman) – for realsies
Even after explaining in great detail how I don't want to get involved in another TV series after the 24 debacle (long story), she still got me hooked on Heroes, Battlestar Galactica, 30 Rock, Firefly, Trailer Park Boys etc. Although I would like to interject that I have made her addicted to the douchebags that dominate any sort of paranormal activity on TV. Woo Zach!
She's the only other girl I know that loves the Die Hard movies as much as me. When she called to ask me if I wanted to go see "Live Free or Die Hard" I replied, "Yipee-Kai-Yay-Motherfucker". Oh yeah, dude, fuck Bonnie Bedelia. I hate that whore. I would like to add that this is where we morphed from friendly acquaintances to friends. cuz who else love John Mclane as much us?
Mrs. Grass is the best thing ever. as is the 7up she brought home for me after a rough night/morning with M.E.
She's totally changed my impression of people who belonged in sororities in college in that they aren't all suckers who pay for their friends. (probably because I'm friends with most of her "sisters")
my myspace quote for quite some time said the following: "goddamnit ross, it is 6 in the morning. you have ruined my life" I would like to point out that this quote was on a monday/tuesday or some sort of workday. all I know is that I called in sick to work. but she is the eternal worker bee and faced her cubicle drone lifestyle.
she is usually someone that is one the same page as me, movie wise, until she inflicted "Teen Wolf 2" on me. not as good as the original. and faux Stiles sucks big fat donkey balls. so fucking lame. she almost loses her cool points with me but I love "Tremors" so who am I to talk? (fuck yeah Kevin Bacon! and gun toting Reba McIntyre dominates) I have insisted that we are watching "the usual suspects" after this crap ass movie viewing to instill good taste on her. she is giving me the retard face. I don't know if Kaiser Soze can help her.
oh yeah. so I have been watching the history channel and the seven deadly sins have been showcased all week. ross and I have been dueling to who breaks the most (me, you asshole) but I would like to point out that she dominates in the sin of Pride, hence this goddamn blog. you are a dirty whore.
I think I might win this one.
Happy Birthday!
...
Tuesday, May 2, 2006
Sick = bad.
So Sunday night I get off work at nine and I'm in bed by 10:15: very very weird for me. I had to open at Gino's on Monday, and I slept all night, but not very well. Kept on waking up to cough.
Then the horrid day of horridness and badness began. Woke up. Baffed. Went to work at 10:30. Baffed again. Walked up to my table, started explaining the lunch special, went into a coughing fit...and baffed again. Co-worker Callie was amazing and brought me some medicine so I could breathe, so that was awesome. I slept in booth #23 for awhile and found someone to cover my shift, so my manager sent me home at 1:30.
Passed out immediately. Woke up at like eight o'clock. Took my temp: 102.6. Had some Mrs. Grass (chicken noodle--not the kind with little nasty bits of chicken and veggies in it, just noodles and broth. Best sick soup ever.) Passed out again by 9:30. Woke up about ten minutes ago, and I'm feeling better. Coherent, at least. Temp has gone down to 99.8. This is good. I mean, my normal body temperature is 97.5, so it's still high...but better.
Now it's time for the sick movies. Babes in Toyland, then Star Wars, Jedi, and Empire.
When I was little (I'm talking like six years old) I always wanted to watch them in that order because New Hope and Jedi were my favorites, so I watched those first, and then i would start watching Empire and begin nodding off right around the time you hear, "Echo Base, this is Rogue 2: I've found them. Repeat: I've found them." Then I'd wake up to watch Yoda lift the ship out of the swamp, pass out again, watch Lando et al. escape in the Millenium Falcon and stay awake for the rest of the movie, wondering where the hell Han Solo went. I think I didn't realize what had happened to him until I was like eleven, because I always fell asleep at the exact same time. It never occurred to me that we watch his release in Jedi, so he must have been captured in Empire. Movie cliffhangers were beyond me.
I also thought that Indiana Jones and Han Solo were the same person, and that Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, and St. Elmo's Fire were a trilogy like Star Wars, except about high school and then after high school (I know St. Elmo's Fire is about after college, but work with me here).
Anyway, after Babes in toyland and the three Star Wars movies, if I have anything left in me I'm gonna watch White Christmas, my final sick movie.
That's all, folks.
Then the horrid day of horridness and badness began. Woke up. Baffed. Went to work at 10:30. Baffed again. Walked up to my table, started explaining the lunch special, went into a coughing fit...and baffed again. Co-worker Callie was amazing and brought me some medicine so I could breathe, so that was awesome. I slept in booth #23 for awhile and found someone to cover my shift, so my manager sent me home at 1:30.
Passed out immediately. Woke up at like eight o'clock. Took my temp: 102.6. Had some Mrs. Grass (chicken noodle--not the kind with little nasty bits of chicken and veggies in it, just noodles and broth. Best sick soup ever.) Passed out again by 9:30. Woke up about ten minutes ago, and I'm feeling better. Coherent, at least. Temp has gone down to 99.8. This is good. I mean, my normal body temperature is 97.5, so it's still high...but better.
Now it's time for the sick movies. Babes in Toyland, then Star Wars, Jedi, and Empire.
When I was little (I'm talking like six years old) I always wanted to watch them in that order because New Hope and Jedi were my favorites, so I watched those first, and then i would start watching Empire and begin nodding off right around the time you hear, "Echo Base, this is Rogue 2: I've found them. Repeat: I've found them." Then I'd wake up to watch Yoda lift the ship out of the swamp, pass out again, watch Lando et al. escape in the Millenium Falcon and stay awake for the rest of the movie, wondering where the hell Han Solo went. I think I didn't realize what had happened to him until I was like eleven, because I always fell asleep at the exact same time. It never occurred to me that we watch his release in Jedi, so he must have been captured in Empire. Movie cliffhangers were beyond me.
I also thought that Indiana Jones and Han Solo were the same person, and that Sixteen Candles, The Breakfast Club, and St. Elmo's Fire were a trilogy like Star Wars, except about high school and then after high school (I know St. Elmo's Fire is about after college, but work with me here).
Anyway, after Babes in toyland and the three Star Wars movies, if I have anything left in me I'm gonna watch White Christmas, my final sick movie.
That's all, folks.
...
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