- Man, I wish I wasn't obsessed with eating dates. They're so fuckin' good. I could eat a whole container. Oh hell. The last time I ate a whole container of dates, I pooped for 48 hours straight. I think I'll just have one or two. It's Sunday. Maybe if this was a Friday, I'd sacrifice my weekend.
- I don't think "I've got the moves like Jagger" is a good thing, Maroon 5. Isn't Mick Jagger like, 86 years old? Perhaps you've got the bowel moves like Jagger...Wait, that's me when I eat an entire container of dates.
- Ah. "I didn't know I was Pregnant" is on TV. God, this show creeps me out. There's no possible way I could be prego, yet every time I see this, I panic. Oh my god! I'm craving pickled beets. And lamb shanks. Is it possible? No way. Ugh. Oh my god! Is that a contraction? Oh, I just ate too many dates. Phew.
- My hands still stink from handling dead shrimp. I'm glad I set all the live ones in my bait bucket free. One even swam back around to thank me. Right before the catfish got him.
- Who the hell sent me a subscription to "Good Housekeeping"? This magazine sucks. I don't need to look younger. I don't need to organize my kitchen. I'm not incontinent. I don't care why Merideth Viera left whatever show she was on. Who is Meredith Viera, anyway? Oh, who cares?
- Being a trucker would be cool. I wonder if I could do that part time? I already have the mouth of a trucker. I'm halfway there.
- Why are my neighbors always soaking wet? I've never seen them with dry hair. I've lived next to them for over a year. What gives?
- I wonder how Kate's doing?
- I wish Kate lived closer. I miss her.
- Why is Moose so skinny? Everytime he looks at me, it seems as though Sarah McLaughlin's "Arms of an Angel" should be playing in the background. People probably think I starve him.
- Why does Oprah Winfrey have to have her face smeared on everything? She's so vain. I think she has good intentions. I don't know. I don't care.
- Why is psoriasis preventing this woman on this commercial from hanging out with her friends? Why is she taking this prescription for psoriasis that may cause tumors? I'd much rather have dry skin than a 43 pound tumor hanging off my neck. Is psoriasis that life-altering that you take a chance with a prescription? I should google that.
- Oh my god! This girl on TV is changing her baby's diaper on the kitchen counter! Why is she doing that? Holy shigella, batman. I need to wash my hands again.
- Ew. I think I inhaled too much of the bug spray today. I hope it wards off any parasites I have internally. Maybe I should spray Moose with it. Naa. He already stinks.
- Do midget hookers charge half price?
- Wow. Why can't I paint my nails? Now I have to tell everyone that my non-existent 4-year old niece gave me a manicure. Really? Maybe I can start a trend for finger tip painting.
- My roots are dark. I look like I work at Mosley Motel. Hmm. Wonder how much those girls make? I am looking for part time work. I could always be a nanny. Oh, wait...kids scare me. That won't work.
- How can my hair be greasy, but my face dry? They're attached.
- Does leg hair continue to grow like head hair? It makes sense that it would, but I've never seen anyone with braided leg hair.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
Random Thoughts
Someone asked me not too long ago, "What are you thinking about?" Ha ha, buddy! It's a good thing you're not a shrink. I decided to write out some of my thoughts throughout a typical day in the life of Egg. Enjoy.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
My Motivational Rant
Most people who have known me forever know that I had an issue with food in high school and college. I feared it. Actually, I loved food. It was the fear of becoming a freaking fat ass I had the issue with. Unlike most teens these days, who blame their dysfunctions on abusive parents or daddy being on the crack pipe, I had no one to blame but myself. I'm pretty sure this fear came to me in the womb. At the ripe old age of five, I was hospitalized (over Christmas, I might add) because I was scared to eat. I was tiny. So little, in fact, to this day, the parent Eggs call me "Bird". Yes, that's correct, "Bird Egger". Go ahead and laugh, Papa Egg's friends still call me "Hammond". .....Anywho....The point is, I grew up in a tiny town, surrounded by, uh, frumpy, unkempt rednecks, for lack of a better description. I was fortunate enough to be raised by a "normal" family. Mama Egg was 100% Italian, spent all her time in the kitchen, and loved to cook for the masses. Papa Egg was a health nut, work-out freak vegetarian. So why the hell did I obsess over staying thin? Who knows. Probably because I'm a dumb-ass. That's the only logic I can concoct.
Now that we're past the backstory (thank God)...I have been attending morning boot camp on the beach. This was something I desparately needed following my disgusting weight gain of 26 pounds. I'm not going to lie. My biggest fear in life (besides cockroaches and Barbara Streisand), is getting fat. If you read my other blogs, you know that I don't deal well with excuses and laziness. Yeah, you can call me obsessive compulsive (or a few other things, I'm sure), but I was not going to let myself gain another ounce. I didn't want my nickname changed from "Bird" to "Fatty McGee", or "Fatty McButterPants", or "Fatty Bo Batty", or "Stupid whore who stole my boyfriend". I was going to get this weight off, and get my smokin' hot bod back, dammit! I was also going to start teaching Zumba again, once I looked sexy enough to don my Zumba garb.
That was three months ago. Today, I look fantastic. Yeah, that's right. I'm a narcissistic bitch. I busted my ass every morning to get myself where I am. I completed my 21 day clean eating program today, with no cheating. I'm teaching Zumba twice a week. I had to go buy smaller pants last week, because mine were like Hammer pants on me (80's reference, duh). People tell me every day how great I look. I have so much energy, I'm annoying. My stomach hasn't been upset (I always had a nervous stomach), My skin has cleared up, I sleep like a drunken bum (yeah, that good), I am as strong as a bitch on coke, and can probably fight like a ninja if given the opportunity. I always knew I had it in me, but without the help of Total Body Results, LLC, I never would have looked this slammin'. I'm not done yet. I know I can look even better, and I plan on it. I loved the results I saw from eating clean so much, I am doing it again. As a matter of fact, it's a lifestyle now.
And now...For my rant....As I've stated before, I do NOT tolerate excuses or laziness. I know a lot of people who sit around, whining about their weight, as they stuff another bacon wrapped, sour cream stuffed, quadruple beef patty, six cheese layered, mayo injected, donut-for-a-bun sandwich down their gullet. Here's a thought - let that cottage cheese in your thighs inspire you to eat more cottage cheese. I have heard some "bigguns" cry that "I don't have time". Really? Listen up, tons-o-fun, you had time to devour a small village. You have to make lifestyle changes. I get up at 5:10AM now to go work out. MAKE TIME. Yeah, it may cut into your night at the buffet, but eventually you won't be craving that shit. Buffet food sits around for two weeks at room temperature growing bacteria, anyways (tip from your friendly health inspector-you're welcome). Another complaint, "When I get home from work, it's just easier to sit down, nosh on four Hungry Howie's butter crust loaded pizza, and watch Hoarders." Know what else is easy? Driving your car off the Sunshine Skyway, leaving your kid in the car with the windows up while you go to the bar, stealing a seat from a blind guy, giving a midget a noogie, going to work naked, arm wrestling Kate Moss, and pushing over a baby that's taking it's first steps. You wouldn't do any of those things, right? SO WHY THE HELL AREN'T YOU WORKING OUT YET? It's hard? God Damned right it's hard. If it was easy, everyone would be walking around with a rock hard ass and a set of six-pack abs. CHALLENGE YOURSELF. "I can't afford it". Yeah, you're right. It's much cheaper to pay for someone to come in and wipe your ass because you can't, seeing as how you're on a ventilator, a pacemaker, blood thinners, insulin, and weigh 1,342 pounds. Of course, I'm sure Medicare covers that. Can you really put a price tag on good health? Hell no, bitch.
What are you waiting for? Only you can prevent forest fires....er, I mean, only you can make these positive changes in yourself. What have you got to lose, besides about 492 pounds?
Wow. I should have been a freakin' motivational speaker.
***I owe a special thank you to the trainers of Total Body Results, LLC
Now that we're past the backstory (thank God)...I have been attending morning boot camp on the beach. This was something I desparately needed following my disgusting weight gain of 26 pounds. I'm not going to lie. My biggest fear in life (besides cockroaches and Barbara Streisand), is getting fat. If you read my other blogs, you know that I don't deal well with excuses and laziness. Yeah, you can call me obsessive compulsive (or a few other things, I'm sure), but I was not going to let myself gain another ounce. I didn't want my nickname changed from "Bird" to "Fatty McGee", or "Fatty McButterPants", or "Fatty Bo Batty", or "Stupid whore who stole my boyfriend". I was going to get this weight off, and get my smokin' hot bod back, dammit! I was also going to start teaching Zumba again, once I looked sexy enough to don my Zumba garb.
That was three months ago. Today, I look fantastic. Yeah, that's right. I'm a narcissistic bitch. I busted my ass every morning to get myself where I am. I completed my 21 day clean eating program today, with no cheating. I'm teaching Zumba twice a week. I had to go buy smaller pants last week, because mine were like Hammer pants on me (80's reference, duh). People tell me every day how great I look. I have so much energy, I'm annoying. My stomach hasn't been upset (I always had a nervous stomach), My skin has cleared up, I sleep like a drunken bum (yeah, that good), I am as strong as a bitch on coke, and can probably fight like a ninja if given the opportunity. I always knew I had it in me, but without the help of Total Body Results, LLC, I never would have looked this slammin'. I'm not done yet. I know I can look even better, and I plan on it. I loved the results I saw from eating clean so much, I am doing it again. As a matter of fact, it's a lifestyle now.
And now...For my rant....As I've stated before, I do NOT tolerate excuses or laziness. I know a lot of people who sit around, whining about their weight, as they stuff another bacon wrapped, sour cream stuffed, quadruple beef patty, six cheese layered, mayo injected, donut-for-a-bun sandwich down their gullet. Here's a thought - let that cottage cheese in your thighs inspire you to eat more cottage cheese. I have heard some "bigguns" cry that "I don't have time". Really? Listen up, tons-o-fun, you had time to devour a small village. You have to make lifestyle changes. I get up at 5:10AM now to go work out. MAKE TIME. Yeah, it may cut into your night at the buffet, but eventually you won't be craving that shit. Buffet food sits around for two weeks at room temperature growing bacteria, anyways (tip from your friendly health inspector-you're welcome). Another complaint, "When I get home from work, it's just easier to sit down, nosh on four Hungry Howie's butter crust loaded pizza, and watch Hoarders." Know what else is easy? Driving your car off the Sunshine Skyway, leaving your kid in the car with the windows up while you go to the bar, stealing a seat from a blind guy, giving a midget a noogie, going to work naked, arm wrestling Kate Moss, and pushing over a baby that's taking it's first steps. You wouldn't do any of those things, right? SO WHY THE HELL AREN'T YOU WORKING OUT YET? It's hard? God Damned right it's hard. If it was easy, everyone would be walking around with a rock hard ass and a set of six-pack abs. CHALLENGE YOURSELF. "I can't afford it". Yeah, you're right. It's much cheaper to pay for someone to come in and wipe your ass because you can't, seeing as how you're on a ventilator, a pacemaker, blood thinners, insulin, and weigh 1,342 pounds. Of course, I'm sure Medicare covers that. Can you really put a price tag on good health? Hell no, bitch.
What are you waiting for? Only you can prevent forest fires....er, I mean, only you can make these positive changes in yourself. What have you got to lose, besides about 492 pounds?
Wow. I should have been a freakin' motivational speaker.
***I owe a special thank you to the trainers of Total Body Results, LLC
Saturday, September 10, 2011
What You See is What You Get, Dude.
I had a request for this rant, and hopefully it helps some dear friends in their mission to find a great woman.
In a recent discussion with some male counterparts, it was brought to my attention that men are fuck wads. I should probably warn you now (after dropping the "f" bomb in my second sentence), this rant is going to be vulgar. If you're a sensitive, panty waist bitch, quit reading and go back to petting your 57 cats.
Evidently, there is a preconceived notion that girls are supposed to be frail, weak, dependent on their "better half", and polite.
Fuck that. Girls don't roll like that. I think I probably am speaking for about 90% of my ladies out there. If not, well, you're probably unhappily married and miserable right now.
Let's clear a few things up for you, gentlemen:
I don't shave my legs everyday. That's bullshit. Do you know how time consuming it is to stand in the shower (on one foot), lather up about six feet worth of leg, find a razor that's not dull, nick yourself in unmentionable parts, and then get blood spots all over your cute, pink, fluffy towel? Of course not, you only shave that tiny portion on your pin head that takes about six strokes to cover. Prickly legs don't bother me, and they're attached to me. If you're disgusted by that, go take a look at that nasty ass patch of back hair located right around your tailbone, you fucking yedi. What the fuck is that? It looks like you're using a camel for a back brace.
If you're sharing a bed with me, you'd better be wearing a helmet, ear plugs, and a cup. I am a very violent girl in my dreams. If you're not careful, you will be donkey punched. I also snore. Like a chainsaw cutting a redwood. Go ahead, try to roll me over. You'd better be wearing a cup. I throw a mean right uppercut to the loins during my peaceful slumber. As a precaution, just go home. My bed is for me and my dog only.
My dog will always be the number one man in my life (second only to my daddy). He is the perfect companion, which is more than I can say about you. He doesn't tell me not to wear that shirt, because I look like a two bit whore in it. He stares at me with loving eyes, whether he's dropping a deuce, or sharing my pillow. He comforts me when I cry, instead of saying, "You need a backrub that will turn into something to benefit me. What about my needs? I know you're crying, but this is all about me. I'm amazing. You shouldn't cry, because I'm fucking awesome. You'd be nothing without me. ME ME ME ME ME."
I don't give a shit about your past supermodel girlfriends. If I cared, I would have friended them on facebook and stalked them until they put out a restraining order on my ass. Shut the fuck up about them. They obviously didn't work out for you, or you wouldn't be trying to get in my pants now.
I burp and fart freely. I will not step out of the room, or put myself in extreme discomfort so that you can believe in your tiny, pea-sized brain, that girls don't do these things. We do. A lot. And it's hilarious. It's usually hilarious, because when you do it, it's weak, and I know I can do it louder and better. If that grosses you out, well, you're probably a homosexual, and weren't looking to pursue anything more than a mall buddy.
I cuss like a sailor. If you don't fucking like it, go fuck yourself, mother fucking piece of shit. Words like, "Oh Dear", or "Goodness Gracious" only come out in the presence of clergy. I don't feel the need to censor myself around someone I'm dating. "Well, it's not lady-like", you say? Well guess what? I'm not trying to be a fucking lady, bitch, so I don't have to be lady-like.
I do shit girls aren't supposed to do. I fix toilets, snake drains, fix cars, change tires, carry a gun, hook up tv's, catch lizards, poke snakes with sticks (just to see them lunge), get dirty, break a nail, clean pools, do yard work, and beat the shit out of a punching bag. Know what this means? I don't need you for ANYTHING. I keep you around to use as a puppet, or arm candy (depending on how ugly you are). Be grateful that you're lucky enough to be in my presence.
I don't wake up looking nearly as hot as I did the night before. So what if I have crusted drool down the entire left side of my face? My hair is perpendicular to my head? Perfect. Take a picture. My retainers bother you? Sorry for having straight teeth. My breath smells like road kill? No shit, I was snoring all night. You don't like my glasses? Neither do I. When I put them on, all I see is your ugly mug. Why are you seeing me this way in the morning, anyways? I thought I told you to leave in a previous section of ths blog.
I don't work out to impress you or anyone else in this world. I work out so I continue to look smokin' hot for myself, because let's be honest, I'm the only one who really matters, right? I put on make up and dress in nice clothes because it makes me feel good, not because I'm whoring myself out. I have, in the words of Ludacris, "big titties and a matching ass". I worked hard for these things, you'd better believe I enjoy looking at them, why not wear clothes that enhance the fruits of my labor?
However, I'm not always going to be wearing red-carpet-ready clothing. I have days when I'm busting my ass around my house. I can pull off the look of cut-offs, a Captain Tony's Saloon T-shirt, and Sperrys. I don't always wear two pounds of make-up, either. This doesn't mean I've given up, this simply means I'm working hard so I can play later. Perhaps you should get used to this concept.
Just because my job doesn't pay me $800,000 a month, doesn't mean I have to find a new job. Quit trying to make me quit. Sure, I'll whine about it now and again. I'm a girl, I'm entitled to that. If you don't want to hear it, leave. Moose is more than willing to hear me out. I love my line of work. You couldn't handle doing what I do. Not that it's hard, you're just a puss. I was "wealthy" once, as you rich folk say. I really didn't see the allure. It didn't make me a better person because I could make it rain. As a matter of fact, the more money and material things I had, the shittier I felt. I'm perfectly happy having to scrape by on two jobs. I have my pride. You REALLY overpaid for that shirt, by the way. I don't fly first class anymore. First class = first to die in a crash. Besides, I like the looks I get from those fucking idiots who paid four times what I paid to arrive at the same destination as me, at the same exact time as me. Why don't you just go flush the rest of your Benjamins down that fancy, dancy airplane toilet? I'm not impressed that you're rich. If you're bragging about it and flaunting it, you're just proving to me that you're an even bigger douche than I had originally thought....And you're obviously overcompensating for something.
I am not meek or in distress. I don't need you telling me that you are enriching my life with your presence. No, you're not. You're actually hindering me from fixing the toilet and going to the shooting range and drag strip. I am very in touch with my emotions, and refuse to depend on anyone else for emotional support. I don't need you to coddle me and try to fix me in any way. That's what a psychiatrist is for. Besides, I'm a fucking bad ass, and I don't need fixed.
So men, this is how women really work. If you think you can really handle this, good luck. We're all awesome, and I think it's time you just shut the fuck up and enjoy our company, bitches. Peace.
In a recent discussion with some male counterparts, it was brought to my attention that men are fuck wads. I should probably warn you now (after dropping the "f" bomb in my second sentence), this rant is going to be vulgar. If you're a sensitive, panty waist bitch, quit reading and go back to petting your 57 cats.
Evidently, there is a preconceived notion that girls are supposed to be frail, weak, dependent on their "better half", and polite.
Fuck that. Girls don't roll like that. I think I probably am speaking for about 90% of my ladies out there. If not, well, you're probably unhappily married and miserable right now.
Let's clear a few things up for you, gentlemen:
I don't shave my legs everyday. That's bullshit. Do you know how time consuming it is to stand in the shower (on one foot), lather up about six feet worth of leg, find a razor that's not dull, nick yourself in unmentionable parts, and then get blood spots all over your cute, pink, fluffy towel? Of course not, you only shave that tiny portion on your pin head that takes about six strokes to cover. Prickly legs don't bother me, and they're attached to me. If you're disgusted by that, go take a look at that nasty ass patch of back hair located right around your tailbone, you fucking yedi. What the fuck is that? It looks like you're using a camel for a back brace.
If you're sharing a bed with me, you'd better be wearing a helmet, ear plugs, and a cup. I am a very violent girl in my dreams. If you're not careful, you will be donkey punched. I also snore. Like a chainsaw cutting a redwood. Go ahead, try to roll me over. You'd better be wearing a cup. I throw a mean right uppercut to the loins during my peaceful slumber. As a precaution, just go home. My bed is for me and my dog only.
My dog will always be the number one man in my life (second only to my daddy). He is the perfect companion, which is more than I can say about you. He doesn't tell me not to wear that shirt, because I look like a two bit whore in it. He stares at me with loving eyes, whether he's dropping a deuce, or sharing my pillow. He comforts me when I cry, instead of saying, "You need a backrub that will turn into something to benefit me. What about my needs? I know you're crying, but this is all about me. I'm amazing. You shouldn't cry, because I'm fucking awesome. You'd be nothing without me. ME ME ME ME ME."
I don't give a shit about your past supermodel girlfriends. If I cared, I would have friended them on facebook and stalked them until they put out a restraining order on my ass. Shut the fuck up about them. They obviously didn't work out for you, or you wouldn't be trying to get in my pants now.
I burp and fart freely. I will not step out of the room, or put myself in extreme discomfort so that you can believe in your tiny, pea-sized brain, that girls don't do these things. We do. A lot. And it's hilarious. It's usually hilarious, because when you do it, it's weak, and I know I can do it louder and better. If that grosses you out, well, you're probably a homosexual, and weren't looking to pursue anything more than a mall buddy.
I cuss like a sailor. If you don't fucking like it, go fuck yourself, mother fucking piece of shit. Words like, "Oh Dear", or "Goodness Gracious" only come out in the presence of clergy. I don't feel the need to censor myself around someone I'm dating. "Well, it's not lady-like", you say? Well guess what? I'm not trying to be a fucking lady, bitch, so I don't have to be lady-like.
I do shit girls aren't supposed to do. I fix toilets, snake drains, fix cars, change tires, carry a gun, hook up tv's, catch lizards, poke snakes with sticks (just to see them lunge), get dirty, break a nail, clean pools, do yard work, and beat the shit out of a punching bag. Know what this means? I don't need you for ANYTHING. I keep you around to use as a puppet, or arm candy (depending on how ugly you are). Be grateful that you're lucky enough to be in my presence.
I don't wake up looking nearly as hot as I did the night before. So what if I have crusted drool down the entire left side of my face? My hair is perpendicular to my head? Perfect. Take a picture. My retainers bother you? Sorry for having straight teeth. My breath smells like road kill? No shit, I was snoring all night. You don't like my glasses? Neither do I. When I put them on, all I see is your ugly mug. Why are you seeing me this way in the morning, anyways? I thought I told you to leave in a previous section of ths blog.
I don't work out to impress you or anyone else in this world. I work out so I continue to look smokin' hot for myself, because let's be honest, I'm the only one who really matters, right? I put on make up and dress in nice clothes because it makes me feel good, not because I'm whoring myself out. I have, in the words of Ludacris, "big titties and a matching ass". I worked hard for these things, you'd better believe I enjoy looking at them, why not wear clothes that enhance the fruits of my labor?
However, I'm not always going to be wearing red-carpet-ready clothing. I have days when I'm busting my ass around my house. I can pull off the look of cut-offs, a Captain Tony's Saloon T-shirt, and Sperrys. I don't always wear two pounds of make-up, either. This doesn't mean I've given up, this simply means I'm working hard so I can play later. Perhaps you should get used to this concept.
Just because my job doesn't pay me $800,000 a month, doesn't mean I have to find a new job. Quit trying to make me quit. Sure, I'll whine about it now and again. I'm a girl, I'm entitled to that. If you don't want to hear it, leave. Moose is more than willing to hear me out. I love my line of work. You couldn't handle doing what I do. Not that it's hard, you're just a puss. I was "wealthy" once, as you rich folk say. I really didn't see the allure. It didn't make me a better person because I could make it rain. As a matter of fact, the more money and material things I had, the shittier I felt. I'm perfectly happy having to scrape by on two jobs. I have my pride. You REALLY overpaid for that shirt, by the way. I don't fly first class anymore. First class = first to die in a crash. Besides, I like the looks I get from those fucking idiots who paid four times what I paid to arrive at the same destination as me, at the same exact time as me. Why don't you just go flush the rest of your Benjamins down that fancy, dancy airplane toilet? I'm not impressed that you're rich. If you're bragging about it and flaunting it, you're just proving to me that you're an even bigger douche than I had originally thought....And you're obviously overcompensating for something.
I am not meek or in distress. I don't need you telling me that you are enriching my life with your presence. No, you're not. You're actually hindering me from fixing the toilet and going to the shooting range and drag strip. I am very in touch with my emotions, and refuse to depend on anyone else for emotional support. I don't need you to coddle me and try to fix me in any way. That's what a psychiatrist is for. Besides, I'm a fucking bad ass, and I don't need fixed.
So men, this is how women really work. If you think you can really handle this, good luck. We're all awesome, and I think it's time you just shut the fuck up and enjoy our company, bitches. Peace.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Soul Daughter
Sometimes, I am simply bitten by a bug to write. I suppose this is better than being bitten by a bed bug, or the HIV bug, for that matter. It kills me when I get this way, but have no subject to rant about. I decided to try rambling through my thoughts. This will prove to my psychiatrist that I truly am crazy. In turn, I'll be able to quit my day job, collect disability, collect cats, take up a meth habit, wear moo-moos, and eat Popeye's Chicken everyday. I think I'm on to something here. Good life, here I come!
I was asked to take care of my "soul daughter" next Saturday. My soul daughter is, in my eyes, the most beautiful and amazing soul ever. She is in the fifth grade. Because I have no knowledge of what children are into, I decided to think this through to plan out the best day EVER.
The first thing we're going to do when I pick her up, is run to the convenience store. We are going to buy cigarettes. I figure, if she's going to fit in with the cool kids, she needs to start smoking early. I wanted to start her on this habit when she was four, but she threw tantrums anytime I'd try to take her near a 7-11. Afterwards, I have to drop off my resumes to Pandora's Box and Mons Venus. I hear strip clubs are more likely to hire you if you drag a child in with you. But before I do that, I'm going to push her down into a pile of dirt, because if she looks clean, I'm sure as hell not going to look poor enough to need a job at a titty bar. When we leave there, we're going to head to the red light district of downtown. The pool at the Mosley Motel is really nice, and you can pay by the hour. I'm going to take her swimming. There's a liquor store right next door, so I'll leave her unattended in the pool with a bunch of Johns and their ladies while I retrieve some refreshing 40's for us. When I come back with the 40's we'll have a chugging contest. I will bet her a new Littlest Pet Shop animal that I can beat her. Hopefully she can hold her alcohol, because I'm going to be too damned drunk to drive. I'll have the address to the closest shooting range programmed into the GPS so she can drive us there. She is going to learn quickly that real girls shoot M16's. If she gets injured from the recoil, I'll just crush up some roxies for her to snort. By then, she'll probably be ready for a nap. I'll run her through the line at Taco Bell, fill her up with nutritious items, and then give her bus fare to get home-hey, I have shit to do.
Okay, not really. Actually, we're hanging out at the mall, then going to the beach, where I'm packing us a picnic lunch. C'mon, people, I'm not that sick.
I was asked to take care of my "soul daughter" next Saturday. My soul daughter is, in my eyes, the most beautiful and amazing soul ever. She is in the fifth grade. Because I have no knowledge of what children are into, I decided to think this through to plan out the best day EVER.
The first thing we're going to do when I pick her up, is run to the convenience store. We are going to buy cigarettes. I figure, if she's going to fit in with the cool kids, she needs to start smoking early. I wanted to start her on this habit when she was four, but she threw tantrums anytime I'd try to take her near a 7-11. Afterwards, I have to drop off my resumes to Pandora's Box and Mons Venus. I hear strip clubs are more likely to hire you if you drag a child in with you. But before I do that, I'm going to push her down into a pile of dirt, because if she looks clean, I'm sure as hell not going to look poor enough to need a job at a titty bar. When we leave there, we're going to head to the red light district of downtown. The pool at the Mosley Motel is really nice, and you can pay by the hour. I'm going to take her swimming. There's a liquor store right next door, so I'll leave her unattended in the pool with a bunch of Johns and their ladies while I retrieve some refreshing 40's for us. When I come back with the 40's we'll have a chugging contest. I will bet her a new Littlest Pet Shop animal that I can beat her. Hopefully she can hold her alcohol, because I'm going to be too damned drunk to drive. I'll have the address to the closest shooting range programmed into the GPS so she can drive us there. She is going to learn quickly that real girls shoot M16's. If she gets injured from the recoil, I'll just crush up some roxies for her to snort. By then, she'll probably be ready for a nap. I'll run her through the line at Taco Bell, fill her up with nutritious items, and then give her bus fare to get home-hey, I have shit to do.
Okay, not really. Actually, we're hanging out at the mall, then going to the beach, where I'm packing us a picnic lunch. C'mon, people, I'm not that sick.
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